( at the bottom, Armin makes his way for the door, glancing across his shoulder only to confirm his companion doesn't protest. there, he slips into the next room — for a woman capable of throwing any weapon, the hallway is a deathtrap — and to the gate, follows a hollow in the wall. )
Is there another way we can leave? Besides the other gate? ( this feels too close to risk. the other gate, too far. )
[ The newcomer, at least, has a good head on his shoulders. He catches on quickly. The Judge remains close behind; the Huntress, closing in from somewhere nearby.
There is another way, technically, but riskier than either gate for the fact they don't know where it is. But to explain as much is more than he's capable of the moment. A nod, then an exaggerated shrug, is all he can really give. Perhaps the other gate is safer. If she finds them now, the Judge isn't sure he'll be able to defend for as long as the gate takes to open.
The Judge leans a little, glancing back the way they came. No sign of her from that direction. ]
( Armin's brow furrows. clearly not good enough an answer.
with no further indication, however, Armin can only pull the nearby lever: the gate, taking as long to power open as Armin expected. his body tenses, so tight his muscles ache. if others understand the parameters of this game, might the woman chasing them? is she waiting? or — ) Wait! There was someone else, a woman —
( her death had been quiet, though, at least until dropping to the floor in a broken heap behind them. from the drop, the Huntress watches them, axe in either hand. )
[ He can explain it, later. The Judge has found journals, the discovery of which he could not parse. Something the Entity wanted him to find? Or could it not prevent him from doing so? Regardless, surely pen and paper could be found.
The Judge whirls harsh to silence Armin, only to turn again to see the Huntress. There is little between her and them - a single, worn pallet, at an angle to be useless for now. The Judge positions himself between the Huntress and Armin, taking a few steps closer as though to bait her into chase in hopes that she'll choose him over Armin. The warning of the door being nearly open is deafening, and the Judge draws in a breath as the Huntress lifts her axe to throw. ]
( if she intends to kill either of them, her choice is obvious.
even if she plans otherwise, the idea is absurd, and Armin is sick — of people dying, for him, because of him. it is easy to think he is finally where he belongs, dead and suffering for his part in the rumbling. Armin abandons the gate, diving low, and drags the second man with him. the first hatchet narrowly misses.
the second drives Armin to the side. she really is just playing with us. the slightest pause and Armin runs for the gate lever. he had counted five hatchets in their first chase. two are on the ground. )
[ Ready as he is to face the Huntress, the Judge does not expect to be moved from behind, nor with such strength. Off-balance, he half-stumbles, half-crouches behind debris of grate and railing.
He watches, unsure what Armin is planning. A hatchet skitters across bare concrete, and the Judge glances to it. Then— Armin moves, all at once, and the Judge follows, pausing only long enough to grab one of the thrown hatchets. As the other reaches for the lever, the Judge launches himself at the Huntress, axe swinging to disarm her next readied hatchet. He manages, but is thrown off quickly. He lands, winded, next to the pallet. ]
( metal groaning, the gate begins to slide open, agonizingly slow in the moment. to Armin's surprise, the woman ignores it. one is better than none, right? in another rush, Armin slams the pallet, knocking the woman aside just as she turns on him. he glances across his shoulder, long enough to see the other man is on his feet, and runs for the exit.
the fourth hatchet finally hits its mark. Armin falls: the animal sound that escapes, both howling and choking on the pain. )
[ He rolls to his feet, knowing by the sound of the Huntress' frustration they have a moment to make distance.
She recovers quick, quicker than the Judge is able to position himself between them. He lifts the hatchet, ready to defend.
To his surprise, the Huntress pauses some feet from them. Her head tilts, the hum never ceasing. She's letting them escape, he knows. She's had her kills, but— the Judge gives a sound of warning, low and hissing. Next time, the Huntress seemed to be saying, she would take this newcomer as her prey.
They stare at each other for a few moments longer. The Judge finally turns his attention to Armin, reaching to help him so they might leave quickly, should the Huntress change her mind.
