"There is something transformative to be said of conflict. One must be careful in fighting monsters lest one becomes one in consequence."
-Sergeant Major (ret.) Kim Wainwright, Amestris State Military, "Lights in the Night Sky: A Memoir of the Ishvalan Campaign"
Filled with a fine choking dust and the scents of roasting meat and spices, the marketplace was as busy as ever. At least it was to the untrained observer. It had been a week since the shooting of the Ishvalan child. Nobody could name the child, the speechmakers of Central City as well as the provocateurs for Ishval independence had made sure of that. The Amestrian press white-washed the incident as something routine during the policing of the barbaric southern districts. On the other hand, the locals had turned the child into a rallying cry by turning the child into a cipher, stripping away name, age, and even gender much like the Amestrian press. In the end, both had created a non-person for completely opposite reasons.
But the Amestrian government wasn't staffed completely by buffoons despite what the smaller independent newspapers might have declared. The long-running unease between Amestris proper and the relatively recently adopted Ishvalan territories were reaching a flashpoint. The shooting had been just the latest of incidents, and the situation needed to be deescalated before things got out of hand. The local troops had been reliable thus far in maintaining the uneasy peace, the fact that a number of them were half-blooded Ishval certainly helped. However, Central Command had determined that a firmer more politically correct force was needed to reverse the impetus for war.
Which was why Western troops were being stationed in the market. They had been deployed from their usual posts along Cretan border to serve as reinforcements for the Southern troops. Neither district's troops needed to be told the real reason why. Southern troops were practically all half-Ishval. There was no trusting them in such a volatile situation.
There were no words exchanged between the men of the 103rd Light Infantry Battalion F Company's First Platoon as they climbed out of the beds of their trucks. Their entry hadn't gone unnoticed, a hush descending upon the crowd. Unlike the Southern troops' familiar shortened uniforms and scarves, these Western men wore wider bleached overcoats that shielded them from the sun, heat, and the dust. Intended to provide a measure of camouflage in the Western Reaches, they also served to make them that much more intimidating. Each and every one of them carried a bolt-action rifle and looked more than able to use them proficiently.
They had to do this formally. No mistakes or things were liable to pear-shaped. The men formed ranks and marched forward, the crowds of white-haired Ishvalans making way for them. Each of the soldiers could feel the cold red eyes boring into them. To the locals, they were a foreign presence. Unwanted. Unneeded. But they had a duty to fulfill.
For the moment there was no sound other than their boots hitting the dusty ground and the swish of their rifles against their coats, all in unison. Even the pack animals seemed to understand what was going on. The platoon marched toward the center of the market, their lieutenant to their right. Waiting for them was their Southern counterparts. The Southern troops' uniforms were well-worn but still neatly pressed for this. Lined up, they watched stone faced as the Eastern soldiers marched up, a synchronized cadence of steel-lined boots on the hard-packed ground.
Coming to a stop in front of them, the Western lieutenant snapped to rigid attention with a salute.
"103rd Light Infantry here to relieve the 244th Infantry," he said, his voice carrying clear and sharp in the silence.
The Southern lieutenant stepped forward, his distinctly Ishval eyes reddened further by the fine grit that permeated the region. Ramrod-straight, he snapped a crisp salute. "The 224th Infantry stands relieved by the 103rd Light Infantry."
The Western lieutenant returned the salute, his glasses flashing for a moment in the sunlight. They stood there in silence before the Southern lieutenant reluctantly lowered his arm. His men hadn't been too keen on being relieved of their duties, but orders were orders. Amestris needed level heads to provide for-
It came without warning. The two platoons' men had barely a second to register the blurring shape. And by then it was far too late.
Corporal Norman Fleiss wasn't an extraordinary soldier. He, like the rest of First Platoon had fought in the latest dispute with the nation of Creta. He had fought and bled alongside his brothers. But to see him on the street, one could not imagine him to be a veteran of any conflict. He was kind and fairly idealistic, always in good humor, his brown eyes crinkled with premature crow's feet. The news of their redeployment had been met by him with jokes and support for his squad.
He felt the glass jar shatter against his overcoat's arm as he reflexively tried to block the jar. Unleashed, the naphtha splashed to soak into the pale cotton as well as his face and hands where he had tried to ward off the container. However, that was not all that the jar had held in check. It was a fire bottle, a minimalistic and yet elegant incendiary. With the shattering of the jar, the spring within the bottle was released. The storm matches attached to the spring were then dragged against scraps of metal.
