Prologue
CENTRAL CITY 1898
CLAK
The sharp sound of heels on pavement echoed against the brick walls of the back alleys in Central City's red light district, bouncing down corner after corner, but meeting no one.
CLAK, CLAK
The light of the afternoon seemed to be enough to keep even the most unsavory men hidden away, but one old man walked briskly to his destination, his traveling cap concealing all but his whimsical mustache. Turning one final corner (although certainly there was a more straight-forward way to have gotten there), the man arrived at an ornate, wooden door, flanked on either side by signs declaring "Drink Specials!" and "Beautiful Ladies!"
Madame Christmas's bar was quite the spot at night, with drunken lechers and rich aristocrats alike drooling over Madame's buxom girls and the blare of trumpets from the live band innervating the mood. This, General Grumman discovered as he heaved open the heavy slab, was not so during the day. The sultry drawl of slow jazz scratched and cracked its way off of the old gramophone in the corner, amplified by the emptiness of the bar. As his aging eyes adjusted to the much dimmer lighting, however, he noticed an odd sight: A young boy sat hunched over an immense volume in a particularly dilapidated section of the bar beneath a grand, winding staircase. His eyes, although covered by his messy, black hair, reflected his deep concentration, brow furrowed, and a slightly discontented expression settled on his face.
The General parked himself a few seats down from the boy and adjusted the tails of his brown traveling coat over the edge of the stool, waiting for the bartender. He studied the stain of the bar top, which had worn off in long streaks from sliding heavy steins across to thirsty patrons. The building was in worse shape than he remembered.
Venturing a glance at his only companion and, frankly, bored from waiting, Grumman announced, "A bit young for a drinking habit, aren't we?"
The boy bolted upright, evidently unaware of the General's presence. His posture loosened upon surveying the older man. He smiled, embarrassed and a bit apologetic, and replied, "Madame lets me stay downstairs during the day when it's not so busy."
Grumman nodded and gestured curiously at the book the boy had been so absorbed in. "What have you got there?"
"I'm studying to become an alchemist!" he declared determinedly.
The General's benign curiosity turned to wariness. "What would you want to do something like that for?"
The young man flinched a bit at the General's tone but countered a little less confidently, "I-it's for the people…. If I were an alchemist, I could do some good. I could help fix up the bar, I could-"
"HA, HA, HA!" Grumman bellowed eccentrically with laughter, impressed by the youth's naivety. He removed his thick, round glasses and rubbed away the small prick of liquid at the corners of his crinkled eyelids with the tips of his gloved fingers. "I see," he said, calming down. "And how is that coming along for you?"
"Not good…" he uttered with a sheepish exhale.
"Roy." A gravelly but still feminine voice came with a hefty woman who entered from behind a deep purple curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the bar. Her lips moved around her long, thin cigarette as she said, "Time to go upstairs now."
The boy did as he was told without another word or goodbye to the General, tucking his heavy text underneath his arm and ascended the creaky staircase.
"Your boy?" asked Grumman as he watched him go.
Madame Christmas focused a bit harder on the glass she was polishing as she explained simply, "My brother and his wife died recently." Not one to linger, she continued quickly, "What'll it be today?"
Grumman was reminded that he in fact came for business. "The usual," he replied, slipping a small piece of paper face down across the bar to her, "but with a small twist."
Christmas scanned the list, interpreting the code that was written there. When she understood, she looked at the General pointedly and said, "Maybe come back in a few days. It'll take some shopping to find ingredients like these." She would have to send out one of her girls.
"Of course," Grumman said, steadying himself on the bar top as he stood to leave. He paused for a moment, though, remembering the dark haired child who, he could see, was still seated on the top step overlooking Roy's aunt and himself, immersed again in his book. "As for your boy…" Grumman rubbed his chin, pondering whether what he was about to do was a wise choice. "I know an alchemist who may be worth writing to."
Christmas smiled at the General's choice of payment. "You'll put in a good word for him?"
"Unfortunately, my word doesn't hold much sway with this man." He dug in his coat pocket, retrieving another slip of paper and a pen, and he began to write. "But he's poor, and I have a hunch that he may be willing to take on a student."
Again, he passed Madame Christmas the slip of paper, which read as follows:
Berthold Hawkeye
611 Lagoon Rd.
East New Optain, Amestris
A/N: So here's the prologue, again. Fortunately, I write much better and quicker than I draw, so the next chapter shouldn't take much longer. Apologies to anyone who was reading the comic on tumblr. I may still illustrate this at some point though.
Also, I encourage reviews of any kind! I love criticism, so don't be afraid to say anything.