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Garrison's military outpost's stables…
Hannes wasn't thinking, didn't even pay attention to the garrisons that were trooping in and out to the headquarters, or the ones that gave him odd looks. He was thinking about the weight of the small leather bag in his hand; a lifetime's worth of service reduced to a few changes of civilian clothes, a dented flask, and the aching hollow in his chest where courage used to live.
"Hannes."
He didn't turn. He knew that voice; Don's gravelly rumble, the sound of too many nights on watch and too many mornings after. It was the voice of a man who'd seen him at his worst and stayed anyway.
"I'm packing, Don. You can see that."
"I can see you're being an idiot." Heavy footsteps on the wooden planks. Don appeared at his side, arms crossed, gut straining against his uniform in that familiar way that usually made Hannes smile. Today, nothing could crack the numbness. "What's this about? You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?"
Hannes finally looked at him. At Don's weathered face, creased with worry beneath the perpetual scowl. At Hank lurking by the stable entrance, pretending not to watch. At Jochen and Stefan hovering behind, their expressions a mix of confusion and unease. His friends. His brothers in arms. The only family he had left, besdies—
"I'm leaving," Hannes said flatly. "Resigning. Done."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Don's scowl deepened. Hank pushed off from the doorframe and strode over, his face flushing with an anger that seemed to be building for years.
"Leaving?" Hank's voice was sharp, incredulous. "You're joking. After everything; after all these years, after all the shit we've been through, the punishments we're still serving because of your insubordinations—you're just gonna walk?"
Hannes didn't flinch. That was the strange part. He should have flinched. He should have gotten defensive, made excuses, tried to explain. But the numbness had settled into his bones like frost, and nothing could thaw it.
"I'm not joking, Hank. I'm done."
"Done?" Hank laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You're scared, is what you are. After all these years, after Gerhardt and the others, after watching Titans eat people alive—now you decide to be afraid? You think you are the only one that got spooked with those ghost shits that came out of the refugee camp?!"
"Easy, Hank—" Jochen started, stepping forward.
"Stay out of this!" Hank snapped, jabbing a finger at Hannes's chest. "This bastard owes us! He drags us into his mess with his 'doing the right thing' and his 'stand to the very end' and now when the heat's on, he just—just quits? That's not how this works!"
Hannes met his gaze. It was the first time he'd looked any of them directly in the eye since they'd cornered him. The numbness in his expression gave way to something raw, something wounded.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I'm scared. I'm terrified."
Hank's mouth opened, then closed. He hadn't expected agreement.
"I watched a ghost monster possessing people and turning them to abominations. I witness fire consume a forest and now this same demon dog wrecking havoc everywhere carry some poor kid." Hannes's voice cracked, just slightly. "I'm tired. I'm so goddamn tired of all this madness. The demon dog. The burned training ground. The bodies. I can't... I can't do it anymore."
Hank's jaw tightened. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes; understanding, maybe, or the ghost of it. But anger won out.
"So that's it? You run? You leave us to deal with the fallout?"
Hannes shouldered his bag. "I'm not running from you. I'm running from... from everything. From the nightmares. From the faces of these horrors.". From the look of devastation. He shook his head. "You don't understand."
"Don't understand?" Hank grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. The grip was hard, desperate. "I lost Gerhardt too! I lost John, Lena, half the damn regiment! We all did! But we're still here, still standing, still—"
"Let him go, Hank." Stefan's voice was quiet, but it carried. He hadn't moved from the stable entrance, but his eyes were on Hank with an intensity that brooked no argument. "This isn't helping."
Hank ignored him, his face inches from Hannes's. "You're a coward, Hannes. A damn coward. No wonder your wife left you…she probably saw this coming."
The words landed like a physical blow. Hannes felt them in his chest, in the hollow where his heart used to be. But instead of anger, instead of the hot rush of defensive fury, there was only... acceptance.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."
