The mask was a lie. A beautiful, terrible lie.
It began out of necessity—a way to deal with a problem. A mask to wear when the world asked for something he couldn't be in the open.
First time he put it on, it was just supposed to be for the night. Temporary. Like that one time he told himself he'd only eat one cookie out of the pack and then, whoops, suddenly they were all gone.
People often overlook the true potential of a healing factor powerful enough to rebuild a head. It's more than just survival—it's freedom. The kind that means never needing sleep, never feeling exhaustion. If you understand why fatigue takes hold in the first place—stress, deprivation, imbalance—you can unravel it. The body stumbles when glycolysis speeds up, flooding the muscles and blood with lactate. But what if that weakness simply... didn't exist?
It was intoxicating. A taste of something greater.
But power? Power is a ladder.
Some people fall off. Some cling to it for dear life, praying they don't slip. Others climb, stepping on whoever they gotta to get higher. And then you got people like Armin. The ones who don't just climb the ladder—they build the whole damn thing themselves. Piece by piece. Board by board. Like the world's most morally questionable IKEA set.
Armin used to be at the bottom, staring up, waiting for someone to pull him out.
Now? Now he was making his own way up.
A small favor here, a gentle nudge there. A merchant relieved of his debts, a smuggler with a new boss he hadn't quite chosen. Influence spread effortlessly, like a warm breeze guiding leaves along a path. No need for force, just threats— Just choices—really, really obvious choices. And funny enough? People always seemed to pick the right one.
And with every deal made, every piece of land snagged, something inside him settled.
Control.
It felt good.
The mask was the Blue Spirit, but the name? The name was his.
Armin didn't lie to himself. He knew what he'd become.
A grade-A, top-shelf, premium-quality asshole.
And honestly? He kinda liked it. Because when he looked in the mirror, he didn't hate what he saw anymore.
Armin never meant to be a crime lord.
But now that he was here? Yeah, he wasn't about to give it up.
Because unlike Eren, he was free.
Which brought him to today's headache.
Politics. Gross. Miss him with that bullshit.
Hizuru promised progress, protection, a future. Armin saw it for what it was. A deal with the devil.
His first world seared that lesson into his bones. Small nations were never helped; they were claimed. Europe came bearing treaties and flags, carving up Africa like a feast, calling it progress. The Soviets marched into Afghanistan, promising stability, but left behind only ruins and graves. The hand that lifts is never empty—it carries debts, conditions, quiet chains. Armies stormed in, shouting about peace, but left behind nothing but dust and ghosts.
The hand that lifts? Yeah, it's never just lifting.
Sooner or later, it squeezes.
Sooner or later, it chokes.
Not that he cared. Paradis? Whatever.
He just wasn't about to be broke when it was all said and done.
People could fight over thrones, honor, destiny—blah blah blah. That's cool and all, but have you ever had a mountain of loot and a killer sandwich?
Way better.
And right now? Right now, he didn't need a mask to get that.
Armin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his feet propped up on the edge of the polished Hizuru conference table like he owned the place.
Mahogany.
Across from him, Masaru Tanaka looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. The guy had been sweating since the start of the conversation, but now he was really feeling the heat.
Mikasa stood behind Armin, arms folded, eyes locked on Masaru like she was mentally measuring whether she'd need to fold him in half before the meeting ended. She hadn't said much yet—she didn't have to. That was the fun part of these things.
Armin smirked, letting the silence drag just long enough to make Masaru uncomfortable. "So, we doing this or what?"
Masaru wiped a hand down his face. "You understand this is… delicate."
"Delicate?" Armin snorted. "Come on, Masaru. You wouldn't be here if you weren't already thinking about this."
Masaru shifted. "If Kiyomi—"
"—Finds out?" Armin cut in. "Yeah, yeah, big trouble. Scary lady. But let's be honest here—she's got her hands full playing politics. You, on the other hand, have a golden opportunity sitting right in front of you."
Masaru's lips pressed into a thin line. Mikasa sighed.
"Armin," she said, tone flat, "stop torturing him and get to the point."
Armin grinned. "Fine, fine. Here's the deal: we need weapons. The good stuff. And not just the kind you'd sell to some backwater rebels—I'm talking about cutting-edge gear, tech, connections. The kind of things that make sure we don't just survive, but win."
Masaru hesitated. "You already have firearms."
