Fizzy's Notes: This was originally a fic idea from last year that I just couldn't seem to conceptualize well enough, so I converted it into an RP on a forum to hunt for ideas. Suffice to say, it turned out pretty well. I found a collaborator in an old friend of mine who joined, and we expanded the story well beyond the RP's original scope. Its purpose served, and to retain some of its original charm (a n00b was ruining the whole thing), Mushroom and I let it die, and set the ideas into work
Mushroom's Notes: Too lazy. Aye, whatever the hells he said.
Disclaimer: FMA belongs to Hiromu Arakawa. The characters Dominique Midas, Jurdis, and Pandemonium belong to their creators (Box, Co Dominic Kane, and ShaolinMonkey, respectively). And us? Well, we're just along for the ride.
"Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is Alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. Or so my professor says. But against the challenges of an age like the twenty-first century, does this old saying still hold true? For the sake of what I will be attempting in a few hours, it damn well better! Because right now, I'm willing to give almost anything just to have her back."
- John Smith, on Equivalent Exchange
Fizzy and Mushroom Productions Proudly Presents:
State Alchemist 21
Amestris. The year is 2006. Lots of things have changed in the past eight or so decades. Most notable would be the fact that Central has evolved into a bustling metropolis, combining towering glass and steel skyscrapers with its quaint, early 20th century city appearance. Technological advances have allowed for more compact engines, as well as the advent of computers and television. However, due to the Amestrians' blatant disregard for physics, these are only in their most primitive states - snowy black and white screens, coupled with operating systems that only expert programmers would understand. Aircraft have not fared much better either. Blimps fly in the place of airplanes and helicopters. Jet propulsion is unheard of. For the most part, the presence of alchemy as the dominant science has stunted their technological growth by up to half a century in many areas, compared to Earth. The largest industry around is of course, automail, spearheaded by the biggest corporation on the continent, RockMail, and its executives, the young Brothers Rockbell.
The Führer-led military dictatorship had returned immediately after the 1985 Purity Revolution. And while Führer Christopher Abrams is well-meaning, he has been the strictest dictator the nation has ever seen. A curfew is in place, and restrictive laws abound. That has not stopped crime, though, and the ghettos that had risen during to the decades of the parliament's corruption have become hotspots for all sorts of illegal activity, which the Military Police is at best, struggling to prevent from spreading into other parts of the city. They have no control whatsoever of what lurks within the ghettos' seedy streets.
And of course, there are the State Alchemists. Perhaps one of the few things that have not changed at all would be this aspect of the State. These talented individuals remain the most elite of the military's dogs, respected by some, feared or envied by many others. Many of the Old Families, such as the Armstrongs, continue to make their name from this particular niche. The tests themselves have only grown more rigorous, and there are years where nobody at all is chosen to bear the coveted silver pocket watch.
Amidst all this, a storm is brewing. Unlike the days of old where the conspiracies went all the way to the top, however, this storm comes from across the Cretan Ocean, in the form of another country - Prometheus. Apparently having developed in parallel to Amestris, Prometheus has a different stand on things. As opposed to the Amestrians' extremely backward physics and the virtual non-existence of alchemy on Earth, they have made a compromise: a combination of both worlds - physics on one hand, alchemy on the other.
Equivalent Exchange, however, has given them no slack on their little smooth move. Their physics pale against that of Earth. Furthermore, the most advanced of their alchemy can be summarized by the average Amestrian Senior High School's Alchemy subject for the fourth year. Ornithopters comprise the fighter and bomber wings of the Promethean Air Corps, and though superior to the Amestrian Air Warship in terms of speed and maneuverability, are nevertheless more difficult to control than a WWII fighter plane.
Tensions between the two nations have always been uneasy since their first contact some fifty years back, but now the Prometheans have begun to push the envelope. Intelligence reports indicate that their neighbors are planning to create their own Philosopher's Stone, something that Amestris had labeled as an act of genocide. Führer Abrams has ordered the mobilization of all branches of the State Military in preparation for 'preventive measures' should the Prometheans actually engage in this endeavor. Along with this, he has also declared a State of State Emergency, beckoning all citizens to assist in this situation.
