The next in line is Rashad, one of Hange's team leaders. He's in a room several doors down, another officer with the privilege of a private room. The lesser soldiers aren't so advantaged.
You enter to find Thea at his side, along with a male nurse you don't recognize. Rashad sees you, though he's a little preoccupied with his broken leg in Thea's hands. The fabric of his pants is cut at the thigh, and he's missing his sock and shoe.
"Thea. How are things?" You approach the bed.
"A clean oblique fracture of the tibia, from what I can tell. The fibula seems intact." She gingerly runs a hand along his hairy leg, curving her hand underneath his calf.
"Okay." His calf is bent, but skin hasn't been broken. The fractured bone within didn't pierce flesh. "It certainly needs resetting, yes?"
"Yeah." Thea nods, her lips curling in.
You look up at Rashad, finding him warily observing his inspection. "Squad Leader, you understand what we have to do, right?"
"Sure do." He's already wincing, but he won't be a chicken about it.
"We're going to set the bone, then get you situated in a cast. Are you ready?"
"I guess so," he says weakly.
"Okay. It won't take long. Shouldn't hurt much, either." You circle to Thea's side of the bed, wedging yourself between her and the male nurse.
"Can you handle this?" Thea asks anxiously, hoping you will take on the work she's hesitant about performing.
"Yes." You replace her hands with yours, gently holding the angled calf. "If you'd like, you can go prepare the plaster. Is that alright?"
"Absolutely," Thea consents. "Let's go, Robin."
Her and the male nurse leave the room to prepare the splint, leaving you alone with your unfortunate torture victim.
"You can trust me, Squad Leader. I'm quite capable in this field." You give a kind smile as you continue feeling the length of his leg, gently palming the area where the bone has raised his skin. "Not to brag," you add.
"I don't doubt you," he says. "Doesn't mean I'm looking forward to the pain."
"It's not as bad as you think," you soothe.
"Yeah? Have you ever had this done to you before?"
"No." You look up at him while positioning your hands in the best position for readjustment. "How about this: you can break my leg afterwards, then reset it, too. Then I'll know what it's like."
This elicits a smile from him, which escalates to a laugh. "Yeah, right. I don't think—agh! D-damn!" he cries as you pull his bone back into place.
"Sorry," you singsong sweetly, smoothing a hand over the properly-shaped leg. "See? Not so bad."
Rashad groans painfully, not fully appreciative of your consolation. He tries to relax his tense body, sinking his stiff back into his pillows. "You shouldn't stare at me when you do that," he scolds halfheartedly. "I can almost see the delight in your eyes."
"No delight, Squad Leader. None at all." You're a nurse, not a sadist. "Just had to get it over with. Now then, we'll get you all plastered up. I'm sure Thea will run over the basics with you."
"Great," he sighs. "Thanks for torturing me."
"No problem." He's being amiable despite the suffering, and you're happy to meet his energy.
Thea returns immediately, joined by Robin. They're carrying the necessary supplies to start a cast, and they're willing to get the job done. "Well done," Thea congratulates as she returns to her side. "We can manage from here, if you'd like. Clark says you should tend to as many patients as possible."
"What does he expect from me?" you laugh. "I'm not even a qualified doctor."
"You might as well be," Thea admits. "You've done more of this work than most of us, you know."
"I...I guess." You sigh, challenged with providing an accurate evaluation of yourself. "Anyways, I'll go see the others. Will you be alright?"
"Absolutely," Thea promises. "Go do what you have to do."
You return to the hallway, scanning the activity in the area. Near Erwin's door, you see Oscar about to enter. "Oscar!" you call.
"Yeah?" He stops just outside, waiting for you.
"If the Section Commander wakes up, can you come let me know? I'd like to see how he's faring. He's at risk of concussion."
"Yeah, of course! I'll find you if he does."
"Thank you! I appreciate it." You wave to him as you hurry to the next room on your list, the room with Leon inside. "Excuse me," you call as you knock and open the door.
Clark is at Leon's bedside, your superior tending to one of Erwin's squad leaders. His body hides Leon's face, but you still remember how thickly Leon's jaw had been bandaged. "Good, you're here," Clark says without facing you.
You come to Leon's bedside, looking him over. His short brown hair juts out from the overabundance of gauze encasing his head, bandages that hide most of his facial features. His hazel eyes are the only indicator of his emotions, but their blankness and refusal to meet yours speak volumes of his turmoil.
His bandages sag with the blood staining them, blood that hasn't slowed in the hours he's been suffering. You're surprised he's still conscious, though he's likely to faint at any moment.
