Zeke took off the glasses he always wore and swapped in sturdier goggles.
The airship's hatch slid open. A blast of wind surged in and nearly knocked him backward; he caught the hatch rail, steadied himself, and sat in the doorway.
Facing the roaring airstream, his hair lifted.
He lowered his head and looked down from the sky to the earth.
The airship was now above Wall Maria on Paradis. With a single glance downward, Zeke could take in the Wall's full shape.
"As expected of the Founding Titan… a wall made of Titans, and so vast."
Unable to keep from marveling, Zeke swept his gaze over Paradis's three Walls.
They formed concentric rings, one nested inside the next.
The innermost ring enclosed the smallest area; the outermost, the largest.
Just as he'd sketched on paper in bed late at night, the distances between the three rings were nearly equal.
And as he'd imagined, to hold back Titans, the 145th King Fritz—the Founding Titan's inheritor—had set smaller subsidiary walls beyond the main walls, barbican districts to serve as second lines of defense against a renewed Titan assault.
Those barbicans had land, and many people lived there.
Only the outermost barbican stood empty, overgrown with trees and brush.
Out of fear of Titans, no doubt; if that outer barbican were breached, the Titans would sweep in and devour whoever lived there first.
"Once the order arrives, we can begin, Mr. Zeke."
From inside the cabin, someone spoke to him.
"Thank you." Zeke nodded. "When the order comes, tell me immediately. I don't want to miss the moment."
"Understood."
The airship hovered into a steady suspension, and Zeke finally slung on his parachute pack.
It was a contingency. If his midair transformation failed, the parachute could get him down safely—or at least blunt the impact.
In the cabin, the telegraph chattered; a printer quickly spat out coded strips.
The signalman relayed the message to the man beside him, who, without a moment's hesitation, turned and informed Zeke.
"Headquarters says: when the 'spinal-fluid recipients' reach the proper drop window, you may initiate transformations."
"Got it."
Zeke nodded, pulled the goggles down over his eyes.
By then, the other airships had drawn in.
They flew abreast with Zeke's, rear propellers spinning, doing their best to hold a parallel line.
At last, when they formed a neat rank, the cargo hatches opened.
They weren't compartments for passengers so much as for freight.
Aside from Zeke's airship, the others were packed full with Eldians who had drunk spinal fluid—bodies bound tight with restraints.
Months earlier, they'd been conscripted into reserve camps, brainwashed daily, and used in all manner of Titan experiments.
Some had been forced. More had volunteered.
In hopes of becoming "Honorary Marleyans," gaining privileges that would let their families rise in the internment zones, they volunteered to sacrifice themselves—so that Marley might treat their kin and descendants better… though, transformed into Titans, they would never know whether that promised "better" ever came.
Still, that's what they believed, and strove for.
They knew that in a matter of minutes they would turn into grotesque, towering Pure Titans—but the thought that Marley would enroll their families as "Honorary Marleyans," that their descendants would be favored, excited them.
Then their families wouldn't endure slurs and abuse anymore.
Finally, with the hatches open, the restraints above—threaded through rollers fixed overhead—began to move.
They were all dragged along, trussed hard, and fed toward the open air.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!
One after another, like items on a moving line, they were pitched off the airships.
In the sky, panic tore their throats. They screamed—but it was already too late.
"Qili! Farewell! I love you!! I really, really love you!!"
"Mom—live well, please! Don't forget to take the medicine I bought you!"
"Little Molly… Daddy can't build blocks with you anymore…"
"Damn you, Marleyans!! May you all die horribly!!!"
As they fell, each cried out whatever they had left.
From that height, it didn't matter how they hit the ground—they were as good as dead.
Only then did they remember what they'd forgotten of the world's gentleness.
Some were fathers raising children.
Forced by Marley, and unfit for regular service, they'd ended up in the reserves.
Now shoved off an airship, grief crushed them. They longed for one more hug with their children, one last kiss for their wives.
No chance. No more chances.
Some were loyalists to Marley.
They cheered as if they were doing something supremely honorable.
After this battle, their entire families would be enrolled as "Honorary Marleyans," with privileges.
To them, the sacrifice was worth it—foolproof.
Others were convicts who hated Marley, dreaming of one day biting it to pieces with blood-slick teeth.
They spent their last strength cursing with every foul word they knew.
Whatever they shouted, they were already death announced.
Sitting on the hatch rim, Zeke watched the "recipients" tumble out, cleared his throat, drew a huge breath, and roared:
"Ah!!!"
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom!
Almost at once, the bodies of every bound Eldian underwent violent change. All their dreams and grievances were torn apart and packed into the hollow colossi blossoming from their flesh.
Light burst from every point of their bodies; and as the light faded, one after another, they transformed—Titans all.
Hideous faces. Twisted masks. Limbs flailing as they plummeted.
The last to transform was a boy—tall for his age and mistaken for an adult—dragged aboard on the absurd charge that "there's still room on the airship," injected with Zeke's spinal fluid, hauled on by force.
Watching the glow consume those behind him, watching them become Titans, he used his eyes to take one final look at the world that had raised him, and whispered his goodbye:
"Mom… I'm going to become a firefly."
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