Her final hatchet narrowly misses; a taunting warning. ]
( if he had thought her toying with them before... a second glance had afforded Armin no time to react.
instinctively, Armin's gaze rolls to his shoulder: hatchet, firm in his peripheral. every connecting nerve feels sharp, on fire. the slightest movement in his back triples the pain. does he stand? crawl? he can't waste the effort to see him this far. nails in the dirt, split hard against concrete, Armin pulls himself on the weight of one arm. the pain and exertion tightens his throat.
on his feet, Armin tilts hatchet side, arm limp. he leans easily into the other man: bloody, dirty, and his hair, damp with sweat. the huntress turns, disappearing into the courtyard. for a final moment, Armin watches. are there others? is she trapt in that place? weakly, ) Where are we going?
[ Not far. The Huntress cannot follow, subject to the whims of a being beyond either of their comprehension. She will, soon, be returned to the Fog to await the Entity's next trial.
The only place they as prey, as the survivors might return, is to the campfire from whence they came. The Judge points, a soft and reassuring sound in his throat. It is all he can offer, but the glow of the bonfire is already visible.
Closer, the Judge points to a log set close enough for warmth, a place to sit for now. He adjusts to help Armin lower himself without further injury. ]
( approaching, Armin's eye wanders here and there: the bonfire; the log; a building, dilapidated, in the distance. for a moment, Armin's eye remains on the latter, then sitting, turns to the fire. there, he falls silent. his own muscles painfully flex the hatchet. )
[ The Judge rests a hand gentle on Armin's uninjured shoulder briefly, and holds a hand up to gesture 'wait'. Nearby, a chest sits. The Judge opens it, rummaging momentarily. He procures a med-kit, needle and thread, and bandages. They're not uncommon, both in the strange area that the Judge has come to know as the 'blood web', and in trials themselves. Near as he can tell, the med-kits give hope to survivors, an emotion strong enough that the Entity can feed on it.
By now, the Judge has a small stockpile. Many of the other survivors that have been here for so long do too.
He returns to Armin, kneeling next to him. The light of the bonfire will have to be good enough. It is perpetually twilight here, and the flashlights they have access to, far too short-lived to be of any real use. He opens the kit and sets out each necessary item. The hatchet must be removed first, and the Judge points to it in warning, a soft noise to make sure he has the other's attention. He braces Armin's shoulder, pauses, and then without ceremony, pulls the hatchet out, straight as he can. He's quick to press a folded rag to it to staunch the rush of warm blood.]
( for the noise, Armin's attention lifts to the other man. his face is tired, pale, and haggard.
Armin nods, half present, and places a palm on either thigh; the motion of one arm, slow, fighting to work cleaved muscle and flesh. (Armin is certain he will lose full use of the arm.)
on impact, Armin flinches, a simultaneous process that contracts every muscle, painfully tight, and balls his hands into fists, nails hard against his palms. his throat dries; he feels faint and nauseous all at once. falling forward, the initial cry of pain draws quiet. Armin pants, gathering himself. the wound feels hot.
what springs forth is not blood, though, but wisps of steam, trapt against the hand of another. )
[ He lays the hatchet aside, using his now free hand to wrap round the nape of Armin's neck, firm. It's hardly a replacement for anesthetic, but it's meant to be comforting all the same. This is reality now, for this newcomer, and it cannot be easy. (Even for the Judge, whose entire life, whose only language, was violence, realizing that he had been condemned to Hell despite his attempts to atone had caused grief the depth of which he didn't realize he was still capable of feeling.)
The Judge waits for several long moments like that, one hand to the wound, the other to Armin's nape. It is both to give Armin time, and to allow the blood to flow. When he does pull the cloth away, what he finds is not at all what he expected. The Judge tips his head curiously, and peers at what he can see of the wound. Steam...? Many killers were supernatural in appearance and even their make, now, but survivors...?
The Judge lifts the rag for Armin to see, head tipping once more in question. It is less judgment or demand for explanation, and more a question on how he should proceed. Is the wound healing? Should he suture it still? ]
( Armin's breath begins to slow, eyes on the rag. he turns, wisps of steam in his peripheral; his expression widens, horrified. Eldians are, still, subjects of Ymir.
did Eren know? did he lie to the very end? the price had never been worth it, but Eren's motivations had at least had meaning of some sort. Armin's nausea doubles on itself. his breath rises, quick, shaking, and hard. even in some far away place, Eren's selfishness knows no bounds. slumping forward, Armin inhales a breath close to crying. )
[ The reaction is not one he expected, and the Judge can't parse the reason for sudden upset but... trauma is a strange thing, the reactions to it sometimes unpredictable. He cannot fault this stranger.