"Yeah, and you have water," Armin said, waving his hand. "Doesn't mean you wouldn't take more if you were stranded in a desert."
Mikasa glanced at him. "That was a weird analogy."
"You're a weird analogy," Armin shot back.
Masaru blinked at them. "Are you two serious?"
"Painfully," Mikasa replied.
Armin gestured toward her. "See? Even she thinks it's a good deal. And she's the reasonable one."
Masaru exhaled, rubbing his temples. "And if I say no?"
Mikasa tilted her head. "Then we leave, and Armin makes fun of you on the way out."
"Harsh," Armin said smirking, though he was obviously enjoying this.
Masaru drummed his fingers on the table. He looked between them, clearly debating whether this was a gamble worth taking. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. I can get you some of what you need. But no paper trail. And no unnecessary risks."
Armin clapped his hands together. "Now we're talking."
Masaru pointed at him. "If this backfires—"
Mikasa stepped forward just slightly, and Masaru immediately stopped talking.
Armin chuckled. "It won't."
Mikasa sighed. "Let's go before you start gloating."
"No promises," Armin said, flashing a grin as he stood.
This was shaping up to be a pretty good day.
---------------------------------
As the conversation wound down, Mikasa and Armin lingered behind while Masaru scurried out. The oil lamp flickered, casting a warm glow over the table as Armin stacked the books neatly.
Mikasa nudged him with her elbow. "So. You're a smuggler too now?"
Armin smirked. "Guess so. Think I should get a another cool code name?"
Mikasa tilted her head, pretending to think. "How about… The Blue Dork?"
Armin placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. "Wow. I was going to suggest something dignified, like Silent Hawk or The Lich."
Mikasa raised an eyebrow. "Silent Hawk? You talk too much for that."
Armin sighed dramatically. "Okay, what about The Brain?"
Mikasa shrugged. "Better. But still kinda obvious."
Armin threw his hands up. "Okay, then what's yours?"
Mikasa didn't even hesitate. "The Fist."
Armin blinked. "That's… unfairly cool."
Mikasa smirked. "I know."
Armin crossed his arms. "So you get 'The Fist,' and I get 'Blue Dork?"
Mikasa nodded. "Sounds right."
Armin sighed. "Unbelievable."
A comfortable silence settled between them as Mikasa flipped open one of the books.
"You think it'll work?" Mikasa asked, arms crossed as she leaned against the table.
Armin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "If Masaru is smart."
Mikasa smirked. "So we're doomed?"
Armin shot her a look. "I'm cautiously optimistic."
Mikasa raised an eyebrow. "That's just a fancy way of saying you're guessing."
Armin sighed. "It's an educated guess. If Masaru values his own neck—and I'm betting he does—he'll make the right call."
Mikasa tilted her head. "Or he panics, screws it up, and we have to clean up the mess."
Armin drummed his fingers on the table. "That's why we have contingencies."
Mikasa hummed. "Contingencies like you pulling another speech out of nowhere?"
Armin grinned. "You have to admit, they're effective."
Mikasa sighed, arms loosely folded, weight shifted to one side. "Yeah, yeah. You talk. I punch. Sasha panics. Teamwork."
Armin smirked, leaning back slightly with that smug little tilt of his head. "Glad you're finally recognizing my contributions."
Mikasa gave him a flat look. "Never said they were equal."
Armin clutched his chest like she'd just stabbed him. "Unbelievable."
Mikasa just shrugged, adjusting the scarf around her neck. "I call it like I see it."
A comfortable silence settled between them, the oil lamp flickering shadows against the walls. Mikasa shifted her weight, glancing at him. "So… you think this deal gets us anything good?"
Armin crossed his arms, tapping a finger against his sleeve as he thought. "I dunno. Trade perks? Maybe a nice meal plan?"
Mikasa snorted, tilting her head slightly. "Right, because that's what we need. A buffet."
Armin nodded sagely, pushing his glasses up. "Hunger is the real enemy. I'm sure Sasha agrees"
Mikasa smirked, shifting her stance. "And here I thought it was Hizuru's backroom deals."
Armin waved a hand dismissively. "Details."
Mikasa rolled her shoulders, nudging his arm as she turned toward the door. "C'mon, Blue Dork. Let's go before you start monologuing."
Armin groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he followed. "I take it back. You're not The Fist. You're The Menace."
Mikasa smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Finally, a name I like."
