Author's Note: I hate inconsistencies in all things, but here I am, writing one.
Premises: This is post-Shamballa, albeit with some events/facts that I've played around to fit the events of this story. It is a combination of anime/mangaverses, so there's plenty of material to play around with.
Any interested shippers ought to know that I have a tendency to pull surprises. You've been warned.
Copyrights: Fullmetal Alchemist © Hiromu Arakawa, Square-Enix, and Bones
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Return to Shamballa // Rewrite
«Prologue»
XXX
"What are you doing here? You know you shouldn't be here. This is not your place."
Edward and Alphonse Elric glanced at each other quickly, baffled. The dark-skinned old man grimaced, clutching his wrinkly hands tightly. His impish eyes studied them carefully, watching them weigh his words towards them.
"We don't know what you mean," Ed finally replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs.
"Yes, so can you please explain, sir?" Al added politely. He sat up straight, his fingers laced and resting placidly on his lap.
"Why do I need to explain?" the old man asked simply. "Both of you know exactly what I mean. What are you doing here? Why are you here?"
"Everybody asks themselves those questions now and then, you old fart, so get on with it. Tell us why you said what you said," Ed said, growing annoyed at the vague talk.
"Brother…" Al countered disapprovingly.
The old man was smiling, which scrunched up the wrinkly saggy skin on his face.
"This is not your world."
The brothers froze at the fortuneteller's low knowing voice.
"Of-of course it's our world!" Ed protested, desperately overcoming his shock. Did Noah get her abilities from this old man?
"It's our home, sir," All added quickly.
The old man smiled. "You may call me Harot. And no. No, no, no. Your home is on the other side, in the parallel universe my people sometimes tells stories about. Mere legends, stories, fables, told by word of mouth and sometimes written in obscure occult books, but here before me is living proof of its existence. And yet…what business do you have with this side of existence? What are you two doing here when this is not your place or time?"
"What do you know?!" Ed snapped, rising to his feet. Al quickly grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down on the stool he was sitting on. "Brother, don't."
The old man was still smiling, his eyes twinkling strangely. "As I've said, this is not your place. This world is not your world nor your home. My granddaughter has told me everything, and it simply means that you must go home. You are needed there, not here. Here it is too late; you'll never be able to change anything. The war is imminent-"
"I thought the Great War's ended," Ed interjected. "I remember being there in England, but that was years ago!"
"War breeds war, young man, and this is no different. Why do you think my people are moving into the mountains? We are a persecuted, hated people; because we look different and carry on traditions unfamiliar to them, they seek to wipe us out. The ones beginning the next war wants us gone. Dead. They blame my people for losing the Great War and our deaths will be their vengeance. And they had already begun when the Beer Hall Putsch took place, six months ago. My granddaughter was lucky she ran into you, but she won't be lucky next time."
"Then we'll stay and help your people," Al suggested, always the helpful spirit. His eagerness quelled at the weary shake of the fortuneteller's head.
"No, you cannot. What she can do with a touch I can do with a mere glance. I know everything, Edward and Alphonse Elric, sons of Hohenheim and Trisha. I know your past, your present, and I can see bits and pieces of your future, a future that would not happen if you do not return to your home. This is not your home, not your world, not your place to be, and the place that will always be your home needs you. You must find a way to go back to the other side, back to the world you abandoned to save it. Do you understand?"
Silence. Al swiveled his eyes to look at Ed, whose head was bowed low. Presently there was a low dark laugh and Ed looked up. "Understand? I don't understand anything you're saying. And why would our world need us? What can we do that the others can't?"
"Your world lives under the shadow of a war-"
"I thought we ended the war! If I remember, the Parliament's in control of the country, not the Fuhrer King Bradley!" Al exclaimed. "We stopped the Homunculi, and-and I think Gluttony ate Dante, and Wrath told me to use him and Gluttony to open the Gate from that side-"
"You do not understand, Alphonse Elric," Harot said. "People are strange creatures. They know war, they understand what war does, yet they will stop at nothing to begin wars and win them. And for what? Gold. Glory. God. Anything. Everything. Anything could trigger the war in your world; all that matters, though, is that you go back and help save it. You're right about your war, and your home is still reeling from its effects. It cannot survive another war, not without your help."
