The backbone of civilization. Farmers rise before dawn, work until dark, and repeat. Their lives are measured in seasons, not years—planting, growing, harvest, rest. They know the soil, the weather, the animals. They know their neighbors, their debts, their place.
Titans are abstract to most farmers. Stories from soldiers. Rumors from markets. The Wall protects them; the Wall has always protected them. Until it didn't, and then they became refugees.
Blacksmiths forge tools and horseshoes, not swords—that's military work. Wheelwrights build carts and wagons. Weavers make cloth, then clothing. Coopers make barrels for grain, for ale, for everything. Each trade has its secrets, passed from master to apprentice, generation to generation.
Markets happen weekly in towns, daily in cities. Farmers bring produce. Craftsmen bring goods. Merchants bring everything else. Haggling is expected. Cheating is common. Trust is rare.
Families are large when possible, small when necessary. Children work young, marry young, die young. Parents bury children; children bury parents; the cycle continues.
Community matters because survival requires it. Neighbors help with harvest. Villagers share news. Districts send aid when disaster strikes. The Walls enclose everyone; within them, people cling to each other.
Children play at being soldiers—Survey Corps, usually, because they're the heroes. They climb trees and pretend to fly. They chase each other and pretend to kill Titans. They don't understand yet.
Some children work. On farms, in shops, in markets. Childhood is a luxury; survival is a necessity. By twelve, most are useful. By fifteen, many are soldiers. By twenty, many are dead.
Few reach old age. Those who do are respected, consulted, and cared for—if they have family. If not, they fade into corners, into shelters, into memory. The Walls contain no retirement, no pension, no rest. Only work until you can't, and then death.
The Survey Corps exists in a contradiction. Officially, they're heroes—the only ones fighting back, the only ones seeking freedom. Actually, they're failures—every expedition loses soldiers, every expedition returns with nothing, every expedition costs tax money that could feed the poor.
After victories, they're celebrated. After defeats, they're mocked. The public forgets quickly; the dead are just numbers. Only the families remember, and the soldiers themselves.
Why join? Revenge, for some. Desperation, for others. A better life—unlikely, but possible. The Survey Corps takes anyone who passes training. They have to. No one else wants the job.
The Survey Corps dies so others don't have to. That's the deal. They go outside so the farmers can stay inside. They fight so children can play at fighting. They die so the rest can live.
Most people don't think about that. Most people don't want to think about that.
The Survey Corps thinks about it constantly.
Document approved for Survey Corps internal use. New recruits are encouraged to read and understand the world they're fighting for.
— Survey Corps Historical Archives