Disclaimer: Don't own FMA, Arakawa does, blaaahrg
AN: Er…so here's an Archer character study type thing involving Colonel Terminator and people in his life. I don't like him, but I find him really interesting…I find that the most unlikable ones are often the most fun to write, ha. There's not much Archer-related fic out there…XP it's really fun writing when he becomes half-robot and totally loses it. 0.0
"When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won." – Macbeth
"Babd, goddess of war…when a soldier saw Badb washing his weapons in a stream, he knew his death was near." –Goddesses
This battle, the battle that happened in the sprawling days of great Ishbal, was lost. Which was rare for a battle in Ishbal, and rare for a battle Frank Archer was involved in. Frank Archer won battles, but not only that, he commanded them, owned them, practically was them.
Frank Archer was a man of war.
When the battle was lost, it was won by the Ishbalan rebels. Archer, of course, did not like this, but he figured, his younger self figured that it would not matter for much longer. They would not be able to rise up too much or too often. They could win in a battle, but what is one battle in the whole war?
Frank Archer, if nobody else, knew the answer.
Archer's love was war, but his first love had been power. As a young man, just old enough to enter the military, he saw men and some women- later on there were more women- walking with purpose, carried with pride they seemed to think was justified, almost iron serenity. But not peace. Peace was false and not constant, but serenity and war were.
And of course, power. Power wasn't constant for everyone, but Archer figured that if you did the correct things for your situation, looked up for yourself and knew when others would just have to wait out in the cold, it could be. Most people wouldn't realize how. But Frank Archer, as he knew, wasn't most people.
Power is a vague concept. War is not. Power can be held over anything, anyone, used different ways, taken in an instant. Wars can end in decades or in days, but war itself doesn't. War is never-ending, dangerous and beneficial, costly and wonder-working, can turn the tables both ways; can do anything whether or not you let it. War was not power, but more than power. It was glorious.
If Archer could understand that, unlike most people, he thought he get himself a nice spot on top when it came to war itself.
So he enlisted. He had a lot to learn at first, but he didn't let on what he already knew, which was a lot. He knew he was clued into more about the world than the others were.
It was clear as a fresh water stream. He smiled, tight, closed, and satisfied.
"What are you smiling at?"
He didn't reply, just shook his head, still smiling, but wider, with his mouth still closing in secrets.
Frank Archer was partially annoyed and partially amused by Sheska. So much about the world seemed to surprise her. He thought that she would know the world was not at all a surprising place. It was just people, and they did surprising things, but even people were not surprising people themselves.
But he would give her credit for being efficient, a good worker, didn't try too find out too much, didn't tell him lies, and most intriguingly, had a shockingly perfect memory.
It almost made him think that she would make a formidable opponent if given the chance. If she was ever out for revenge, those traits could give it right to her. Almost perfect. The woman would never think of it, and it was ridiculous to be thinking about her and revenge in the first place, but she would be perfect for a war. If she could wage war.
But she wouldn't be, not against him.
The childhood of Frank Archer was ordinary and uneventful. Not boring, he wasn't boring, but it seemed that those around him were in comparison.
He would think of things nobody did. He would hum to himself and think about fate. Fate was a mask covering what nobody cared to explain. Decorated and hollow.
The childhood of Rose Thomas, the Holy Mother of Lior, however, was definitely over, and her veils were like masks draped over her head. During his time in Lior, Archer saw the girl praying. For what he didn't know and had no desire to. If she had to pray for it, if she couldn't get it for herself, then Frank Archer thought there was not a chance that she would get it. She was waiting out in the cold.
Frank Archer was a man of war, and he knew peace was only some hopeful person's wish that would never come true, which was for the better. He knew the world was full of ridiculous people who couldn't make up their mind about what they really wanted for themselves. That was why there was conflict and turmoil. And he couldn't complain- because of that, there was power.
A battle in Lior was won. With Colonel Frank Archer in charge, it could not have gone any other way. Always cool and collected, in charge and take-charge, cunning and clever, ruthless and controlled.
More honor came his way. The others could have been jealous of him, in fact, they probably were. They were vain, petty and foolish.
He smiled, tight and closed. For all anyone knew, the world could be his.
