YEAR 2854, 2000 years after the Rumbling

"Your skin is burning up," the nurse tells you. "You ought to rest."

"My skin is burning up," you reply, "because all you make me do is rest."

She smiles vaguely, pulling up the cover over your chest. The doctor had warned her that your illness subjects you to be whimsical, that fever dreams came to you so often and so vividly that it was difficult for you to discern between reality and fantasy.

In short, they all thought you were crazed with hallucinations.

"Just lie back, and your mother will check in on you," she says. She is caring enough, but her voice cracks despite her youthful age, and her hands are bony, the skin around her eyes withered as leather. It gives her a sunken look, like her pupils are eager to retreat into her skull.

This is how you can tell she is an Eldian like you.

Eldians often have a defeated hunch to them, like it was hereditary. You've wondered if it is because of the suffering they'd been through over the centuries, or because their spines were built to hold the power of Titans. It's no wonder people hated the very sight of you. Such things are freakish.

The nurse makes a check on her notepad. "Sorry, what was your name again?"

You say it vaguely, and she nods her head listlessly. You know she must know your name. It's just that she simply doesn't care enough because no one ever used it. Ever since your mother found out that you were sick, you have only been referred to as "the child".

It doesn't help that you are an Eldian. Everyone in your life treats you like you're a half-being, something to haul around when necessary and otherwise ignored.

The nurse leaves, the door closes, and almost immediately the room around you begins to swim in your vision. It closes around you, tightening your chest. Sometimes you like to pretend that it only felt small because of the hospital aspect, but you know better. It's your illness.

Your mother is next, and when she enters, she gives you a smile as the room shrinks even more. You wonder if you really are going mad.

"They say you've been having trouble breathing," she says. "And your constant babbling is getting frequent."

Tiredness glints in her eyes and you feel her guilt about being angry at you for something you cannot control. But you know that it is inevitable that her patience will wear out and that there will come a time when she no longer sees you as her child, but instead as a financial liability.

Your mother is not an Eldian. Your father was, and he did not realize until he took a blood test after you were born. He hung himself not long after. That was when your illness came out—the doctors said it affected you mentally. Of course it did. Thus, your mother is stuck with you.

"You're not getting any better," she states. "The doctors said you're starting to see things."

You stiffen. You've tried to control it, tried your best to slow your inhales and exhales so as to not raise suspicion, but you cannot escape the accuracy of modern technology. There is something wrong with you, something so old and ancient that it is impossible to cure.

"It's always been this way," you say.

You recall your days at school before you were pulled out. Marleyan-born Eldians were no longer segregated from actual Marleyans, but that hardly made a difference. Even in the 2000-year interval between Goddess Ymir and the Rumbling, you were hated before you were even born. The fact that you reeked of sickness too spun tales that made it difficult for you to socialize.

They said it was because you were one of the cursed Eldians. Everyone said you probably had some kind of remnants of Titan power in your spine.

You could recall the sorry looks from your teachers, the furtive glances your classmates threw at you — the weird kid, the sick kid, the one who never spoke and always looked down at your feet as though your socks were the most interesting pair in the world. Now, you can recognize the same look in your mother.

Freak.

It is not uncommon for young people to be sick. This is the result of living in an ashen earth tainted by war. You are only one among many.

The Rumbling happened two thousand years ago, and the wars that followed still plow the earth.

"Liberio isn't good for you, honey," your mother says. "You need to be somewhere with fresh air. Where you can heal."

"You're getting rid of me."

Your mother does not meet your eyes and you know why. She will not miss you. Nobody in Marley will. Once you're gone, she can find a new husband and make a brand-new child. You are replaceable. After all, what attachment is there to feel for you when all you've done is while away in sickness?

"It's for the best, honey," she says. "You will be healthier there. Happier, too."

In the old times, Eldians were shipped away to Paradis Island when they committed crimes. History had a funny way of repeating itself because now you are experiencing the same fate that had befallen many of your ancestors back then. Your crime is being sick.

Nothing has changed since 2000 years ago, really.

And that is how you find yourself being shipped off to enemy territory.