The Judge is quiet for a moment. Then, slips his hand from the other's neck and makes a soft noise. Consoling, if not almost plaintive. He set the rag aside, and shifts, arms opening to the other in a tentative offer of comfort. To take, if Armin wishes. It's a strange situation, and they are strangers, but to be alone here is terrible on top of an already unspeakable situation. ]
( for the noise, Armin raises his head: his face, red and contorted; his eyes, watery. the tears had begun the moment after that first breath, choking and heaving Armin nigh full body. the gesture is unbelievably kind and precisely why Armin can't accept. what has he done to deserve it for his part in the rumbling?
Armin shakes his head, eyes closing miserably as his attention strays downward. )
[ The Judge watches for a moment, lowering his hands away as Armin declines. He checks the wound - still a wound, certainly, open and raw, but not so grievous as it should be. Enough time, then, for Armin to have his emotions; at least for a bit.
He shifts once more, sitting down cross-legged in front of Armin. He's not quite close enough to touching, but neither is he out of reach, in case the other changed his mind. For now, he'll sit in companionable silence, gaze lowered so as not to seem rude or prying. ]
( once, Armin seems close to calming, mouth closing, the distraught noises lessening. but something snaps, and the tears redouble until Armin feels dry, stifling a hiccup. he burrows his face into his forearm, then boyishly uses his sleeve to wipe his face. )
Um... ( softly, lifting his head, ) Do you have any water? ( it's easy to imagine water is a precious resource, but he feels close to heaving, which is all the more reason to drink now than later. ) I don't need a lot.
[ The Judge waits, patient and still. It's easy to get lost in his thoughts, requiring nothing of others. When Armin asks for water, he lifts his head as though a little startled, but nods and rises. He's a little slow in standing, the heels of his hands against his knees.
The water he brings Armin - from the same wooden chest - is in a small bottle, still sealed. Usually, he uses a primitive water filtration system, leaving the potable water they discover for other survivors. He offers the bottle to Armin. Then, he leans to check on his wound. ]
( a sniffle here and there. another hiccup or three. Armin watches — older? or perhaps battle worn from this place? — although his attention falls, momentarily, to the medical supplies laid useless on the ground. prompted to raise his head, Armin pauses. spring water? is that all available? or does he seem so miserable?
accepting, voice soft again, ) Thank you. ( Armin sets the bottle firm against his thigh, one hand to crack the seal. half turning, ) You can put your medkit away. I'll be healed up in an hour or two.
[ The Judge tilts his head curiously at Armin. How strange, that he could heal so quickly. It must not be a new thing, the Judge assumes. Armin is no veteran here, so it surely could not be some trick of the Entity.
But, it is, he supposes, none of his business. Armin is safe, now, and will soon be healed, but the Judge knows he has some other use for the newcomer yet. He pauses as though unsure whether Armin is being truthful or simply unnecessarily humble... but nods his agreement then, and sets to putting items back in the med-kit to be stored for another time. Doubtlessly it will be used soon, by someone.
Reaching for the needle and thread, he pauses, thoughtful. Glancing to Armin, back, and then— the Judge holds up the tiny kit to show, plucks at his own sleeve in indication, and then points to Armin. He seems calmer, now, but best to give him time to settle in a little longer before dumping much more information on him. None of the knowledge Judge has to share is pleasant or comforting at all. ]
( here, self conscious and free from immediate danger, the silent pause of such a figure is intimidating. at least a little. Armin waits for the other man to motion his thoughts at all, then turns, slow and uncomfortable, to sip from the proffered bottle. he sips, pauses, sips again, drinks full and perhaps a little greedy: the water, more smooth and refreshing on his tongue than he thought his body to allow.
swallowing, his lips part as the man begins motioning again. ) Um. I can't sew, especially right now. ( unless the man is offering but Armin would prefer not to embarrass himself further with presumption. )
[ A brief tilt, then bob of his head. The motion is almost owl-like, with the mask. The Judge beckons with a gloved hand in a 'give it here' sort of way.
Sewing is a skill he learned as a teen - at least the basics, reinforced time and again after the bombs. It's a meditative sort of activity, and the Judge might almost say he enjoys it, if he's capable of that anymore - especially now. ]
( another hesitant noise, not quite "um," dumbfounded. ) Okay... ( it wouldn't be the strangest thing about his day.