"We need to take these off." Clark tugs at the white gauze while reaching for nearby scissors, a bit hesitant about revealing the wound underneath. He snips through the cloth gingerly, peeling it off Leon's bloodied beard. You assist in removing the dressing, Clark careful to keep a hand under Leon's jaw.
A pained groan comes from Leon unexpectedly, followed by a swift apology from Clark. "I'm sorry, Squad Leader. Please keep holding still. We can't move your head too much." Clark holds Leon unshakingly.
"What is it?" You set the bandages on a nearby counter and step closer to Leon, hoping to see what injuries were sustained.
"Fractured jaw," Clark reports. "Clean through the bone and teeth. It's in two." Maybe it isn't best to detail the patient's afflictions directly in front of him, but the Scout seems too dazed to care. "Infection is likely. This wound came a day or two ago."
Awful news. Open wounds are one thing to treat, but infected open wounds are next to impossible to handle. Especially with injuries as heavy as the ones the Scouts sustain. Medicine is barely effective at best, and hopes of rescuing those from the brink of death fade quickly once infection is confirmed. "Okay," you respond without emotion. "What's needed from me?"
You help Clark in washing off the blood on Leon's face and in flushing out his mouth as delicately as possible. Leon's lost his fight to cry out, only wallowing silently in pain that you're trying to avoid inflicting. The blood coming from Leon's gums has slowed, and Clark is quick to stuff cotton along the fracture site.
"An intraoral splint would be best," Clark deduces. "But we don't have one. The most we can do is keep the jaw secured with bandages."
But it might not be enough. You know that, and so does he. "I'll write to my colleague in Trost. I'll write to other districts, too. We can find a specialist if we stress the urgency enough."
"I hope," Clark whispers unconfidently.
"I will write," you declare again. "We need the help."
Clark hesitates to answer, surprisingly struggling to match your determination. "Okay. Let's bandage him for now."
You do, gathering fresh bandages that Clark expertly winds around Leon's head, arranging the dressing in such a way that Leon's mouth will stay securely shut. It prevents him from speaking, but it prevents him from suffering, too.
"Well done," Clark praises when you finish the wrapping. He sets Leon back in the bed, never taking his eyes off his patient. "I can take care of him from here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Go to the break room. Take a minute."
"The break room?" You shake your head. "No, I'm fine. I'll keep—"
"Please." He gives you a longing glance. "Please. They need a leader out there, and I don't need that leader burning out. Just take a little break."
He can't make you, but you don't want to let him down. Giving in, you let out a pent-up sigh. "Okay. Let me know if you need anything."
You leave Leon's room, taking in the activity of the hallway yet again. Doors keep opening and closing as personnel dart from room to room, working masterfully to help their guests. It feels rude to take a break, but there's—
A shriek yanks you out of your thoughts, coming from the door right beside Leon's. Lotte's room.
You ignore the startled personnel in the hallway and let yourself inside, assuming your leadership position can override any assumptions of intrusion. Within, Lotte is writhing on a surgical table, held in place by a broad male nurse with Ruth operating on her lack of a foot. Lotte is struggling to take it well, understandably so. Nothing can dull the pain necessary to fix up her leg. Ruth holds a scalpel as delicately as a paintbrush, gliding across Lotte's skin effortlessly. She's removing a small portion of muscle and creating a few flaps of skin to stitch together, hoping to change Lotte's open stump into a sewn nub. Lotte has consented to this, but that doesn't mean she can take it easily.
You're at her side in an instant, voluntarily becoming her target of stress relief. She reaches to you with a frantic hand, desperate to cling on to anything to brace for the pain terrorizing her system. You let her reel you in, returning her desperate embrace with comforting hands that wrap around her neck and chest.
"Squad Leader," you say tenderly, barely heard under her agonized cries.
"Goddammit, goddammit! Ngh!" She's hysterical, unable to spill any coherent thoughts as she's tortured before her eyes. She buries her head in your shoulder, her groans vibrating against your collarbone. You wince as she crushes your torso with the adrenaline-boosted strength of a Scout member, but you make every effort to hide your pain. It's nothing compared to hers.
"Breathe, Squad Leader. Keep breathing." Having her go into shock will ruin Ruth's efforts. She has to stay conscious and under control, even if it is a waking hell.
She tries to heed your advice, but the squelch of muscles being cut out doesn't make it easy for you to hear or her to fathom. A grunt from the nurse behind you is heard as he fights to secure her, keeping her hips and leg stationary for Ruth to work on.
