Hello everyone this is Pojo-san! This is what happened to this oneshot which I promised to have out like last month.
-takes in large deep breath, and starts talking a mile a minute-
I wrote this in November, sent it off to be read to see if it was good (and my reader liked it), I then sent it off to my beta reader to get it edited and she said that she would look at and she had it for over a month and when I tried to email her to ask her if she is done with it, she hasn't answered back, and so I've been waiting and waiting for her to at least email me so that I know what is going on but there has been nothing and then I started wondering what was going and I decided that I was going to be patient with her and wait for her to finish editing but I felt horribly to you my lovely readers for make promises that I couldn't keep so I got tired of waiting and decided to post this up now because I really want to get this story off of my chest!
-sharply inhales because she used all of the air in her lungs-
And that is the story. I kept promising and promising that it would be out last month, but that happened. So now on with the info about the story.
Please read the following info below so that you can understand what is going on! I don't want to leave a reader confused and if you complain about not understanding all I'll say is that "You should have read the info part", and it will not be my fault!
This is a oneshot and a songfic. The song that I'm using for this is called "Soldier Side" by System of a Down. It is a beautiful and powerful song. I was listening to this and I started to think about the Ishbal Civil War from FMA, and I thought "Wow this song goes with that really well!". So I wrote it up in one night while listening to the song. Now the events that happen in here are based off of the manga version of the war and not the anime version because the manga dedicated an entire volume (vol. 15) of the series to the war where the anime only did little snip-its and flashes. So it is based off of the manga and not the anime. Also for those who have read it, the events are going to be out of order so that it can work with the song better. Like there was one event that happened toward the end of the war, but I put it in the middle before another event to go with the lyrics.
Two more things before we get to the story. One: This is done to the POV of Roy Mustang when he get enlisted into the war, and it's all about his experience. Number two: The songs lyrics is the dialogue. I didn't not put the lyrics in a block like you normally see in a songfic. The characters are the ones that are saying the lyrics to the song. I will repeat: there are no lyric blocks, (like where there is some text and then the lyrics and then the text again) and the characters are the ones that are saying the lyrics. The reason why is because the story will flow better. Other than the lyrics the characters do not say anything else!
Ok that's done, and now on to the disclaimers and warning!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the story of Fullmetal Alchemist. I also do not own the song "Soldier Side". That belongs to the awesome band System of a Down who also did "Chop Suey" and "BYOB" which are also awesome songs! I chose to use the song title as the story title, and name it after the song because I thought that it was awesome. However, it is pending to change. Into what? I don't know. Will I? Most likely not, but I'm telling you in advance.
Rating: T for teen. I don't think that it needs to be rated M, so I chose T
Warnings: song lyrics, images of war, violence, some blood and gore, possible swearing, and possible typos. (Like I said I was tired of waiting for her to edit it, so I did it myself) You have been warned!
The lyrics to the song are after the story for you to read if you want the whole song put together instead of spread out through the story! Now enjoy the fic!
The Soldier Side
It was a yellow sea of sand. Many of the soldiers called the vast expanse of desert the Seasand because the heat made the dunes and the banks rise and fall like the blue waves of the ocean. The sun baked everything that it cast its light on. Many have complained about the unbearable heat, but there was nothing that could be done about it. They had wondered how the natives could have lived here for generations. Then when night came, they all would huddle together in their tents for warmth. That was just the weather.
The actual fight was something completely different.
The scent of rusted blood and decaying corpses were ever present on both sides of the war. The sand would turn into mud with all of the blood that had been spilled. The sounds of guns and bombs were always in the background like nighttime traffic outside of a home in the city. Soon it became the lullaby of gore that accompanied the soldiers to their sleep in the trenches.
That was what I heard, and they have never been so right. I stepped off of the train and onto the platform with the new five hundred recruits. All were excited to fight in the war, but all were ignorant of the real horrors that the war possessed. Maes Hughes stepped off of the train with me, and threw his arm around my shoulders. My best friend was taller than me, he had pale yellow green eyes that had a pair of square glasses sitting in front of them, black hair, and a hint of stubble on his chin. He looked me in the eyes and made a comment about the weather, saying that it was scorching and that you could cook an egg on the sand. I rolled my eyes at him. He was always cheerful even in the darkest of circumstance, but when the situation calls for it the cheer dies from his face and the knives will come out. He had deadly accuracy with those throwing knives.