Armin sighed dramatically. "At least Sasha's not here right now."
Mikasa raised a brow, shifting to glance at him. "Why?"
Armin gave her a knowing look, hands raised as if presenting an obvious fact. "Because if she was, she'd somehow convince herself got caught, start panicking about doomsday scenarios, and stress-eat half our food supply."
Mikasa considered this, tilting her head. "…Yeah, fair."
Armin exhaled, rubbing his temples. "One time—one time—I let her sit in on a negotiation, and before I even finished, she had already assumed we were either getting assassinated or recruited into a secret cult."
Mikasa smirked, shifting her stance like she was settling in for a good memory. "That was a good day."
Armin scoffed, throwing his hands up. "For you. You got to punch someone. I had to spend an hour talking Sasha down while she stuffed her face with stolen food."
Mikasa clapped him on the back, almost knocking him forward. "We all have our roles to play."
Armin groaned, dragging his feet as he followed her out. "I hate you."
Mikasa smirked, adjusting her scarf. "Liar."
Armin pushed the door open with a dramatic sigh. "Whatever. Let's go before Sasha somehow finds out and decides we've accidentally declared war with Hizuru."
Mikasa chuckled, rolling her shoulders. "Too late. She probably already has."
---------------------------------
The candlelight flickered as Hange slammed a hand down on the map, scattering ink pots and half-crumpled reports. Her breath was sharp, her glasses slightly askew. "I tried, Levi. I really—really—tried."
Across from her, Levi sat with his arms crossed, watching as she paced. "Yeah. I noticed."
Hange let out a sharp exhale, rubbing a hand over her face. "Every envoy, every letter, every damn meeting—we bent over backwards trying to prove we weren't the monsters they thought we were. And what did we get?" She threw up her hands, voice rising. "Dead Volunteers. Peace talks that ended in nothing but ultimatums. It doesn't matter what we say, Levi. It doesn't matter what we do. They already decided—they want us gone."
Levi leaned back, unreadable. "So? You giving up?"
Hange shot him a glare. "Don't be stupid." She gritted her teeth, pressing her hands against the table, shoulders hunched like the weight of everything was pressing down on her spine. "But tell me—what the hell am I supposed to do now?"
Levi didn't answer right away. He just looked at her, really looked at her. The exhaustion behind her frustration, the way her fingers dug into the wood like she wanted to rip the whole thing apart.
"You're still trying to fix this." His voice was quieter, but not soft. "Still trying to believe there's a way to pull us back from the edge."
Hange let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Because if I don't, who will?" She gestured at the reports. "If we close the door on peace, then what? We fight the entire world? We become the devils they already think we are?"
Levi sighed through his nose, rubbing at his temples. "The world isn't giving us much of a choice."
Hange's jaw tightened. "Then I'll make one."
Levi raised an eyebrow. "And that means what, exactly?"
Hange straightened, arms crossed, eyes burning with something between defiance and desperation. "It means I'm not done. It means I'll keep looking, keep trying, no matter how many times they spit in my face. Because the moment we decide peace is impossible—that's the moment we become everything we swore we wouldn't."
Levi studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. "Tch. You're exhausting."
Hange grinned, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good thing I don't sleep much anyway."
" there's also Eren's absence leaving a power vacuum." Hange muttered, fingers tracing over a hand-drawn map of the city. "It's not just the world that's against us, Levi. It's our own damn people too."
Levi exhaled through his nose. "No surprises there."
Hange's fingers curled into a fist. "We should've seen this coming. We spent so much time trying to stop a war across the sea, we didn't realize we already had one growing in our own streets."
Levi tapped a knuckle against the table. "Then we cut it off before it spreads."
Hange laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And how do you suggest we do that? Line up everyone with a gun and tell them to play nice?"
Levi's stare was flat. "If we have to."
Hange's expression darkened. "No. No more killing. Not unless it's the last option."
Levi sighed, rubbing his temples again. "Hange, you're trying to put out a forest fire with a bucket."
"Then I'll find a bigger bucket." Hange shot back. "Because if we start cutting down our own people, we might as well hand the world our heads on a silver platter."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy with everything neither of them wanted to say.
Finally, Levi stood, pushing away from the wall. "Fine. Then we handle it your way first. But if that doesn't work…" He didn't have to finish.
Hange knew exactly what came next.
And she didn't have an answer.