"Fuck this! Fuck this!" she screams against your dress, clawing into your back with so much force you think she might tear your clothes.
"I know," you breathe, but the oxygen squeezed from your lungs stops you from saying anything more. In a disaster situation, the Scouts are gods at ignoring pain in favor of accomplishing the mission, but there's nothing pressing to take Lotte away from her agony right now. Her suffering is strong, and there's nothing good nor bad to devote attention to. She can't do anything but writhe wildly.
You can barely look back to see Ruth set a tiny chunk of entrails on a metal tray, then pick up scissors and pinchers. "Stitches," she announces quickly as she returns to the loose skin curtaining the inside of Lotte's leg.
"Just stitches now," you repeat to Lotte.
Her grip doesn't weaken, but her shouts have dropped to muffled grunts. Being sutured up is tolerable, but it's still paired with the residual pain of her open limb. You keep your hug strong, hoping you're successfully comforting the patient.
"Shit. My God, I must be scaring the whole hospital." She's ranting now, grimacing as her skin is pierced repeatedly.
"Don't even worry about that. Don't worry at all." Her selflessness startles you, but you're quick to smother her concern.
"They've heard worse," she tries to tell herself, but it doesn't make either of you feel better. You can only imagine what the Scouts hear outside the Walls, anything from the crunching of bones between Titan teeth to the screams of those too late to save.
"We're nearly finished," is all you can think to say.
"Oh, we better be," she grouses, clearly upset with the pain and not with you.
Ruth finishes with the same speed you've mastered, successfully closing up Lotte's leg. She sets her tools aside and begins bandaging the stub, beautifully blanketing the wound. "That's it," Ruth announces dully, wholly indifferent to the process.
Your warmness is probably preferable to Ruth's pall of frigidity, and Lotte likely appreciates it. "Good work, Ruth," you congratulate softly. "And great work, Lotte. Thank you for pushing through."
"Mmhmm." She's still wincing, even as the heavy hands of the male nurse leave her body and allow it to relax. "I could hardly call myself a Scout if I can't handle this. I'll be okay."
"Your attitude is admirable," you compliment.
"Thanks."
"I'm going to leave you with Ruth now. I know she's kinda become your tormentor, but do show her a little mercy." You smile jokingly as you speak, trying to lighten the mood.
"Please," Ruth adds.
"I'm not a savage." Lotte sighs exhaustedly. "I agreed to this, after all."
"That you did," Ruth concurs.
"I'll be by to visit. Rest up." You make sure she's okay before leaving the room, unfortunately unable to stay in one place for too long.
Oscar emerges from Erwin's room simultaneously, quickly spotting you. "Oh, right on time!" He crosses to you, pointing at the room behind him. "Listen, Section Commander Erwin woke up a few minutes ago. I've gotten him cleaned and changed. You can go see him whenever you'd like."
"Good! Good. Thank you so much, Oscar." You give him a grateful pat on the shoulder. "I'll go take a look at him."
"Sure thing."
You reassure yourself as you step into Erwin's room, prepared to face the senior officer you had been ranting to previously. "Section Commander Erwin, hello."
He's sitting up in bed, holding his hand delicately in his lap. His broad frame has been wrapped in a cloth robe, his old uniform folded up on a chair. Freshly washed hair clings to his forehead, fully free of any dirt. He's meditatively gazing out the window, his steely blue eyes focused on the street beyond. He turns his head upon hearing his name and nods to the newcomer. "Hello," he replies.
You give your name again, in case he hadn't remembered.
"I know," he says, his voice low and quiet. "I heard you earlier."
"Oh, you did?" You stand at his bedside, smoothing out your apron. "That's a little embarrassing. I hope I didn't annoy you."
"Not at all," he nearly whispers. "It was good company."
"Glad to hear it." You smile gently. "Well, I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright. Purely for medical purposes."
"Certainly," he consents.
You take his uniform from the chair and set it on a nearby counter, running a hand over the embroidered logo of the Wings of Freedom. A gorgeous emblem, really. Returning to the chair, you draw it closer to his bedside before sitting down. "First off, what's the last thing you remember? Is there anything you can recall from the expedition?"
He can't focus on you, his eyes instead drifting to the thoroughfare outside. "It rained, unfortunately. There was a lot of rain that hindered our progress."
You purse your lips. Not exactly the answer you were expecting. His interest in the weather over the events surrounding him and his troops is awfully concerning, and a surefire sign of concussion. You have to continue. "Anything after the rain? Anything from yesterday?"