I heard the other new recruits around us complaining about the weather and the environment. Hughes reminded me that I needed to find my squad commander, and we went our separate ways. No one could miss the Iron Blood Alchemist. Basque Gran was a man who demanded loyalty and respect from all of those under him. I joined a group of other men who I learned were also state alchemists like me. Zolf Kimblee, Alex Armstrong, Basque Gran himself, a man named Comanche, and others but they did not last long. I, Roy Mustang, joined their ranks of exterminators. Gran gave us a quick overview of what the current situation was, and told us what our role was in the war. We are the reinforcements that the reinforcements call. We are the heavy hitters. We are the cover fire. We are the butchers.
At the end of our very brief orientation, we are given our tent assignments, and sent to the base. I could not sleep the first night. All I heard was shouting, guns, explosions, and screams of mercy and agony. I was sent to the trench next day, and stayed there for the next week. The golden rule that I had learned of trench warfare was to never stand up because the enemy will see you, and you will die.
I remember a comrade of mine saying that we were noting but, "Dead men lying at the bottom of their grave, wondering when savoir comes." The poor man had lived in the trenches ever since the war started. He would flinch at every sound that he heard, and aimed his rifle at whatever made the noise. Sometimes I have caught him talking to himself in a quiet voice with his eyes wide. He was stationed next to small bulge in the trench that had a sign hanging off the wall with the words "Suicide Corner" written on it. He eventually snapped. He started screaming and brandishing his rifle. He had to be pinned down by the other soldiers before he could do harm to himself or to anyone else, and took away his rifle. I could not help but feel pity for him. He had been here for far too long.
"Is he going to be saved?" I wondered out loud to a lieutenant that was standing next to me. He gave me a sad look as he slowly shook his head. The man heard me and turned his wild eyes at me.
He shouted, "Maybe you're a sinner into your alternate life. Maybe you're a joker, maybe you deserve to die." The man then ripped his arms out of the grasp of his captors, jumped out from behind the trench, and ran wildly into no man's land. He then screamed at the top of his lungs that the Ishbalans would never take his life. He pulled out a handgun, put the barrel underneath his chin, and pulled the trigger. His blood made more mud with the sand.
I could not let this go on anymore. I did not want another man killing himself like that ever again while I was there. I had to push the men forward, and force the enemy to retreat. I began to snap at the opposing side. They either burned or fled, I did not know which. All I knew was that my squad gained some ground, and captured another trench.
I was pulled out from that place. Gran and the higher ups heard about what I did, and decided that they needed to put me in a more important position on the field. I was teamed up with Gran and Kimblee. I became part of an assault team that was going to try to take over a road junction. It was important to the Ishbalans because it was where majority of their supplies travelled down. We had several units of infantry with us, but the alchemists were only to be used as a last resort because we were so hard to come by. One of the privates asked me what it was like when I left, how the people reacted to our leaving.
"They were crying when their sons left," I answered, and the private asked for nothing else. When we got there, everything was too quiet and calm. We had sprung their trap. They blocked off all possible routes out, and began shooting at us. They did not have to aim because we all were grouped together. We were cattle in a slaughterhouse. I raised my hand and snapped. Fire erupted in a nearby building where several snipers were hiding in. A strategic vantage point to pick people off in, and a perfect place to help guard the juncture. The building was engulfed in flames. My fingers snapped again. The alchemy sparked again, and I burned down a hastily made fort. There was loud explosion as Kimblee blew up a building, and seizing the opportunity, I cast my flames within the exploding the building. Everyone inside was burned alive.
