Historia's face hardened, her queenly mask slipping back into place. "How many?"
"Six, maybe seven," the scout said. "Organized. We think they're tied to the palace attack."
Mikasa was already adjusting her gear, her injury a faint wince she ignored. "I'll lead a squad. We can cut them off before they reach the wall."
Alex took a step forward, hesitating only briefly. "Let me go with you."
Both women turned. Mikasa didn't blink. Historia raised an eyebrow.
"You?" Historia said carefully. "You're not a soldier."
"I know," Alex said, voice low. "But I've been useful before. I know the terrain outside Wall Rose—at least where the old camps were. I can carry supplies, patch wounds, dig in if it comes to that. I won't get in the way."
"You shouldn't even be in this room," Mikasa said flatly. "This isn't a volunteer post. It's an intercept mission."
"I can still help." Alex met Historia's eyes. "If this is tied to the palace attack, I want to see it. I want to understand who's trying to burn all this down."
"Or you want to run," Mikasa muttered, strapping the last buckle of her gear tight.
Alex ignored her jab. He looked only at Historia. "Let me come. I'm not asking to fight—I just want to see the shape of the enemy."
Historia was silent. Her fingers brushed the desk, tapping once, then again. She didn't look at Mikasa, only at Alex—reading him like she always did. Not his words. His posture. His intent.
"You'll stay in the backlines," she said at last. Her voice was cool, decisive. "No gear, no blade. You help carry supplies, evacuate wounded if needed. You do not charge ahead. And you do not slow anyone down."
Mikasa exhaled sharply through her nose but said nothing.
Alex gave a single nod. "Understood."
Historia moved closer. Her voice dropped, just enough that only he could hear. "If anything goes wrong, find cover and stay there. I don't care what instincts you have. I'm not losing anyone else to a stupid choice."
Alex nodded again, more quietly this time. "I'll be careful."
Her eyes lingered on him for half a second longer than necessary. Then she stepped back. "You leave in five. Gear up from supply. If Mikasa says you're in the way, you come back. No arguments."
"Right."
Mikasa was already at the door, jaw tight, eyes forward. As Alex followed, she spoke without looking back.
"You stay behind me. You don't speak unless spoken to. And if you move when I say stop, I'll put you down myself."
Alex didn't argue.
He just kept walking.
But the words stuck in his head.
"No one's that lucky."
She was right. The chandelier. The bullets. The ambush in the armory. He should have been dead, at least once.
He wasn't going because he wanted to be brave.
He was going to test it.
Was it just coincidence? Or something else?
He needed to know. If it happened again—if he walked into real danger and still came out untouched—then maybe something was wrong with him.
He grabbed a medpack and followed the squad.
---
The night air was sharp as the squad moved through the forest beyond Wall, the moonlight barely piercing the dense canopy.
Alex trudged behind Mikasa, Jean, Sasha, and three other Scouts, his shoulders aching under the weight of a medpack and supply crate.
The faint clink of ODM gear and the crunch of boots on leaves were the only sounds, save for the occasional rustle of wind—or something else.
Alex's mind raced, piecing together the timeline: 851, maybe 852, the Yeagerists forming, Marley's infiltrators probing, and Eren's shadow looming larger every day. He clutched the straps of his pack, his breath steady but his heart pounding.
Mikasa led with relentless precision.
Jean flanked her, muttering about the defectors' likely ambush tactics, while Sasha's bow was drawn, her eyes darting to every shadow.
Alex stayed silent, his role clear: carry supplies, stay out of the fight, and watch. But he wasn't just watching for defectors. He was watching himself—waiting for that impossible "luck" to show itself again.
"Stop," Mikasa hissed, raising a fist. The squad froze. She crouched, peering through the trees. "Tracks. Fresh. They're close."
Jean knelt beside her, squinting at the ground. "Two sets, maybe three. They're dragging something—heavy. Iceburst stones, probably."
Sasha glanced back at Alex, her voice low. "You sure you're up for this, stable boy? Last chance to head back."
"I'm fine," Alex said, keeping his tone even. He adjusted the crate.
"Just tell me where to put this stuff."
"Stay put," Mikasa ordered, not turning. "If we engage, you drop the crate and cover."
Alex nodded.
A twig snapped. Mikasa's head whipped toward the sound, her blades drawn in a blur.
"Spread out," she whispered. "Jean, left. Sasha, high ground. Rest of you, with me."
Alex crouched behind a tree, setting the crate down as quietly as he could.
A shout broke the silence, followed by the crack of gunfire. Marleyan rifles. Alex's stomach dropped. The Scouts moved like lightning—Mikasa vaulted forward with ODM gear, her blades glinting as she sliced through the air. Jean's gear hissed, propelling him into the trees, while Sasha's arrow flew, answered by a scream in the dark.
"Stay down!" Mikasa barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. Alex pressed himself against the tree, his hands shaking as he gripped the medpack. A bullet whizzed past, splintering bark inches from his head. He froze, waiting for pain that didn't come. Another miss.
The fight was quick but brutal. Mikasa dispatched two defectors in seconds, her blades a blur of precision. Jean tackled another, pinning him to the ground, while Sasha's arrows dropped a fourth.
The last defector, a wiry man with a scarred face, scrambled for a crate of iceburst stones, fumbling with a detonator.
Alex's breath caught—he knew that device from the manga. One spark, and the whole squad could be ash.
Without thinking, Alex grabbed a rock and hurled it, striking the man's hand. The detonator clattered to the ground. Sasha's arrow followed, piercing the defector's shoulder.
He collapsed, cursing, but before Jean could restrain him, he bit down hard—a poison capsule. Foam bubbled at his mouth, and he went still.
The forest fell quiet. Mikasa landed beside the body, her eyes scanning for more threats. Jean cursed under his breath, kicking the crate of explosives. "That's the last of them. Six, just like the scout said."
Sasha hopped down from a branch, her bow still ready. "Nice throw, Alex. Didn't know you had it in you."
Alex didn't respond. His eyes were on the detonator, then on the bullet-scarred tree beside him. Another miss.
His heart pounded harder now, not from the fight but from the pattern. He wasn't imagining it. Something—was keeping him alive.
Mikasa approached, her gaze colder than the night air. "You moved when I said stay," she said, her voice low and sharp. "You could've gotten us killed."
"I saw the detonator," Alex said, meeting her eyes. "I didn't think. I just acted."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. Instead, she knelt by the dead defector, searching his pockets.
She pulled out a folded paper, her fingers pausing as she unfolded it. "Coded. Not Paradisian script. Marleyan, maybe."
Jean leaned over her shoulder. "Same as the rifles. Forged markings, now this. Someone's playing both sides."
Alex's mind raced. The Yeagerists weren't this organized yet, not in 851. This felt like Marley's work, probing Paradis' defenses before the Liberio raid.
But the Paradisian rifle markings suggested a traitor inside—someone high up, maybe MPs or early Yeagerist sympathizers.
He wanted to say it, to warn them, but one wrong word could expose his foreknowledge. Instead, he said, "We need to get those explosives back to Mitras. If they're tied to the palace attack, Historia needs to know."
Mikasa's eyes flicked to him. "You don't give orders."QWAC
"I'm not," Alex said, keeping his voice calm. "I'm just saying what's at stake."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned away, pocketing the coded message. "Jean, secure the crates. Sasha, scout the perimeter. We move in ten."
As the squad dispersed, Alex lingered by the tree, his fingers brushing the bullet mark. His "luck" had held again. But why? Was it Paths? Ymir?
He didn't have long to wonder.
A sudden boom cracked the forest apart. The earth jumped. Heat and force punched through the air like a cannon—a trap.