"We traveled back. The Scout Regiment rejoined closer to the Walls and we made our way back together."
Still incredibly vague. If he had witnessed anything traumatizing, it didn't seem to stick around in his wandering brain. Anxiety prickles in your mind, but you resume the duty you're obligated to perform. "Are you experiencing any notable symptoms? Headache, dizziness, fatigue...?"
"I do have a small headache," he admits. "And I'm tired."
"Okay." His simple, unbothered attitude is worrying. "Section Commander, you've sustained a serious head injury. Do you remember how you got that injury?"
He returns his gaze to you, as if you will answer for him. He blinks once, then twice. "I think I fell off my horse."
Unlikely, by all accounts. Who just falls off their horse? Clumsy beginners, maybe, but not seasoned veterans. No answer he gives is reassuring you.
You rise to your feet, accepting that you have to continue your evaluation to confirm your suspicion. "Okay, I'm going to run a simple test. First off," you begin as you put a light hand on his shoulder. "I want you to watch the tip of my index finger." You hold up a straight digit, making sure his eyes meet their target. "Follow it as it moves, please."
You trace an upward line through the air, and he keeps up. He follows your finger as you send it downward diagonally, and even as you continue through the rest of the imaginary star you're drawing. Not bad. He's quiet, as if it's taking all of his focus to accomplish the easy task he's been given.
You take your finger to the left, then sweep it to the right, then back to the left and the process repeats for several rounds as you take note of his oscillating eyes. They manage for a few moments, but eventually stumble in their effort and escape your request for attention, instead darting over to the windowsill and back outside. He puts his uninjured hand to his head, soothing what appears to be a small headache.
Damn. He can't even complete the eye test. He is concussed, no doubt.
"Section Commander," you call softly, and it takes a few moments for him to return to your face. "Do you remember anything about...falling off your horse? Was there anyone with you? Anything like that?"
He ponders and ponders, as still as stone while he thinks. "The rain was clearing up. There was steam, too."
"Steam," you repeat. Steam from vanquished Titans, most likely. Had he fallen after slaying a Titan? That seems reasonable. "Do you remember any other Scouts with you?"
His eyes grow softer, almost sadder. "I can't remember. There might've been."
You sink to his somberness, hating watching this slow-witted officer before you. Aside from his good nature, you know Erwin is smart. Perhaps one of, if not the smartest Scout in the regiment. Witnessing him fail to remember serious events sends dread through your system, making you paranoid over how this could affect his future, or even the future of the regiment.
It can't be that bad. His symptoms aren't horribly severe, so he's sure to recover swiftly with minimal lasting damage. "Sir," you start. "I believe you've suffered a concussion. You're operating at a mildly slower pace than is typical."
"Concussion?" He seems to flash with a little more life at the word.
"Yes. I'm not seeing any signs of extensive brain damage—from what I can tell, at least—so I'm confident you'll make a quick recovery. We'll keep a close eye on you, but you shouldn't have to be here for any more than a week."
"Okay." He nods. "I have business to attend to, though."
You hesitate. "I'm happy to send letters, and starting tomorrow visitors are welcome to come by. Unfortunately, though, it's ideal if you stay in the hospital."
He sighs, disliking your bad news. "That's no good."
You can't help but feel like it's your fault he's bedridden. You don't know if this is some subtle attempt to guilt you into giving him more privileges, but if it is, you won't fall for it. "I'm sorry. It's for your health. You understand, right?"
He gives an avoidant, "I suppose," before returning his attention outside.
Well, you can't force him to stay, but you can certainly heavily, heavily suggest it. Suggest it so much, to the point it sounds like he doesn't have a choice. Morally, it's a little wrong to deceive like that, but your deception is for the greater good. "For now, I would prioritize rest. You'll recover faster the more time you stay comfortable."
"Okay." He's quiet.
It seems like he wants to be left alone. "I'm going to give you some time, then. Please stay in bed. I'll have somebody right outside the door if you need anything."
"Okay."
You push your chair back, then take his uniform from the counter before leaving the room. After assigning a medical member to monitor Erwin, you seek out the hospital's laundry room and hand Erwin's clothes to the working staff.
The day resumes, and you find more patients and more responsibilities to take on. Hours pass quickly, the bustle of the hospital keeping your mind occupied and your body moving. You haven't eaten, but you don't even notice such an ailment until later in the day.
