The Shatters of Black Stars

      The heat was unbearable. Since early morning, the sun had been blazing so hard you could’ve fried eggs on the stones.       Levi wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Damn them for making him work in this hellfire. But he was in a hurry to keep his mind busy with anything. No news from Erd. Whether that was good or bad—Levi hadn’t decided yet.       He didn’t like worrying about Mikasa. In general, he didn’t like worrying at all.       For the past few years, his thoughts had been clear as spring water. The job was steady, the money came in, and there were more than enough entertainments in the Underground. But ever since the serum appeared in his life, everything had started to change.       Although it wasn’t really about the serum.       In essence, it was just another job. Maybe a little trickier, a little messier—but nothing Levi hadn’t handled before. Next time they’d prepare better, and she wouldn’t cause problems again. The serum had long been a pain in the ass. He just wanted to get it over with. But thanks to that foolish chase, he had met her.       By happy—or not so happy—coincidence, Mikasa, the girl who crossed his path that day, still refused to leave his mind.       Levi shook his head. Today he was working. His mind had to stay empty.       He pushed away from the wall and started walking lazily down the street. From the shadows, the others followed in a neat line behind him—tall, broad men, frightening enough by appearance alone. Perfect for settling problems with fists. Levi could’ve done it himself if he wanted, but it wasn’t always worth dirtying his own hands.       The job was simple, routine. A five-minute affair. But Levi had taken it eagerly the moment the boss named the target. He needed the distraction.       The sun scorched mercilessly, and Levi shaded his eyes, trying to make out the shop in the distance—a solid wooden door, glass windows glinting in the light. So this was their new spot? His bosses sure knew how to pick them.       He gauged how much they could squeeze out today and smirked. The money wouldn’t hurt—he was sick of wandering around like a beggar. And if Mikasa was fine, he had very specific financial plans for her.       He forced himself back into focus. Think about work. Not her. Work.       The heavy door swung open with a melodic chime. The soft ringing of little bells brushed against his ear—in another time he might’ve appreciated the touch. But right now, any sound resembling music irritated him. His anger could end badly for someone.       “Can I help you?”       The shopkeeper slipped out from the back room, smiling pleasantly. His plump face instantly fell when he saw the men in front of him. Levi and two of his goons stepped inside, the other two stayed by the door.       “Here’s how it is,” Levi said flatly. “From now on, we’re responsible for keeping your shop safe. For that, you pay us a cut. How much do you have in the till right now? Hand over a third.”       Levi wasn’t in the mood for niceties. His eyes wandered lazily around the shop. Fabrics, cushions, cloth—nothing interesting. But everything looked expensive. It smelled pleasant too—faintly of women’s perfume. Strangely familiar.       They’d make good money off this place.       He almost wished something exciting would happen—it had been too long since he’d felt any real rush from petty jobs like this.       “Funny joke, gentlemen.”       The man wore a neat brown suit, probably tailored right there in the shop. Owners of such places always cared about image—and judging by his look, business was good. Clean, well-groomed, hair combed smooth. The kind of man who went to concerts—the same ones Levi had recently started frequenting. The kind who’d sit and devour the singers on stage with greedy eyes.       His heartbeat quickened. A vague sting of jealousy burned in his chest.       “I won’t repeat myself,” Levi said quietly. “Hand over the money.”       The shopkeeper lowered his gaze.       “Well?” Levi pressed, but the man just stood there, blinking like a trusting dog.       “All right. Let me spell it out.”       Levi nodded to one of the men, and the next second a fist smashed into the polished glass counter.       The shattering sound rang in his ears. Tiny shards rained down on the colourful carpet, scattering like bright little diamonds in the sunlight.              The shopkeeper yelped, darting from behind the counter.       Warmth spread through Levi’s chest. A familiar job, familiar thoughts. Get the money—that was all that mattered. The storm inside him slowly died down, leaving only dull emptiness. Good.       “What are you doing?! I’m calling the police! Help!”       “Go ahead,” Levi said calmly. “By the time they show up, we’ll have this place levelled.”       