by Rachel Aaron
The recruits murmured a faint reply, and the lieutenant lifted her arm. “First five on the end, advance!”
The five recruits shuffled forward until their boots touched the edge of the scuffed red line. Rosalie held her breath. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, but it was obvious when it happened. Even just looking at their backs, Rosalie knew the moment the recruits saw the titans.
It went over them like a wave. Some froze in place. Others fell, their legs giving out as they tried to scramble backward. The girl who’d turned green actually threw up before running away, her eyes so wide Rosalie could see the whites all the way around. It seemed like a sorry showing, but Lieutenant Brigitte just shrugged and yelled, “Next!”
Five by five, the recruits stepped up to the Red Line. Some did better than others, but no one came away unaffected. Even soldiers who didn’t fall left with pale faces and haunted eyes. It was horrifying to watch, but Rosalie didn’t let herself look away. This was what she’d wanted, to fight at the front. Maybe the other recruits hadn’t had the opportunity to see detailed illustrations of titans like she had. Or maybe their obvious lack of feeding had left them with delicate constitutions. Either way, Rosalie was determined to do better.
Rosalie moved automatically when the lieutenant ordered her forward, but her feet seemed to grow heavier as she neared the gash of red paint. With every breath, she reminded herself that she’d trained for this. She’d seen drawings and diagrams of titans every day since her very first at the academy. She knew how to kill them, and she was on top of a fifty-meter wall, well out of their reach. There was nothing to be afraid of. She reached the Red Line, then leaned just enough to look straight down over the edge of the wall…
And into the eyes of a titan.
Even in her shock, Rosalie’s military training kicked in, classifying the titan at about eleven meters. Taller than the mature oak trees in her uncle’s hunting park. She forced herself to keep looking, and saw that smaller monsters were clustered at its feet. Four- and five-meter-tall titans, who barely came up to the larger monster’s waist.
Other than their size, they looked human, at first. The biggest one had a human man’s wrinkled, bearded face. It had human eyes, and human hands, reaching up the wall toward Rosalie like a toddler trying to grab candies off a shelf. And that was where things went wrong, because while Rosalie’s brain told her she was looking at a giant man, something else, some much deeper instinct, knew there was nothing human about that thing.
It started with the shape. Titan body types varied, but their human-contoured bodies were always distorted, as if they wanted to mock humanity by their very appearance. This particular giant had a torso that stretched far too long compared to its limbs and a head that was two sizes too big for its body. Its wagon-wheel-sized eyes were the same brown as Rosalie’s, but empty. There was no intelligence, no spark of recognition as they fixed on Rosalie. Just the bright gleam of manic joy. A perfect match for the toothy, open-mouthed grin spreading across its hideous face.
As the monster’s jaws opened, the hot reek from its cavernous mouth rose up the wall, making Rosalie’s stomach churn. The stench of decay was worse than dead cattle in high summer. As its mouth stretched wider, Rosalie could see where the smell was coming from. The titan’s thick lips and huge, flat teeth—each one as large as her bedroom window—were crusted with the brownish-red of dried blood. The stain ran down its beard as well, forming a clotted mat in the tangled hair. In it, Rosalie saw chunks of half-chewed, rotting flesh, one of which looked suspiciously like a human foot.
Rosalie stumbled backward, her lungs gasping for air that no longer seemed to exist. The titan’s eyes followed her movement, and it licked its bloody lips with a tongue as wide as the carriage she’d ridden in, sending a fresh blast of hot, putrid air wafting up the wall. It hit Rosalie in the face, and she slapped her hand over her mouth, fighting not to vomit.
As she tried desperately not to be sick, she told herself over and over that the titan couldn’t reach her up here on the wall. But that logic couldn’t beat past the instinct that was screaming at her to run. To flee all the way back to her room inside Wall Sina.
