Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.


CHAPTER ONE—Don't Shoot the Messenger…

(…you might need him later.)


While the abilities of chimaeras vary greatly in accordance with the animal they are fused with, the ordinary body of the chimaera is proven to "have a direct relation to the percentage of the sizes of the two original creatures which had birthed one" [Borch, De ortu et progressu Chemiae, 1668]. As a result, large and small animals fused together always exhibit more characteristics of the larger specimen. This is not a determined fact, for there have been few exceptions to this, most apparently when one specimen is of much higher intelligence than the other…

—Excerpt from "Chapter Two: General Anatomy" from the tome "A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof," by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.

...Though never attempted for ethical reasons, the concept of human animal chimaeras has been a source of much speculation for many decades. Though a delicate and perilous transmutation even in theory, any animal fused with a human being would, by necessity, be one of remarkably low reasoning and cognitive skill; this is the only guaranteed method for the human involved to retain their own mental processes.

However, according to the writings of Guiseppe Balsamo, "one may remain in control of their emotions and desires no matter how great the sway of another mind may be, if their own determination and will is great enough." Alissandro Cagliostro, an alchemist and physicist of the last century, wrote in his notes that he could find no evidence to refute these findings, and furthered them with his own research. His conclusion: "The human mind is an ill understood tool far greater than any human of this age can conceive. It is highly possible that a person of a strong enough will would, hypothetically speaking, be able to assert dominance over any beasts he has fused with, for only man understands the true mannerisms of society."

—Excerpt from "Chapter Thirteen: Hypotheses of Human Chimaeras" from the tome "A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof," by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.

While the notion of human chimaeras is a theoretical one, several sources agree that… there is no reason why a human chimaera would not have the ability to use alchemy, given that the transmutation that caused them to become a chimaera was a proper success. Because the ability comes from the brain's own perceptive abilities, any human chimaera with the same cognitive skills as a proper human being should, theoretically, be able to perform the art.

—Excerpt from "Chapter Fourteen: Human Chimaeras and Alchemy" from the tome "A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof," by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.


The early spring air was crisp, and the winds ruffled at Master Sergeant Kain Fuery's dark hair as he stepped out of a black, military-issued vehicle and tromped up the stairs of one of Central's Second National Library. As a communications officer, he had always expected to spend much of his career relaying messages and reports between soldiers and between commands. He had also expected for those messages to be relayed over one of the many electronic means—telephone, telegraph, radio, or something yet to be invented.

Well, the military was nothing if not full of the unexpected, he thought as he wrapped gloved fingers around a wrought iron handle decorating the library's main door. At least he could be sure that his work would never get boring.

A librarian glanced up from her desk as the main doors clicked shut behind him. She offered a smile of welcome, but her eyes were already scanning him, sliding past his proudly-pressed blue uniform and over the gold cord that identified him as an officer. "If you're not a State Alchemist," she said after a moment, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. I'm sure you know that this library is only accessible by alchemists who've passed the qualification exams."

"I know," Fuery assured her quickly, already reaching into a pocket of his royal blue trousers. He pulled out a folded sheet, stamped with the military's letterhead, and presented it to the woman. "I'm here under Colo—General Mustang's orders. He wants me to get the Fullmetal Alchemist."

The librarian laughed as she reviewed the letter. "Good luck in getting him to leave. Whatever he and his brother are working on must be important. I think they've been here more than I have this past week."

She excused herself, explaining that she had to call Mustang's office to confirm the orders and leaving the bespeckled man to hope that he wouldn't be the target of the famous Elric temper. Why couldn't have his commanding officer sent someone—anyone—else?

The phone call took only a moment, and then Fuery was making his way up plush carpeted stairs to the library's second floor. The fourth door on the left of the wood paneled hallway was made of rosewood, and it stung his knuckles when he knocked.

"Ed? Al?" He called for good measure. Mustang wouldn't want to be left waiting for any longer than needed, he was sure; it was one reason why a simple phone call to the library hadn't been an option.

Some movement came from inside, and the familiar clanking of armour reached his ears before the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Alphonse peered down at him for just a moment then stepped back, waving a glove-hand in admittance. "Master Sergeant Fuery!" He exclaimed, metallic voice revealing the surprise that his helmet couldn't. "We weren't expecting anyone to come by. Is there anything we can help you with?"

Though he included his elder brother in the offer, Edward himself seemed completely oblivious to the company. A cracked old tome—something about chimaeras, if the title was anything to go by—nearly shielded his whole head from Fuery's view, with only that ridiculous cowlick poking up from between the pages, and a left hand scribbled furiously across a nearby notebook. A faint mutter, sounding suspiciously like "useless fucking rodents," met the master sergeant's ears before a few lines were crossed out.

"Well," he began, turning back to the younger Elric. "The, uh Gen—Colo… Mustang needs to talk to Ed. It's urgent."

"Urgent?" Al repeated, staring at the short master sergeant for just a moment. "But he didn't ruin anything on the last assignment. What's so important that he needs to see Brother right now?"