The battle was over in just a few minutes. Funny…It felt like hours to me. Just attack, defend, attack, and defend. Burn it all to the ground. You must protect your comrades and yourself from getting shot. I could not help but think these thoughts. The fight subsided and we took over the junction. I surveyed the damage. Burnt flesh met everyone's nostrils, and my lips felt sticky with the evaporated fat that was in the air. Black bodies and charred flesh laid everywhere. Some body parts were strewn here and there from Kimblee's bomb alchemy while others were merely shot at by the infantry. Kimblee patted me on the shoulder, and thanked me for my help with the building. He said that we had made a great team. I shrugged off his hand. I went over to one area to examine the damage that I have created when a hand grabbed at my boot. I jumped back with my fingers ready to snap. My blood ran colder than ice through my veins.
It was child…
Just a child…
He could be no older than thirteen, but I could not tell because I burnt off much of his features. He was wheezing for air through burned off lips and grey teeth. His hair was burned off, his skin turned to charcoal, his flesh was bleeding bright red, and a part of his hand was burnt to the bone. He begged and pleaded for me to help him. I recoiled away from the disfigured child. He reached out to me.
A gun went off and the hand fell back to the ground. I whirled around and faced the man who had executed the charred kid. He gave me a blank look.
"God is wearing black." commented the soldier. The man did not look at me as he holstered the gun.
Once the area was secured, I headed back with some riflemen in tow back to the camp. I meet up with Hughes. It felt good to see him again after so long. We made some light jokes back and forth before he told me that my eyes were different. I knew that they have changed. I told him that his had changed as well, and that they were the eyes of a murderer. He let out a dark laugh. I soon found out that he was under the man that was overseeing Gran, so we were technically under the same commander. I was glad that I found Hughes. I was glad that my friend was still alive. We went to a campfire site where I met Riza Hawkeye again. Her eyes were heavy and her face blank. She stood and said that it was nice to see me again. I had not seen her since I was training under her father to learn flame alchemy. We talked and caught up. When Hughes was distracted, Riza waved me over to come closer. She whispered into my ear the words that her father told her when he found out that I wanted to join to military.
"He's gone so far to find no hope he's never coming back." She leaned away from me with a solemn expression. She had bags under her eyes, and her eyes were that of a killer as well. I do not doubt that I looked like that too. She gazed back at the fire. I understood what her father meant by those words. I had told him that I wanted to make the country a better place to live in. My master just gave me a look of contempt, and started to cough up blood. Riza too had asked me of the conditions of my departure to the east.
"They were crying when their sons left." I said to her as I repeated the same words that I had spoke to the private. I then added, "All young men must go." She gave me a haunted expression and asked me why we as soldiers were killing the very people that we were suppose to protect, and why was alchemy being used to kill when it was supposed to benefit the people. She hung her head and asked me how we could have fallen so low. Long after the war I still could not answer her questions.
Weeks had passed since then. Armstrong was starting to break underneath the pressure of war. I heard that he had to create a wall to trap some of the fleeing Ishbalans while the soldiers mowed the down. I could only begin to imagine what it was like for him to stand there and hear the gunshots killing woman and child that were screaming out of fear. The man was not made for this. He was too kind hearted and gentle to be here. Later I saw Doctor Marcoh. He looked like he was there in body and not in mind with a haunted expression on his face. His eyes were that of a murderer too. He wondered aimlessly through the camp and out onto the battle field. Doctor Knox encountered the dazed man. They talked, and Marcoh's face became very grave.
When I confronted Knox and asked what was wrong with Marcoh, Knox gave me a dismal look and said, "He's come so far to find the truth he's never going home." I never saw much of Marcoh or Knox after that.
A new arrival of recruits came a few days later. They were filing into the base looking for their tents with eager expressions on their faces. Poor, misguided souls… I stopped walking and Hughes stopped with me. I was staring at the new soldiers.
"Dead men lying on the top of their own graves," I said in a bleak voice."Wondering when Jesus comes. Are they going to be saved?"
"Cruelty to the winner." said Hughes in a bitter voice as if he was trying to place a curse. I caught one of the new private's voice in middle of his conservation
"Bishop tells the kings his lies." he said. King indeed. That was how Bradley set himself up as and it was even his first name, King Bradley. I have heard of the bishop, but he was actually called High Cleric Logue Lowe. I heard of the story from Hughes. He was on the battlefield when Lowe waved a white flag of surrender, and asked to see Führer at once for negotiations. Hughes took him there with Colonel Gran, and few other footmen. The High Cleric offered his own head to save the lives of his people. Bradley refused and ordered them to be executed. The news spread to Central, and the truth was twisted horribly to where it was the cleric who attacked Bradley and tried to assassinate him. It was disgusting.