Armin sets the bottled water aside, then slow, mindful of his arm, works through the layers of his clothes: loosening his tie; unbuttoning his waistcoat; unrolling his sleeves and garters, the material of his shirt too long for his arms, before finally... offering the shirt itself for mending.
unfortunately for the chill in the air, Armin hadn't opted for an undershirt this morning. )
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Is there another way we can leave? Besides the other gate? ( this feels too close to risk. the other gate, too far. )
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There is another way, technically, but riskier than either gate for the fact they don't know where it is. But to explain as much is more than he's capable of the moment. A nod, then an exaggerated shrug, is all he can really give. Perhaps the other gate is safer. If she finds them now, the Judge isn't sure he'll be able to defend for as long as the gate takes to open.
The Judge leans a little, glancing back the way they came. No sign of her from that direction. ]
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with no further indication, however, Armin can only pull the nearby lever: the gate, taking as long to power open as Armin expected. his body tenses, so tight his muscles ache. if others understand the parameters of this game, might the woman chasing them? is she waiting? or — ) Wait! There was someone else, a woman —
( her death had been quiet, though, at least until dropping to the floor in a broken heap behind them. from the drop, the Huntress watches them, axe in either hand. )
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The Judge whirls harsh to silence Armin, only to turn again to see the Huntress. There is little between her and them - a single, worn pallet, at an angle to be useless for now. The Judge positions himself between the Huntress and Armin, taking a few steps closer as though to bait her into chase in hopes that she'll choose him over Armin. The warning of the door being nearly open is deafening, and the Judge draws in a breath as the Huntress lifts her axe to throw. ]
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even if she plans otherwise, the idea is absurd, and Armin is sick — of people dying, for him, because of him. it is easy to think he is finally where he belongs, dead and suffering for his part in the rumbling. Armin abandons the gate, diving low, and drags the second man with him. the first hatchet narrowly misses.
the second drives Armin to the side. she really is just playing with us. the slightest pause and Armin runs for the gate lever. he had counted five hatchets in their first chase. two are on the ground. )
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He watches, unsure what Armin is planning. A hatchet skitters across bare concrete, and the Judge glances to it. Then— Armin moves, all at once, and the Judge follows, pausing only long enough to grab one of the thrown hatchets. As the other reaches for the lever, the Judge launches himself at the Huntress, axe swinging to disarm her next readied hatchet. He manages, but is thrown off quickly. He lands, winded, next to the pallet. ]
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the fourth hatchet finally hits its mark. Armin falls: the animal sound that escapes, both howling and choking on the pain. )
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She recovers quick, quicker than the Judge is able to position himself between them. He lifts the hatchet, ready to defend.
To his surprise, the Huntress pauses some feet from them. Her head tilts, the hum never ceasing. She's letting them escape, he knows. She's had her kills, but— the Judge gives a sound of warning, low and hissing. Next time, the Huntress seemed to be saying, she would take this newcomer as her prey.
They stare at each other for a few moments longer. The Judge finally turns his attention to Armin, reaching to help him so they might leave quickly, should the Huntress change her mind.
Her final hatchet narrowly misses; a taunting warning. ]
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instinctively, Armin's gaze rolls to his shoulder: hatchet, firm in his peripheral. every connecting nerve feels sharp, on fire. the slightest movement in his back triples the pain. does he stand? crawl? he can't waste the effort to see him this far. nails in the dirt, split hard against concrete, Armin pulls himself on the weight of one arm. the pain and exertion tightens his throat.
on his feet, Armin tilts hatchet side, arm limp. he leans easily into the other man: bloody, dirty, and his hair, damp with sweat. the huntress turns, disappearing into the courtyard. for a final moment, Armin watches. are there others? is she trapt in that place? weakly, ) Where are we going?
( he doesn't expect an answer. )
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The only place they as prey, as the survivors might return, is to the campfire from whence they came. The Judge points, a soft and reassuring sound in his throat. It is all he can offer, but the glow of the bonfire is already visible.
Closer, the Judge points to a log set close enough for warmth, a place to sit for now. He adjusts to help Armin lower himself without further injury. ]
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By now, the Judge has a small stockpile. Many of the other survivors that have been here for so long do too.
