Chapter Text
Zeke Jaeger’s office smells like cardstock.
Mikasa stares at the pinboard hanging from the wall across his desk. There’s tacked-on lines of red string and newspaper clippings that read, “Buffalo Bill Skins Fifth,” with pictures of the unfortunate women scattered around it, their bodies flayed in patches. Unable to look away, she spots the naked, red meat of an arm, a back, a torso, and suppresses a shiver, suddenly cold with dread.
Though, it may very well also be from the sweat still drying on her neck.
If she had the time, she would’ve showered, maybe. She’s not sure how she feels about Zeke Jaeger seeing her in her practice warm-ups, drenched and smelling like a wet pig. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t entirely like him, either. The potential sting of humiliation only threatens to morph into a stab.
The soft clip-clop of leather oxford shoes finally drags her gaze away, and she looks up to see the Agent-in-Charge enter the room. He’s wearing a dark, brown suit and a pin-striped tie, his blond hair neatly combed away from his face. He sits behind his desk before offering her his hand, which Mikasa quickly shakes, embarrassed by her sweaty palms.
Reminding herself to be polite, she says, “Good morning, sir.”
“Mikasa, A. Good morning. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it over his desk, his blue eyes catching her own behind his round, wire-frame glasses. “I’m sorry to have pulled you off of the course on such short notice, but I figured it was okay. Your instructors tell me you’re doing well.”
She smiles with real pleasure. “Have they? I hope so, sir. They haven’t posted the grades yet.”
“You’re in the top quarter,” he proudly informs her, smiling back.
When he gestures at her to take a seat, she does, sliding into the one directly across from him. Perhaps it’s the FBI-trained part of her brain, but she finds herself studying his face, noting his general appearance. He’s young— mid-forties, she would guess— and relatively handsome, strong-looking. A pale beard covers the lower half of his face, peppered with white hairs, and his shoulders are broad. The fact that he even has facial hair surprises her. The higher-ups typically think it's unprofessional and force the men to shave.
Zeke, it seems, studies her back, his forehead scrunched with contemplation. “I’ve met you before, haven’t I? At Trost U?”
“Yes, sir.” His seminar is the reason why she decided to join the Bureau, though she’s at loathe to admit that.
“You grilled me pretty hard, if I recall. What was it that got you so fired up?” He snaps his fingers. “Ah, that’s right! Civil rights during the Tybur years.” He grins, crossing his arms behind his head. “I gave you an A.”
It’s petty, maybe, but— “An A-minus, sir.” Normally, she wouldn’t take a grade so personally, but given that it was for an impassioned speech against racism… She couldn’t help but feel slighted.
His smile weakens. “That’s right.” He, then, sits forward in his chair and reaches for a file, opening it and pulling out a paper inside. He awkwardly clears his throat. “So, you’re double majoring in psych and criminology. Graduating magna. Did two summer internships at the Fritz mental health clinic, and now you’re training for the FBI. It says here that after you finish the Academy, you want to come work in Behavioral Sciences under me. Is that right?”
Mikasa nods firmly. “Yes, sir,” she says, before shifting a bit in her seat. Her cooling sweat feels sticky and uncomfortable against her skin, and she desperately wants a shower. “May I ask why you called me here, Agent Jaeger?”
“I have a job for you,” he says. “Or… an interesting errand, really.”
“Which is?”
Some of the natural joviality drips off his face in increments, leaving a sober expression behind. It instantly makes her perk up, her heart tick.
“We’re trying to interview all the serial killers currently in custody in order to make a psychobehavioral profile. Most of them have been happy to talk to us. It’s in their nature to boast— and it can be potentially helpful to have that information— but the one we really want—“
He pauses, sighing, before peering at her strangely, his eyes flicking over his glasses. “Do you spook easily, Miss Ackerman?”
“No, sir. Why?”
“There’s a specific prisoner that refuses to speak to us. I want to send you to him, but his reputation is rather infamous.”
“Who is it?”