"Uh…" Fuery tried not to squirm under Alphonse's pale gaze. It really wasn't up to him to tell the boy about the latest sets of orders flying about Central HQ. "I—just… My orders are just to get Ed and bring him back to HQ, Al."

"Oh, of course. I'm sure we'll find out soon enough." Alphonse must have interpreted his discomfort as regret for not knowing the reason behind Mustang's sudden need to talk to his underling, Fuery realized.

His stomach curdled. "Y-yeah. I'm sure you will, too."

But Alphonse didn't even seem to hear him. The younger Elric was already turning to his brother. Heavy leather hands reached forward, snagging the heavy tome and quickly jerking it out of Edward's grip, revealing the subject of Fuery's search. Two golden eyes watched the book for a moment, peering up from between a veil of thick blond bangs as though Edward couldn't quite figure out how it had somehow managed to levitate so far beyond his reach.

Then the gaze narrowed and the eyes travelled along an arm of dull steel.

"What the hell, Al!" Edward snapped finally. He jumped out of his seat and mismatched hands balled into fists. He was, Fuery could tell, seriously considering leaping onto the table to retrieve his prize. "I was using that! Give it back—"

"Master Sergeant Fuery is here, brother," Alphonse began, voice filled with an amount of patience that could only be harnessed from years of managing ill-tempered brothers. "He says that—"

But Edward had already turned to face the bespeckled man. "We're busy. Go away."

"I wish I could, Ed," he replied quite honestly. "But Mustang needs to see you—"

"And he knows how busy we are, dammit! I already told him about the lead we're following so that he wouldn't try to do something like this—"

"Then maybe there's actually an important reason why he needs to talk to you," Alphonse interjected. He placed a heavy hand on Edward's left shoulder as though trying to physically restrain his older brother's temper.

The brothers met each other's eyes squarely, and Fuery watched as the two engaged in a silent conversation of pointed looks and the occasional sneer. Then, with a defeated sigh, Edward dropped his glare onto the hastily scribbled notes still on the table and balled a hand into a fist. "Fine," he muttered, "I'll go, but the Mustang'd better be quick about what he wants. He knows we're busy. You stay here, Al, and keep working, okay?"

Fuery said nothing as the Fullmetal Alchemist gathered his telltale red jacket, threw it over his shoulders, and strode out of the room with his thick blond braid swinging behind him.


Edward stared at the road at it glided past, gazed at the people hurrying by with gifts and bags clutched in their hands, and glared at the plain brick buildings and colourful awnings that bugled the names of cafes and stores in bold blocks letters. Out of all the people in Central—hell, out of all the people in Amestris—why did Mustang have to send for him? The smug bastard had plenty of alchemists under his thumb, and he knew that the brothers were following the strongest lead they'd had in a while, so why did he have to get in the way now?

Beside him, Fuery fidgeted, wiping his glasses on a sleeve before drumming his fingers on the car's armrest, on his knee… really, anything he could think to drum them against. Edward tried to remember the last time he saw the dark-haired Sergeant Master this nervous. He couldn't.

"What's the deal, anyway?" He asked suddenly, voice cutting above the faint noises of road and engine. "Why does the bastard Colonel need to talk to me so badly that he's got you playing messenger?"

The fingers paused in their drumming, and he watched Fuery's Adam's apple bob. "I, uh… I don't know exactly what they are, but there are orders coming out for a bunch of the State Alchemists. I guess that he needs to talk to you about that."

"What? And he couldn't just wait for me to report in on Monday like he told me to?" There was more to it than what Fuery was saying, and he sure as hell wasn't going to walk into a meeting with Mustang without knowing as much as he could.

"This is just how the military works sometimes."

"So you're not going to tell me anything, then," he snapped out, turning in his seat to fix his glare on the man.

The master sergeant squirmed in his seat, but then shrugged a shoulder.

The silence grated at Edward's nerves. "C'mon, Fuery, you've got to know something. Tell me already."

Their eyes met, and Edward felt his jaw muscles tightened. He'd get Fuery to say something even if he had to beat it out of him… Then Fuery sighed and dropped his gaze. He pulled his glasses from his face, hands quick and fingers jerky as he wiped them again. "Look, Ed," he said finally. "I just think that you should hear about everything from Mustang is all. He knows more than I do about it, anyway."

He returned his glasses to his face and looked away, bringing his gaze out of the car's window.

Edward, meanwhile, stared at the back of Fuery's head. When had the master sergeant—still young enough to show up to work with pimples decorating his face on occasion—become so old?

The vehicle squeaked to a halt before Central HQ's heavy fences and broad white walls and, faintly, he heard their driver exchange a few words with the guards. It was only a matter of moments until they stopped a second time before the main building, a monstrosity of seven storeys and white stone that Edward decided he was far too used to seeing.