Of course, one must not forget to mention that in the past 40 years, another major 'change' was the emergence of a new form of internal threat. That is to say, a terrorist group known as the Ishballan Liberation Front, the apparent strategy of which is the killing State Alchemists in order to scare the State into rebuilding Ishbal for them. Naturally, the Parliament, and later Abrams, refused to give in. Instead, he has pushed for the search and elimination of all those involved. Special Forces are on constant raids, attempting to snuff out the flames of the little cells they find. In particular, Amestris' elite counterterrorism unit, Security Section (or simply S2), has been harder at work than ever.
Now, as the Führer makes his first public appearance for the period of the State of State Emergency, crowds gather in the hundreds of thousands at Central Amphitheater. Some to listen to his next speech, others with less-than-benign intentions...
Prologue: State of the State Address
The convoy of three heavily escorted limos plowed through the streets of Central City, on the way to their intended destination. Two were obviously decoys. After all, this kind of defensive tactic would logically be employed by anybody wishing to protect their leader. The streets themselves were now bare, blockaded by the military police and at some points, even the regular army. Save for these pointers to the contrary, it would appear to the casual observer that Central was now a long-evacuated ghost town.
Careful detail and planning had been given to this move. After all, in such times of turmoil, any madman could just as easily try to assassinate the Führer, some even with gusto to commit the murder in broad daylight. This was just the reason why the limousines were completely identical. Model, make, plate numbers, and even the little details like nicks and personal customizations. Heavy tint prevented anybody from peeking to see which had who riding in them. Only blind luck would have any potential killer strike the correct one with the first shot. And even then, they were of course, bullet-proofed. Inside one, whichever it was, sat three men dressed in the telltale uniform of the State Military, apparently discussing an important matter to the tune of some piece of classical music or another.
"Are you sure that these preparations will be enough, General?" the oldest of the group inquired. White, wiry hair swept to the back of his head emphasized his stern face, particularly the piercing gaze set by his icy blue eyes. This same gaze set itself on the bald, mustached, heavyset man who sat across from him, back hunched over for the sake of fitting into the cramped space.
"I am most certain, Führer!" the large man answered. Pink sparkles somehow magically flitted about his face, for some strange reason. "S2 has an entire battalion on site, dispersed and hidden throughout the crowds. There's absolutely no way that the ILF will know about them! Add to that the presence of the Military Police, and touching you will be a virtual impossibility!"
"I hope, for your sake, General Armstrong, that you are correct." Age did little to weaken the commanding feeling imparted by his voice. "Because I have the feeling that the Ishballans will see this as the perfect time to strike."
Major General John Henry Armstrong cracked his knuckles in response, and struck a pose, pink sparkles intensifying for a brief moment. "Fret not, O Führer! This method of organizing security protocol has been pa-" He was interrupted as the Führer's hand snapped up in front of him in a halting gesture.
"Not. Another. Word. General. I don't need to hear about yet another completely random talent that you have inherited from your forefathers. What about the State Alchemists?"
"I ordered them all to come as a requirement, sir," the muscular Armstrong flexed his shoulders. "Dispersed through the crowds to protect them from targeting - a protective technique that has been-"
"What did I say about your goddamn tradition, General Armstrong?" Abrams' eyebrows met in annoyance of having to remind this man every single time. Nevertheless, putting up with Armstrong's ludicrous eccentricities was a small price to pay. The general's family had a rich history of greatness, and much as Abrams hated to admit it, every skill he bragged about was truly worthy of boasting.
"Err..."
"That's what I thought." He turned to a third, evidently junior officer. This one was younger than the two, possibly in his early thirties or so. "Colonel Lockheed, check up on the preparations."
Martin Lockheed was the commanding officer of S2. He might not have been a Combat State Alchemist, but he was sure as hell capable of killing one if he wanted to. An S2 Operator was that skilled. Of course, this really depended on which State Alchemist that one was talking about. Some were harder to kill than the others. So he settled with the 'average' State Alchemist... whatever that was. He drew his comm. "All units, this is Big Blue. Report in."
The responses were almost immediate, each one done by a neutral voice seemingly close to drowning in the background noise of a crowd.
"Unit One reporting. Red Carpet is secure."
"Unit Two reporting. Lobby is secure."
"Unit Three reporting. Hallway Six is secure."
