Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. This particular piece is also very violent and horrific.
Author's Note(s): So that there's no confusion, the FMA 'verse being used here is the first anime and Conquerors of Shamballa.
Song Recommendation(s): "Psychobabble" by Frou Frou
Tagging Information:
Fandom(s): Full Metal Alchemist (Anime)
Relationship(s): Edward Elric & Noah; The Elric Brothers & Noah
Character(s): Noah; Edward Elric
Additional Tag(s): Disturbing Imagery & Thoughts; Nazis; Mentions of Inhumane Acts; Graphic Violence; References to Past Human Experimentation; Implication of Child Molestation
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Extraction
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"But I can…and I will." – Edward Elric, Full Metal Alchemist, Episode 36: Sinner Within
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Noah paced the small room where they were keeping her. The large mirror on the wall across from the door showed exactly how her time here had affected her despite the dimness of the room. The shadows beneath her brown eyes were echoed by the hollows in her cheeks. The shapeless shift they had given her to wear when she had first been brought to this place hung loosely off her now-bony shoulders. Bruises covered what showed of her arms and legs. Most had the form of the hands that held her down whenever they decided that another 'test' was in order.
She paused in the corner farthest from the door, exhausted from her efforts. Something was coming. She could feel it. She could feel the edges of a vision crouching outside her mind. A feeling of coldness was slipping over her. Goosebumps rose half-heartedly, not having any real warming effect, just in habit. The temptation to lie back down almost pushed her to the ground, but that pressing anticipation would not leave her. It set her pacing again like a caged beast. She knew only one thing.
Whatever was coming would leave nothing untouched.
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The guards saw him when he was about twenty feet away from the front gates. He appeared as a young man with long blond hair. The braid of it whipped away from him in the icy wind that raced down the lane. Despite the cold night, the young man wasn't wearing a coat, just a sleeveless tunic-like shirt. The moon had set long ago, but the guards' lantern had made something glint in the darkness. He moved slowly, methodically. Time didn't seem to matter; cold didn't either.
It never occurred to either of the two guards to call out a challenge to the apparition. A real man wouldn't move like this one did. A real man wouldn't be so foolish as to forget his coat on a winter's night in north Germany. The specter approached within five feet of the front gates without being hailed.
He stopped.
This close, they could see that it was indeed a man, if one on the short side. His handsome face was resolved. His gold eyes watched them with a coldness to match the night. Shadows hung about his eyes, baggage from sleepless nights. Yet none of this drew their horrified gaze. The man's right arm was entirely made of metal. A long blade had been attached to the forearm and extended beyond his wrist by at least a foot. Thick scars knotted the flesh of his shoulder, barely visible at the edge of his black tunic.
"Let me pass," the man stated simply. His voice was empty, detached. The older of the two guards laughed, a single bark of mirth. Nervously, the younger one echoed his superior's mirth. The pair crossed the distance between them and the foolish man.
He took out the younger one first. A back handed slap with his right arm caused the entire left side of the boy's face to cave. A thin cry cut through the night. The older guard didn't even have time to do that before the apparition's left hand slipped a dagger into the hollow of his throat.
The man continued without bothering to wipe the blood from either blade.
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Noah gasped as the vision hit her. Almost magnetically, she felt herself pulled away from her physical body before a sudden flood of light filled the tiny room yanking her back from freedom. Her 'doctors' surrounded her. One had out his clipboard and pen, ready to note anything she reported that she saw. The cold was stronger now, making her weak frame shake. As her vision showed another guard falling to Death's slow march outside, she shuddered.
"Tell us, Noah," the lead doctor commanded. When she had first been brought here, she had thought his face was kind. Whenever he touched her, she had glimpses of a little girl playing with a dog. The memory had seemed almost like an echo. But she could see his darkness now, how he would go into the little girl's room at night when his wife was sleeping. The pull became stronger, and she rushed into its arms. It was far better there than here, even as her body flinched from the echoes of death. A rough hand holding her chin halted her slide. Her eyes met his black ones. "Tell us what you see."