He reached for a worn book on his makeshift table, and ran a finger down its ragged spine. The gold ink that gave the book its name had long since worn off and only traces of that precious metal remained.
"I don't know what this has to do with us," Ed said stiffly, "but even if it did, there's no way for us to go back. It's too late, Harot. The transmutation circles had been destroyed by me and that bastard colonel. No one can open the Gate on either side."
Al flinched and looked at Ed nervously, wondering if it really was okay to blatantly talk about their home world's…'quirks'. But the old man seemed to take everything into stride; his eyes were closed and he was nodded slowly, a finger still stroking the spine of the book.
"People are stupid enough to start wars but they are clever enough to seek advantages in order to win them. No matter what the cause of the war is, attention must always be paid to the weapons. If the weapons are of the forbidden sort…I can see in the future what will be unleashed here on Earth. The atrocities to be committed by the National Socialist German Workers' Party, under a new name and the same terrible leader, will be the only thing comparable to the most inhumane weapon of war.
"As for your home, I can see a different kind of weapon. You've faced it before but your enemies were not of the reckless sort; they were desperate but clever. The cause of the war knows hate and desperation and that drives the cause. The weapon will be horrific and unless you destroy the weapon, it will destroy your world, and this world, and you."
XXX
Six months.
Six months since several mysterious ships burst from the center of the earth and shot down nearly every tall building in sight. Six months since the Fullmetal Alchemist suddenly appeared after the infamous two-year disappearance that almost nobody talked about. Six months since he and his famous younger brother vanished. Six months since Corporal Roy Mustang returned from his self-imposed exile to the north, taking command of the forces at Central City and turning the tables on the would-be conqueror of Amestris. Six months since the Parliament restored the Flame Alchemist to his office in Central City, along with all his subordinates and his rank, now upped to Brigadier General.
Six months since the bet among his male subordinates that he and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye would finally hook up. As far as anyone can tell, the men were all losing. They had been playing it safe and betted, in varying degrees and extremities, for and not against the match.
Instead, the first two months were spent dealing with the chilly air that hung between this one-close duo. Faithful Black Hayate was part of the scheme to break the silence and bring them together, and it involved snow. Rebuilding Central City also helped loosen the tension between the two commanding officers. The next four months was spent watching Central City slowly return to its former glory and dealing with the normalcy that almost seemed to have returned to the office. Everyone didn't mind suffering from Hawkeye's threats to shoot all the men in the office if they didn't finish their paperwork, and they all relished the occasional departures to the four corners of Amestris, and the slowly rising cities of Lior and Ishbal. Traveling as a group, they joked with each other, reminisced on the early days before those unforgettable Elric brothers dragged everyone into the hell already in the making by the Homunculi. Occasionally the men brought Brigadier General Mustang up to date with the goings-on since his exile, but those conversations were always brief and to the point, and no one questioned what he had to deal with in the frigid world.
At these moments, Hawkeye would turn a blind eye and remain silent until something happened to interrupt the hushed conversation, like Black Hayate approaching Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda for a pat on the head. Breda had cynophobia. He feared dogs to an extreme.
There had been the occasional Ishbalan uprising amongst the smaller bands of refugees and Lior had been restless ever since that bizarre event six months ago, but so far nothing serious was happening.
In fact, nothing was happening at all.
Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc yawned, his unlit cigarette hanging in its precarious perch in the corner of his mouth, and stared up at the ceiling. Holes dotted the newly installed tiles and he idly wondered if the pen in his hand, which he loathed so much, would fit into one of the holes. Or perhaps the holes were too big and when he threw his pen it, it would shoot through the tiles and get lost forever, and he'll have no more paperwork, and be free at last, free at last-
"G-get…that beast…away from…m-me…" Breda stammered, his voice quavering. He stared, white-eyed with terror, at the friendly black and white dog lying on the ground a foot from his feet.
Just minutes ago, Hawkeye had caught him slacking off and ordered Black Hayate to guard him until Breda called Hawkeye over to review his finished work. So far, all that happened was the large man's nerves fraying to the point it took fifteen minutes for him to get through one sheet. Havoc watched, quite entertained, at the way Breda would look at his paper, then glance at Black Hayate to make sure the dog didn't move, then look back at his paper, only to glance back at Black Hayate, and so on and so forth.