"Four Leader reporting for units Four to Seven. Main Amphitheater is secure. Every angle is covered. You are cleared for entry."
"Roger that, units. Stay frosty. Big Blue out." Lockheed put it away and turned to look at the Führer, perhaps looking for approval in his gaze. He found none. After all, the ultimate test to the efficacy of any preparation was the moment of its deployment. "S2 has the place covered, sir. And as General Armstrong said, the Military Police should provide an excellent show of force in dissuading any nut who might try to pull a fast one." The convoy turned around at the final curb and pulled up to the massive structure's entrance, where crowds and news crews were already gathered. Viewed from such an angle, they appeared to be a box full of squirming rice grains, eager to escape from the confines given them by the thin red barrier cables. "Your audience awaits, sir."
And so it was then that the back doors on all three limos opened at the same time. Of course, only one of them was occupied, it seemed. And for all it was worth, it so happened to be the one in the center. First out was Colonel Lockheed, followed by General Armstrong, then finally, the Führer himself, who was immediately swamped by the paparazzi.
"Your Excellency, care to clue us in on your speech tonight?" a particular reporter, who happened to be quick enough to get by Abrams' side, managed to ask.
"There will be no 'clues', my boy," Abrams waved him off; "All questions will be answered at the speech. Media censors, please." At this simple command, the MP's dragged off the still snapping reporters to a determined safe location, giving them strict instructions to proceed to an aptly-marked 'media booth'. In a matter of seconds, the swarm of newsmen were replaced by a swarm of MP escorts.
Though it wasn't exactly as smooth as he'd hoped it would be, at least it created the illusion of safety. That is, the real protection was a battalion of S2 Operators running around in civilian clothing, complemented by an S2 sniper team scattered across the high places of the amphitheater. And thus began the parading down the red carpet, which for the most part, was uneventful. He did see a few unfriendly-looking faces, though. Some of which were dark skinned, with red eyes. The ILF had boys in the house. Tonight was going to take a turn for the more active. He could tell.
General Armstrong and Colonel Lockheed were deposited at a couple of front row seats. Pouncing at them from one of the nearby chairs would be Tristan Havoc, Lieutenant Führer and founder of what had become known as NutriCom Corporation. Son of the late Major Jean Havoc, one would expect Tristan to appear his age – 73. The fact was, however, was that he only looked half that. In fact, if one would compare him to his father, the resemblance was terrifying. Due to his health-obsessed lifestyle, though, the Lieutenant Führer was more powerfully built, and was never once seen with Jean's signature cigarettes. Upon catching the two men by surprise, Havoc began rattling off about his company's latest product.
Abrams gave the group a thoughtful look. These natural supplements could truly keep a man looking young despite his age. He was fifteen years younger than the Lieutenant Führer, and yet many people could easily mistake him to be the father. Perhaps he could try some of these sometime. He owed them that much. After all, NutriCom Corporation was his biggest financial supporter during the revolution. It wouldn't hurt to pay back a few hundred cenz's worth of vitamins, would it? Still flanked by half a dozen MP's, he ascended to the podium and began his speech.
"Explain to me…" Elisi twirled a pistol around her right index finger, evidently bored. "Why the hell do we have to listen to this old fart bag talk again?" dark brown waist-length hair trailed behind her, contrasted to a yellow hair ribbon that would get any enlisted woman wearing it killed. The high-class smile that one would usually find on her face was absent, normally sparkling gold eyes dulled down with a sense of melancholy that seemed capable of crushing anybody's spirit.
To her right, Dominique momentarily took her attention away from the speech happening some twenty or so rows down, shoulder-length raven hair flowing with the twist of her neck. Amber eyes met those of Elisi, mirroring her own in that boredom, though to a lesser degree. What made this girl stand out was the interesting set of ornaments that she wore. Pure gold necklace, pure gold bracelets, all superimposed onto her uniform. "Armstrong's orders."
"That obsessive-compulsive body builder?" Elisi huffed at the person in question, flinging the pistol into the air and catching it effortlessly upon its descent. "Come on, Dom! They could have thought of a better excuse than 'it's orders'! I mean, it would be so much easier for all of us if they'd broadcast this damn thing from Central HQ!"