Riza Hawkeye bothered Archer. Too calm than seemed natural. Those eyes of hers seemed to blaze with something decidedly not calm. To add to her strange aura, she was too dependent on what she thought she had to do. Archer knew his duty, but he was at least doing it for himself. To top it all off, she was a bit too quiet. Like there were words in her she was not letting out for a specific, suspicious reason.
He knew they were just fools hoping for ridiculous things that should not have been hoped for her. He knew the answers, and he knew she didn't.
Archer had no need for dreams, he found them meaningless and insignificant and sleep an unnecessary burden.
In Lior he dreams of the city swallowed in a blindingly radiant pink light, and a stream tearing through the ravaged city, winding through and around the battlefield. A woman, dressed in the Holy Mother's clothes, masklike robes, she kneels at its edge, her forearms submerged in still, clear water. She is washing what appears to be a mechanical left arm. He takes one step towards her. She lifts her head. Through the veil spills blonde hair, and golden eyes blazing with something unknown metallically bores through his. The face of Riza Hawkeye does not change as she puts an index finger to her mouth –shh- then back to the mechanical arm, which appears to have some sort of small cannon on it. Only then does her grave face change, a corner of her mouth raises, then nothing else.
Many battles in many wars.
In the room, Frank Archer obviously felt pain. But more than that anger. He was not reckless or stupid, followed orders, did what needed to be done to get higher up, did what needed to be done for him. Yet that had happened. Was he the only one left? The other soldiers were probably gone as his left eye. Probably even that punk kid who thought he was a real hotshot because he got in the system. And what was to be done about Archer? He hadn't gotten himself killed or imprisoned. Far from it.
He was not covered, no, and he never would be.
He would be ready soon enough.
Edward Elric. Where to begin on him, Archer honestly didn't know. Children were such nuisances. Rebellions that could easily be crushed, but shouldn't have been started in the first place.
Dealing with him was a waste of Frank Archer's time. Time wasn't something he had a lot of. But with little time, he had gained a lot of patience.
He could enjoy a good problem that he was more than capable of solving.
Frank Archer knew he would have to put up with annoyances with his position. So he wasn't exactly surprised when he found himself stuck with Zolf Kimbley.
"…You want me to put this mask on?" He asked, untrusting and loudly. This one, Archer thought, had been away for a while. Prison, the idiot, and then some party house with chimeras. A lot to relearn, and a lot he had never bothered to learn in the first place.
The mask would hide him from those who would recognize him, hide him in case he did something careless, because he wasn't quite ready to go back, and he was careless. It almost amused Archer. He needed to get this one into form, make him see the light as much as possible. He could be useful, but first controlled.
Archer stared down at Kimbley with contempt. "Just do it." Kimbley raised an eyebrow and put it on. A lot to teach.
Archer would have fun making Kimbley work for him.
Roy Mustang bothered Archer. Mustang was a bit too self-righteous and fun loving, a combination that did nothing for him. He was too concerned with the past, Ishbal. That was a dead word, but a great war. But still alive for Mustang. Archer thought if Mustang didn't like what he did, then he was weak.
He wasn't weak for doing it.
He was weak for going to a position where he knew he'd have to do something like that, and doing it, and then having the audacity to repent.
He was a problem that could very well be solved.
This battle, he knows, will be won. He has everything he had before, what he has now, and what he knows he can have soon. If he keeps going, he truly will be on top. –Silly me. Just a few days ago, I was thinking about dying. But not really.-
Frank Archer is Frank Archer with more Frank Archer than there ever was before. Old, new, and what would be soon, and when they came together…when they came together, glory. Life is glorious.
Life is glory.
His arm, which has a small cannon in its automail enclosure flings forward. He is winning, of course. He can feel where his skin meets metal.
Frank Archer's new eye twists and his old one opens wide. He is power, he knows it.
No! He is more than power. More than glory. He tilts his head back, ignoring yells of soldiers and their useless clamoring. It is not-so-suddenly clear to him, clear as a stream of pink light, clear as if he has just realized he knew it all along. Frank Archer was more than power and glory and Frank Archer. He is a few things and a lot of things, but he smiles, and he knows, after this battle, after every battle, after any battle, all along what has been true. He does not need to enclose this, but he smiles tight and closed anyway.
Frank Archer is war.