[ eren has been . . . fairly quiet about himself. after that, it prompts ]

The first people I killed were kidnappers. [ an image may even flick between their thoughts, of a young girl with wide grey eyes, a busted lip, and long black hair laying against the cold ground with her hands tied behind her back. two adult men, and small, hasty hands tying a knife to the end of a broomstick.

he didn’t feel anything for them, or about what he did, flowing through the bond like an emotionless flat line. no satisfaction, no pride, no pleasure and no fear. only a pique of disgust, maybe. they had to die, and eren could care less for their background. what would they have done to him? to mikasa? he knew what they would do, he heard them speaking behind the door of the cabin, sell her off to a rich underground pervert. she was nine. so was he, at the time. ]

It’s gone onto cities. Women. Children. Soldiers. [ friends. who have nothing to do with anything, really, they all had their own stories, and eren’s feelings on them are different. he can’t help but to feel a buried sorrow that had no where else to really go. he’s sorry about that. but he’s not sorey about what it’s for. between the worst possibilities, this one was the lesser. ]

It always comes down to one thing, no matter which side you’re on: It’s us, or them.