Hank's grip loosened. His face cycled through confusion, disbelief, and something that might have been shame. "I... Hannes, I didn't—"
"You did." Hannes stepped back, adjusting his bag. "But you're not wrong. I am a coward. I've been one for a long time. I just got good at hiding it behind a flask and a joke."
He looked at each of them in turn; Don's stricken expression, Jochen's open mouth, Stefan's weary resignation, Hank's crumbling anger. His friends. His brothers. He was leaving them.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it. For the punishments, for the mess, for... for this." He turned toward the stable door. "Goodbye."
"Hannes—" Don started.
He kept walking.
Behind him, Hank's voice rang out, raw and cracked. "Coward! You hear me? COWARD!"
Hannes didn't stop. He didn't look back. The word followed him like a ghost, but it couldn't hurt him. Nothing could hurt him anymore. He was already hollow. After what he had told Carla and the kids.
Hours earlier...
Grandpa Arlet had already mounted his horse, the old mare stamping impatiently as if she could feel the urgency radiating from her rider. The tracker was in his pocket, its green dot pulsing steadily; Eren's signal, still alive. He had no time to waste.
"OLD MAN! WAIT!"
The shout came from behind, urgent and desperate. Grandpa Arlet turned in the saddle to see Hannes running toward him, leading his own horse by the reins, his face flushed with exertion and something that looked terrifyingly like hope.
Hannes reached him, breathless, and grabbed the old man's stirrup. "You're going after him. I know you are. I'm coming with you."
Grandpa Arlet studied him for a long moment. The wild beard, the bloodshot eyes, the trembling hands. This was a man at the end of his rope, grasping at the only thing that made sense; action. Movement. The illusion of doing something.
"No," Arlet said quietly. "You're not."
Hannes's face crumpled. "What? But I have to—I let them go! I took them into that nightmare! If anyone should—"
"You should stay." Arlet's voice was calm, but it cut like a blade. "More than that… You should leave."
"Leave?" Hannes blinked, uncomprehending. "Leave where? I'm a soldier! This is my post, my—"
"Your face." Arlet leaned down, his eyes; those strange, too-knowing eyes; boring into Hannes's. "The Knights saw your face. When they had you captive, when you fought them, when you escaped. They know what you look like."
Hannes's blood ran cold. He hadn't thought about that. In the chaos, he hadn't considered—
"They will find you," Arlet continued, his voice soft but inexorable. "You're military personnel. You have records, a home, routines they can observe. They'll watch, they'll wait, and when the time is right, they'll take you. For information. For revenge. For whatever purpose serves their 'divine order.'"
Hannes shook his head, backing away. "I can't just... I have friends here. Family. Carla, the kids—"
"Carla and the children will be watched too. But you're the immediate threat. You're the one who escaped, who saw, who knows." Arlet straightened, gathering the reins. "If you want to honor Carla's wishes; if you want to protect those children; you need to disappear. Resign from the Garrison. Leave your home. Find somewhere secluded, somewhere no one will look. And wait."
"Wait for what?" Hannes's voice cracked.
Arlet's expression softened, just slightly. "For the day when you're needed again. When the fight comes to you, instead of you running toward it." He paused. "You're a good man, Hannes. I've seen enough bad ones to know the difference. But good men die too, if they're not smart. Be smart. Live to fight another day."
He snapped the reins. His horse began to move.
"Wait!" Hannes grabbed the stirrup again, desperation making him bold. "What do I tell them? Carla, the kids—what do I say?"
Arlet looked back. The morning light caught his face, illuminating the years etched into his features. "The truth. As much as they need to hear. And then..." He glanced toward the distant Wall, toward the unknown beyond. "Say your goodbyes. Make them count."
He was gone before Hannes could respond, riding toward the rising sun and whatever horrors waited beyond the gates.
Hannes stood in the dust of his passing, the weight of the old man's words settling on his shoulders like a shroud.