He gestured lazily, and one of the men kicked the wooden counter. Splinters flew across the floor.       A figure flashed outside the window—then quickly disappeared.       Levi watched the panicking shopkeeper with bored eyes. Everything followed the usual script: shouting, threats, pleading. The police wouldn’t help him anyway. They knew whose territory this was and wouldn’t interfere—even though it was a blazing summer day and people walked just outside.       “Stop it! I don’t owe you anything! You have no right!”       Levi heard that every time. And not so long ago, it would’ve pissed him off. Now, the pleading was like honey to his ears—something so familiar, so normal, something that didn’t break the fragile structure of his daily life.       But he couldn’t quite tune it out. The buried anger was itching to get out.       Why wouldn’t they ever do things the easy way? Did fear really shut down their brains?       In two steps he closed the distance, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed a precise punch into his jaw. Levi let go, and the shopkeeper collapsed like a sack of flour, staring up at him dazedly. At least he’d stopped flapping around like a chicken.       “Got the message, or should I explain again?”       The man crawled backward, nodding, shaking his head, nodding again. Levi flicked his wrist, shaking off the tension. Better not overdo it—too much trouble later.       The shopkeeper rose, glancing around nervously, and started pulling crumpled bills from the cash drawer with trembling hands.       Finally.       Levi exhaled in relief. No need to dirty his hands any further. He glanced down at his reddened knuckles, streaked faintly with blood.       Grimacing, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand lazily.       “I’ll be back in exactly a month,” he said. “And let’s keep things quiet next time.”       “Let’s go,” he told the others, and they spilled out of the shop in no hurry.       “Next time the police will be waiting for you!” the shopkeeper squealed, his voice cracking on the last word.       Yeah, right.       Levi didn’t even turn around. The job was done. Next time it’d go smoother. Of course, the man would run to his superiors, they’d run to the police, and the police would shrug, say we’re working on it, and keep looking the other way.       “Bastards!”       Levi paused for a second. Slipped his hands into his pockets.       Ah, there it was—the pack. His fingers found a cigarette, and he stepped out into the blinding, burning day.

⸻・⸻ ♤ ⸻・⸻

      Erwin smoothed the collar of his uniform, adjusting the commander’s insignia. His mood couldn’t have been better. At last, the gears of the machine he’d set in motion had begun to turn.       “Heading out this evening, Darius?”       “Yes. I’d rather not, but there are matters to settle. And whose brilliant idea was it to discuss important business at evening receptions? You can’t hear half the words over the music.”       Erwin smiled faintly. That, in fact, was the greatest advantage of such gatherings—even standing back to back, one couldn’t overhear a conversation, which meant everything could be said freely, without fear.       Once, he had scorned such methods of getting things done. Now, he found himself relying on them more and more. Important decisions weren’t made behind closed doors in bare, sterile meeting rooms. They slipped quietly into minds beneath glittering chandeliers, in the rustle of silk gowns, and the whisper of soft furs.       “Your work must be difficult indeed,” Erwin said with a polite smile.       The Commander-in-Chief gave an easy, genuine chuckle. Erwin had long been on familiar terms with him—the only man through whom the Survey Corps could secure extra rations and supplies beyond regulation. Best to keep him close.       In Darius, Erwin saw something faintly akin to himself, and if the campaign to retake Shiganshina succeeded—who knew?—perhaps one day he’d take the man’s place. For now, though, it was wiser not to ruin the relationship.       “I do what I can to avoid being sent back to fight titans,” Darius continued.       “At least you’ll get to hear some good music.”       “Ah, if only. The only decent singer in the capital has vanished somewhere. She was the only thing worth watching. A figure like it was carved, and a voice like a nightingale’s. Astonishing that such a gem gathered dust in dingy taverns for so long. The recent summer festival nearly fell apart—the pianist had to play an entire concert alone.” Darius gave Erwin a knowing look.       Of course, the Commander-in-Chief was aware of all his movements—and of the fact that Erwin had certain intentions toward the girl as well.       “I heard she overheated in the sun and fainted right on the street. Luckily, a member of the Military Police happened to be nearby. I don’t know how it ended, but I imagine she’ll perform tonight, if she’s meant to.”       