"You're dead," she whispered, speaking what she was hearing within the familiar yet alien mind. Tucker sent her crashing to the floor when he pushed away from her with a noise of disapproval. Dr. Marcoh's pen moved faithfully against his paper, dutifully recording her every word. She slipped farther away from her pitiful body. Her tongue flicked over her dry lips, tasting blood that wasn't there. "You took her from me. You made her scream. You deserve to die—"
"We've heard all this before, Dr. Tucker," Archer interrupted. His blue eyes cut over her like knives. She clung to the approaching wave of rage to protect herself from the sadistic lust that burned through his spirit, even now. The images she had received from him had burned into her mind from the first moment he had ever touched her. He would gladly take care of disposing of her when her usefulness to their research had ended. Death, when it finally came, would be a blessing. A bright spot grew within her dark world as she realized that Death was indeed coming, but not for her.
"Actually," Dr. Marcoh countered, looking up from his clipboard. "She's never said it like this before. Previously, it's always been from her own perspective. This time it seems to be from a completely outside perspective. The reference to her screaming is remarkably interesting. In the other recitations, she had mentioned us hurting her, but not her screams. I feel that this would imply that whoever's perspective it is, has no clue to her actual physical condition—"
"There's no basis for that conclusion—"
"Did either of you hear that?"
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Methodically, he made his way through the small camp. Each guard that he encountered was a possible risk of exposure and a danger to his mission. He removed each threat before continuing onward. Every step he took was a step closer to his goal. Every life was nothing but payment for the time they had held her prisoner and the lives he had seen them take with as much regard as he now took theirs.
His march through the building that his observation had shown to be their laboratory went unimpeded. He could almost sense her. Even after so long stymied by the severance from the Gate, her spark was as clearly distinctive to him as any of the circles and ingredients he had ever used. That feeling got stronger the farther he went into the camp. He focused on her, allowing all else to slide through his mind before being discarded.
She was all that mattered.
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"It's not too late," she whispered, only half-present, "Open the door. Let me go."
Silence met her statement. The three doctors listened to the silence that had followed the single gunshot. She knew that they wouldn't hear anymore. The guard who had fired was already fuel for the other side. Distance shortened the lag in the connection binding her with her savior. She slipped just a little farther away from her body, worried in a superficial way about being consumed by him. He had always been intensely powerful. Even before she had touched him the first time, she had seen the ghosts who haunted him. After so long with her doctors and their medicine, everything was simply more. Their connection thrummed in acknowledgment and his words slipped from her mouth.
"Nothing will stand in my way. I'll see this whole place destroyed. You came into our home and you took her. I'll kill every last one of you if I have to, but I will get her back."
Noah pressed herself against the mirrored wall, as much to retreat from the doctors as from the nexus of dark thoughts coming closer with each passing second. It was happening; she could feel it. He was a tempest and she was his Ariel; she was a sailor and he sang to her like a siren. She could no more stop what was coming than she could the moon from pulling the tide or the rain from falling.
Coldness seeped down the connection. Her nipples tightened into little peaks. Archer's eyes fired as he noticed. Dr. Marcoh continued his note-taking with detached interest. He projected nothing. He was a blank page in a sea of stories. It was as comforting as it was unnerving. Her arms wrapped around herself in a futile attempt to protect herself. Tucker stormed back over to her.
"Shut up, gypsy," he commanded as he grabbed her arms. He shook her, making her teeth snap shut a few times. The taste of copper was no longer an echo. "Just shut up!"
"You will die," she replied, brown eyes once again meeting black. Her face hardened with resolve that was not her own. "You will die and I will be glad."
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From around a corner a young man dressed in uniform came. His blue eyes widened as he saw the man coming down the hall. No, not a man—no man would have an arm made of solid metal or extrude an aura of frozen wrath. The guard traced a line of blood drops leading back the way from which the monster had come. More blood fell off the tip of the blade attached to the metal of the demon's arm. The young soldier drew his sidearm.