That was what cleared Rosalie’s head. Running home with her tail between her legs was intolerable. She clenched the hand covering her mouth into a fist. She couldn’t fail now. Not after fighting so hard to get here. Not when she hadn’t even begun.
With that, Rosalie yanked her arm down and forced herself to look at the bearded titan again.
She would shoot it through the mouth, she decided. One good cannon shot to the back of its throat would blow right through the spine and destroy the weak spot at the rear of its neck, the only sure way to kill a titan. She was imagining how its headless body would tumble like a felled tree when a firm hand gripped her shoulder.
Rosalie jumped, turning with a start to see Lieutenant Brigitte standing beside her. “You all right, solider?”
When Rosalie nodded, the lieutenant smiled. “Welcome to the Garrison,” she said, clapping Rosalie on the shoulder. “Just make sure you replace that uniform with a standard issue one before tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rosalie said, but the lieutenant had already moved on to the next soldier, who was crying on the ground.
* * *
Farther down the wall from the recruits, a pair of seasoned veterans sat on top of a large stationary cannon, enjoying the show.
“Lot of pukers this time,” the older one quipped, taking a bite of the green apple in his hand. “I swear, they get worse every year.”
“They’re just soft,” said the other one, a young, black-haired soldier with hard blue eyes. “But they’ll toughen up, or they’ll die.” He nodded at one recruit in particular. A well-groomed girl with an athletic build who was staring at the titans like she wanted to bite their heads off. “That one’s trouble, though.”
“Who? The blonde girl?” The old veteran squinted down the wall. “She looks nice enough.”
“Too nice,” the young soldier said, hopping off the cannon. “Nice hair, nice skin, nice clothes.” He shook his head. “Trust me, she’s bad news.”
“Which means you’ll take care of her, I suppose,” the old veteran chuckled. “The Black Cat of Trost strikes again.”
“Someone has to keep the wall clean,” the young soldier said, grabbing the handles of his vertical maneuvering gear. “I’m off to collect my victims. See you after dinner, Cooper.”
Cooper waved, but the black-haired soldier was already gone, using the gas-powered cables of his maneuvering gear to swing down the Trost side of the wall like a diving falcon.
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The shaking started the moment Rosalie left the top of the wall.
It reminded her of when she’d fallen off her horse as a child. She’d been fine while it was actually happening, but when all the servants rushed over, she’d started sobbing, blubbering over bruises she hadn’t even noticed until that moment.
Rosalie didn’t cry now, of course, but the fear stayed under her skin like an ache, making her heart pound as she climbed down the gate tower’s rickety spiral stairs back to the training yard. She was still trying to shake it when someone dropped a heavy stack of metal and leather equipment into her arms.
Rosalie grunted in surprise to see she was now holding a full set of vertical maneuvering gear. Everything was there: the gas canisters, the wire-coiled flywheels, the dual-trigger handles and cables, the belt and the leather harness that attached it all to a soldier’s body. It was standard military issue, but it looked so…used.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said, holding out her arms again to show the dented metal and worn leather to the scarred, sour-faced veteran who’d shoved them at her. “This set isn’t up to
—”
“All equipment assignments are final,” the man grunted. “Gotta problem, take it up with yer sergeant.”
“And who is my sergeant?”
“Squad number’s on yer gear,” the veteran said as he added two rectangular cases to the top of Rosalie’s pile, each one longer than her arm. The leather-covered boxes were so battered, it took Rosalie a moment to realize these were the sheaths for the hardened steel sword blades that attached to her maneuvering gear handles. She was looking to see if they even had blades in them when the veteran shoved her to the side. “Keep moving! Don’t hold up the line!”
Irritated and making a mental note to report the soldier’s unprofessional demeanor, Rosalie walked away from the crowded door where the tower opened into the yard. She found a quiet spot to take a look at the rest of her equipment.
She didn’t much like what she saw.