Early evening soon arrives, marked by the orange sky overhead and the lighting of the street lamps outside. Candles and lamps are illuminated inside, the hospital transforming into a warm treasure chest of light. Some patients have slept all day, others go to bed quite early, and several stay up, too shaken or submerged in pain to relax.
After checking on Lotte for the third time that day, you wander through the main hall, searching for whoever needs your help next.
"Hey! Wait up!" Behind you, Thea calls out as she quickly approaches, waving a dainty hand.
"What is it?" You stop in your tracks.
She lets out a fatigued exhale as she halts in front of you. "Clark wanted me to check on you. Have you taken a break recently?"
"Oh, not yet. I have—"
"Well, come on, then." She jerks her head behind her. "Let's go get dinner. They're providing food for the staff and patients."
"I can't, yet. There's other patients—"
"Just eat dinner. Come on." She takes your wrist and tugs, urging you along.
Always struggling to turn her down, you give up. "We'll get a brief dinner."
She beams at your confirmation, proud of herself for convincing you. You follow her down the left corridor until you reach the end of the hall, then take a right to find the cafeteria along the side of the hospital. It's a decently sized area that juts out from the main building, with massive windows allowing visual access of the cramped town alleys around the hospital. The kitchen is on the back wall, a barrier of steel counters separating the sitting area from the back rooms.
After washing your hands in nearby sinks, you and Thea pick up bowls of pre-portioned soup, a fairly bland mixture of vegetables and weak spices in a watery broth. You take a seat at one of the multiple circular tables, with most spaces being available. Workers are too busy to eat, and those that do take the time to feed themselves often do it very quickly.
"Well, how has the battlefield been treating you?" Thea asks as she charily stirs her soup.
"The battlefield?" You chuckle at her term for your place of work. "It's...fine, I guess. Manageable."
"Yeah, same here. It's more depressing than last time." She sips a spoonful, contemplating the day's events.
"Is it?" The emotions are about as extreme as two months ago, but you don't necessarily describe them as being more intense.
"Well, for me, at least. I've had to declare two soldiers dead. Their own squad leader wasn't even there to see them pass. It—" She pauses, unsure of what to say next. "It sucks."
"It does," you agree quietly. "It really does."
There's no way to mask the tormenting feeling brought about by your work. Your stomach wrenches into knots as the faces of those afflicted flood into your head. You pride yourself on withstanding the emotional torture, but in quiet moments like these it's impossible to ignore. Work, though grueling, keeps you distracted. You hate having to take a break since it hardly does anything to truly rejuvenate you. The silence only allows room for the emotions, emotions that are better off being shut down until everyone is helped.
You eat reluctantly, swallowing down the tasteless provisions.
"How's the Section Commander doing?" Thea tries to take both of you out of the rut.
"Concussed, but fine otherwise. He's a little out of it right now." You're grateful for the new topic.
"That's terrible," Thea says, her voice full of worry. "I know him and Commander Keith usually sort out all the post-expedition crap together. I guess the Commander will have to do it alone this time."
"Well, he's got Section Commanders Miche and Hange, at least," you posit. "They're both doing well."
"Yeah." Thea takes in and chews a stale potato cube.
"Section Commander Flagon, though." You run the tip of your spoon around the brim of the bowl. "Another loss."
"Yeah. His whole section."
The thought still hasn't processed completely. One fourth of the Scout Regiment is gone. One fourth. Some catastrophe beyond the Walls destroyed an entire section of humanity's most well-equipped and talented soldiers. The demolition of that many lives cripples your heart.
Then the recollection of the lone survivor comes back. One single soldier lives and runs from facing those that question where his section went. He didn't join his section in death, only reuniting with the safe numbers of the regiment later and slinking back within the safety of the Walls. He was damn lucky, and likely a dishonorable coward.
Well, you're drawing conclusions. You have no idea what happened, and making up stories without even seeing the soldier is quite presumptuous. It's just hard to think up any other viable answer to his impossible safety, and his apparent uninjured condition adds even more mystery. You don't take Section Commander Miche for a liar, but in that moment you're having a hard time believing his report.
Sighing, you watch a few children play in the street outside the window. They ought to head home, you think. It's getting late in the day.
"Hey, Thea. The day's finishing up, isn't it?" You sink your spoon into the puddle of broth.
"Yeah, pretty much. All the urgent patients have been handled; it's just a case of looking after them now."
"Hm." You try to remember the number of patients admitted. Ruth had totaled around thirty or so, as much as you can remember. The nurse-to-patient ratio is vastly different than your previous estimate. Now that everyone's immediately injuries are handled, there isn't a need for so many workers. "Well, you should head home, then."