Armstrong had to be sent home. After a campaign to take over a sector, Armstrong found a dead child underneath some rumble. He pulled the dead child into his arms, and started to cry while he demanded to know the reason as to why we were fighting a war such as this. He really was too kind hearted to be an executioner like the rest of us. I was there when we was forced onto the train with the rest of the invalids. He tried to fight back so that he can go help the Ishbalans, but someone threatened him with treason. He grew quiet and did not fight back.
"Maybe you're a mourner. Maybe you deserve to die." said a soldier callously about Armstrong. Later that night, I hunted the man down, and severely beaten him half to death. Armstrong was the best man there was. He was a great man, a gentle giant, and deserved to be recognized as such. I threatened the pitiful captain that if he bad mouthed Armstrong ever again, that I would slowly burn him alive and enjoy it.
The war dragged on for months. During that time, a reoccurring thought ran through my head. I was remembering key conversations that I had with different people the whole time that I was here.
"They were crying when their sons left."
"God is wearing black."
"He's gone so far to find no hope he's never coming back."
"They were crying when their sons left. All young men must go."
"He's come so far to find no truth he's never going home."
So many harsh things that cannot help but be true. This was what war was really like. Not the patriotic crap that was on posters back home that showed a bunch of men happy that they are serving their country. No, that was not like that at all. It was a gritty sordid place where death is around every corner. It was kill or be killed. Where you have no choice but to follow orders or be considered a traitor to the country, and killed on sight without a trial. Here you have to become a cold heartless machine, and keep everything inside every time you saw the life fade from the enemies eyes. It was the only way to survive. The majority of the bodies were children. Why were children fighting in this war? Why were they being massacred? Why was this war even being fought? What was the point of it? What was the meaning for killing women and children? I could not stop now…I had to see the war until the brutal end or until I died, whichever came first. Part of me was hoping for the later. During the war, I would rather have died than live with the memories of what I have done. I remember Kimblee telling me that I needed to look death straight in the eye and not look away. He said that I should watch the light die out in each and every eye and to never forget each one because those eyes would remember me forever. That was that first and last time that I ever took Kimblee's advice.
The war was finally over. I could finally go home. Ishbal had fallen under Amestrian rule. Its people were being sent off to holding camps and reservations where they would remain for the rest of their lives. When we heard the news, there was cheering in the base. People were dancing and pulling out bottles of alcohol that they were saving just for this occasion. When I heard the news, all I did was sit on a piece of rubble, and replayed my memories of the war. How far have I come from the first time I set foot on the battle field to now? How much have I changed since then? There is one thing that I know for certain; I now knew what I was truly capable of and how far I would go. I now knew what I would be willing to do without a second thought. I have changed so much since I set foot on the war zone.
Some men approached me then. I did not know who they were, but one of them informed me that they were part of my squad. He said that he did not blame me for not knowing who they were because they were very low on the ladder. They all told me their names. There was Charlie, Fabio, Richard, Alexander, Albert, Roger, and Damiano. I was pathetic for not knowing these men who had helped me throughout the war or even those that have died for me. The man named Alexander spoke up and told me that I never left them behind to save myself, that I would cut a path with my fire so that they would not have to die so pointlessly, and that they were alive now thanks to me. They saluted me and called me a hero.
A hero? No…I was no hero. I was a failure. I had failed. The war destroyed my dreams and ideals. I had promised to protect my country when all I could do is protect just a few men. They were only a small group compared to the many that have died. That was when a new ideal came to my mind. If I could protect those under me then those people would protect those under them and so on. It would be domino effect. I may be naïve but I was determined. I did not want another generation of men and women have to fight a war like the one that I had to endure.
