I'm obsessed with Shingeki no Kyojin. It has an original storyline, it has an abundance of plot twists that render you speechless, it has an unusual addictiveness that makes you want to don your 3D Maneuver Gear to kill titans with outside the walls until you realize...there are no titans. Thankfully.

I wasn't going to upload this on Fanfiction because I don't have an image, but oh well. I hope you enjoy reading this. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin because we would all know who would be the main protagonist...

Cursed Contraptions

Rivaille hates taking the bus.

Whenever he has to step onto the dusty steps and hold his wallet up to the sensory device, he cannot help but repress a shudder. The contraption is always dirty, and he fails to understand why the other bus riders seem to be unaware of the stench that fills the air. For all he knows, someone could have relieved their bladder onto the seats. The liquid on the seats may not be water, but urine; it may be unlikely, but possible. (It always stinks on the bus anyway.)

He grimaces at the disgusting notion before pushing his way through the university students who reek of liquor, swearing under his breath along the way about how they were idiots who should drop out of school. Colorful graffiti is splattered all over the windows and seats, as if marking their territory, and he feels like someone had ingested colorful food (or substances) and threw up all over the place.

And now he has to resist the temptation to heave his breakfast over the graffiti.

Somehow, everyone on the bus seems to believe that they have the right to sit regardless of the elderly struggling to remain standing up. The back of the bus always consists of loud, obnoxious teenagers who blast out their atrocious music to the maximum volume out of their earphones. The front of the bus is occupied by teenagers who only have eyes for their cell phones, and they all deliberately ignore the fact that the front seats are legally reserved for handicapped and elderly people. Honestly, the only way that those teenagers would (reluctantly) give up their seats would be when someone in a wheelchair would appear with an apologetic expression, even though he or she had no reason to feel guilty at all.

Rivaille bites down a snarl when he sees teenagers rapidly tapping on their phones, refusing to look up and rightfully give up their seats for the struggling people who are holding onto the pole for their safety as the bus twists and turns without mercy. He wants to yell at the bus driver to slow down at the very least, but he cannot risk the possibility of getting kicked off the bus and showing up to work late.

So he sighs once, repeating to himself that he is not going to intimidate the teenagers too much and he is not going to display his talent of inserting every single curse word that he wants to insert into his sentences, and shoves one of the intoxicated students out of the way to glare at the teenagers who are still intent on sending useless text messages on their phones.

"Once upon a time, people used to wait until they got home to listen to their voicemails," he begins with a controlled voice.

One girl makes the mistake of lifting her head and looking into his furious eyes before swiftly looking away, and he almost smirks in satisfaction when her eyes had widened with fear.

"Because there was none of this texting nonsense," he continues with a venomous hiss, as another girl tentatively looks away from her phone to pinpoint the location of the voice. She squeaks in surprise at the murderous expression on his face and bites her lips before staring down at the floor, and he feels another twinge of satisfaction. "They used to actually be able to function properly without communicating every single second, because they didn't have their phones attached to them."

Oh, how he enjoys making people cower in fear. He would prefer not to go to the trouble, really, because it does take effort to open up his mouth and speak, but it was almost worth the effort to see the fear in wide eyes, the tremor of the lips, and the shaking of the hands.

Almost worth it.

But now he is tired of speaking, and he has to save his vocal cords for the office so he can yell at people to stop bothering him with dumb questions they could answer themselves, all so he can finish his tedious paperwork and attend pointless meetings in order to make some stupid conjecture they could have made without the meeting in the first place.

He grits his teeth in irritation just thinking about the remainder of his day, longing for his coffee machine in his office. He needs to have a cup of coffee held securely in his hands to remain sane. "The moral of the story is, kids, you don't need to be sitting down to use your phones. Really. You don't even need to use your phones because people used to write letters to communicate or even meet up with each other, but I'm sure you can't spell without spellcheck or hold a decent conversation in the first place. So get off your lazy arse and allow people who actually need to sit down to sink into those uncomfortable, filthy chairs covered with your germs and bacteria."

Ugly blank faces stare at him, which he finds ironic considering their faces are slathered with cosmetics, and his eye involuntarily twitches.

"Get off. Now."

The teenagers practically leap off their seats before he finishes, pocketing their cell phones to hide it from his view, and stare out the window in the hopes that the short man won't say anything else. He may have been lacking in stature, but he more than made up for that with his venomous words and scowl on his otherwise handsome face.

A few seconds later, the seats are immediately filled with a man who had been struggling to simultaneously carry three bags of heavy groceries, the elderly woman who had been hobbling on the wooden cane, and a girl with a bandaged leg who is holding bravely onto her older brother's arm. They all smile thankfully at the irritable man, but there is no need for their gratitude; he looks away pointedly at the other side of the front seats.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," one adolescent boy with an unfortunate case of skin blemishes mutters, shoving his giant cell phone into his pocket as he reaches up to press the stop signal. "You shortie old man."

Rivaille has to stifle his laugher when the boy rises to stand up. Not only does he look ridiculous with his oversized white shirt and black jeans that are at least ten sizes too big for him, his jeans are in danger of exposing even more of his hideous florescent green boxers with a single step or tug. The boy has to actually use his hand to prevent his jeans from falling, and somehow he doesn't look embarrass over his poor choice of attire.

"Listen, kid," Rivaille leans in and mutters dangerously near the boy's ear, maintaining his distance as he doesn't want to be contaminated by the boy's stupidity, because stupidity could be contagious. (It is a theory that he is seriously considering testing out.) "I may be old compared to you, but that doesn't mean I couldn't throw you out this cursed moving vehicle with one arm."

