REVIEW POLICY: ALL reviews are welcome. (Exception: Trollin'. Don' be Trollin') It doesn't matter if you say "Love it, update ASAP" or right a fuckin' novel about it (lengthy reviews are my most favorite) I want to hear your opinion: IF YOU FLAME, I WILL LOVE YOU as weird as that sounds (so long as you ain't trollin' as seen above). Any opinions, thoughts about it, comments on the AN's, Nit-picks, naggings, and generally anything that will say that I have a new message are uber appreciated. IF YOU DO NOT FINISH IT, THEN PLEASE TELL ME.

First off I'd like to say that I love Jason Bourne. Fuck James Bond, Bourne is a total Grade A Badass. Right below Clint Eastwood. Now, secondly I'd like to say that this idea came to me during a Bourne film, which is why I stated the first sentence, and not because I just wanted to express how awesome those movies were, despite it having nothing to do with anything (which is totally something I would do). Now, this is the Pilot (if you will) of a longer multi-chap fic. I'm not abandoning ROSE, for all of you who keep up with it, but this idea would give me no peace, so I had to go with it. If you like it, and you want to see it continued any time soon, Reviews are the way to get that (see: definition of a Pilot).

This will be a Romance/Action/Spy(Bourne tye of Spy) type thing, and of course, will be Royai. Also, this is set in modern day America.

Symphony of Destruction

Checking to make sure that everything was in order, Roy's eyes scanned across the clipboard. The anticipation of the destruction coursed through his veins; this is what he lived for. Actually, that was becoming an increasingly accurate statement: ever since he had been double crossed, he had to abandon any semblance of a normal life. No family, no solid job, no permanent personal relationships. Nothing that could be used against him. No one they could kill.

But he liked this life. He liked his job. In the end, he basically did the same thing, but now the things he blew up didn't have people in them. He no longer had blood on his hands, so he wouldn't complain. It was almost worth what he had to give up. It was almost worth her.

Come on, Roy, you don't need to think about that. Focus on the task at hand.

"So, Edward, Are we ready?" Roy looked at the man in the orange vest and hard hat who was talking to him, and handed back the clipboard.

"Looks alright to me, Jim. When are we detonating?"

"Around six. We still have to get the invites out, and announce it to the press. We're gunna have quite the audience." Roy felt the adrenaline in his body once again. Primitive as it was, nothing excited him like the prospect of 'big boom'.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll all welcome our blast coordinator, Edward Teach," blared Jim's voice over the megaphone, introducing him to his audience.

Roy stepped up to the raised platform, the conductor of his symphony of destruction. The music wouldn't be made up of chord progressions or harmonic scales, but the beauty of its resonance would be evident nonetheless.

He slipped on his ignition gloves, gloves that he claimed were a simple marketing ploy which was halfway accurate, and stood erect on the stand. The cold winter air bid at his open face, and the wind caught his black trench coat, whipping it to the side theatrically.

Suddenly, he lifted his left arm forward and snapped. As his three fingers met and separated, a radio signal was sent to a remote detonator, igniting the desired line of explosives. His left hand was used for low explosives, and everything was placed in order of succession. His first snap caused a wall of flames to appear on either side of the audiences perspective, leading down to the water, and ending in a large explosion of stacked powder kegs.

Pausing for effect, Roy took in the oohs and ahhs of the audience. He raised his left hand once more, igniting another grouping of low explosives, once again receiving a positive response from the audience. As he continued to ignite the barrels of gunpowder, he could almost hear his colleagues roll their eyes. It didn't surprise him; as a professional, these were mere parlor tricks. Useless fireworks to amuse the audience. But Roy was an Artist. This was a buildup, the raising action climbing up to the climactic Grande Finale.

Once more, after seven well-timed snaps, he ceased his actions and waited for the smoke to clear, building up tension and anticipation from the audience.

Lurching forward, Roy thrust raised his left up to the side of his head and clipped his fingers together, before quickly throwing his right arm and snapping his right hand's fingers. On cue with his left hand: flaming rocket flews up on both sides of the bridge, framing it in colorful resilience. On cue with his right: A shimmer of flashes rippled across the large metal structure, each individual packet of SEMTEX exploding in rapid succession of the one previous. The bridge seemed to stand for a prolonged second, waiting to release itself, waiting for Roy's permission, waiting as an orchestra waits on its maestro to release the fermata.

Then, slowly, gracefully, peacefully, catastrophically, the bridge collapsed upon itself, sinking into the depths of the murky abyss.

She surveyed the scene, a predator waiting to ambush its prey. They gave her a name. Edward Teach. Why she was hunting him? That was somehing she couldn't be concerned with. Maybe he was a Chinese Spy. Maybe he had just gotten on somebody's dirt list. It didn't matter, because she wasn't the one killing him. She was simply the gun, and somebody else was pulling the trigger.

He was a nomad, this Teach. Going from city to city sporadically, he would show up for a half a day, and then drop off the grip again, not showing up for another couple of months between presentations. There were no pictures of him, no video feeds. Just articles and the occasional announcement of their implosions.

Finally, however, she had found him. She had been in Virginia drinking coffee when it was announced that they were performing the demolition of a bridge, not six hours later. From where she had been it took four hours to get to New York City, so she grabbed her equipment and made for the McPherson Square Station.

Six hours later, and she was now comfortably nested in a hilltop, out of sight and out of mind. Looking through the scope of her Walther WA2000, she eyed the man who was going up to stand on the high rise platform. If the articles she read in the newspaper were correct, then that was Teach. His back didn't provide enough of a distinguishing photo for her superiors to give a positive match, but orders were orders. She clicked the camera function on her scope and had the picture send to Fort Meade.

As she waited for the go-ahead, she eyed the back of Teaches head. That coal black hair. Dammit, why did it have to look so familiar? It wasn't him, of course. He was dead. It couldn't be him.

Her pocket buzzed, and she took her cellphone out.

1 New Message

She clicked the 'ok' button to read the message. The phone took a second to process the media of the message, and Riza waited with baited breath.

The screen showed a solid block of green. Seems her superiors took the phrase 'green-light' a bit literally this time.

She brought her rifle up to the man's head, and started to gently squeeze the trigger. Her finger didn't seem to be quite willing to follow through with the action, however. That hair. That damn black hair. She would, at least wait to get a look of his face before she would follow through, despite how irrational it was. He was dead. She had seen the car blow up with her own two eyes.

Suddenly the man whipped out his left arm and snapped. Her ears registered explosions and her eyes widened. No. It can't be him. He's dead. She saw his car blow up with her own two eyes. It was only after she repeated that to herself again that she realized her finger had removed itself from the trigger entirely, resting instinctively on the side of the rifle. She willed it back, but it would not move.

The man kept flinging his arms around wildly, skillfully, and every snap, every explosion made her realize more and more what she already knew. Finally, Roy threw- Teach threw his right hand out and the bridge in front of them disintegrated into the water.

That hair. That snap. Those explosions. No. He's dead. It can't. Be. Him.

Slowly the man turned around, turned his face toward her, and her arms automatically pulled the gun up, pulled the gun as war away from him as they could manage. That man. It was him. Roy Mustang was alive.

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Chapter title attributed to MEGADEATH