Without a word, he threw open the car door and pulled himself from the vehicle. His feet tapped an uneven tempo against the well-worn steps and he waved aside a salute from another squad of guards as the main door was opened for him. Since when was the place under such tight security?

He flashed his silver pocket watch to the guard in the grand atrium, more for show than anything, and began to climb the main staircase that would lead him to Mustang's office. Behind him, Fuery's feet pounded against the tile floors as he hurried to keep up.

The main office that held the desks and documents used by Mustang's officers was… cold, Edward realized upon stepping into the room. Not in temperature, since Breda's uniform jacket was unclasped and Havoc's was draped across the back of his chair. But the thick, heavy air—almost tangible in the way that it weighed down on his shoulders—brought a chill to the fingers of his left hand. Havoc wasn't smoking, Breda wasn't bantering with Falman, and Hawkeye wasn't glaring at the lot of them. Instead, they worked efficiently and silently, barely even glancing up as he walked past and unceremoniously threw open the doors to Mustang's personal office.

Mustang himself was hunched over his oversized desk, studying a document with more focus than Edward had ever seen from the man. He shifted slightly, and the stars and stripes adorning his shoulders caught the early spring light that filtered in from a nearby window. General's stripes. What the hell?

"Who the hell thought it'd be a good idea to make you a general?" He growled as he strode toward the man's desk. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. Everything was wrong. Just what was happening?

A sigh brushed over Mustang's lips as he dropped the sheaf of papers onto his desk. His dark eyes scrutinized the young man before him before a cocky smirk fixed itself onto his face. "Someone who's finally recognized my talent and my value to the Amestrian military, Fullmetal," he replied, then brought his eyes somewhere over the blond's right shoulder. "Good job in collecting him, Fuery. Get the others, please."

"Of course, sir."

Edward turned in time to see the heavy oak doors click shut. He rounded on Mustang again. "What's so important that you need to drag me away from the library like that?"

"This." The newly-minted General pulled an envelope from beneath a paperweight and offered it to him.

Wordlessly, he accepted it. Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist (Battle Grade) was stamped across the front. The Fuhrer's personal seal decorated the back. A questioning noise bubbled up from his throat, unbidden, and he broke the wax seal and read the letter within.

His eyes widened as he scanned the words once, then twice. This was a joke, right? The Fuhrer was, after all, known for his sense of humour.

"What the…?" He looked up to Mustang for confirmation. The smirk still plastered across the man's face looked more like a grimace now. No joke, then.

The man's noise was a cool as ever. "Congratulations, Fullmetal. The Fuhrer's decided that you're no longer 'equivalent' to a major anymore. You are one."

"But why would he—?" The fingers in his left hand went numb. He gripped the letter with his automail hand instead.

The door opened behind him. Footfalls echoed off the office's whitewashed walls, effectively cutting him off, as Mustang's officers presented themselves. Five pairs of heavy military boots fell into line before their commanding officer, sandwiching the young alchemist between two sets of blue-clad shoulders.

"You asked for us, sir?" It was Hawkeye who spoke up. Her hand touched her forehead in a crisp salute. The rest of the team quickly followed suit, though Edward just frowned and tightened his grip on the letter.

Mustang nodded. "It's official," he told them. "Intelligence has confirmed that Aerugonian troops have been gathering near our borders, and they won't withdraw. The Fuhrer's ordered our own soldiers to mobilize."

Standing beside Havoc, Edward couldn't help but notice the taller blond bite down on the unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. At the end of the line, Fuery swallowed audibly. A faint metallic whine filled the air, and he realized that his right hand was gripped into such a tight fist that the servos were protesting.

Mustang ignored it all, his dark eyes meeting each of theirs as he said their name. "First Lieutenant Hawkeye—"

The woman's sternly pinned hair bobbed once as she offered him a slight bow.

"—Second Lieutenant Havoc—"

"Yeah."

"—Second Lieutenant Breda—"

Rotund Breda nodded and stood a little taller, his shock of auburn hair catching the light.

"—Master Sergeant Fuery—"

Fuery touched his hand to his brow with a shaking hand.

"—Warrant Officer Falman—"

"Yes, sir." The crow's feet around the older man's eyes deepened as he offered his own salute.

Mustang paused for a moment, dark eyes unreadable as he met Edward's own. Then he went on. "… Major Elric."

The blond's jaw tightened and his bright, fiery eyes narrowed. Do your worst, bastard, he dared the man silently.

"Pack your bags and shine your shoes. We're going to war."

Well, shit.


Random tid-bits of information:

1) Borch, De ortu et progressu Chemiae: Written in 1668 by Ole Borch, a Danish scientist, physician, grammarian and poet. He is also thought to have been an alchemist.

2) Guiseppe Balsamo/Alessandro Cagliostro (1743-1795): Famous alchemist and magician. Yes, this was the same person.

3) Johan August Strindburg (1849-1912): A Swedish playwright and writer. Also a painter, poet, photographer and alchemist. He wrote Inferno, an autobiographical novel that explores his fixation with alchemy, as well as other obsessions.