"Oh, no way. I'll stay longer." Thea shakes her head resolutely.
"Really, Thea, head home. I'll take volunteers willing to spend the night, but you should get some rest."
"Nah." Thea doesn't give in. "If others are staying, I'm staying. I'm the last person that's going to willingly nap while these souls are suffering."
You grin weakly, struggling to win against her. "Alright. I can't really stop you."
"Damn straight." She leans back in her seat, setting her spoon down. "I'll clean up your dishes, if you want to go start arranging the overnight crew."
"Yeah. Yeah, that would be great." You get to your feet, diligently pushing your chair in. "Thank you, Thea. Get ready for a long night."
"You know I will."
Leaving the cafeteria, you return to the main hall and begin checking on as many caretakers as you can, telling them to either go home or commit to staying over night. There's empty rooms and dormitories in the hospital for on-call workers, and you encourage anyone staying to utilize them right away. If they plan to stay, they should at least be well-rested in case they're needed.
You're not planning on sleeping for a while. You could blame it on your responsibilities as supervisor, but truthfully sleep will certainly evade you should you try to relax. Continuing to work is the best solution to keep your restless mind occupied.
"Gretel." You end with the receptionist, who still hasn't left despite the hospital operating past office hours. "I've arranged an overnight team. You're welcome to head home, if you'd like."
"Eh." Her feather pen dances as she conducts it across some sheet of paper—she's been mechanically scribbling all day, or at least whenever you've seen her. "I'll stay. Got work to finish up."
"I hope you don't feel like you have to. We really can handle the patients on our own."
"I know you can handle the patients, dearie. That's your job, and you can certainly do it." She's barely complimenting, but it does soften the bite of her voice. "I just do paperwork."
"Um, right. I know, I just—"
"Really, it's fine." She stops her writing and looks up, conveying more forgiveness through her unbothered facial expression. "I want to stay. I do this job because I like it, and there's no better night to stay than the night of the Scouts. I'll be here for a few more hours."
You eventually nod, meeting yet another woman that you have a hard time fighting. "Okay. As long as you're comfortable."
"I am. Go give someone a bath or something." She waves you away before resuming her unrelenting scribbling. Her demeanor is a little snippy, but she likely means well. You want to think so.
"Will do," you reply jokingly as you turn away, back to your territory.
You show a few nurses to the dormitories, then say goodbye to those that are leaving. Ruth is among them, but she leaves behind the detailed record of the soldiers' conditions. This report will be given to whoever comes by to retrieve it tomorrow, any Scout designated by Keith to check on the status of the regiment. You leave it with Gretel for now, the paperwork master happy to take another list off your hands.
Reentering Erwin's room, your eyes are forced to adjust to the dim lighting within. The sun has disappeared behind the towering Walls, lending no light to his small room. Only a lamp provides illumination, though its flame is weak and dying. It shines upon Erwin, who has sunken into his bed and is fast asleep. For the best, you think. He needs as much rest as he can get.
You deftly snuff the lamp before leaving the room, gently closing the door and writing down the symbol for do not disturb on the chalkboard affixed to the door. You dismiss his designated monitor, confident that you can take care of the Section Commander should he need anything.
Lotte is out, too, when you go to visit her. She's sleeping quite serenely despite her newfound absence of a foot, her face content and peaceful. It's a stark contrast to her writhing activity earlier; the horrible torture likely wore her out.
You go to check on Leon, but he's also got the same symbol on his door as Erwin's. Standing silently outside his room, you can hear Clark's voice within, soothing the patient. They're both still awake, most likely, but Leon can't take the presence of too many pestering nurses. He's physically and mentally wounded, so he needs as tender of care as possible.
Passing Gretel in the hallway, she declares she's picking up dinner and that the front desk will be unmanned for a few minutes. Offering to take over, you situate yourself at her desk and search for a way to keep yourself busy.
Well, no time is better than now to start on writing letters. Help is needed urgently, especially for Leon.
You borrow Gretel's pen and find a few blank papers in her armory of drawers. Dipping the metal tip into the inkwell, you take just a few moments to think before writing. Your first message is to Walter, asking after his health and giving a brief report of your first day on the job. You carry on to discuss Leon's condition and the treatment Clark deduced was best. You list a few of Walt's colleagues, hoping he can get in contact with them to deliver supplies posthaste. Walt will certainly be your best shot, not only because of his connections but also because of Trost's proximity to Shiganshina. Unless a prosthodontist had suddenly sprouted up in Shiganshina in the last two months, Wall Rose's southern district is your primary source of hope.
