Carousel of Affection [Attack on Titan/Black Lagoon Crossover] [Complete]

Armin

Armin's Perspective

Today is the first day of the week, the worker's week that is. Monday. I work for the newspaper as an editor, head editor in fact. I got the promotion about three months ago, which could be why Mr. Okajima acts sourly towards me sometimes; he's been working here for five years and I, Armin Arlert who arrived a little more than two years ago, took the very position one could guess he was after for some time in a few months. Nevertheless, he shouldn't be so angry, being the manager for our division and all.

I was usually among the first to promptly arrive at the doors of the office in the morning. Seeing and greeting the tired faces of my co-workers most often determine how the week ahead would go. It was still January, so it was cold. I'm rather sensitive to the weather so I am sitting in my car, keeping as warm as possible. For some reason, the janitors don't trust anyone with a lower position than publisher with the door keys, which leads us to waiting because the only publisher that isn't sick, out of town, or asleep at nine in the morning (an hour past opening time) was... Mr. Ackerman. He always came fashionably late. Tardiness isn't taken lightly by his boss but I can't ever find it in myself to see why he'd be angry with such a guy as him, aside from the fact of his lateness of course.

The clock on my dashboard reads 9:17am (this isn't the latest he's been). My car heat is finally putting itself to good use. I tilt my seat backward, beginning to become a little drowsy. I was up until one in the morning, trying to finish up a piece I'm editing; it's content was so good, I couldn't stop reading it until my body gave way and I was a pile of coffee, blankets and pillows, and asleep on the floor. My eyelids are a little heavy, so I let them fall shut.

The last thing I remember reading from last night was the same word I started from the day before. Every time, I reread the piece from the beginning in hopes to finish it without passing out. That never happens, though. Come to think of it, I believe I have to meet up with my friends, later today; we're supposed to be going to the gun range later. I don't really want to go, but they think I should, just to keep my ex-military skills sharp.

A knock interrupted my peaceful thinking, shattering it to a startling awakening. Mr. Springer was knocking on my window, pointing to Mr. Ackerman's car. I looked over at his black sedan, watching as he got out of it. He was in dress casual as always: neat jeans, a dress shirt, suit jacket, matching tie, but a very thin looking coat. Isn't he cold? I sighed, rubbing my face and turned my car off, grabbing my thick coat from the back seat and hanging it over my shoulders to go inside. He picked up my two bags by the door and carried them in for me. Mr. Springer was quite the considerate gentleman. Perhaps it was because we go back to our veteran days. When I stepped through the doorway, I immediately shed my heavy coat, taking in as much warmth as possible of our office building. My room was towards the back, and a cozy little spot it was. It was the quietest, the warmest, and I could easily stay there past closing time if I wanted.

"Good morning, Mr. Arlert," a happy voice greeted from my right. It was Ms. Kirstein, another one of my friend's wife. A good amount of the people I went to war with still are connected to me in some ways. Ms. Smith-Kirstein married Jean Kirstein a few months after the end of our war. "Good morning, Linda!" I sang back, feeling warm and awake enough to give her a smile as well.

While I am going to the gun range later, the war we fought didn't involve guns at all. We aren't even from America, to be matter-of-factly. I swore to myself to push out any remaining thoughts of such a gruesome time period but I could never forget the loyal friends that fought by my sides. Mr. Springer included, Connie Springer.

My office door was open; the bags Mr. Springer brought in were on the floor, next to my desk. I posted my coat on a rack I had mounted onto the wall of my office. It actually feels nice to be here sometimes, not just for the heat; the getaway from the outer world, shying away from life just for a little, is a relatively blissful feeling. Despite having mounds upon mounds of work filling the corners of my desk, my bubble of fixing grammar and adding periods was a passion of mine. Not to mention how interesting some pieces are; it's almost depressing when I send them to get published but the joy of seeing the published work is greater. I have a wall devoted to my favorite pieces on my office at home.