He actually looks reluctant to tell her. “The psychiatrist. Dr. Eren Jaeger.”
The Titan, she thinks, stunned. Named so after the myth— Father Kronos, who cannibalized his own children.
But—
Despite herself, Mikasa’s attention flickers to his name plate, then back at him. Zeke flushes beneath her probing, suspicious scrutiny, and says, “I won’t lie to you. I am.”
“Related to him?”
“Half-relation,” he quickly corrects. “Half-brother. He’s my younger half-brother.”
“He…” She blinks repeatedly, unsure of how she should react. Should she say sorry? His brother is not dead, but the sentiment behind it would remain the same. It’s impossible to have a relationship with somebody like that. Which…
“Is that why you’re sending me, sir?”
“I can't go, technically speaking. Trust me, I consider it no great loss, but the Bureau has deemed me too personally involved to do anything with him.” He shrugs. “And besides, he hates me, so he wouldn’t talk to me anyway.”
Mikasa nods slowly, feeling horrible, immense pity for him. It’s like the plot of a sordid novel: two brothers, one an FBI agent, the other a cannibalistic killer, circling each other in perpetuity.
“I don’t expect him to talk to you,” he continues. “Especially if he finds out you’re coming for me. But I want to at least say that we tried.”
“I understand.”
“If he doesn’t speak, I still want you to take note of what he’s doing and put that in your report. How does he look? What does his cell look like? Is he drawing? If so, what is he drawing? Stuff like that.”
“Yes, sir,” she breathes. Her heart races fast and hard against the railing of her ribcage, the sensation near-painful. Is she really doing this? She can’t believe this is real. She’s still a student for God’s sake, and he wants her to interview a serial killer? When? Between the hours of lunchtime and her next class?
Ignorant to her obvious wonder, Zeke reaches into his desk and fishes out three items: a large, tightly wound stack of paper, a badge, and a file. He holds up each one for her.
“This is our dossier on Eren. It has everything you need to know about him. This is the ID badge you’ll show to the facility. And this is the questionnaire. Very important. Don’t lose it.”
Mikasa grabs all of it, stacking them onto her lap with trembling fingers. She feels faintly dizzy, a little light and starry between the ears. “I won’t, sir,” she promises. Her voice suffers from an embarrassing touch of breathlessness that she hopes he doesn’t notice.
“I need that memo on my desk by 0800, Wednesday. On the dot. No later than that.”
“Of course,” she says, glancing back up at him. “But, if I may ask, sir— why the urgency? Does this have anything to do with the Buffalo Bill case? Does your— Does Dr. Jaeger have some connection with it?”
His lips twist ruefully. “I wish he did. It would be immensely helpful if he did, but… Unfortunately, I don't think we’re that lucky.”
She dips her chin. “I understand. Is that all?”
“Very nearly,” he says, before leaning forward. He balances his weight on his strong forearms, which he has planted on the table in front of him, his fists crossed, making him loom ever larger. His expression turns austere, stonily serious. “I’m telling you this, now, because I want this to be constantly on your mind when you see him: don’t give him any personal information about yourself. Dr. Kirstein will guide you through the specifics of what your interaction with him should be, but if you lose face and Eren sees the opportunity to manipulate you, he will. Don’t ever forget what he is.”
Mikasa blinks, shocked at his fervor. It sounds, almost, like he’s describing some mythical evil. “You make him sound like a beast, sir.”
“He’s a serial killer, Ackerman,” he says, staring at her grimly. “He is one. He ceased being human the day he decided to kill and cook another man, and then put the recipe in a fucking cookbook. He isn’t like you or me. There’s no goodness left in him.”
“I—“ Her hand flutters to her roiling stomach, nausea surging through her. A cookbook?
“How old are you?”
It takes a moment for her brain to catch up with her mouth. “T-Twenty-two.” Recently turned, just this past February; the age still fits uncomfortably on her, like a new, unbroken pair of shoes.
