The rest of the aptitude assessment passed in a haze of focused observation for me. While others grunted through strength tests or stumbled over obstacle courses, my attention remained tethered to Eren. He threw himself into every subsequent task with a ferocity bordering on reckless, as if trying to physically beat back the humiliation of the balance test failure. He excelled, naturally – his raw physical power and sheer willpower were undeniable – but the shadow of that dangling failure lingered in the tightness around his eyes.
Armin, predictably, struggled with the more physical aspects but shone in anything requiring strategy or quick thinking. I stayed near them both, a quiet constant. When Eren nearly tripped during a run, my hand shot out instinctively to steady him – a touch that felt electric, grounding – before I drew back, keeping my expression neutral. He just shot me a quick, almost imperceptible nod, accepting the support as natural. Good.
My own performance continued to be… effortless. Annoyingly so, almost. Running felt like gliding. Lifting weights was trivial. Every instruction was processed and executed with chilling efficiency by Mikasa's body. It garnered stares, whispers, and a growing distance from some recruits who seemed intimidated. Let them be. My world had narrowed to two people.
As the brutal afternoon wore on and the instructors finally dismissed us for dinner, exhaustion began to show on everyone's faces. Everyone except me, apparently. This Ackerman stamina was something else.
"Food," Eren muttered, his stomach rumbling audibly. Despite his earlier frustration, basic needs asserted themselves.
"Let's analyze the harness mechanism over dinner," Armin suggested, ever the strategist. "There must have been a flaw. Maybe the straps weren't balanced, or a buckle was loose."
"Yeah," Eren agreed, rubbing his temples. "It didn't feel right. It wasn't just me."
As we headed towards the crowded, noisy mess hall, a familiar, unwelcome figure intercepted us. Jean, flanked by Marco again, stepped into our path. This time, his expression wasn't smug, but held a grudging respect – aimed solely at me, of course.
"Ackerman," he said, ignoring Eren and Armin pointedly. "That was… seriously impressive back there. Your balance was perfect. Never seen anything like it."
My eyes narrowed. So, he'd switched tactics from vapid compliments on appearance to acknowledging skill. It didn't matter. The source was still tainted. He still represented the future I was here to prevent.
Before I could deliver a suitably icy dismissal, Eren stepped forward again, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by simmering possessiveness I hadn't expected. "What is it now, Kirschtein? Can't you take a hint?"
Jean bristled, his gaze flicking to Eren with annoyance. "I was talking to her, Jaeger. Stay out of it." He turned back to me, a hopeful look creeping back into his eyes. "Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I'm just saying, someone with your talent shouldn't be stuck babysitting this hothead. You could go far. MP, easy."
Babysitting? Babysitting Eren?! The sheer nerve, the utter disrespect! He implied Eren was a burden, a hindrance to my potential. Fury, cold and sharp, lanced through me. This time, I didn't hesitate.
I stepped directly in front of Eren, placing myself between him and Jean. My voice dropped, losing its quietness, gaining a razor edge that seemed to cut through the mess hall chatter around us.
"Listen carefully, Kirschtein," I said, locking eyes with him. My grey gaze felt like chips of ice. "My place is beside Eren. Not in the rear, not in the MP, not anywhere else. His goals are my goals. His fight is my fight. Your opinion means less than nothing to me. Do not approach me again. Do not speak to me again. And never speak about Eren that way again."
The silence that fell around us was absolute. Several nearby recruits stopped eating, staring openly. Jean recoiled as if struck, his face paling, then flushing with anger and wounded pride. Marco looked mortified, tugging slightly at Jean's sleeve.
"Fine," Jean spat, trying to salvage some dignity. "Waste your talent. See if I care." He turned sharply, practically dragging Marco away with him.
I watched him go, my posture rigid, until he disappeared into the throng. Only then did I allow myself to relax fractionally, turning back to Eren and Armin.
Armin looked wide-eyed, clearly stunned by the ferocity of my response. Eren… Eren looked startled. Not angry, not possessive anymore, but genuinely surprised. He stared at me, really looked at me, for a long moment.
"Mikasa…" he began, then seemed unsure what to say. He cleared his throat. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes," I replied simply, my voice returning to its usual quiet intensity. "I did." I met his gaze evenly. "No one insults you."
A complex mix of emotions flickered across his face – confusion, maybe gratitude, perhaps a touch of the familiar frustration at being protected. But he didn't argue. He just held my gaze for another second, then nodded curtly again. "Right. Let's get food. And figure out that damn belt."
The rest of the evening passed with a newfound intensity. Over the meagre dinner of bread and thin soup, Armin and Eren debated potential flaws in the equipment, Eren sketching diagrams on a napkin with fierce concentration. I listened, offering quiet affirmation when Eren hit on the possibility of a damaged clasp – the correct answer, as I knew. I made sure Eren ate properly, subtly nudging the bread bowl closer when he got too lost in thought, clearing away their empty trays afterwards. Small gestures, easily mistaken for Mikasa's usual quiet care, but in my mind, they were deliberate acts. Laying the groundwork. Establishing my role not just as a shield, but as the one who tended to his needs. The perfect partner.
Later, back in the sparse, chilly barracks, while other recruits collapsed onto their bunks or nervously chatted, Eren refused to rest. He found a clear space and began practicing the basic stances, trying to find a perfect center of gravity, determined to overcome the equipment failure through sheer will if necessary. Armin watched, offering occasional suggestions.
I sat on my bunk, ostensibly sharpening the practice blades we hadn't even used yet, but my eyes never left Eren. I observed his frustration, his focus, the sweat beading on his brow. This dedication, this refusal to quit… this was everything.
Tomorrow, I thought, the metal rasping quietly against the whetstone. Tomorrow he passes. And Jean Kirschtein knows his place – far away from us. A grim satisfaction settled within me. I was Mikasa Ackerman now. And step by painstaking step, I would build the future Eren deserved, with me firmly and irrevocably by his side. The original Mikasa's failure would be rectified. This time, there would be no moving on. Only Eren.