He returns to Armin, kneeling next to him. The light of the bonfire will have to be good enough. It is perpetually twilight here, and the flashlights they have access to, far too short-lived to be of any real use. He opens the kit and sets out each necessary item. The hatchet must be removed first, and the Judge points to it in warning, a soft noise to make sure he has the other's attention. He braces Armin's shoulder, pauses, and then without ceremony, pulls the hatchet out, straight as he can. He's quick to press a folded rag to it to staunch the rush of warm blood.]
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Armin nods, half present, and places a palm on either thigh; the motion of one arm, slow, fighting to work cleaved muscle and flesh. (Armin is certain he will lose full use of the arm.)
on impact, Armin flinches, a simultaneous process that contracts every muscle, painfully tight, and balls his hands into fists, nails hard against his palms. his throat dries; he feels faint and nauseous all at once. falling forward, the initial cry of pain draws quiet. Armin pants, gathering himself. the wound feels hot.
what springs forth is not blood, though, but wisps of steam, trapt against the hand of another. )
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The Judge waits for several long moments like that, one hand to the wound, the other to Armin's nape. It is both to give Armin time, and to allow the blood to flow. When he does pull the cloth away, what he finds is not at all what he expected. The Judge tips his head curiously, and peers at what he can see of the wound. Steam...? Many killers were supernatural in appearance and even their make, now, but survivors...?
The Judge lifts the rag for Armin to see, head tipping once more in question. It is less judgment or demand for explanation, and more a question on how he should proceed. Is the wound healing? Should he suture it still? ]
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did Eren know? did he lie to the very end? the price had never been worth it, but Eren's motivations had at least had meaning of some sort. Armin's nausea doubles on itself. his breath rises, quick, shaking, and hard. even in some far away place, Eren's selfishness knows no bounds. slumping forward, Armin inhales a breath close to crying. )
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The Judge is quiet for a moment. Then, slips his hand from the other's neck and makes a soft noise. Consoling, if not almost plaintive. He set the rag aside, and shifts, arms opening to the other in a tentative offer of comfort. To take, if Armin wishes. It's a strange situation, and they are strangers, but to be alone here is terrible on top of an already unspeakable situation. ]
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Armin shakes his head, eyes closing miserably as his attention strays downward. )
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He shifts once more, sitting down cross-legged in front of Armin. He's not quite close enough to touching, but neither is he out of reach, in case the other changed his mind. For now, he'll sit in companionable silence, gaze lowered so as not to seem rude or prying. ]
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Um... ( softly, lifting his head, ) Do you have any water? ( it's easy to imagine water is a precious resource, but he feels close to heaving, which is all the more reason to drink now than later. ) I don't need a lot.
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The water he brings Armin - from the same wooden chest - is in a small bottle, still sealed. Usually, he uses a primitive water filtration system, leaving the potable water they discover for other survivors. He offers the bottle to Armin. Then, he leans to check on his wound. ]
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accepting, voice soft again, ) Thank you. ( Armin sets the bottle firm against his thigh, one hand to crack the seal. half turning, ) You can put your medkit away. I'll be healed up in an hour or two.
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But, it is, he supposes, none of his business. Armin is safe, now, and will soon be healed, but the Judge knows he has some other use for the newcomer yet. He pauses as though unsure whether Armin is being truthful or simply unnecessarily humble... but nods his agreement then, and sets to putting items back in the med-kit to be stored for another time. Doubtlessly it will be used soon, by someone.
Reaching for the needle and thread, he pauses, thoughtful. Glancing to Armin, back, and then— the Judge holds up the tiny kit to show, plucks at his own sleeve in indication, and then points to Armin. He seems calmer, now, but best to give him time to settle in a little longer before dumping much more information on him. None of the knowledge Judge has to share is pleasant or comforting at all. ]
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swallowing, his lips part as the man begins motioning again. ) Um. I can't sew, especially right now. ( unless the man is offering but Armin would prefer not to embarrass himself further with presumption. )
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Sewing is a skill he learned as a teen - at least the basics, reinforced time and again after the bombs. It's a meditative sort of activity, and the Judge might almost say he enjoys it, if he's capable of that anymore - especially now. ]
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Armin sets the bottled water aside, then slow, mindful of his arm, works through the layers of his clothes: loosening his tie; unbuttoning his waistcoat; unrolling his sleeves and garters, the material of his shirt too long for his arms, before finally... offering the shirt itself for mending.
unfortunately for the chill in the air, Armin hadn't opted for an undershirt this morning. )
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