A stocky, square-faced blond boy stares out at the fireflies, lips parted in silent wonder.

Reiner has never seen anything like this. Maybe other children have heard stories of dancing lights, insects that glow and flicker like stars—but not Reiner. His bedtime stories were tailored to stoke a righteous flame, not spark imagination. He looks out at the fireflies, an empty jar clutched in his hands, wondering why in the world he would want to trap them.

After a few minutes, Reiner settles cross-legged in the sand, the closed jar still held in his hands. He's clad in clothing unfamiliar to him but familiar to others: a hunter-green long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots. If that weren't enough to hint at his identity, the look he fixes on anyone who approaches may reveal it, the golden eyes beneath arched brows bright and intense even as a youth.

How Reiner ended up here again is anyone's guess. Maybe someone simply asked him to join. Maybe it was a combination of nudging by several people, teasing or dares or outright demands. Maybe he wanted to see the fireflies again through grown-up eyes, curious to know if they would hold the same fascination.

Truthfully, Reiner has no idea. Each possibility seems equally likely to him. Maybe someone will clue him in without him having to admit that he's … gotten confused. Again.

It's happening more often lately. Armin's arrival destabilized the ground beneath Reiner's feet; Marco's arrival effectively fractured it. Often, Reiner feels like he's clinging to a crumbling cliff by his fingertips. But he keeps hanging on. Keeps trying to pull himself up.

Stay.
Okay. As long as you do.

So, here Reiner is. Trying to act normal—whatever that means in this situation. He has a jar in his hands, but it remains closed; he's more interested in watching the fireflies dance than catching them.

At some point, it all becomes too much. Too many opposing feelings; too many conflicting memories. Reiner's sense of who/what he is slips away, his hands trembling as he stares blankly at the fireflies, unable to figure out which Reiner he's supposed to be.

And then, there is no Reiner. There is only a dog.

A pit bull, to be exact. Coat as blond as Reiner's hair, only splashed with white.

It's not the first time Reiner has transformed, but it's the first time he's done so in front of anyone from his world. But it feels easier like this. The storm in his head calms, simpler emotions and desires rising to the forefront.

Like sleep. Fuck, he'd love to get some restful sleep.

So Reiner turns in a circle in the sand, paws digging as he makes himself a good spot. Then he flops down with a huff, half-curled, his muzzle laid on his paws.