Dominique merely shook her head. See, that was the problem when you were friends with somebody like this girl. This girl, Elisi, was hyperactive to the core, perhaps even eccentric to a point. And once she locked eyes with you, there would start a connection that would last for life. "Apparently, somebody thought it was a good idea to keep hold of the people's attention by removing their ability to just change the channel."
"Damn! They thought of that too?" Elisi said, a look of surprise on her face.
Dominique slapped her forehead in irritation. "Of course they did! And I thought you were the one who grew up in the city."
"Watch it, hick," the former cocked her pistol.
"City girl." The latter placed a hand on the gold choker around her neck.
"Cynic Ice Queen."
"Psycho Gun Nut."
One could imagine the sparks of tension flying all over the place as the two locked eyes. It would also be fitting to see an inferno blazing in the background.
A growl resounded beside them. "Do you two mind? I'm trying to listen here!"
Elisi's eyebrow shot up. "You? Listening to what the old man has to say? Alright, impostor! Tell me where you hid the dog!"
It was more of an odd joke than a serious accusation. Nevertheless, Viktor growled even more, his hidden feral side coming ever closer to showing itself. Right now, he had his lengthy lime green hair tied into a ponytail, as per regulation. But when he showed his more… undesirable… form, it couldn't get any messier than that. Elisi backed down and re-holstered her sidearm. At this range, she wouldn't be able to handle the Werewolf Alchemist should he think of mauling her. "The only reason I'm listening to 'His Excellency' rant on about the State of State Emergency is because it's sure as hell a lot easier on the ears than putting up with you two fighting over listening!"
Dominique smirked as Elisi pouted back into her seat. Nothing like a little lecture from the big man to put the gun nut in her place. She turned her attention to the scene at the center of the building. It was going to be another one of those nights.
"Which is why," Abrams was nearing the end of his speech, making that final wrap-up, "I implore you, the citizens of this great State of Amestris, to-"
"THAT'S IT!" One of the officers in the front row drew his sidearm and leapt up to the stage, easily bypassing the surrounding MP's and capturing the Führer in a headlock. "I can't take it anymore!"
The other brass on the front row stood up in horror. Armstrong had somehow managed to put on a face for the occasion, dramatic skill making all the others look like they were having a moment of bad acting. Havoc gritted his teeth at his being powerless. None of his products could bring a man back from the dead.
Only one person in the front row remained undaunted by the scene. Sitting to the right of Lieutenant Führer Havoc, Lieutenant General Nelson Northrop calmly adjusted his circular glasses. As Chief of Intelligence, it paid to keep one's cool. Siphoning information took much patience, and that was exactly what he had. A little surprise like this was nothing. What did this have to do with him keeping calm? The fact was, he seemed to be the only person who remembered that His Excellency wasn't one to so easily to succumb to such a cowardly attack. After all, Christopher Abrams wasn't jokingly referred to as the Killer Flashlight Alchemist for nothing.
Nevertheless, Northrop was not one to deprive S2 of performing their duty. He signaled to Lockheed, who immediately got to work and scrambled for his comm. "Rifles! What're you waiting for? Take the shot!"
"Big Blue, this is Rifle Four-One. I don't have the shot. It's too risky."
"Rifle Four-Two. Angle's too bad from my area."
"Rifle Five-One. Can't take this one..."
The negative reports streamed in all the way to Rifle Seven-Two. All were the same. The angle was too bad, or there was too much of a risk for the bullet to over penetrate and hurt the Führer as well. Any shot that was available, wouldn't be enough to incapacitate the raving captain, thus giving him a chance to kill His Excellency before any other move could be made. Lockheed cursed under his breath. How could something like this have happened? Eight S2 snipers all panned out and sharing 360 degrees of the stage, and yet none of them were capable of taking the shot. It was plainly stupid.
The officer continued to ramble on. "I have to do it! I have to reveal the truth!"
"And what, pray tell, is this truth you speak of, Captain?" It amazed everybody, save perhaps Northrop, that Abrams remained cool despite being in such a snag. Of course, it was probably just for show. He could have been in the early stages of a heart attack. Then again, you could tell from the physical signs that his calm was in fact, genuine.
"Why don't you stop playing dumb and admit it already!? You don't want to save the world from Prometheus' Philosopher Stone Project! You're plotting to destroy Prometheus to complete the Philosopher Stone and use it for your own ends!" The Captain pulled the hammer back. "And I'm going to make sure you don't!"