The boy tries to laugh confidently, but the plastered, nervous smile on his frozen face betrays him. He pulls up his pants and loudly taunts, "But you won't do it, because you're too scared. And weak. And short."

Rivaille is perfectly aware of the growing audience staring openly at him; he allows a smirk appear on his face, which causes the boy to gulp loudly. "I'm not scared in the slightest, but the reason why I wouldn't do it is because it's illegal, kid. Now get off the bus before I stunt your growth," he replies, gesturing to the doors with a tilt of his head.

Needless to say, the boy had attempted to walk away from Rivaille coolly with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, which is an unfortunately conspicuous way of keeping his pants on, and ran away when he thought he was no longer in Rivaille's sight.

Rivaille looks out the window, wondering why the bus was going so slowly when there is no traffic to impend its speed. Tapping his feet impatiently, he pulls away the black sleeve of his button-down to reveal an impressive gold watch that instantaneously tells him that if the bus driver does not speed up, he was going to be late.

And he has never been late.

Never.

He has half a mind to stomp over to the bus driver and demand that she starts driving to a decent speed when she had previously been driving like a maniac when he hears a voice.

"You know, you could have simply pointed at the sign that declares that the seats are reserved by law for the handicapped and elderly."

Rivaille honestly does not know how he could have missed the tall girl standing behind him, because she looks slightly amused and slightly exasperated.

Almost like his own expression.

Her large black eyes are certainly unique, and he cannot help but stare into them. He has never seen such dark eyes before and he instantly realizes that she is at least part Oriental.

She is pointing at the aforementioned sign, and he has to strain his eyes to look away from her eyes to the tip of her slender index finger. With a quiet voice, she explains, "It would have saved you a lot of time and effort."

He grunts, "Too late now."

With another quick glance at his ticking watch, he thinks to himself, just like me. Even if he manages to burst into his office in time, he would not have enough time to make himself a decent cup of coffee. He does not merely crave the liquid to satisfy his taste buds, but he needs the adrenaline and energy to help him trudge through the day without punching someone in the face.

Which he has been tempted to do as his creative solution to almost every problem that he has encountered.

Perhaps his thoughts are reflected on his face, because the girl appears as if she would like to laugh by the slight curve of her lips. But perhaps he is imagining it because she suddenly shrugs her shoulder. He doesn't expect her to continue speaking, but she surprises him by asking him, "Do you have a cell phone?"

He resists the instinct to roll his eyes, because that is his instinct every time he hears the dreaded words cell phone. In his opinion, that invention is almost as bad as the bus. And he has heard stories of morons who drop their phones into the toilet, and he really has no wish to find out how. "Unfortunately. It's for work."

No, he isn't simply imagining her curved lips. There is a glimmer in her eyes that indicate to him that she is amused; she is indifferent, but amused. He wouldn't understand how that could be possible, but he often has the same mixed feelings.

His thoughts trail off as he examines the pink tint of her lips. He wonders if she had applied any lipstick because he has never seen such naturally pink lips; he snaps out of his thoughts when her voice interrupts him. "Otherwise, you're fine with listening to your voicemail at the end of the day?"

"I'm fine with writing letters."

In fact, he frequently mutters to himself about how he was born in the wrong century because of the fact that almost no one writes letters anymore. He prizes his magnificent fountain pen that easily spurts out his words as if he was painting calligraphy, he prizes the meaningful letters that he has received and written in his lifetime, and he prizes his ability to spell.

She finally smiles, and she covers part of her mouth with her hand. He wants to push her hand out of the way because it is hiding her entire smile, but then he looks again at her eyes and blinks in surprise, because he has forgotten the last time someone had maintained direct eye contact with him for a long period of time.

"Writing letters is a forgotten art, but it's a lovely art, isn't it?"

Tucking a lock of her loose hair behind one ear, she pushes the stop button and waits for the bus to skid to a halt so she could step outside. Rivaille can tell that she has no desire to finish the conversation that she had irresponsibly initiated, because everyone knows that you are supposed to finish a conversation that you started.

It's common courtesy.

But he won't mention that because he generally hates conversing with other people, but she is an exception.

"Rivaille."

Standing directly in front of the rear doors, she turns around with a surprised expression. The sunlight penetrates the windows in a way that flatters her delicate facial features and highlights further the pink tint of her parted lips, and he doesn't even care about the time anymore. It's fine with him if he's late, because today is an exception, just like her.

"Excuse me?" She meekly inquires, and she looks so baffled with her knitted eyebrows that he feels like she is wondering if someone had instead sneezed and she is conflicted between offering a gestutide or a maybe someone is talking about you.

The bus halts, but he can't afford to waste his time to look out the window and see where she gets off.

"My name. It's Rivaille."

She expertly presses the button that opens the rear doors without looking, which shows that she is someone accustomed to taking the bus. His worries that he would not be seeing her on the bus dissipate when he sees the practiced motion, but it is completely alleviated when she smiles again without concealing it. "My name is Mikasa."

She steps off the bus without looking back, as if she can sense his eyes. He pulls his gaze away from her retreating back, surprisingly without the temptation to glance at his watch, and smiles to himself.

Mikasa. The girl with the indifferent but amused black eyes.

Perhaps he had always hated taking the bus because of the stench, because of the impolite teenagers, because of the nonsensical graffiti, but because of today, he no longer hates taking the bus.