Pity Breda had so much paperwork today.
Sergeant Major Kain Fuery groaned and slumped in his seat, chin resting on the desk and his glasses dangling from the nose bridge. Fuery then turned his eyes elsewhere, and quickly sat up straight. Warnings went off in Havoc's head and he sat up as well. He looked across the room and met the glaring eyes of the First Lieutenant.
Within seconds, his reflexes kicked in and he was sitting in his chair with his feet square on the floor, his eyes skimming through paragraph after paragraph on the top paper of his pile hurriedly. A few edits and signatures later, Hawkeye turned back to her own paperwork and Havoc relaxed.
Warrant Officer Vato Falman was one lucky bastard; he was out handling business in Investigations and got to escape the dreariness of the office. Today was so wretchedly boring, and if it weren't for Hawkeye, he'd already be sucking on his last cigarette of his daily pack, and not idly chewing on his first and unlit piece.
Speaking of Hawkeye, she's glaring daggers at him again, and her hand's moving at an uncomfortable speed to the holster on her side-
"Sorry, Ma'am," he muttered and dove back into his papers.
He did spare a glance at the Brigadier General, who was lucky thus far to have been spared Hawkeye's wrath.
Mustang was staring down at something on his desk; Havoc noted that though the massive paper pile on his desk had diminished somewhat, the man still had a very long way to go. As he continued to watch, the black-haired man reached up to rub at the left side of his face but stopped short of brushing up against the black eye patch. Havoc winced reflexively. Everyone knew how vision and perception changed, sometimes drastically, when one eye was closed or gone. Things appeared closer or farther, and while some things looked unusually flat, other things popped out.
Would the military ever put the man out in the field again? His rare and terribly useful ability was compromised severely by his limited eyesight, although Havoc recalled with a slow smile how efficient the man was six months ago, when he returned to Central City's headquarters, gloves on, and that fire burning in his one good eye, the fire that had drawn Havoc and Breda and Fuery and Falman and former Lieutenant Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong and Private Sheshka and Second Lieutenant Maria Ross and Sergeant Denny Brosh and the deceased Brigadier General Maes Hughes and Hawkeye and-
Click.
Heads shot up and chairs were shoved back as Havoc reacted immediately to the sound and tried to get back to work, but the safety was already off and a bullet hole had appeared on the wall behind him as Havoc ducked, slamming his forehead on the desk. He peeked up, his forehead bright red and throbbing, and smiled meekly at Hawkeye, who was calmly checking her handgun. She then looked straight at him and a chill rushed over him.
"Havoc, get to work."
"yes, Sir-um, Ma'am."
His boredom given a thorough beating, Havoc sighed, switched his unlit cigarette from the left corner to the right corner of his mouth, and returned to work, determined not to stop until he was done.
He's done enough daydreaming for one awfully boring day.
XXX
Two years and several months had done nothing on his nerves. They were frayed beyond repair but he thought he knew the only way to soothe the overflow of fury deep in his chest.
That Fullmetal bastard.
Word had it he disappeared for good, taking his tin can of a brother with him-or rather, what was once a tin can. Change had certainly taken its course of the two years he spent trying to recover from the massive explosion at his lab the day he tried to convince Edward Elric that his invention may be useful to the military.
But, of course, alchemists have some unofficial law ordering them to help the people, and what he offered destroyed them.
Hence, the rejection. It didn't sting him. It didn't hurt him.
It floored him. It told him enough, that the alchemists thought pure, hardcore scientists like himself to be near-useless, unworthy of trust. Why couldn't they see that a bomb as destructive as the one he had invented would end wars so much sooner? How many more lives would've been saved, then? How many more buildings would be saved from a razing? How many villages would remain on the map?
A group of lousy State Alchemists could never do what one uranium bomb could, and he knew it.
And yet they rejected him.
Two years and six months. That's how long it's been since they left him in utter ruin, with almost nothing left, not even himself. He'll never forget the two bastards.
Never.
XXX
Author's Endnote: It's my first FMA fanfiction and I'm not sure if I should seriously pursue this, as I'm not even that well educated in the manga. Should I continue, or leave this alone and do whatever else in hell I do?
Reviews appreciated.