Erwin met his heavy gaze with composure. Men—greedy children that they were—never liked sharing their toys. Today, Erwin was reminded of that once again.       He stayed silent, waiting for the right moment, but Darius let the matter drop easily.       “I see… Interesting. Well then, perhaps she’s back on her feet, and I won’t have to plug my ears tonight.”       “Let’s hope so. I’ll be attending a few receptions myself, and I’m counting on some pleasant musical accompaniment.”       “Don’t get too comfortable, Erwin. You understand I’ve already done more than enough for you. There can be no more delays. I need a date. The talks are consumed with nothing but the reclamation of the territories and the secret of your precious Shiganshina.”       Erwin knew he was stalling dangerously long, and that his game could end badly. The stakes were high, and failure seemed more likely than ever. Even with Eren and his power, the Scouts were unlikely to reclaim Shiganshina or seal the breach in Wall Maria.       “Give me a couple more weeks. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee success. I need more men. Or Levi Ackerman,” Erwin said, hoping he could still arrange things so that the outcome favoured both him and the Corps.       “You’re a good friend and comrade, Erwin. But understand this—the Crown’s patience isn’t endless. And I’ll be perfectly frank with you this time. I’m not all-powerful. And don’t fool yourself into thinking you are.”       “I wouldn’t dare, Darius.”       Silence fell. The two men stared at each other, locked in an unspoken duel.       “I’ve warned you, Erwin. Don’t waste time.”       Darius left the room unhurriedly. His footsteps echoed down the hall, and Erwin sank heavily into his chair. The situation wasn’t in his favour, but he’d grown so used to that that he felt not a trace of unease.              The rumour was set loose. Darius would see to that. And if all went according to plan, Ackerman would soon take the bait.

⸻・⸻ ♤ ⸻・⸻

      For the first time in a very long while, Mikasa dragged her feet toward the concert hall. She should’ve gone there the minute the police let her go—come up with an excuse, apologise, something. First offence might’ve been forgiven. Now her heart trembled with the fear they’d toss her out right in the middle of rehearsal. Surely by now everyone knew where she’d really been. What a disgrace…       As luck would have it, the apartment had been completely empty. No Eren, no Armin. No one to lean on, no one to pull her out of her grim thoughts. And what could they have done anyway? Mikasa still couldn’t tell them she’d missed the concert because of the police.       Maybe fake an illness? Would they buy it? She should at least rub her eyes and nose red with lipstick. Look like she still felt weak and then keep apologising, apologising…       She shook her head, driving the thought away. She still had some shred of pride and wasn’t about to throw herself at anyone’s feet. And if they stopped inviting her to sing, she’d cut herself a new path upward.       That resolve gave her a little strength, and she hurried to the hall, a touch steadier now.       At the doors, her resolve started to melt. What exactly was she going to say? How was she going to explain herself? She wanted to turn around, go home, lock the door, and suffer until the ache, the anger, and the shame burned out.       Mikasa let out a heavy breath. One way or another, she had to face the problem head-on. Better to do it now. No more putting it off—otherwise the anxiety would eat her alive.       Nothing had changed inside the hall. The same cold foyer, empty without patrons milling back and forth. Her footfalls echoed off the marble. The bright carpet whispered underfoot. Light poured in from the huge windows, washing the stone in a pale glow. Familiar territory for Mikasa, and still she had never learned to feel at home in all this affected polish. She didn’t belong to this world, no matter how hard she tried. She was just one more beautiful prop, easily swapped out for another.       Her dressing room, out of habit, was empty. Not long ago she’d shared it with other performers, but after she’d started getting invited to more and more private receptions, they’d given her a separate room. She’d be lying if she said that didn’t flatter her at all.       Now, looking at the neatly hung costumes, she realised how badly she didn’t want to be told to leave.       Her heart pinched, urgent. What could she do?       Levi’s name barely formed on her tongue, rolling out on a soft “L”. If he was walking around the city so freely, attending fancy concerts—maybe, if she asked, he wouldn’t refuse to help?       Mikasa shoved the thought away. She wouldn’t ask for help from someone she couldn’t repay.       Could she not?       