PLEASE READ: This story is now written in past tense.

Prologue:

The dreadful age of turning 18 was not transitioning from a naive teenager, to a wise adult, but more of imposing the stay of a current orphanage. No that Mikasa was of legal age, she just regarded things like that a lot.

She sat upright on her small cot, the least desirable one in the entire building because of its demeaning size. She found sleep impossible no matter what position she tossed and turned at night.

The yellowing floral wallpaper that was once white, peeled away, revealing cockroaches of all sizes.

Such conditions were unacceptable, for they told of a bleak future concerning Mikasa. If the staff could barely afford to keep the place decent looking, then the chance of a stable life for the woman was nowhere near reachable.

They seemed unaware of her exact age, mistaking that she had a reasonable number of years to go before they could boot her out the door. Mikasa felt grateful for that, even if it was a few measly years.

The main reason she's reluctant to leave this god awful hell revolved around her close relationships with the other kids. Mikasa sometimes saw them as her own children to take care of. Maybe, just maybe, she might get the chance to work here in exchange for hospitality, or at another child's services where it's half as decent as the current one she's staying at. So far, there weren't many choices at the moment.

"Mikasa? Oh Mikasaaaa," Sasha's excited voice echoed throughout the narrow hall outside the room they had to share.

"I'm in here," Mikasa called, swinging her legs over the half assed bed.

Sasha pushed the door wide open, showcasing the drawings they drew as kids on the walls outside their room.

"So I really need a favor from you," she pleaded, fluttering her big brown eyes.

"Am I your service dog now?" Mikasa said, raising an eyebrow.

"Pretty please? I know it's my turn to go grocery shopping, but I have a date."

Mikasa pulled her bitsie shoes from under the bed. "Who's your date?"

Sasha paled a little, seemingly regretting her excuse for not running her errands.

"I'll tell you when you get back."

"No, tell me now or I won't go," Mikasa insisted, slowing her movements.

Sasha looked pained as she opened her mouth, "It's Jean."

"What."

"I'm sorry, it just happened!" the brunette began to blabber.

Mikasa finished putting on her shoes, and snatched the money for the food out of the other girl's hand none too nicely.

"Mikasa, come back!"

"Forget it, have fun stuffing him on Thanksgiving."

As Mikasa trudged down the streets of Underground avenue, she neared a man covered in filthy rags. She was barely a couple feet away, but could still pick up on his rancid smell. He was like a mirror image of her future self if she didn't get her shit together.

The hobo extended an arm out, a chipped teacup in his dirtied hand. He gave the cup a shake, the sound of change moving about; a silent plea for charity. Mikasa suspected he was a drug addict, a lot of them were, though she refused to take her anger out on the guy because of her social life. Sasha wasn't a bad person.

The girl stuffed her fist in her pocket, digging around for some spare change. She placed a few dollars in the man's porcelain dish, already regretting her decision. Her case managers definitely wouldn't approve.

Mikasa never remembered his face, nor did she think she would ever have to.