"Halt! State your—"
The gun went off as the man's arm blade went through the soldier's chest. The bullet made an almost silent squeal as it scraped the metal shoulder. The soldier slid off the sword to fall lifeless to the floor.
Death continued on its way.
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The muted sound of a thud against the metal door seemed loud in the silence. Despite the noise only one of the doctors' eyes was on the door. Archer's and Dr. Marcoh's eyes still observed her, their little bug in a jar. As the sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room, she sighed, almost regretfully. Her regret matched their compassion in its parody.
"It's too late. He's here."
The door swung open, outlining the dark form. Too late, Archer and Dr. Marcoh started to turn to see. The bladed arm slashed. Dr. Marcoh was still facing Noah when his head rolled off his neck, his eyes still rounded in shock. It made a very wet sound as it hit the ground. Archer had barely turned around when the back swing caught him, slicing through his left shoulder and torso as if he was nothing more than softened clay. His dying scream was more of a dying gurgle.
Tucker pulled her in front of himself even as those gold eyes turned to them. From somewhere, he produced a scalpel which he pressed against her neck. Rage flooded her mind. The ever-thinning barrier between them was breaking apart like the ice in the North Sea during summer. Together, they would wreak vengeance and mete out justice. Demon or Fury, it didn't matter for today, they would be as Atropos herself. Cold resolution seeped in to replace the rage.
"You have a choice." The words came from both ends of their mutual self. His voice was as hard as the metal blade on his arm. Hers was a beguiling whisper, promising the full paradox of pleasure and pain. The steady sound of blood dripping off the sword onto the tiled floor punctuated the louder pants Tucker made in his growing panic. "Let her go, and I might let you live, Tucker."
The sound of his name must have shocked him. The doctor tightened his grip on her, making the scalpel nick her neck. Blood welled up from the tiny wound. The single drop left a ruddy trail as it slid down her neck to stain the gray shift she wore. A shudder of disgust racked her thin body as a hardness began to press against her back. The parts of her that were not her flared hot.
"Wrong choice."
He swung his right arm at the same time that she ducked, careful to move away from the small surgical tool. The force of the blow made Tucker's head tumble to the floor. His body slowly slid down the wall behind her. She stood frozen, listening to the swirling thoughts in Ed's mind as he processed the removal of the last threat in the room. As the battle rage faded, she allowed her battered body to seek refuge in the darkness between worlds. He would protect her, as he always did.
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Her bony hands were like claws where they gripped the blanket, holding it tight around her shoulders. In the weak light from the window, she almost seemed like a ghost. The bruises on her face were vivid against the paleness of her skin. Her dark eyes seemed too large above the hollows of her cheeks. As Al watched, she hesitantly raised one hand to the smooth glass of the window. He could only read the fear in her expression because he knew her and Ed so well.
"Al?" Her hoarse whisper cut through him more than Ed's coldness shortly before his disappearance two months ago ever had. It rippled of secrets in a way that it hadn't before her capture. Her eyes drifted to his face before returning to the scene beyond the window. "Al, how long…?"
"Half a year," he whispered in return. His grey eyes darkened with remembered pain as the memory of the day they had returned home to an empty flat rose to the surface of his mind. He saw her flinch as if she was remembering that early autumn day as well. Ed had been so angry to see the apartment's disarray which screamed her resistance to being taken, but that rage had not been focused on the regime then. Al knew that Ed blamed himself for not leaving sooner. For months, Ed had been a ghost in more than one way. Then two months ago, he had left in the middle of the night with only a note with the name of the family whose land they were on currently as a hint that he was even alive.
Al suppressed the thought of what Ed must have done to bring Noah back to them. His imagination was much worse than the reality, he was sure. Ed's silence about it didn't help ease his mind. Nor had the blood that had covered Ed when he had entered the cottage with Noah in his arms, but that could have come from anywhere.
Right?
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"Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made." – Edgar Allen Poe, The Masque of the Red Death