Hannes walked back to the Yeager shack. The shack loomed ahead, small and fragile against the vastness of the camp. He pushed open the door.
Carla was by the window, her wheelchair angled to catch the thin morning light. Mikasa sat in the corner, her grey eyes fixed on nothing, her red scarf wrapped tight despite the warmth. Armin was at the table, his sketchbook open, but he wasn't drawing; just staring at a page covered in hourglass symbols, over and over.
They all looked up when he entered. Three pairs of eyes, each holding a different kind of pain. Carla's were red-rimmed but fierce, a mother's fury burning beneath the grief. Mikasa's were flat, dangerous, a blade waiting to be drawn. Armin's were wide, too knowing, already calculating the angles.
Hannes stood in the doorway, his hand still on the latch, and realized he had no idea how to begin.
"You're back." Carla's voice was flat. No accusation, no hope. Just observation.
"I..." Hannes swallowed. "I need to tell you something."
Hannes closed the door behind him. He didn't sit. He didn't think he could. He just stood there, in the center of the small room, and let the words fall.
"I'm leaving."
Silence. The kind of silence that precedes an avalanche.
"You're what?" Carla's voice was still flat, but now there was an edge to it. A warning.
"The Knights saw my face. When they had me." Hannes forced himself to meet her eyes. "Grandpa Arlet said they'll come looking. I'm military; they have records, they know where to find me. If I stay, I put you all at risk. The kids. You. Everyone I—"
"You're leaving." Carla's voice rose, cracking. "You let my son go into that nightmare. You brought Mikasa and Armin back covered in ash and blood. And now you're just... leaving?"
Hannes flinched, but he didn't look away. "I know. I know what it looks like. I know what I am. But Arlet said—"
"I don't care what Arlet said!" Carla's hands gripped the arms of her wheelchair, knuckles white. "My son is missing! Out there, in unknown territory! And you're going to run?!"
Even Mikasa's stoic demeanor shattered. "That can't be true. You can't be sure of that." Denial evident in her voice, Hannes must be joking. She can't-she can't lose another person she called family. Not after her parents, not after Mr Yeager's disappearance, and Eren…
"Hannes." Armin's voice was quiet, but it cut through the rising tension. "The Knights. They really would come after you?"
Hannes nodded, grateful for the lifeline. "The old man seemed sure. He said they'd watch, wait, and when the time was right..." He trailed off.
Armin absorbed this, his brilliant mind working behind those wide blue eyes. "He's right. If they have any operational security at all, they'd eliminate witnesses. And you're the most visible one; the Garrison soldier who was there, who fought them, who helped rescue cadets." He looked at Carla.
"If Mr Hannes stays, they'll find him. And when they do, they'll either kill him or use him to get to us."
Carla stared at him, her expression shifting from fury to something more complicated. "So we just let him go? After everything?"
"I don't want to go," Hannes said, and his voice cracked on the words. "Carla, I don't... this is my home. You're my—" He stopped, swallowed. "But I can't protect you if I'm dead. Or worse, if I lead them straight to your door."
The silence stretched. Mikasa hadn't moved, but her eyes had softened, just slightly. She understood sacrifice. She understood doing what you had to, even when it tore you apart.
Carla's hands were shaking. Her lips pressed together, thin and white. For a long moment, Hannes thought she might scream, might rage, might do anything but accept.
Then she moved.
It was awkward, painful to watch; her pushing herself up from the wheelchair, her useless legs dragging, her arms straining as she half-crawled, half-fell toward him. Hannes crossed the distance in two steps, catching her before she hit the ground, lowering them both to the packed dirt floor.
She grabbed his shirt, fists bunching in the fabric, and buried her face in his chest. The scream that came out wasn't a scream at all; it was a wail, a keening, animal sound of grief and rage and loss all tangled together.
"What is happening…to my home?" she sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "First Grisha, then the breach, then Eren, now you—what is happening?"