“Twenty-two,” he repeats. “Still young, yet. With more room for naivete.” He shakes his head, as if resentful of that fact, whereas Mikasa tries not to feel insulted. “Remember what I said. I’m entrusting you with this task because I have faith in you. But don’t forget what he is, because he won’t forget what you are.”
“And… And what’s that, sir?”
“Prey.”
Dr. Kirstein greets her at the front of the asylum.
Mikasa barely has time to read the sign posted on the lawn— Mitras State Hospital for the Criminally Insane— before he breezes her through the large, wooden doors, his hand hovering just above the small of her back.
“You’re Agent Mikasa Ackerman, aren’t you?” he asks, smiling down at her.
She tips her chin in a nod, remaining mindful to keep her eyes on him. Even with her sensible heels, she has to crane her neck upwards; he’s tall. Well over six feet, she would guess. Remarkably, his slicked back hair appears to add to his height.
“I am, sir,” she says, and reaches out to shake his hand. “And you must be Dr. Kirstein.”
He takes it, his soft, warm palm threatening to overwhelm the curl of her fingers. He shakes her hand thrice, slowly. “Jean Kirstein. I’m the head psychiatrist of this facility, though I suppose Zeke already informed you of that.”
“He did, sir.”
“Sir,” he repeats, smiling. “You Feds are so proper.”
A beat passes before she withdraws her hand, wrapping it, once again, around the hilt of her briefcase. There’s only the questionnaire and her ID badge in it, but it weighs her down as much as an iron tank, heavy with expectation. With potential failures.
“So, you’re here to see the cannibal, I take it?”
“I—“ His blasé tone stops her short. “Um. Yes. Yes, I am.” She hitches up her bag, prepared to show him the file. “I brought him—“
“I know what you brought him,” he interrupts. “Zeke called me before you came, saying you need him for research.”
Her eyes narrow. She dislikes the way he stretches out that last word, keeping light with mocking. “We do. Is there an issue with that?”
“Oh, no. No, not all,” he says disarmingly, before gesturing her forward, walking with a hand placed along the center of her back. “In fact, I understand it perfectly. Jaeger really is a… rare specimen, a true psychopath. Perfect for psychological study.”
Mikasa quirks her lips uneasily. “We hope so, sir.” As morbid a thing it is.
Dr. Kirstein’s smile widens, his gaze intent on her face. The thin scruff around his mouth warps with the movement. “You know, I—“ He chuckles, breathily, and tosses his head. “We get a lot of detectives around here, but I’m not sure I’ve ever met one as pretty as you. How long are you planning to stay in town?”
A bolt of cold shoots through her, and the first thing she thinks is, thick with disbelief, Is he propositioning me?
Her second thought is, He looks like my father.
Like he could be her father.
He must be in his forties, at the very least.
Mikasa isn’t unaccustomed to this, being flirted with. Being an attractive woman in a male-dominated, testosterone heavy field makes that rather commonplace, actually. Nor is she entirely surprised that a man twenty years her senior is trying his luck. But the location… The location makes it a bit uncomfortable. If she focuses, tunes her ears outward, she might hear a patient screaming.
“I’m… Unfortunately, no. Mr. Jaeger has asked me to report back this afternoon as soon as I finish here.”
“Are you sure? This town can be quite fun with the right kind of guide.”
“I’m very sure, sir.” And just to hammer it home— “Do you have children, Dr. Kirstein?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. He looks visibly disappointed, and turns to walk ahead of her. “I never married.”
Golly gee, what a surprise.
As he leads her down the hall and towards a spiraling staircase, their pace is noticeably faster. She idly wonders if he’s trying to escape her and the embarrassment of her rejection, but figures he can’t be if he insists on talking, which he does the whole time. The high, popcorn ceiling bounces his voice back down to them.
“I should warn you, he’s very tricky to question, even psychologically. He knows all the answers to the standard tests, so he usually just lies to get the result he thinks you want. In other words: don’t make your expectations too apparent.”
“Of course, sir.”