Next, you write to Dr. Grisha Jeager. He lives in Shiganshina, fortunately, and he's always been a beneficial assistant in your past experiences. He's got a variety of specialties, but his familiarity with infections will be particularly useful in the case of Leon. If the Scout is infected, Dr. Jeager can certainly help. Maybe a visit to his home would be quicker, but if that somehow isn't possible you want to at least have an alternate form of communication.
You fold up the two letters and slip them into envelopes, writing down the doctors' names neatly. You remind yourself to tell Gretel about them, and to ensure they're sent out first thing tomorrow morning. These messages can't be delayed.
The main door of the hospital swings open, much to your surprise. The doors don't lock, since emergencies are possible at any time, but the new visitor doesn't seem to be in any urgent danger. You look up to see him.
He's on the smaller side, his frame light and thin. If he does have any bulk on his body, it's hidden beneath his dark pants and white button-up, clothes that aren't expensive yet are treated with the grooming standards of the aristocrats. His shoulders are relaxed, but he still stands with this sort of caution as though he's required to always be on his toes. This wariness converts to suspicion in his facial expression, his unwelcoming eyes riddled with distrust.
Short black hair frames those grey, daring eyes, carefully combed locks spilling gracefully from his head. His face, though expressing dull aridity, is beautifully symmetrical and...well, and pretty. He has a pretty face, you allow yourself to think.
As soon as his eyes flick over to you, you suddenly become the target of his unwarranted distrust. He's able to crush you through his sharp glare alone, barging into your territory with the silent confidence of an unstoppable villain. Warmth drains from your system as he siphons it out of you, leeching off your spirit to feed his own.
Your swallow sounds as loud as thunder, and you pray the shudder than runs through your body isn't noticeable to its elicitor. He's frightening, and you fear being the center of his vicious attention.
You're not sure how much time has passed before you speak up, but you realize you can't remain a petrified victim forever. "...Can I help you with something?"
He's quiet, almost as though he didn't hear you speak. He lightly drops his hand from the doorknob he had been holding, his hands now loosely at his sides.
You can't understand his situation, and he's not in any rush to share it with you. The tension is unbearably thick, but he seems to wear it comfortably.
"I'm here to see someone," he says at last, his low voice crawling into your mind with muted threat.
His single sentence gives you enough material to latch on to in terms of mentation, allowing you to process his request and switch back on your nurse-in-a-hospital mindset. "I'm sorry, we're not open for visitation right now." You straighten your back subtly, trying to look as professional as possible.
"I'm a soldier," he adds as though that will change anything.
A soldier? He doesn't look like one, nor is he wearing a uniform. Also, that thin frame doesn't quite scream power or strength worthy of a fighter, but you know better than to judge. Perhaps he is a soldier, just a very small one.
"No exceptions, I'm afraid. We can't have visitors until tomorrow morning." You're fighting to keep eye contact, his glare growing fiercer with every denial of his request.
"I can't wait until tomorrow morning." His voice stays quiet, but he slips a drop of frustration into it.
"You're going to have to, I'm sorry." You return the feather pen to its stand.
"I won't be able to see him tomorrow," the visitor clarifies.
"Why not?" It's not really your place to ask a question, but it slips out without thinking.
He finally breaks eye contact with you to glance at the hallway beyond. "He's going to be overwhelmed with visitors, I'm sure. And I need to clarify a few things with him alone."
"I'm sure he'll have enough free time tomorrow, whoever he is." You just can't let this unknown stranger barge into the hospital, especially with such delicate patients. No matter his desperation, you have to stay firm.
"He won't." The visitor is confident in this belief. "And my matters are urgent."
You sigh. Neither of you are budging. "Listen, sir," you begin as you slide off your seat. "I can't make any exceptions, I'm sorry. You're welcome to try again tomorrow. If you'd like, I can take your name and you can come by first thing in the morning. I'll give your visitation priority."
"My matters are urgent," he repeats, his eyes following you intently.
"Sir, please understand. We can't let visitors in right now." You face him fully and square your shoulders, grateful for the wide silhouette your gown creates. You'll become a human wall if necessary.
"I don't have time for this," he hisses, finally letting his frustration come to a head. "I've dealt with enough shit these past few days. I'm running out of patience to tolerate this."