Vertical maneuvering gear gave human soldiers a fighting chance against a titan in combat. It was a marvel of technology: a compact, gas-powered turbine that could fire barb-ended steel cables—colloquially called “hooks”—with enough force to embed them in stone or wood…or a titan’s flesh. When the powerful motor retracted the cables, the soldier was pulled forward, upward, or in whatever direction the cables were anchored.
By properly targeting the cables, and with skilled use of timing and momentum, a soldier could essentially fly freely through the air, countering a titan’s size and strength with speed, maneuverability, and precision. Cannons could demolish a titan’s head or limbs, and swords could slice the weak spot at the backs of their necks. But the agility provided by maneuvering gear was what kept you alive. It was the single most important piece of equipment a soldier possessed. And the set the Garrison had just issued Rosalie seemed little more than garbage.
She wrapped her hands around the handle-like triggers that controlled the cables’ firing and release. These were bigger than what she was used to, the grips painfully sharp where the leather padding had worn away. By design, the triggers resembled sword hilts. In combat, soldiers attached replaceable blades to them, allowing them to wield swords against the titans while keeping both hands on the maneuvering gear controls. But Rosalie wasn’t even sure she could fit a sword into these hilts. Not only were the mechanisms loose, the metal clamp that held the blades in place was dented, like something had been chewing on it.
Rosalie dropped the triggers in disgust. This was absolutely unacceptable. Whoever had inspected this gear deserved to lose their job. Another soldier would have been doomed, but thankfully, Rosalie had packed her own set of gear from home. She just had to find the barracks and locate where her driver had put her luggage. She was about to go searching when a sharp finger tapped her on the shoulder.
Rosalie turned around to find herself face-to-face with a poof of curling, red-brown hair. She was staring at it in confusion when the soft fluff bobbed to reveal a sharp-eyed, extremely short girl with bushy eyebrows, endless freckles, and a sour not-quite-frown that dominated her skinny face.
“Squad Thirteen?” she asked in a heavily accented voice, pointing at Rosalie’s gear.
Rosalie glanced down at the sad pile of broken equipment in her arms, which did indeed have the number 13 scratched into the vent fan’s steel casing.
The freckled girl whirled around. “EMMETT! I found one!”
On the other side of the yard, an equally short boy with tanned skin and close-cut chestnut brown hair waved and started toward them. He was already wearing a full set of maneuvering gear that was almost as battered as Rosalie’s, only Emmett seemed to be trying to take his apart as he walked, fiddling with his triggers as he shuffled across the yard.
While he took his time, the girl turned back to Rosalie. “I’m Willow Whittaker,” she said, looking Rosalie over. “Seems we’re squadmates.”
Rosalie nodded.
The stranger arched an eyebrow. “And your name is?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Rosalie said, flustered. “Rosalie Dumarque.”
She paused, waiting for the inevitable gasp that always came after the Dumarque name, but Willow just kept going like she’d said nothing remarkable.
“What’s your assignment? This is Emmett—” She grabbed the distracted young man by the shoulders and yanked him over before he could walk into a wall. “We’re from the same town. Where’re you from?”
Rosalie blinked. That was a lot of information and questions to throw at a stranger. Obviously, this girl hadn’t been taught any kind of etiquette, but Rosalie was careful to keep judgment out of her voice. If they were squadmates, six months would be plenty of time to smooth Miss Whittaker’s rough edges.
“I’m from Sina,” Rosalie said quickly. “And I’m the cannoneer.” No one had actually told her that yet, but Rosalie knew that Garrison wall squads were typically five-person teams: a medic, an engineer, a gunner, a nonspecialist soldier, and an officer. Since she’d chosen cannon tactics as her specialty at the academy and earned the highest scores in her class, her role was obvious.
Willow let out a low whistle. “Sina, eh?” She flashed a crooked-toothed grin. “Fancy! Is that why you’re in that weird uniform?”