"That, is the foulest load of BULLSHIT I have ever heard, Captain. Why don't you just Sit. Down. Before things get bloodier than they have to be?"
"Y... you can't fool me, you madman! He told me everything! He knows about all of your conspiracies!"
"He?"
"Yes! The Boss Man! You can't hide the truth from him! He knows everything!" the captain slowly pulled the trigger. "This is it, Abrams. Prepare to see the Gate!"
And that was when he struck. Nobody saw how he did it or when, but he just did. The Führer's movements were too fast for anybody to see him elbow the crazed officer, draw his flashlight, transmute the beam, and get to work. The next sight that registered in anybody's brain was Abrams switching off his torch and returning it to his coat pocket as he stood over several chunks of what used to be a would-be political murderer. He turned to one of the MP's. "Clean up this mess, Lieutenant. I have a speech to conclude."
The MP merely saluted and ordered his men to do just that. The Führer returned to the podium and continued his speech.
"Did you see that mothafu-" a petite hand covered the large man's mouth.
"What did I tell you about swearing in the middle of a recon operation?" An equally-petite voice admonished. "The Boss wants us to watch the event, not blow it to kingdom come!"
"Yeah, but how the fu- eh... heck... can we kill someone with that fu- freakin' high a level of skill!?"
"We don't. That's for the Boss to take care of. Right now, and thank God it's a Friday night, we have to see just who's a threat to the big bang, and who isn't."
"Fine. But once we do, I got dibs on kickin' their... mofo... as- behinds..."
Radios crackled in the darkness. "Scorpion Five, report...what's the status on the target?"
"...false-alarm. We have not moved yet, over..."
"…Roger, Scorpion Five. Continue with the mission. Out..."
A man wearing black camouflage gear switched the link off, and placed his hands back on his silenced rifle. Hidden in the foliage outside of the stadium, just outside the range of the incessant MP patrols, he adjusted his night-vision goggles, ready to start his intended mission.
Inside the amphitheater, particularly, a closed-off section used for storing maintenance tools, a group of men prepared themselves for the trial to come. This group carried an assortment of gear, such as automatic rifles, masks, and what looked like smoke grenades. With the exception of one of them, who wore apparently normal and slightly beat-up civilian clothes, they looked like a bunch of Special Forces operators. Reality is cruel, however. The fact was they were ILF, sworn to persuade the State to restore Ishbal to its proper glory.
The civilian-looking one spoke in a low voice. "The mission is still on. The target has been confronted by a separate man. We go on ahead as planned."
"...what happened to the Target? Anything?" inquired one of his companions. A separate confrontation? Disastrous. Ishballa be with them tonight should things go bad.
"I'm not sure, but he was able to protect himself. The attacker was probably just a soldier gone mad. He had the element of surprise with him as well, but he still failed. The Führer isn't somebody to be so easily killed by a stray bullet." Jurdis adjusted his glasses. He returned the conversation to its original course. "Which is why I assigned you to clear an escape. I handle the target. It is my solemn duty as Ishballa's Prophet. We each have a specific duty to uphold, and we have to depend on each other and Ishballa to do them."
He pulled back his left arm sleeve, revealing a wristwatch, along with what looked like the tip of a large tattoo on his arm. He checked the time.
"We have fifteen minutes. Let us pray." Ishballa would hear them tonight. There was no doubt about that. And he would empower them to prevail in their endeavor.
mvmvmvmvmmvmvmvmvmvm
Fireteam Ditch moved fluidly through the passage. By this time, the Amphitheater had already been cleared out, the speech long finished. The Führer and his convoy had slipped past just like that. It was a minor setback. They'd get him at the reception hall. It just so happened that they ran into a couple of people dressed oddly in black, who were also seemingly in a hurry to get out of the building.
One of them was a large, brawny, man, sporting a Mohawk, black denim vest, and enough gold jewelry to buy a few cars. That, and a look that said he was extremely pissed. The other one was a petite schoolgirl of about sixteen, in what was recognizable as the Central University's uniform. She brandished silky black hair that went down to the small of her back, a well-developed bust for her size, and a pair of rimless glasses that gave off an air of a highly calculating intellect.