She wasn’t naïve enough to think Levi had changed—and that he was interested only in talk, walks, and song. The heat of his mouth was branded into her memory. Maybe this once, him only, she could allow a little more?       “No,” her inner voice snapped. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. That would humiliate her completely and grind to dust any hope for real, bright feelings. If Levi wanted only one thing, then she’d made the same mistake again—opening her heart to the wrong man.       Besides, the police were after him now. Truly after him. Erwin Smith’s icy eyes were as ruthless and lifeless as a blade. What had that Ackerman done to make even the Scouts take an interest? Maybe she should have told Eren…       The door creaked behind her, yanking Mikasa out of her thoughts.       “Oh! I’m so sorry—I didn’t know you’d be here today!”       A kind woman—the one who often cleaned the dressing rooms in the mornings—ducked her head and backed in, easing the door shut behind her.       “No, wait! It’s fine—I’m just dropping my things and heading to rehearsal.”       Mildly apologetic, the woman squeezed inside. The metal bucket clanged loudly, and Mikasa marvelled that she hadn’t heard it from down the hall. Yet again she reminded herself she couldn’t afford to drift that far into her own head.       “Maybe it’s not my place, but I worried so much about you! How are you feeling?”       “I’m fine, thank you.”       A smile stretched her lips while her heart thudded scared and fast. Did everyone already know? Rumours couldn’t have spread that quickly… could they?       “You gave us all such a fright! But I can see you look much better. You ought to be out in the sun more—you’re white as a sheet. Oh my, listen to me! Your skin is lovely, truly—so refined. Only a bit pale…”       Mikasa tried to fish something useful out of the stream of fussing. What did her complexion have to do with anything?       “And you should work less. You’re still such a young girl, you’ve got no more strength than a kitten, of course you’re fainting in the street. Probably starving yourself too, with that figure, all chiseled to nothing. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that! My oh my! Good thing the police didn’t just pass you by, right?”       “Yes. Exactly. I was lucky…”       “Well that’s what I thought. Fine lads, the lot of them.”       Mikasa didn’t understand a thing. Paleness, weakness, collapsing in the street… what did that have to do with her missing the concert? Erwin Smith’s slick “we’ll handle it” flickered back into her mind. He’d said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Was it… him?       Forcing a smile, Mikasa slipped past the cleaning woman and her grimy bucket into the corridor.       “Sorry—I really have to go.”       “Of course, of course! Forgive an old woman for chattering—health to you! You’re still so young!”       Mikasa hurried down the hall. The woman’s fretting trailed away behind her.       In the small hall the conductor and the pianist were already waiting. She dreaded seeing judgment on their faces. A cleaning lady could be simple and gullible, but cultured colleagues were harder to fool. Mikasa forced her eyes up off the floor.       Suddenly confidence rose in her chest. Both men were watching her with concern.       “Good afternoon,” she said, managing a faint smile.       “Good afternoon! How are you feeling?” asked the conductor—already going grey but not yet old, perpetually frowning and quiet, though scrupulous in his work.       Mikasa loved singing under his baton. Just a couple of words from him to the higher-ups and she’d be out on her ear. Relief washed through her when his stern face eased.       “Much better, thank you. I wanted to apologise—I couldn’t even warn you I wouldn’t make it…”       “Please,” the pianist cut in. “If that happened to my wife in the middle of the day, I wouldn’t even think about playing a concert. People can live without music, but music can’t exist without people.”       Mikasa gave him a small smile. Thank you was all her head could manage. Smith had kept his word and smoothed it all over. The relief made her a little dizzy.       All that was left was to play along with the new story and look convincingly unwell—brave face and all. The trick was not to overdo it, or they might start thinking she was in a delicate condition. That would kill her career for good.       She understood one thing—she couldn’t play games with Erwin Smith. He really did know what he was doing, and he could reach into her life. If he could save her that easily, he could crush her just as well.       Relief quickly curdled into anxiety, but Mikasa kept her face composed.       She smiled at the pianist, his hands resting patiently on his knees.       “Shall we start with some warm-ups?” she asked, and a familiar major chord rolled through the room.