Hannes held her. He didn't have words. He just held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shaking shoulders.
Mikasa appeared beside them, as she then knelt and pressed herself against Carla's side, her small hand finding Hannes's and squeezing. Armin joined a moment later, wrapping his arms around them all as best he could, his own tears falling silently.
They stayed like that for a long time; a broken family clinging together in the wreckage of their world.
When Carla finally pulled back, her face was wet, but her eyes were clear. She looked at Hannes; really looked at him; and saw the man beneath the beard, beneath the flask, beneath the cowardice. She saw someone who was trying, in his own flawed way, to do the right thing.
"Where will you go?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere they won't look."
"Will you come back?" Mikasa asked quietly.
Hannes's throat closed. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to promise, to swear, to make vows he couldn't keep. But he'd made too many promises already, broken too many vows.
"If I can," he whispered. "If there's a way." He couldn't bring himself to look at the heartbroken expressions of the kids or Carla.
Carla nodded slowly. Then she pulled him close again, one last time.
"Come back," she murmured against his ear. "Come back to us."
He couldn't answer. He just held her, and Mikasa, and Armin, and let the tears fall.
Present…
Hannes stood in the center of his small home and looked at what remained. A few bags by the door, packed with the essentials; clothes, a few keepsakes, the dented flask that had been his constant companion for years. The rest would stay. The furniture, the dishes, the memories. Let someone else have them. He wouldn't need them where he was going.
He'd bought the wagon a while ago, using most of his remaining coin. A small, sturdy thing, just big enough for his belongings and a few supplies. The horse was old but reliable; a sturdy mare named Clara who'd been retired from cart duty and sold cheap.
The apartment felt strange. Empty. It had never felt like much of a home…just a place to sleep between shifts, to drink between nightmares, to pretend he was living instead of just surviving. But it was his. And now it wasn't.
He walked through it one last time. The bed, unmade. The table, covered in dust. The window, showing the same grey sky that had watched over a thousand hungover mornings. He'd been happy here, sometimes. Or at least, not miserable. That counted for something.
His hand rested on the doorframe. He thought of Carla's face, wet with tears. He thought of Mikasa's small hand in his. He thought of Armin's too-wise eyes, seeing everything, understanding too much. He thought of Eren…wherever he was, whatever he'd become…and hoped, prayed, begged whatever gods might be listening that the boy was still alive.
"Goodbye," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm sorry."
He walked out, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked shut with a finality that echoed in his chest.
Outside, Clara waited patiently, hitched to the wagon. Hannes loaded the last of his bags, checked the harness, and climbed onto the driver's seat. The reins felt strange in his hands; not the familiar weight of command, but the simple burden of escape.
He looked back at the apartment building one last time. At the window that had framed his view of the world for so long. At the street where he'd walked a thousand times, never thinking it might be the last.
"Goodbye, Carla," he said to the wind. "I am so, so sorry."
He snapped the reins.
The wagon creaked into motion, wheels grinding against cobblestones. Clara plodded forward with the patient inevitability of time itself. They passed through the familiar streets of Trost; the market where he'd bought his first flask, the tavern where he'd drowned a thousand memories, the gate where he'd stood guard through a thousand nights.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He was a coward, running from his life, from his friends, from the only family he had left.
And yet, as the outer gate of Trost loomed ahead; as the open road stretched toward an unknown future; Hannes felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Determination.
'Live to fight another day.' Arlet's words.
Hannes snapped the reins again, urging Clara faster.
Yeah, old man. That's what I'm gonna do.
Somewhere out there, Eren was waiting.
Somewhere out there, the fight was coming. And when it did, he would be ready.
The wagon rolled on, towards the road that forked ahead; one path leading deeper into Wall Rose, toward other districts, other lives. The other path leading toward the mountains, toward the wilds, toward the places where a man could disappear.
Hannes didn't hesitate.
He took the mountain road.
Chapter 30-31 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.