“He hates me for that, you know? The testing I made him go through when he first came here. God, he practically thinks I’m his nemesis!” He laughs, though, when he says this, so Mikasa discerns he’s not too bothered by it. Maybe flattered; potentially because he’s such a high-profile enemy to have.
“Perhaps that’s why Zeke sent you. That’s very clever of him.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
They turn around the bend of the stairs. Mikasa’s heels click against the gleaming hardwood, sending tiny, nervous jolts up her spine. She can almost smell how close she is.
“Well, you’re a pretty, young girl. I don't think Jaeger’s even seen a woman in eight years.” He huffs, as if repulsed by the thought. “And you’re his type. His taste, so to speak.”
He chuckles at his little joke. Morbidly curious, Mikasa considers asking him, What is his type? but thinks better of it. She doesn’t want anything she says to be misconstrued, lest he report back to Zeke and let him assume she’s too female to ever do a job like this for him again.
“I went to Trost University, Doctor. That’s hardly a charm school.”
“Good,” he says. “Then you should be able to remember the rules.” He holds his hand up to count down his fingers. “Do not try to touch or approach the glass. You pass him nothing but soft paper. No pencils or pens. No staples or paper clips, either. Everything should be passed to him via the sliding food carrier. It’s a metal drawer next to his cell. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it. Do you understand me, Agent Ackerman?”
“Yes, sir.”
He waits for her on the landing, offering his hand once she reaches the last step. She takes it to be polite, allowing him to lead her onto solid ground, but when she tries to continue forward, his grip keeps her in place. Annoyed, surprised, Mikasa looks up at him. Dr. Kirstein fishes something from his blazer.
“I’m going to show you why we insist on such precautions with him.” He procures a polaroid and hands it to her. Mikasa quickly holds it up to her face, curious, only for all the blood to immediately rush to her feet, stupefied horror stalling her heart.
“Three years ago, July, he complained of chest pains and was taken to the dispensary. His restraints were removed for the EKG, and when the nurse came in, he did this—“ He flicks the photo— “to her. The Doctors managed to reset her jaw, more or less, and save one of her eyes. But do you want to know something interesting?”
Haltingly, Mikasa nods.
“His pulse never got above 85, even when he ate her tongue. That’s why I keep him in here.” He points to the small hallway leading into the cells, blocked by a steel, mechanical gate. Two orderlies dressed in white stand in front of it, clipboards in hand.
Dr. Kirstein walks forward to meet them.
Mikasa blinks after him, breathing hard, terror binding her mouth shut like a muzzle. In the split-second it takes for her to move again, she wonders if she’s bitten off far more than she could chew. Being singled by Zeke was wonderful, exhilarating. It clearly shows that he thinks she has potential, more than anyone in her class, but this isn’t a simulation. There’s no professor here to correct her, or to stop things when they get too intense and bring everyone back down to earth, where it’s safe. This is her reality. On the other side of that gate, she’s going to talk to a man who can do to her what he did to that nurse. What he did to nine others, with pleasure, without remorse.
She can’t get him angry.
“Dr. Kirstein!” she calls, marching after him. He pauses, turning back to her, and Mikasa nearly skids to a stop once she reaches his side. “Sir, if Jaeger believes that you are his enemy, then wouldn’t it be better for me to go in there alone?”
He gapes down at her in obvious disbelief. “You want to go in there alone? After what I just showed you?”
“I think it would be best to avoid irritating him.” At his expression she adds, “But— of course— I defer to your better judgment, sir.”
Dr. Kirstein makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat, exchanging a glance with one of the orderlies, before shrugging. “I won’t stop you from doing what you want,” he says. “But you have to remember everything I told you. Do you?”
She nods.
“Good.” He gives a hard look to the men. “Nothing happens to her under my watch, okay? There’ll be repercussions if Jaeger does anything, to both him and you two.”
“Yes, sir,” they both say.
He squeezes Mikasa’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
She smiles at him in thanks, watching him climb back up the stairs. The second he’s gone, she turns, again, to the orderlies, eyeing their name tags.