Fleiss had scant seconds to understand he had been splashed with naphtha before the strong-smelling tarry fuel was ignited by the matches of the fire bottle. What had been a vague burning sensation on his hands and face became very real very quickly. The bleached cotton of his overcoat became a torch with the help of the naphtha, turning into a roiling mass of flame even as he began screaming. When the fuel on his face and hands ignited, he truly screamed.
F Company First Platoon and D Company Fourth Platoon could only look on in shock as their brother in arms collapsed into a thrashing heap. This was why the Amestrian State Military had banned the use of incendiaries. There was nothing they could do. The naphtha burned too hot and fast to extinguish through normal means, eating away at his flesh.
They could hear his skin bubbling, his shrieks growing ragged as the soft tissues of his throat and lungs were seared. His flesh bubbled in the heat as if a crazed alchemist was trying to reshape his appearance. His face blistered and charred, turning puffy with little else sitting between his skin and the skull that it was stretched over. He had long since gone blind, the flames destroying his retinas. His face quickly sloughed away like much of his uniform as he slowly stopped thrashing and began to shiver and writhe. The flames had long-since seared away his nerve endings, burning out his pain receptors. All he could feel now was an aching icy coldness as his organs were being slowly cooked.
Only after Fleiss stopped moving did the two lieutenants think to act.
"Secure the exits!" the Southern lieutenant shouted to his men. He might catch hell about it later, but the important thing right then and there was finding whoever it was that had thrown the fire bottle.
"Check everyone!" the Western lieutenant barked to his own men. "Find that murderer!"
As the soldiers fanned out into the similarly-startled crowds to carry out their orders a figure cloaked in the vestments of a monk of Ishvala smiled as he walked away. This was far too easy. Even as he stepped out of sight behind a stall, he changed.
The search would not find the killer of Corporal Norman Fleiss. Fleiss himself became relegated to relative anonymity as one of the first names listed in Major General John Fairchild's book "Blood and Smoke," a text studying the beginnings of the Ishval Conflict.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Sergeant Heymans Breda looked up at the flies circling the lone light fixture in the ceiling while listening to the ticking clock just outside. The raw-hewn stone wall was still cold against his back. He'd misplaced his jacket somewhere last night. Probably somewhere between his third and fourth watering hole. Definitely not doing that again. It smelled like it was going to start raining shortly. He couldn't tell personally, though. Maybe it wasn't his place to compliment the builders of the fine drunk tank he was sitting in now, but the drainage despite being two floors underground, was excellent.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
He'd gone out with the other sergeants of Jig Company last night to celebrate Sergeant Major Caine's new baby boy when they'd bumped into some Westers on leave. Words were exchanged. Then blows. And then things got a little fuzzy. He recalled the MPs getting involved, but not much else.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Going career as an NCO might not have been the smartest of ideas he'd had, but Breda knew which way the wind was blowing. King Bradley had assumed the title of Führer nearly seven years ago now. A hero of the last Cretan Campaign, he'd been quite popular. And his bolstering of the military made being a soldier of Amestris the equivalent of a free lunch. The draft had become unnecessary with the recruitment quotas being met quickly within the first month of each year. If you wanted a stable job, and all of your needs provided for in exchange for four years of service to the State, boy did the recruiters have a deal for you.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
With a double degree in business management and philosophy under his belt, Breda had been a shoo-in for a non-commissioned officer position when he'd enlisted. He had been assigned to the 271th Dragoons as part of their field intelligence unit. Thus far it had meant cozy quarters on-base and good food. But he knew things could reverse quickly. Especially in a nation like Amestris. The previous conflict with Creta had proven as much.
A new sound entered his consciousness. Boots. New ones too, if the sounds of the sharp scratching sound of them against the stone floor were anything to go by. Leaning forward, he stood up to face the cell door.
"Sergeant Breda," a high-pitched voice asked. Definitely male, but it was definitely way too young.
"Yeah?" Breda asked, turning to see the speaker.
Second Class Private Dennis "Denny" Brosh could hardly be a day over sixteen, the newly-lowered age of enlistment without parental permission. He had worn his overcoat as well, the still-white garment draped on him like an ill-fitting sack. The kid had spirit though.
