Memoirs of the Lost Loser

Crumbs of You

Was it 846 or 847? It was 847, your intuition told you.

Intuition is something you've always trusted. Not because you're a freaking hocus pocus, but because it has a basis in psychology.

"You're an INTP..." But give it a couple months and you're an INFJ.

"Your IQ got higher..." 

"She's a prodigious savant..."

But however they called you before obviously don't matter now because without a spark of electricity, you're a fish swimming on land! You mean there's mudfish but anyone should get the point. Should you test your luck and fly a kite on a thunderous, rainy Wednesday? Oh! Maybe you could tie a kite string around the key your best friend gave you just so you could power up and try again? Your genius-ness is useless when your body can't carry lumbers up a hill, or earn enough money for measly, rusty nails, nuts and bolts! Kiss your dreams buh-bye because you can't even afford to eat at least twice a day if you don't work three jobs! And you're gonna dream of buying iron ore and extract it and forge it yourself? With your physique? Are you kidding yourself? 

 Oh how the mighty hath fallen. 

Without the manpower, electricity and materials, nothing. will. ever. fucking. work.

It's almost 2 years...

You miss home already.

You stood at the front door of your cabin. With your trusty bag hanging on your shoulders, you looked at the life you made in the far end of wall Rose. An apprentice blacksmith, who usually makes copper pots and knives by day, a cook and dishwasher by lunch, and an amateur singer at night because you know, copper is the new gold.

Because a couple of copper coins were the highest you could earn for a day.

You'll never let anyone know what kind of things you've been working on the sidelines. Your employer in the ironworks shouldn't know you're the person stealing his metal scraps just so you can make a prototype of an electricity generator. Mind you, it's not going well. You need robot arms for the tiny handiwork. Even with a dead fingernail, you're still pushing it through.

You'll never let your employer at the eatery know you're that burglar stealing the potato skins for dinner, as well as some food that might've been left unsold for the day, spoiled or not. It's better than starving for a couple of days. It toughened your stomach and butthole too.

As for money, trading that silky, Egyptian cotton towel from your precious bag pack earned you a guitar. You sing at public podiums to get some coins. Sometimes, you get note bills. Sometimes you could spot some military guys watching. You swore you even saw Erwin and Miche watching you at some point. Apparently, they dig Ed Sheeran's songs.

But they will never need to know who he is.

You sighed, dreading the time you'll have to go under for three years:

Now that the damage in Shiganshina is half-dealt with, and the Survey corps started to recruit again, you knew it's time.

Time to sell your soul to the Training Corps, that is.

***

You saw a glimpse of the river of afterlife undergoing Keith Shadis' training regimen on your very first day. Crossing the river Styx seemed like an easier choice compared to running in full gear at dawn until morning, eating breakfast of boiled potatoes and carrots after, and non-stop footwork until the end of the day. Your body isn't  receiving it well. You felt heavy and your breasts felt uncomfortable lately. Not to mention you do freaking push-ups in the middle of an unshaded training ground a few minutes after lunch.