“My name is Onyankopon,” the taller of the two says, reaching forward to shake her hand. “He told you to stay away from the glass, right?”
“Yes, sir, he did.” She takes a clipboard from him, signing a risk assessment form with the pen he gives her. “My name is Mikasa Ackerman.”
With a short nod and a pleasant smile, Onyankopon leads her into the hall before the mechanical gate. There’s a red light shining above it, and Mikasa thinks, Stop. Stop. Stop.
It’s telling her to stop. Begging her to run.
“You’ll do just fine. I’ll be watching you the whole time,” he encourages. “He’s the last cell on the right.”
And with a press of a button, the gate loudly buzzes open. The light turns green. Inhaling sharply, Mikasa squares her shoulders beneath her blazer and steps forward, journeying into the abyss.
The first thing she notices is the odor. Pungent, wet mildew and piss, hanging thickly in the air. The lightbulbs lining the hallway flicker weakly, fat flies zipping around them, and broaden the shadows of the prisoners watching her from their darkened, hollowed out caves. She can hear the faint, anticipatory whispers of, “Woman!” growing louder with each feminine click-clack of her heels.
She tries her best to ignore them, keeping her attention resolutely forward. Even when one bedraggled man follows her with every step, thrusting his hips towards her and hissing, “I can smell your cunt!” as she passes.
Mikasa determinedly, very determinedly, does not flinch. Does not let even the echo of discomfort touch her face.
Because in a second, she finds Dr. Jaeger, and finds him already waiting for her, standing with his arms crossed in the middle of his cell, his expression expectant, almost impatient. And she cannot let him sense weakness, no matter how tempting it is to give into it.
Very steadily, Mikasa greets him. “Dr. Jaeger. My name is Mikasa Ackerman. May I speak with you?”
He stares at her for a long moment, his eyes raking from the top of her head to the bottom of her shoes, over and over again, his gaze simultaneously empty and shrewdly curious. She forces herself to remain still, straight-backed and pleasant-looking. Around the hilt of her briefcase, however, her nails dig red grooves into the meat of her palms.
Finally, he replies, “You’re one of Zeke’s, aren’t you?” His voice is deep, raspy. It sounds ill-used, like he hasn’t spoken in weeks, and the breadth of it settles uneasily into the pit of her stomach, expanding some cold, sick feeling into her blood.
She prays that he can’t see the knock of her stockinged knees.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Can I see your credentials?”
She nods, opening her briefcase to fish for it. When her fingers find the smooth, leathery booklet, she takes it out, flipping it open and presenting it to him.
An amused tilt touches his lips. “You know I can’t see it from there. Come closer.”
“Closer?”
“Closer,” he says again, and points to a spot on the floor. “Right there should be good.”
Obediently, Mikasa does as ordered. She notices that the lights in his cell are brighter, and that there are well-drawn pictures tacked onto the walls, most of them of buildings. Dr. Jaeger slowly approaches her, his eyes intent, first on her face, then on her ID.
He looks younger than she expected. Not young, but younger, and he shares virtually no physical similarities with his brother. His skin, even pale from lack of sunlight, is naturally olive-toned, and his shoulder-length hair is brown, half of it tied away from his face. There is a hint of dark stubble that touches his angular cheeks and jawline, but she can tell that he’s freshly shaved; a dampness clings to his skin. If she could guess, she would say that he must be in his mid-thirties. Maybe a year or two older than that.
But his eyes… Even if his face is handsome and his tall body imposing, they’re… different. They don’t seem to match the rest of him. The first word she would use as a descriptor is strange. They’re a brilliant jewel-toned green, sharp like a knife and analyzing, but there’s something lacking in them. A fundamental aspect missing, and the absence of whatever it is makes her uncomfortable. Makes her want to turn on her heel and run.
She hears Zeke’s voice in her ear, whispering, He’s no longer human.
Suddenly, Dr. Jaeger chuckles and snaps her out of her mystified reverie. She has to fight not to flinch at the sound of it.