“This is the Royal Academy dress uniform,” Rosalie explained, straightening her elegant coat, which looked rather sad after the carriage ride. Willow and Emmett were both wearing the standard sand-colored trousers and jacket of the Garrison, with the shield-and-two-roses insignia on the sleeves and back. “I suppose it does stand out,” she admitted. “But it is a regulation uniform.”
“Whatever you say, beanpole,” Willow said with a shrug. “White doesn’t seem very practical for battle dress to me, but it definitely won’t be good if our new sergeant catches you out of your gear as well.”
“Oh, no,” Rosalie said quickly, holding up the battered maneuvering gear she’d been given. “No, no, no. I can’t wear this.”
Willow elbowed Emmett, who finally stopped fussing with his own equipment. He reached out to shake Rosalie’s hand, grabbing her palm and pumping it several times before finally letting go. “Hi! I’m Emmett,” he said cheerfully. “What’s that about your gear?”
Rosalie was so shocked at his forwardness that she could only stare. Even her brothers would never take her hand like that without permission. Like Willow, Emmett had a rough, undisciplined air about him, but unlike his sharp-eyed companion, his open smile was genuine and disarming.
“It’s terrible,” she said, showing him the battered metal. “Are you our medic?”
Given his pleasant demeanor, that made the most sense, but Willow snorted. “Why would a medic care about your maneuver gear?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “He’s the engineer. I’m your medic.”
Rosalie paled. “You’re the medic?”
“I set bones proper,” Willow said with a smile that made her shiver. “More important, I don’t faint when I see a titan. I saw you up on the Red Line. You looked like you were going to pop.”
Rosalie’s face began to burn. “I did not almost faint.”
“Then why was the lieutenant over there holding you up?”
“Go easy on her, Willow,” Emmett chided, moving in to take a look at Rosalie’s gear. “Maybe that was her first titan.”
“Of course it’s her first titan,” Willow said, smirking. “She’s from Sina. I bet she didn’t even think titans were real before today.”
“I thought nothing of the sort,” Rosalie snapped. “I know titans are real. I came here to kill them.”
“Well, you’re off to a good start,” Willow said mockingly. “What’s your strategy? Faint so the titan will come closer and drop its guard before you puke on its feet?”
Rosalie was usually willing to let things slide, but there was only so much one could take. “Say that again,” she growled, stepping into the stance she’d learned in hand-to-hand combat training.
“Whoa,” Emmett said, jumping
back. “Easy. Let’s not get tossed in the cooler on the first day, okay?”
Rosalie was about to remind him that Willow had started it when the girl began to laugh. “Relax, beanpole,” she said, slapping Rosalie on the shoulder. “I was just making fun of you. Are you always so serious?”
“Not usually,” Rosalie said, glancing down at the dirty finger prints Willow had left on her epaulets. “But I’m not usually insulted to my face.”
Willow shrugged. “Better than behind your back, right?”
There was a certain sense to that.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Willow said, waving her hand. “I respect that you didn’t back down, Rosalind—”
“Rosa-lee,” Rosalie corrected.
Willow shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, if you can’t learn to take a ribbing, you’re going to have a hard time. I don’t have the spare materials to patch you up if you’re going to swing every time someone here insults your princess suit.”
She scooped her bag off the ground and flipped open the top to show Rosalie the cache of rolled-up bandages, sutures, compresses, and other first-aid paraphernalia inside. “See?” she said, holding up a bandage. “This has to last us until summer, so if you want your scraped knees bandaged, you’d better stay on my good side, Dumarque.”
The idea that one bag of medical supplies was supposed to last an entire squad six months was ludicrous, but at this point, Rosalie was too tired to care. “I’ll do my best,” she grumbled, turning back to Emmett, whom she’d now decided was hands down her favorite squad mate. “Can you do anything about my gear?”
“It’s not so bad, actually,” he said, reaching into his bag for a pair of pliers. “Not as bad as mine, anyway. A few adjustments and it’ll be ready to go.”