Is he threatening you? You're starting to think so. It's a fruitless effort, though. You're not going to buckle over a grumpy man's words. Hardening your expression, you shake your head once while keeping your eyes trained on him. "Please leave, sir. You can return in the morning."
He frowns annoyedly, upset that you're not bowing to his wishes. "Good grief," he utters, reeling back his bitter tone. "Is my request really that absurd?"
"No, but we have protocols in place. They're for the safety of our patients, you know."
He hesitates, shutting down his temper and starting again. "Reasonable concern," he mutters almost sympathetically. "You can't just have criminals wander in here, right?"
His question feels condescending, as if your hospital has had an issue with criminals or something. It hasn't, as far as you know, but he certainly implies that it either has or that it will.
Just who is this guy? He's been wavering between anger and sternness your whole interaction, claiming he's a soldier with urgent matters for one of your patients. He's unusual for a soldier, and even more peculiar for a regular citizen. Lacking in respectful decency, but not to a maddening degree. Beyond that, you can't really figure him out.
"No, we can't," you answer undisputedly.
Concocting thoughts and opinions of his own, he looks you over before studying the area beyond. "Fine. I won't be a nuisance."
Thank heavens. "I appreciate it."
"I'll leave my name. Like you said, right?"
"Yeah. Yes, that'll work." You cross back to Gretel's desk, but keep your eyes on the sketchy visitor. Feeling for a sheet of paper, you pick up the first blank one you find before snatching the feather pen. Priority Visitation, you write first, looking down at the sheet. "Your name?"
"Levi."
Levi. You haven't heard the name before, in any of your social circles. It's a pleasant name, simple and smooth yet elegantly sophisticated. You write it down. "And your last name?"
This stumps him. He responds only by folding his arms across his chest, giving no words and spurring you to glance up again.
"Sir, your last name?"
"Just Levi," he answers sternly.
"Just...?" You trail off. You've met patients before without last names, for some reason or another. Most of the time, it isn't a pleasant story. You've heard everything from heartbreaking divorces to orphaned children to amnesic individuals, all ending up without any identity or memory thereof. "Okay." So you don't question this man's lack of a last name. You shift your hand down to begin a new line. "Who do you want to see?"
"Erwin."
For some reason, this doesn't surprise you. If any of your patients had people storming in with urgent business, it would be Erwin. His relationship to this late visitor is unknown, but someone as influential as Erwin is likely to know many people from different walks of life. For Erwin Smith, you write.
"And...you said you're a soldier. What regiment?" Somewhat verifying this stranger would reassure you that he really isn't a criminal wandering inside.
"Scout," he says briefly.
You don't remember seeing him in the procession today, though his height might've allowed him to go unnoticed. "Whose section are you stationed under?"
Another question he doesn't answer immediately, though when he does respond it startles you. "Flagon's, I guess."
You look up, your pen frozen. "Flagon's?"
"That's what I said."
It can't be possible. This man is the lone survivor of Flagon's section? This is the coward that probably survived through desertion? Your previous mental images of such a character look nothing like the man before you. He doesn't look like a coward, nor does he act like one. He certainly wasn't a coward when he snapped at a healthcare worker, but maybe this tame hospital is nothing compared to the horrors outside.
Your perspective on this individual shifts. He's not just some unusual soldier, he's the singular survivor of Flagon's section. If he holds guilt about his isolation, he's not showing it. He's incredibly indifferent for someone that withstood a massacre, his priorities instead focused on the leader of a different section entirely. Maybe he was sent on orders from Keith to talk with Erwin, Erwin perhaps being his new section commander. Though, you think, Commander Keith would know that visitation stops after certain hours. He wouldn't send a subordinate on a venture as pointless as this one.
"Is there a problem?" he asks.
You blink, brought back to reality. A part of you wants to ask this enigma how he survived, but that must certainly be pushing it. "No problem at all," you speak slowly, drawing your eyes back to the paper. "Flagon's section. Got it."
"Good." He watches you write, making sure his information is properly recorded. His hand returns to the doorknob, twisting it and pushing the door open. "You'd better tell Erwin that I—that Levi is going to talk to him tomorrow. He'll know who I am."
"He's asleep right now," you point out quietly.
"I don't give a shit. Wake him up and tell him." The man, Levi, leaves after his sentence, shutting the door behind him. The reception area feels emptier, and silence prevails.
A pleasant fellow, really. You grin to yourself as you make up a sarcastic description of the disgruntled visitor. Looking down at your notes, you reread his name in your handwriting.
Levi.
"Just Levi," you repeat aloud, your interest in the inscrutable survivor peaked.