When I returned home, I was greeted as a war hero. I wanted to yell at them that I was not a war hero. I was killer, a murderer. I slaughtered countless men, women, and children. I did not even know the names of the people who supported me through the whole thing, or even of those that I have killed. I was dog of the military that had to carry out its orders. For days after the war I could not sleep. I could still hear the screams, the gunshots, the explosions, the cannon fire, the crying… When I close my eyes I was surrounded by flames and charred corpses. I could feel the heat from the fires on my skin. It will never go away. No matter how much I try to drown it out with alcohol and women, it will never go away. Every time I heard a baby crying my blood would run cold, every snapping twig under foot sounded like a gunshot to me, every fire that I saw brought back the smell of burning children, and right before I go to bed I would hide a gun under my pillow and wear my gloves.
These horrible memories will never go away…
The blood on my hands will never wash away…
A journalist came to me about four months after the civil war. He asked if he could interview me about it. I let him in. Only a few days later he printed the interview in the Central Times. He called me an anonymous interviewee that told him of his experience during the war. He called his article, "Welcome to the Soldier Side". In big bold words he quoted me saying, "There is no one here but me." Those words kept popping up for the next few days as magazines and other newspapers ran the article.
Everywhere I went, I was met with the same words and phrases that they have quoted me on. I even found them in college students' essays. I watched a pair of young girls pass by me. They could have been in their mid-teens. They were smiling and giggling at each other, and talking rapidly about some kind of dance that was coming up at their school. I saw a mother holding a child's hand as they crossed the street. A little girl was riding on her father's shoulders, giggling as she played with her dad's ears. I was then hit by a grim realization.
"People all grow up to die." I whispered to myself, and I dragged my feet back to my apartment. When I got back, it was dark and empty.
"There is no one here but me." I said quietly to myself as I went to my study room where I could try to figure out the compound of one human body.
A few days later a new article written by the same man was printed out that was titled, "People on the soldier side."
Those people do not understand. They do not know what it was like to fight for your life, and to kill thousands of people day after day. They never have to become soulless, cold, heartless killers that would never dare to defy orders. They have never been on the frontlines, killing people left and right like I have. In the beginning of the war the populace were all for the war, and cheered on Bradley and the soldiers that were fighting. Now everyone was saying that it was horrible thing that should have never happened. Sheep. Mindless sheep. They will never understand unless they have been there.
That night I dreamed of fire again. I dreamed of the burning bodies, the guns going off, and the explosions. I was repeatedly snapping my fingers to try to stay alive, and to protect those below me. There were too many of them. I was going to die. I turned around to yell for support, but there was no one there. Everyone was burnt and turned to ash. Everyone was dead, and I was the only one that was left.
"There is no one here but me." I said sadly to myself. The flames roared up, and burned me alive.
My resolve strengthened since then. This country needed a leader who could use words to prevent wars and not guns. This country was one large mess that needed to be cleaned up. My eyes burned with a fiery passion as my ambition solidify and became an impenetrable wall. I will rise up through the ranks. I will become Führer, and recreate this country. No one will stop me, and if anyone gets in my way I will burn them all down to the ground.
I hope y'all have enjoyed my story. Please review it and tell me what you guys think of it! I also apolagize for any and all errors that are in the story. Once I get the edited version back from my friend I'll make the changes and replce this with the newer version. See y'all later!
Now here are the lyrics to the song (I put them as a block):
Dead man lying on the bottom of the grave
Wondering when Savior comes
Is he gonna be saved
Maybe you're a sinner into your alternate life
Maybe you're a joker maybe you deserve to die
They were crying when their sons left
God is wearing black
He's gone so far to find no hope
He's never coming back
They were crying when their sons left
All young men must go
He's come so far to find the truth
He's never going home
Young men standing on the top of their own graves
Wondering when Jesus comes
Are they gonna be saved
Cruelty to the winner, Bishop tells the King his lies
Maybe you're a mourner, maybe you deserve to die
They were crying when their sons left
God is wearing black
He's gone so far to find no hope
He's never coming back
They were crying when their sons left
All young men must go
He's come so far to find no truth
He's never going home
Welcome to the Soldier Side
Where there's no one here but me
People all grow up to die
There is no one here but me
Welcome to the Soldier Side
There is no one here but me
People on the soldier's side
There is no one here but me