"Lieutenant Tunnan sent me to get you, Sergeant," Brosh said with his nose wrinkled, trying to ignore the scent of vomit from one of the other occupants of the drunk tank. "We're being deployed."
Walking heavily over to the cell door, Breda leaned against it with his meaty forearms. "Got the key, kid?" he asked, glancing over at the MP hovering close by. "Hey, Corporal, can you unlock the door for me? My Louie wants me to be deployed," he called lazily.
"Hope we don't see you here again, Heymans," Corporal Yves Stahler said, walking over and unlocking the cell. "You remember to pick up everything?"
"I've got nothing," Breda said as he stepped out. "Now come on, Brosh, we've got appointments to keep."
Getting shuffled up and out of the brig, Breda stepped out into the dim dawn light. The natural light made him wince for a moment, grimacing as he squinted to make out the sights. East City was practically deserted this early in the morning. It would be getting quite warm soon, but there was still a nighttime chill that hung in the air. Looking up and down the street, Breda rubbed his hands together. The car was waiting. An old beat-up jalopy that the company's support unit had fixed up after probably stealing from a local dump, it served as impromptu transport for the field-intel platoon. The blue paint slathered on it was repurposed house paint, but it certainly had a charm to it. Corporal Isaac Wellesley sat behind the wheel, drumming a tattoo on the worn leather of the wheel itself.
"Morning, Breda," Wellesley said, leaning to the side to look up at him. "Awake now, Sarge?"
"Now that I know you're driving? Sure," Breda said as he slid into the backseat. "What's the news? Deployment?"
"Yeah," Wellesley grunted. "The whole regiment's being mobilized to head out toward Ishval. 'Peacekeeping' operations. Yeah, including us."
"It's finally starting, huh?" Breda asked rhetorically.
The field-intelligence unit had been something of a booby prize. It certainly looked good on paper, but it was just another desk billet, which meant more paperwork. And they still needed to "maintain combat readiness levels" while working through whatever their commanders wanted analyzed. Which meant that on top of the seventy hours of desk work every week, they needed to spend another ten on the range to keep their skills sharp in case the Cretans or anyone else come knocking for a rematch. At least now it looked like they had something to use their skills for.
Driving through most of East City, Breda marveled at how deserted the city was. With the sun just beginning to come up over the horizon, the city would have normally been waking up already. He filed the detail away before pondering what their new assignment held in store for them.
Ishval…
"Strategically, sir, the Ishval region has always been a liability to us," Major Kurt Schwenke said, occasionally looking down at his notes. "Aerugo has always been looking for ways to use the Ishvalan people as a way of weakening our power over the region. I have examined the captured Ishvalans myself, and my findings are in the reports as well."
Even for a Central Command staff officer like himself, Schwenke was not used to giving briefings to the Generals' Council. Particularly not with King Bradley himself in the room. The man was like a statue, just sitting there with only his hand occasionally moving to write something down on the papers in front of him.
"Major Schwenke," General Hollington said in the momentary silence. "Has your office determined what sectors of Ishval would be best to start on first in the pacification process?"
"Yes sir," Schwenke said, straightening. His immaculately starched uniform was getting more and more stifling with each passing minute, previously unnoticeable creases now digging into his skin like blades. "Four days ago in the south, a routine changing of the guard resulted in one of the soldiers being burned to death by means of an improvised incendiary. That area is known to house a number of Ishval clans. These clans have been particularly outspoken as of late. It is our recommendation that the pacification campaign begin in," he paused to check the name. "The Belea region."
"Thank you, Major," a voice said. It took him a moment to figure out who it was that had spoken, but when he did, it was as if his heart had suddenly decided to try escaping his chest. It was the Fuhrer himself! Bradley had leaned forward slightly as he spoke, his one good eye narrowing slightly in what might have been amusement. "Your report has been highly informative, and I would like to thank you for your time…"
He was dismissed shortly, much to his relief. And his reports would be quietly filed away, only his idea remaining.
Author's Notes: Well, another story started. As a word of warning, this story is likely not going to end well for anyone. On the brighter side, expect an explanation for why Breda really doesn't like dogs in the series. This will be of course following the manga setting.