She's the last one that the Jaegerists pull out of the cellar where they had taken them, and by then Mikasa's nerves are already shot. The past few days—weeks, really, and hours specifically—have frayed away at her defenses, leaving her feeling like a child. She just wants things to make sense.
So when they take her to the main dining room, empty save for Eren, she tries to feel relieved. He'll explain, she tells herself. It'll all make sense now.
"Eren," she says, crossing the room to where he's standing, slouched against a table, his hands flat behind him on the white tablecloth. "What's going—"
"Sit down," he says. His voice is cold enough to freeze her in her tracks. He nods to the man who'd brought her, someone she doesn't recognize, and the door slams shut, leaving them alone in the huge central room.
"I . . ." Mikasa says, blinking. "I don't—"
"I said," he says, voice flat and empty, "Sit down."
Mikasa sits in the chair closest to her, stunned into compliance.
He looks so different. The last time she'd seen him had been weeks ago in the attack on Liberio; before that when they all crossed the sea together. His hair had been so much shorter. His face hadn't been as thin or pale as it is now. How much is it just that he's grown, she wonders, and how much is something else entirely?
She focuses on the details of his face—his eyes are the same, and his lips, the slope of his nose and the jut of his chin. He's still Eren.
She's sitting at a different table than the one he's leaned against, twisted in her chair to face him fully, her hands folded anxiously in her lap. Mikasa waits for him to speak, and after a long moment, he does. His eyes flit over her from head to toe and he says, "I wanted to talk to you alone."
Mikasa nods along. She'd wanted to speak to him with Armin, but he must've already. She tries to feel better about that fact. But something in the air lets her know that something about this scene is very, very wrong. The way he's holding himself, the clipped tone of his voice, the detached blankness of his face.
"Armin and Hange and the others will be fine," he says. "They're being moved to Shiganshina. You will be, too, when we're done here. So." Eyes still fixed on her, he drums his fingers on the table once, twice. "Do you know where Zeke is?"
"No. I—" She frowns. "This whole thing with Zeke—and Liberio, and everything that's happening right now, Eren, what's going on? You're not the type of person—"
He cuts her off with a terse, "Shut up."
Mikasa stands, shaking her head. "Eren, this isn't you. You're being manipulated by Zeke—"
"I," he spits, "am free. Everything I do is out of my own free will."
"That's not true," she says, rejecting it. "You're not the type of person who targets innocent civilians and children, no matter where they're from. You've always cared about us more than anyone—you saved me, and you wrapped this scarf around me because you're kind, so—"
"You think I'm being manipulated by Zeke?" he says, talking over her. He regards her, blank face starting to show cracks. He looks angry, that same flash of hotheaded temper she used to know so well. She never thought she'd miss it, but she'd prefer his adolescent moodiness to this. He feels miles and miles away from her, unreachable, even as she's trying to stretch out her hand to him now. Her heart aches. "I spoke to Zeke when I was in Liberio, brother to brother. Learned some interesting things. About history, Titan powers . . . do you want to know what he had to say about you?"
She tilts her head, brows furrowed. What in the world is he talking about? "What do you mean?"
He pushes off the table, standing up to his full height, the movement accentuating the new breadth of his shoulders. "The reason you're strong, Mikasa, is because you're a product of centuries of experimentation. The Ackerman clan is a bloodline that can, under certain circumstances, manifest the powers of Titans while retaining human form."