“This expires in one week,” he says, looking up at her again, rooting her to the ground. “You’re not real FBI, are you?”
“No, sir,” she says quietly, flushing slightly. Why is she so embarrassed? “I’m still a trainee at the Academy.”
“You mean to tell me that my brother sent a student to talk to me?”
“Yes, sir.” She doesn’t see the benefit in lying or assuaging his ego. She suspects it would only make him angrier. Or worse, send her away.
“And Dr. Kirstein allowed you to come in?”
“Yes, sir.”
He scoffs. Something heated flickers across his eyes, breathing new life into them. “Did you know he’s not a real medical doctor? He got his PhD, and yet he deigns to call himself my psychiatrist.”
She’s not quite sure how to respond to that. “I’m… certain you hardly need one, sir,” she finally settles on. “After all, you are one yourself.”
“You’re right,” he says, staring at her long. “I don’t.” Then, he gestures to the chair placed in front of his cell. “You can sit there, Agent Ackerman, if we have to speak.”
Mikasa does so instantly while he takes a casual stance across from her, leaning his shoulder against the bullet-proof glass and folding his arms.
“So tell me, what did Floch say to you before you found me? Floch Forster, the unfortunate redhead in the cell next door. What did he say?”
“He said—“ She swallows, blushing fiercely. “He said— I can smell your cunt.”
“Did he?” His eyes flick to her skirt, ridden up due to her crossed legs, before he tilts his nose upwards and inhales deeply. When he looks at her again, he says, smugly, “He must be lying. Because I can’t.”
Scandalized, she breathes, “Doctor—“ but he’s not finished.
“I can, however, smell your perfume. Some feminine, musky thing. In the mornings, you dab it behind your ears and rub it onto your throat. You probably read that somewhere, some trick— Cosmopolitan? What brand is it, by the way? Your perfume.”
“C-Coco Chanel. Mademoiselle.”
He bares his teeth in a grin. “It’s good.”
“Thank you,” she says. Courtesy is the armor she clings to. “D-Did you draw those yourself, Doctor? The pictures on your walls?”
He looks behind himself. “I did, yes. That one over there—“ He points to it— “That’s the koilon in Liberio. Their big theatre. Have you ever been to Liberio, Agent Ackerman?”
“No, sir. I’ve never had the pleasure. But you drew all that just from memory?”
“Memory is what I have instead of a view.”
Mikasa smiles up at him and reaches for her bag. “Well, sir, in that case, maybe you can lend us your view on this questionnaire—“
Dr. Jaeger loudly scoffs, which instantly stops her in her tracks. There’s a disappointed, yet mean turn to his mouth. “You really thought that was clever, didn’t you? Did you come up with that before you came in?”
“I didn’t—“
“You were doing fine before this, you know? I almost liked you. You were being polite and receptive to my politeness. You established trust with that little embarrassing truth about Floch. And now this— this hamfisted segue way into your stupid questionnaire. No, this won’t do.”
Mortification burns her heart to a crisp, but stubborn anger rises before she can even think to grovel for his forgiveness.
“I’m only asking you to look at this, sir,” she says sharply. “Either you will or you won’t.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. It’s almost a hiss. “My brother must be very busy, indeed, if he thought you were his best candidate to needle me. Is it because he’s busy with the Buffalo Bill case? What a sick bastard he is. I heard he likes to skin little girls like you.”
She clenches her teeth. “He does.”
“Do you know why he’s called Buffalo Bill? I’ve been wondering, but the newspapers don’t say and Onyankopon doesn’t know.”
“It started as a bad joke in Stohess PD,” she admits. “They said, ‘this one likes to skin his humps.’”
He nods then hums, his eyes flitting towards her. “Why do you think he skins them, Agent Ackerman?”
“You’re asking me, sir?”
“Yes. Thrill me with your acumen.”
He’s being sarcastic, but she actually considers it, sitting back in her chair. “It excites him, I think. Most serial killers like to keep trophies from the people they kill.”
“I didn’t.”
