Title: Nobody's Messiah
Author: Kodoku no Ookami
Rating: PG-13
Summary: And it'll be the memories of sand and blood that make his life.
Warnings: violence, war.
Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. Never want to, never will. The title doesn't belong to me either.
A.N: Yeah, this was written on accident, like it wasn't supposed to be written. But oh well, enjoy
..Ishbal..
The sun sunk low in the horizon, a desert glow reaching behind sand dunes to touch the twilight.
Roy Mustang sighed, peeling off his gloves that stuck on like a second layer of skin. He ran a hand through the mass of sweat-drenched dust that was supposed to be his hair.
God, the smoke...
It stung. That smell of sand and fresh corpses. It stung his eyes--scarred from the smoke that came from fire, it stung his hands--dried, cracked from lack fo moisture, it stung his wounds--wounds he would've had from a fair fight.
Roy looked down at the golden ring clenched in his fist. The little red gem sparkled in the sunset's fade. Such a tiny thing, beautiful and all too innocent, all too dangerous.
The Fifth Element. The Red Elixir. The Philosopher's Stone--whatever the hell they called it. For in his hand, in that goddamn tiny fragment the glittered with false light, held enough power to stop a seven-year war in one night.
Rocks shuffled from the rubble. A little boy gasped, pulling himself out - tan skin and red eyes in view. Acting on the first thing in mind, he ran, stumbling as he went. A survivor. Not for long.
No order was given. Upon sheer reflex the guns fired and in less than a moment, the boy fell, spawled in sand and blood.
No more, Roy signaled.
The soldiers formed ranks and retreated. Dead bodies laid still, forgotten as a thousand worn combat boots trampled over anything.
Over there used to stand a city.
Not a war, but a massacre.
Roy tossed the ring over his shoulder, hearing it plop gracelessly into the sand. He turned and walked away from the nothing that was left.
---
The volunteer chefs and kitchen aides were shot down a long time ago. An accident, or something.
So each soldier was given their own food to cook (misfortune for those who'd never cook in their life) in a cracked metal pot, using flames that went out at the slightest gust of wind.
Luckily, Roy was the Flame Alchemist. His fires never died.
This day, they were all given a special treat - real meat. Real, raw meat dried for preservation and slightly stale from the long journey from the supply lines. This night, every soldier wold rejoice for anything close to a real meal.
And it really wasn't bad, Roy thought as he dropped his share onto the smoking pot. It began sizzling at once.
It was much better than what they usually recieve - lumps of grey glue that seemed to attract a variety of bugs (oatmeal, Roy presumed after an hour of chewing) and watery coffee that went down like grit.
Facinated, he watched as the dull red of the meat pop and cackle, slowly turning brown. A couple minutes too long in the fire, and the meat would turn black.
Human flesh burned the same way
Roy'd always wondered why people wanted their bodie cremated when they die. Did they not know of the thousands that already writhed in agony in such fires? Was is because they couldn't feel the flames eating away skin and bone? Because the flesh couldn't scream as they were consumed, burned away?(because they're already dead. not everyone can be as lucky)
That night, Roy let the meat turn black.
He wondered then, why the oatmeal that night didn't taste like sand, and tasted more like ashes.
---
"They're two doctors. Mr. and Mrs. Rockbell." Basque Gran paced around the tent. His eyes were forward and his voice devoid of anything but cold.
"What's their crime?" That came out too forced. Roy bit his tongue. He wished he didn't want to strangle that bastard there on the spot.
"Their crime?" Gran laughed, cold and bitter like the glint in his eyes. He pulled out a cigar and placed it between his teeth. "They're treating every injured and wounded they could find--"
"They're doing their job--"
"--and the ones they treated are coming back to murder my men." With a click from the lighter, the cigar was lit. Gran inhaled tobacco, breathing out puffs of smoke. "We've ordered them to stop. They refused."
Roy knew what the command would be, but he asked anyways. "...so what do you want me to do about it."
"I want them stopped, Sergeant. Permenantly."
And the Flame Alchemist could do nothing but salute and say, "Yes sir."
---
He shot them in the morning.
It was too easy. Just one shot BANG two shots BANG and down went two smiling doctors.
Roy stared at them, slumped over each other. They were nothing more than civilian casualties.
The orders didn't make sense. The orders never made sense. Obey and not question, that was the right conduct. But there could've been another way to solve this. Send them away. Force them to leave. Arrest them.
The husband fell first, trying to protect his wife. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The wife screamed, and Roy pulled the trigger once more and she stopped.
She'd reached for a picture frame when Roy shot her. It clatter to the floor, splattered with blood. A little girl, imprisoned in the picture, smiled through the bloodstained glass.
It wasn't over.
Roy turned away from the dead doctors to face the rest of the hospital ward.
Foreigners laid in beds all lined up in a row. They're all tan skinned and red eyed. Some were crying (mostly the children), some were missing limbs, some were moaning in pain, some were sleeping.
They all stared at him. They stared at him with such fear, just as their families and friends had done when he burned down their city.
(there could've been another way to save them. with no violence, no pawns forced to carry out unreasonable orders)
They called out to Ishabala for mercy. They stared again, like he was God deciding (their) fates and there to smite (them) the wicked.
And he was.
Roy snapped his fingers.
---
Transmutation circles adorned the walls - he'd spent precious hours perfecting them, tracing the latin numbers and tracing every line. Papers fell apart in piles. Pens rolled on the floor. It reeked of someone who'd gone too logn without a shower.
If Hughes noticed all that, he didn't say. He only set downt he apple pie he bought and gave a lecture about dabbing in the forbidden, hoping Roy would know better.
The post-war syndromes had been the worst.
"It's over, Roy," said Hughes in that worried tone. "It's all over."
No. It was not over. Roy could not forget the look of horror on an innocent's face before death or the sound of burning flesh. He couldn't forget the long days, weary and jaded. He couldn't forget the little red stones held in his superiors' greedy hands.
He couldn't forget the sand, the blood (so much of it). He couldn't forget the two bodies, one over another in a pool of blood and the little girl that smiled from the picture frame. The screams of the dying going up in flames rang in his memory ever so clearly, and he sees them every time he closed his eyes.
No. It was not over.
"Not until I put it all away," said Roy, ignoring Hughes's questioning gaze. "Everything done for greed and it doesn't make sense - I'm sick of it. I'm sick of taking in a breath when there are countless others who die for nothing. I'm sick it all, this world and the goddamn military."
Silence followed, and Roy was grateful.
"I'm going to become Fuhrer, Maes," he continued. "I'm going to change the way things are." I'm going to change the world.
Hughes smiled, a pure genuine smile. "I know you will."
End.