⸻・⸻ ♤ ⸻・⸻

      Out on the field, the Scouts were drilling hand-to-hand. They’d brushed it off till now, but after the attempt by unknowns to snatch Eren, they’d finally stirred and seemed to grasp they wouldn’t get by on Titan fights alone.       Reluctantly peeling himself off the low wooden fence where he’d been catching his breath, Eren took a pull of warm water from his canteen and moved toward his next opponent.       He was still losing at close combat. And it pissed him off something fierce.       No matter how many techniques he drilled, how much he trained speed and footwork, no matter how many muscles he packed on—there were always those who flipped him flat on his back with ease. Eren took their hands, letting them haul him up, and called them every name he knew in his head.       And why the hell did the Titan’s strength only work when he turned into one? It made no sense. If only he were that strong now… But that damned ability did nothing for him in a simple fight, so there was nothing for it but to try and try again.       Losing was not something he did well.       Especially now, after Commander Smith had snapped at him in a recent talk: “Pull yourself together, Yeager. I need soldiers with cool heads, not yapping pups. You’ll have to make decisions people’s lives depend on, and I won’t always be there to babysit your tantrums.”       Ugly. Humiliating. Even the ever-composed Commander Erwin had lost his temper and still held the loss of the elite squad over him—back in the forest of giant trees when Eren had failed to read the situation.       Nobody expected him to be a master tactician, the milk had barely dried on his lips when he’d joined the Scouts. But he could feel Erwin hadn’t forgotten. The loss of that squad had staggered the Corps.       You couldn’t turn back time. And soon they’d march on Shiganshina, where his choices really would decide hundreds of lives. Rage bubbled up again.       A sharp lunge tore up the ground underfoot. Every muscle drew tight, ready to pour everything into a single decisive strike. He’d hit his opponent with something they wouldn’t see coming.       Jean swayed aside as if startled, but he managed to gather himself and redirect the blow. Pain lanced Eren’s arm.       “Damn it!” he yelped, wrenching his shoulder out of a hard lock. His arm got twisted behind his back. “For hell’s sake!”       “Hey, you did that to yourself! This is a spar—what the hell are you doing jumping on people from behind?”       Jean stepped back, hands up in apology. Eren bristled, tugging his shirt back up over his shoulder. The humiliation burned. Even this horse-faced bastard was outclassing him. He felt like he had no edge at all. Even a surprise attack had fizzled. They read him like he was thirteen again, first day on the training field.       “Screw you,” Eren muttered, and lunged.       His arms moved on their own, anger roiling in his chest. Blows came from everywhere. He barely dodged as Jean kept pressing him. His thoughts weren’t here—he kept thinking about home, about the half-empty apartment in Stohess where Mikasa was alone.       Alone…?       “Oh, come on!” Eren barked when Jean’s fist skimmed his jaw. He recoiled, blocking the next hit.       Feint. Leap. Jean tried to hook his leg but missed, and Eren used the beat of confusion to jab an elbow into his gut. Jean folded, and Eren surged in to finish it.       Just a little more and he’d have him—       But Jean snapped upright, caught Eren at the waist, and tossed him clean over.       Eren slammed onto his back, skidding a short furrow in the grit before rolling to his side.       Damn, damn, damn! Fell for a baby trick!       “You’re not yourself. What’s going on with you?”       Jean came closer and offered a hand. Eren swatted it away.       “None of your business.”       “Isn’t it? If I have to cover your ass again by slapping on a wig, suddenly it is my business. Get it together and train like you mean it.”       Eren didn’t want to admit it, but lately his results really had dipped. Because of Mikasa. No. Not because of her—because of that gnawing feeling that had stalked him for days.       Something was off; he could feel it. He just couldn’t shape it into words.       “I got it. Don’t worry—once I’m in Titan form I’ll kick the whole damn Corps into the ground.”       He got up without Jean’s help and brushed dirt off his pants, not so long ago a crisp white.       “If you can even trigger it.”       Eren spat to the side. “I will.”       He felt like some sulky teenager—snapping for no reason, taking it out on Jean. They’d been getting along decently lately, but today Jean grated on him. His mood already stank. And if anyone needed protecting from cross-dressing duty, it was Armin. No way his friend was putting on a skirt again…       “Eren, take a break. I mean it. This isn’t like you.”       