“You couldn’t, sir,” she says with saccharine politeness. “You preferred to eat yours.”
She’s stunned when he smiles at her. A true smile, even if the amusement it conveys is darkly twisted. “You send that through, now. Your questionnaire.”
Mikasa quickly rises to her feet and crosses to the food carrier. The drawer makes a loud clang as she shuts it, and Dr. Jaeger grabs the file from the other side, idly leafing through it. She sits again just as he throws his head back to laugh, the sound rolling through her unpleasantly.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he says, looking at her. “Do you really think you can dissect me with this blunt, little tool?”
“N-No, sir, I don’t. We only thought that your knowledge—“
He interrupts her sharply. “You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube, with a little beauty. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you’re not more than one generation removed from the mines, are you? And that accent you’ve tried so desperately to hide— Pure Shiganshina, high up from the mountains. A fucking hillbilly.”
Her fists tremble in her lap. Red-faced, hot-blooded humiliation descends over her and makes her vision swimmy, but the good doctor still has some barbs to throw.
“What was he, love?” he asks, imitating her accent. “Your father must’ve been a coal-miner, right? Did he stink of the lamp? Did he darken your threshold with soot? And your mother— his pretty cousin?”
“No,” she croaks.
“God, I already know.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “How taken the boys must’ve been with you and those big, dark eyes of yours. How many backseat romps did you have to endure? All those tedious, sticky fumblings. Long fingers that don’t know where to go. You must’ve hated them. You must’ve used them as an escape, dreaming about how to get out, how to get to the FBI, while some two-pump chump ruined your shoes. But anywhere is better than home, hm?”
Mikasa stares up at him in stupefied silence, slowly shaking her head. She wants to laugh, to cry. But she refuses to do either.
“You see a lot, Doctor,” she whispers. “But are you strong enough to point that… that high-powered perception at yourself? Have you ever tried it? Have you ever taken a look at yourself and wept at what you saw?”
“The last time someone tried to psychoanalyze me, I ate them. So, no.”
She wonders how she could’ve ever found him handsome, even observationally. In his anger, his features have been twisted, transformed into something ugly and fierce, and in the shadows, his pulled-wide pupils make his eyes look black, like hot tar. He is horrible. Horrible to perceive.
Satisfied with her visible upset, he pushes away from her, walking back to the center of his cell.
“You can run away now, little one. I know you’re dying to.”
Fuck you, she wants to hiss. She wants to break through his cage and throttle him. Remind him that he can be prey, too. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking monster.
But she can’t. While he may have the luxury of rotting in his cell for the rest of his life and forgetting about the world, she has no choice but to return to it. Outside of these doors, she has class, training, friends. She has Zeke, waiting for her to—
Oh, God, she thinks, going cold with dismay. Zeke.
Dr. Jaeger barely even looked at the questionnaire. She failed, completely and utterly. There’s no pleasant way to spin this to obfuscate the truth. What is he going to think, knowing she couldn’t even manage to get him to read the first question?
Mikasa shakily rises to her feet, keeping her gaze cast to the floor. She picks up her briefcase and tucks it into the crook of her elbow, turning on her heel with nary a glance back. She refuses to look at him. She doesn’t want him to think he’s won anything, despite the fact that he very obviously won everything and knows it. Even the dog-eaten scraps of her dignity.
Her steps back to the gate are lumbering, near-coltish, weighed down by her failure and the lingering vestiges of fear-tinged sorrow. To her profound mortification, she can feel tears begin to press against her eyes, desperate for a cathartic release. Mikasa pinches her side, hard, and tells herself, three more minutes. She can cry as soon as she gets back into her car with its nice, tinted windows.
Dimly, as she walks past Floch’s cell, she hears something strange. A half choked-out moan of agony, and a wet, slippery sound. She begins to slow down, turning her head to see him laying down on his side, his wrist caught between his legs. He stretches his head back to look at her and moans again, gasping, “I bit my wrist so I can die! Come and see!”
