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The wagon, a wounded beast with its canvas hide torn open, lumbered through the silent streets of Trost. The stablehand, a man named Gerth who had been travelling for over hours, shivered on the driver's bench, his breath pluming in the icy air. He muttered under his breath, a low, grumbling counterpoint to the rhythmic clop of the horse's hooves.
"…bloody Scouts… sitting on their backsides for months… whole city starvin' and they get prime cuts…" He glanced at the torn canvas, a nervous tick in his eye.
"…and some beast got to it first. Bet they'll still blame me. Always do."
He fell silent as the imposing stone structure of the Survey Corps headquarters loomed out of the fading darkness. It had a different feel from the Cadet Corps; less regimented order, more grim purpose. Even the air smelled different: less of sweat and polish, more of old stone, leather, and something else… something wild and untamed.
Gerth guided the wagon through the main gate into the central courtyard. The place was already stirring with a quiet, efficient energy. Scouts moved with a weary grace, their eyes holding a depth the cadets lacked. A hush fell over Gerth's grumbling. These weren't boys playing soldier.
He was just starting to unhitch the wagon when a presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It wasn't a sound, but a shift in the atmosphere. He turned.
A man was standing there. Tall, impossibly so, with blond hair tied back and a calm, unnerving intensity in his eyes. He was built with the lean, powerful muscle of a predator. This was no paper-pusher. Mike Zacharias' reputation even among civilians, was that of a man who was more than human.
Gerth froze, a harness strap clutched in his suddenly numb fingers.
Mike's nostrils flared, a subtle, deliberate action. His gaze, which had been sweeping the courtyard, snapped to the wagon. Not to Gerth, not to the horse, but to the torn canvas.
"Where did this come from?" Mike's voice was low, but it carried an undeniable weight of command.
"The… the Cadet Corps supply run, sir," Gerth stammered. "For the officers' mess."
Mike took a step closer, his focus entirely on the wagon. His nose twitched again. "It smells off."
Gerth's heart sank. "Off, sir? I… I think an animal might have gotten into it last night. There's a tear, see? But I checked, it's all accounted for!" he lied, the words tumbling out too fast.
Mike didn't even acknowledge the excuse. The scent was wrong. It was layered over the expected aromas of salt, smoke, and blood. There was the faint, coppery tang of fear-sweat from the driver, the stale smell of the city… and something else. Something sharp, alien. Ozone, like after a lightning strike, and a strange, musky odor he'd never encountered before. It was the scent of something that didn't belong.
…Nearly identical to Obsidian's except more feral…
Could it be what he thinks it is?
"Unload it. The storage cellar is down that corridor, third door on the left," Mike directed, his eyes never leaving the wagon. "I'll check it."
Gerth scrambled to obey, hefting a side of pork with a grunt. He hurried towards the indicated corridor, eager to be away from the intense Scout's scrutiny.
Mike waited until the man was gone. He approached the wagon slowly, every sense screaming a silent alarm. He placed a hand on the splintered wood of the wagon bed, his head cocked. He could hear the scuttling of insects, the distant murmur of voices from the mess hall, the steady beat of his own heart. And beneath it all, that strange, fading scent.
He leaned into the dark opening, his sharp eyes scanning the interior. The remnants of the feast were there; gnawed bones, frozen scraps, the undeniable evidence of a predator. But it was cold. The creature was gone. He saw nothing but shadows and carnage.
Meanwhile, clinging to the underside of the wagon like a grotesque, living barnacle, the Vulpimancer held its breath. Its five eyes were sealed closed, its body pressed flat against the cold, grimy wood. It had felt the vibrations of the powerful new human, heard the low, probing voice. This one was different. This one was a hunter. Its instincts screamed at it to flee, to phase, to run.
As Gerth carried the first load away, creating a distraction, the Vulpimancer acted. It didn't run across the open courtyard. That was suicide. Instead, it flowed. Its form dissolved into a wisp of intangible smoke and poured upwards, through the wooden planks of the wagon bed itself. It rematerialized for a split second on top of the piled supplies, then, seeing the open doorway to the headquarters just a few yards away, it phased again.
It was a desperate, silent dash. A blur of distorted air and faint blue light that shot from the wagon and through the stone archway of the headquarters entrance before Mike, who was now stepping back from the wagon with a frustrated frown, could even turn his head.
Mike straightened up, his brow furrowed. The alien scent was strongest here, at the wagon, but it was already dissipating, mingling with the myriad other smells of the courtyard. He had missed it. Whatever it was, it was gone. He filed the sensation at the back of his mind, a puzzle he couldn't solve, and went to find Erwin. His instincts never lie.
The Vulpimancer, now inside the labyrinthine stone corridors of the headquarters, was completely disoriented. The world was a screaming vortex of new sounds, new smells, new vibrations. The echoes of footsteps, the clang of metal from a nearby forge, the overwhelming scent of hundreds of humans; it was sensory overload. It was trapped.
Panic began to set in, a cold, familiar terror. It phased through the first solid wall it encountered, seeking silence, seeking darkness.
By sheer, catastrophic chance, the wall it chose was the one to Hange Zoë's office.
It rematerialized in a dim corner, behind a tall cabinet filled with jars of preserved Titan flesh. For a moment, there was only the frantic beating of its own heart. Then, it registered its new surroundings.
The office was a controlled chaos of science and obsession. Scrolls and books were piled high on every surface. Strange instruments; scalpels, magnifying glasses, calipers; lay scattered amidst half-eaten meals. And the smells… formaldehyde, ethanol, the peculiar, metallic scent of drying Titan blood. It was a nightmare parody of a laboratory.