Their eyes met—Jean’s were golden in the slant of evening sun—and Eren’s chest clenched. His whole squad, the entire Survey Corps, all of them did everything to keep him safe, because he still couldn’t hold his own. It was humiliating as hell. Jean was right—he needed to rest and clear the noise out of his head, or he’d stay a burden in human form.       The contradictions tore at him. How could he carry that much power inside and fail to use it when it mattered?       Eren shook his head and slid into a basic stance. He was going to put Jean on his back today, no matter what.       But Jean just clapped him on the shoulder and turned away.       “I’m not sparring with you like this. Waste of energy. Sleep it off.”       Eren’s arms drooped, his fists uncurled. What the hell? But Jean was right. He trudged off the field.       Mikasa had thrown herself at him like it was the last time. It wasn’t like her at all. He’d seen so many timid attempts from her to get closer… What made her take that risk now? Was it the bouquets?       The thought looped and looped. Eren was on edge all the time. Always those same white flowers. Maybe Mikasa just liked them? But surely someone had given her lilies before? Or whatever those flowers were called.       If it were up to him, he’d buy so many bouquets he’d fill every bottle in the apartment. But he couldn’t let himself have that weakness. The weakness that would make him stay—drop everything and just live the way he wanted, to hell with humanity and titans.       But he couldn’t. He had to move forward. For her. For a better world. Only now it felt like his sacrifice was for nothing—that Mikasa’s world had made room for something else. He could see she was trying to feed her hunger for tenderness. She had enough attention as it was.       The lost bout already forgotten, Eren drifted into the adjoining room, where Connie was spending the tail end of leave.       “Gimme a smoke,” he said, and Connie, wordless, fished a tightly packed carton of cigarettes out of his jacket.

⸻・⸻ ♤ ⸻・⸻

      Erwin stepped away from the window and went back to the writing desk with the fresh green baize. A gift from higher-ups. Surplus he’d tried to refuse. But a commander had no business sitting at a bare wooden table, so Erwin took the handout and played sincere gratitude once again.       Lately, Eren rubbed him the wrong way. Looked like the kid had sniffed something out about that things at home weren’t going smoothly.       He knew no more about the boy’s love life than a commander needed to, but suddenly it mattered like hell.       Eren must not, under any circumstances, learn that his girl is seeing someone else while he’s out on the line. He’s hot-blooded and stubborn as a mule. His goals seemed rock-solid, but Erwin watched the old fire in his eyes gutter day by day. The kid was getting distracted, broody.       He’d had to dig a little and found out Mikasa and Eren were childhood friends. Lived together. He’d almost dropped the idea of catching Levi through Mikasa, but a couple of questions told him their little romance never went anywhere. That calmed Erwin—briefly.       He’d been wrong thinking he and Eren were cut from the same cloth. He, too, had traded love for wings on a sleeve, but…       No one could ever pin hesitation on Erwin, but when it came to women—one woman—he still couldn’t read himself. Did he regret leaving the one he loved? Probably. Maybe not anymore. Now and then the heart howled, low with longing.       The point was, it didn’t get in the way of his work. He wouldn’t hold this post if he’d married. A family man is lost to the army. He grows a house, a routine. A woman keeps him close even with miles between them, his thoughts circle home, he starts pitying himself, doing not what has to be done, but only things so he could return.       Erwin had nothing to lose. No family, no kin. He’d trained himself to see that absence as an advantage. And he’d assumed Eren thought the same way.       With a woman waiting at home, the boy still threw himself into battle as recklessly as young Erwin once had. He’d figured Eren had left tender feelings far behind. Turns out he hadn’t. And that bothered him—a lot.       Eren is too impatient. Too young. Blood still boiling. Who’s to say he won’t ditch everything on a whim if he senses his loyal girl isn’t so loyal anymore? Won’t he go charging back like a faithful dog to guard what’s left of his pure, first love?       On the other hand, that temper could work in Erwin’s favour. What if he tossed a little more fuel on the fire? Would a bright, burning jealousy smoke Ackerman out of his hole?       Maybe Eren still had a part to play.       “May I?” a clear woman’s voice rang out, and Erwin didn’t have to say a word. Hange was already burying his desk under papers, chattering merrily about her latest experimental result.       “If Eren asks for leave—grant it.”       Hange went quiet, looked him over, stung by the brush-off, then nodded.       “As you say.”