The two groups stopped in their tracks, seemingly sizing each other up. Fireteam Ditch raised their rifles to possibly scare these two off. "Out of the way! Now!"
The large Mohawk man, possibly the girl's bodyguard, was the first of the other group to react. "Dayum! That is the FUCKING UGLIEST set of MOTHAFUCKING baklavas ah have EVER FUCKING seen!" These three curse words were enhanced to blasphemous proportions, each one transforming into a sonic boom so powerful that it not only knocked the Ishballans several feet back, it also caused a very evident amount of structural decay. It seemed as though because of this, the entire hallway was just ready to collapse.
The schoolgirl sighed in exasperation and shook her head. "Nice job! Now we're gonna have to kill them and cause yet another uncalled-for mess for the Boss to clean up."
"Well it wasn't mah fault! It was those fat-ass mothafucking baklava bitches!" Two more sonic booms.
"Quit it! We wanna kill them, not topple the whole building!"
"Fine, fine." He cracked his knuckles. Ever since the Boss had assigned the two of them to run around and watch stuff, he hadn't been able to pound anybody. Now was his first chance in weeks. "But ah pity da foo' who hears five of mah outbursts and lives ta hear five more!" With surprising speed, the man rushed into the recovering group and began to beat them senseless.
The girl merely sighed as she drew a handgun. She hated working with this brute. Why did he have to spend so much time performing such inefficient acts of blunt killing anyway? That was, simply put, a waste of her precious time. Four gunshots later, and Fireteam Ditch was off to meet their god. "Play time's over, Blasphemy. Let's go."
"But-"
"No 'buts'. I have enough weekend homework as it is already. Let's GO."
Blasphemy muttered his complaints in a series of non-cusses as the pair slipped away into the night.
Jurdis strolled up to the entrance of the reception hall, hands in his pockets. The timing was perfect, shown quite well when his earpiece came to life.
"...This is Fireteam Pillar, first objective accomplished."
"...Fireteam Cavern, first objective accomplished."
"...Fireteam Boulder, first objective accomplished."
Jurdis noticed a gap in the reports. Fireteam Ditch had yet to report in. He adjusted the frequency and made the call. "Fireteam Ditch, this is Savior. Have you reached you objective? Over." Only static answered his inquiry. Jurdis frowned at this untimely setback. But the target was so close by... he had to take the shot. It was now or never. He realigned the frequency. "All Fireteams, we go on as planned. Over and out."
The Prophet clenched his fist as he put it back into his pocket. He calmly walked into the crowd, towards the Führer's entourage.
The guards noticed him approaching, and stopped him from continuing on said course.
"Stop! This is a restricted area! You must leave immediately!" said one of the guards. The Führer merely glanced behind him to see what was happening. Jurdis looked up at the soldiers and said, "Get out of my way."
Before they knew it, their exploding guts were flinging them back to the edge of the stage, with Jurdis' arms extended, emitting a red, crackling energy. The minute the soldiers hit the floor, smoke grenades scattered around the area, blanketing the area with a grey fog. Immediately, gunshots were being fired everywhere. Fireteams Pillar through Cavern were now rushing along the sides of the hall, engaging all of the guards who tried to fight back, but were too stunned to do so. People were frantically trying to get out of the area, leaving the Führer alone with the large bald man – the Strong Hammer Alchemist. "You were fools if you thought you could escape the wrath of Ishballa," said Jurdis. He pulled back his right sleeve, showing the tattoo on his arm. "This arm will ensure you do not leave here alive."
"See?" Abrams stressed his earlier point, looking at the intruder with only a faint interest. He seemed… bored, despite the situation. "I told you that the ILF would be striking today." He could make out the markings on the young man's arm through the smoke. "And I see that their hypocrisy is ever-present. General, if you please?"
"You brag about your arms and the horrifying secrets that they hold!" Armstrong reached behind him and drew a pair of sledgehammers that appeared to be made of pencil lead, and spun them around like two batons for a few moments in a showboat before bringing the hammerheads together. The resulting transmutation converted the material into a substance that had an almost eerie resemblance to that which once coated the body of the homunculus known as Greed. "Know, however, that even the Philosopher Stone's Array is no match against the techniques that have been passed along the Armstrong line for ge-"
Clearly irritated, the Führer interrupted him yet again. "Oh for Godsakes, Armstrong! GET ON WITH IT!"