Mikasa’s blood freezes in her veins. She opens her mouth, prepared to call for Onyankopon, when Floch abruptly pulls his hand out of his pants and flicks it at her. “Look at it!”
The scent of whatever falls on her is musky, pungent, and woefully familiar. Excited screams erupt around her as she lifts a hand to her cheek and wipes it, her fingers coming away sticky. A little white. She gags violently once she realizes it’s semen.
The men grow even louder.
“Look at her!”
“Floch, you stupid fuck!”
“No,” Mikasa gasps. The tears she’d been blinking back rush to the forefront. This can't possibly be happening! She feels like she’s in a nightmare, the world half-real and all grotesque.
“Agent Ackerman!” a man yells. “Agent Ackerman, come back!”
She whirls around. Dr. Jaeger is watching her with hunted eyes, pressed against the very edge of his cell. “Come here!” he commands.
She does, stumbling back on trembling knees. She doesn’t know what act of God is keeping her from sinking to the floor in hysterics, but it must be something in his expression, contorted with wild, vicious anger. She skids to a stop just inches away from him, so close she has to crane her neck up to see him.
“I would never have had that happen to you,” he snarls, pounding his fist against the glass. His nostrils are flared, like he could breathe out flame. “I would never—“
“Then make it up to me,” Mikasa breathes. “Do the questionnaire for me!”
“No,” he says. “But I’ll do something else. Something you’ll love more.”
“What?”
His jaw shifts. “I’ll help you solve the case. The Buffalo Bill case that has my brother running around wild. I’ll help you solve it, and you’ll never want for anything ever again.”
She nearly drops her briefcase. “Sir—!”
“Shut up! Listen carefully,” he hisses. “Look inside yourself, Agent Ackerman, and go seek out Miss Mofet, an old patient of mine. Miss M-O-F-E-T. Then come see me again.”
“Doctor Jaeger—“
His eyes blaze. “Are you stupid, girl? Go! Go!”
Once again, she listens to him, fleeing like a bat out of hell.
On special occasions, her daddy used to take home venison for dinner.
There was a lake by their house, surrounded by a deep, black forest that deers used to cluster around. When he came back from hunting, after giving her mother the carcass to skin, he’d sit on his chair with her on his knee and tell her about how they drank sweet, crystalline water and had moon-bright eyes framed by beautiful lashes. The foals were always described as adorable, and their mothers majestic. And the males were vicious, territorial beasts, but their antlers looked like the spires of a crown, and he loved hunting them the best.
That never struck Mikasa as strange— his ability to admire something and then kill it. His professed adoration of them strong even up until the moment he put their seasoned flesh in his mouth. To her— and to him— it was simply their naturalistic way of living, and the world they occupied was a shrine to it, tended to with an almost religious fervor. Everyone had their role. Her father was the provider, her mother the caretaker, and Mikasa was the recipient of their efforts and affection, an eager student of both of their trades. Ironically, neither of them ever talked about God, but she thinks they might’ve been Catholic.
Though, they never went to Church. There was a small one in town— a glorified chapel next to the larger Methodist one— but her parents didn’t like going to town, and they especially didn’t like her going to town. If someone needed to, it was always her father, usually to either sell his game to the butcher or to buy bulks of soap, groceries; and no one ever questioned why this was or demanded a change.
In fact, there were many things that Mikasa never demanded an answer to. Like why they didn’t have neighbors the way so many people on her favorite sitcoms did. Or why her mother didn’t have girlfriends to bring over for tea or her father buddies to smoke cigars with. Or why she didn’t. She knew there were other children in town— blond hair, blue eyed folks that she would watch shoot sling-shots outside her window, on the off chance any of them ever reached their property.
But Mikasa never craved their friendship. There was never some loneliness inside of her yearning for it, so she didn’t think to go out and ask, or invite herself to play. To this day, she doesn’t really know why. She supposes it’s because she was happy. She had her mama and her daddy, and her own little life, and all the love in the world to fill it.
What else could she want?
Mikasa gets back into her car and weeps.