Hange was hunched over her desk, her glasses reflecting the light of a single, bright lamp as she sketched the crystalline structure of Eren's Obsidian shard. She was muttering to herself, completely absorbed.
Thud.
The sound was soft, but distinct. The Vulpimancer, trying to shift its weight in the cramped space, had knocked a heavy book from a lower shelf.
Hange's head snapped up. "Moblit? Is that you?" she called out, her voice tinged with excitement. She pushed her chair back, her curiosity instantly piqued. A mysterious noise in her lab was an invitation, not a threat.
She never got the chance to investigate.
"Hange! Squad Leader!" Moblit's voice, frantic and slightly out of breath, echoed from the corridor. "The supply wagon from the cadets is here! There's… there's a problem with the inventory arrangements, and Captain Levi is asking for you! He's, uh, insisting."
Hange groaned, her shoulders slumping. Levi's "insistence" was not something to be ignored, most likely because she had been the last person in that inventory, she swore she didn't scatter anything…this time at least.
"Coming, coming!" she yelled back, shooting a frustrated glance towards the corner where the sound had originated. Dammit! "Probably just a rat… I'll set traps later."
She grabbed her jacket and hurried out, the door swinging shut behind her.
The office was silent once more. For a long minute, the Vulpimancer didn't move. Then, slowly, it emerged from its hiding place. Its five eyes peeled open and swiveled, taking in the room. The scents here were a violent trigger. The chemical smells, the metallic tang, the organized chaos… it was all so horribly, intimately familiar.
Its gaze fell upon Hange's desk.
There, nestled among her sketching tools and bathed in the lamplight, was the object that broke its tenuous hold on reality.
It was a shard. A small, flawless piece of what looked like green diamond, about the size of Hange's thumb. It caught the light and threw off sharp, prismatic sparks, lying innocently beside the larger main piece she had been studying. To Hange, it was a marvel of unknown mineralogy, the key to understanding the "Crystal Titan." To the Vulpimancer, it was a fragment of a nightmare.
A memory, not a fragment but a full-sensory flood, consumed it.
Cold, unyielding bars of a cage pressed against its back. A heavy, chafing muzzle of cold iron was locked around its snout, stifling its growls, making every breath a struggle. The world beyond the bars was a blur of harsh, artificial light and shadows. This was the holding pen, the antechamber to hell.
The door to the chamber hissed open. Its five good eyes, wide with primal fear, swiveled towards the sound. A new silhouette entered, cloaked, tall, geometrically perfect, and composed of the same green crystalline substance. A Petrosapien. Its faceted eyes scanned the room with cold disinterest.
And behind it, dragged in on heavy, clattering chains, were more cages. And inside them...
A low, pathetic whimper escaped the vulpimancer's muzzled throat. It knew those scents. It recognized the unique sonic signatures of their heartbeats, the familiar vibrations of their fear. Its pack. Its family. They were here. They had all been taken. He saw his mate, her fur matted with dirt and fear, cowering in the back of her cage. He saw the young, barely full-grown, pressing themselves against the bars in terror. They were all here.
The Cerebrocrustacea scientist, Psychobos, clattered forward, his massive single eye swiveling between the new arrivals and the Petrosapien. "E-Excellent. The full pack, as requested. P-Prime specimens for my work."
The Petrosapien gave a slow, nod, the light catching on its jagged form. It made no sound, offered no acknowledgment of the suffering it had delivered. One of its hands was extended, and into it, Psychobos delivered out a box filled with shimmering, metallic credits from a heavy pouch.
"A-As agreed," Psychobos stuttered. "F-Fifty thousand Taydenites. Your efficiency is... n-noted."
The Petrosapien simply closed its hand around the payment, before stuffing them to its advanced pouch. It turned and walked away, its hard-light footsteps echoing in the chamber, utterly indifferent to the fates of the creatures it had sold. The last thing the Vulpimancer saw of the outside world was the retreating back of the merchant who had condemned his entire world to this nightmare.
This shard was the same. The same substance. The same unfeeling, mineral coldness as the one who had sold them, who had treated his pack as mere commodities to be traded for glittering coin.
This wasn't just a rock. It was a symbol of its entire damnation. A piece of the very race that had profited from their misery.
A raw, silent scream of pure, unadulterated rage and terror erupted from its core. It was no longer a calculating, hungry predator. It was a victim, lashing out at the ghosts of its tormentors and merchants.
It lunged.
A massive, clawed paw swept across Hange's desk. The shard was the first target, sent flying to clatter against the far wall. The desk followed, splintering into kindling with a deafening crack. Papers exploded into a blizzard of parchment. Jars of Titan samples flew through the air, shattering on the stone floor, releasing their foul, preserving fluids and chunks of grey flesh.
It was a whirlwind of destruction. It tore at the bookshelves, sending volumes on Titan biology flying. It slammed its body into the cabinet, sending jars of pickled eyes and dissected limbs crashing down. It wasn't looking for food. It was trying to annihilate the memory, to destroy this pocket of hell that had somehow followed it into its new prison.
When the storm of its rage finally subsided, the office was a total loss. The Vulpimancer stood panting in the center of the wreckage, its sides heaving, its blue stripes flaring violently. The alien scent was gone, buried under the smells of split alcohol, rotting flesh, and its own fear.
The sound of the destruction had been immense. Footsteps were already pounding in the corridor outside, voices raised in alarm.
With a final, guttural snarl, the creature phased once more, melting through the opposite wall and fleeing deeper into the bowels of the headquarters, leaving behind only the evidence of its trauma and the chilling certainty that a new, and infinitely more dangerous, predator was now loose within the walls of the Scouts.
Chapter 23-30 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.