"Of course sir!" Right hammer dropped to the floor, causing a shockwave of nasty proportions. Debris flew in many directions, though mostly upwards, as the general began to spin with his weapons outstretched. Soon, the man known as the Strong Hammer Alchemist had transformed into a miniature tornado. Each bit of shattered marble that was struck transformed into a spike or cannonball that was shot in the Ishballan's general direction. Jurdis began to dodge these, slowly advancing through the hailstorm, intending to get that large buffoon out of his way. What he couldn't dodge, he deconstructed with his arm.
Just before he could reach out and grab one of the general's hammers, however, the floor between them surged up into a thick wall that practically split the reception hall into two rooms. Armed men in suits stormed in from that side where the two officers were. The general was bewildered, to say the least, and began to examine the wall, that is until a hand reached up and pulled him away. "I wouldn't get too close to that thing if I were you, sir," the voice was smooth and young, with just a hint of brashness to it.
Armstrong looked down to see a youth in a formal suit and coat, recognizable by his gold-blonde hair that found its way into a ponytail. "Edgar Rockbell! So it was you who set up this temporary barrier!" the general took a moment to examine the alchemically crafted wall. Its structure was not too intricate as to suffer obvious damage from erosion, but not too plain as to appear as a bare slab of a wall. Embossed on this side, and presumably the other, was the RockMail Corporation Logo – an automail fist, the capital letter "R" engraved onto the backhand side.
"It was more of Al, actually, but yeah. We both had a hand in it." Ed thumbed in the Führer's direction, where he was now having a chat with another young man in a suit - Allan Rockbell. "We'd better get moving before Sunglasses over there breaks the wall down." At a snap of his fingers, the dozen or so bodyguards lined up in front of said wall. The other dozen swamped the Führer, general, and the executives as they ran for the car park.
By now, S2 and the regular army had APC's, IFV's, and tanks in the area. Lockheed, Havoc, and Northrop were standing among the 'regulars' that were at the staging point, having been evacuated with the rest of the surviving officers. "It's the Führer!"
Everybody stood to attention. "Gentlemen, we can have the formalities later. What is the status of the reception hall?"
"Security cameras indicate that no civilians or military personnel are left in there... save for the RockMail body-"
"The bodyguards have all been killed, sir!" announced the technician watching the video feed. "The Tangos are now looking for a way out!"
Abrams glanced at the building. With a transmutation as haphazardly put up without any consideration for structural decay whatsoever as that wall, it was bound to collapse any day. "Might as well save the demolition crews the trouble." He turned to Lockheed. "Get me a searchlight." The S2 commander returned a puzzled stare for a moment, until he realized what was going on. "And get everybody to clear the area between us and the reception hall." Both orders were complied with within moments.
The Führer procured a piece of chalk and inscribed a circle onto the back of the large implement. Upon touching it, the beam narrowed into a blade, wide as its source, which practically cut its way over a mile up into the night sky. "Enow, we end this." With help from the burly General Armstrong, he tilted the searchlight down to the west of the building and swung it to the east side for one quick, thorough cut. Its support gone, the reception hall crumbled in a matter of seconds.
It took approximately ten seconds for everybody save Abrams to recover from having their jaws almost drop to the ground. He turned to Havoc. "Tristan, I want this mess cleaned up within the week. You're in charge." The Lieutenant Führer saluted as His Excellency's attention carried over to Lockheed. "And Colonel... I believe that S2's incompetence is to be held responsible for this eh... early demolition." Understanding his situation entirely, Lockheed nodded. Abrams scanned the faces of everybody else who was present. "We shall deal with this fiasco immediately, gentlemen. Right now, I want Intelligence to investigate everything that has gone on here. S2 reports to Central Headquarters at once. All State Alchemists are to report to General Armstrong's office first thing in the morning." He stepped into an IFV. "Let's move out!" After some final preparations following his orders, the armored unit rolled off into the night.
End Prologue
Fizzy's Notes: To all those who took part in the RP, I give you my deepest thanks. We wouldn't have done it without you. To those of you who're just reading this now? Well… don't forget to drop a review!