To Do or Die
Chapter One - Rendezvous
The dark is everywhere – under the soles of our shoes, behind the sun, hiding under the bloom of a flower…
Ed slipped backwards, the downdraught of the blade barely stirring the sweat-slicked bangs of golden hair stuck to his forehead. He stumbled back, his feet dragging in fatigue, scraping across the leaf litter that made up the floor of the forest. Across from him, the empty shell that was once a man positioned itself for another assault, blade low and angling back towards its shoulder, feet light and quick.
Ed's wide eyes surveyed the scene around him – dull cracks and thumps indicated the decimated squad of soldiers in Amestrian blue and gold struggling to hold their line in the rocky outcrops that were scattered in the clearing, many of them stained with the dull red of blood or dark, moist blue-grey of highland soil. Around the few remaining Amestrian positions were dozens of brown, leather clad mercenaries, weapons for hire that some unseen master was pitting on hapless Amestrian patrols. Their semiautomatic weapons had a much more distinctive metallic, dull crack, and the small clearing was enveloped in the sound of weapons discharges.
The man – and Ed refused to call it anything else – opposite Ed swept in, his blade arcing in for a feint to his legs. Ed stepped back out of the line of the blade, then in towards the man, one foot pivoting so that the actual attack – a thrust at his body – flicked past his chest a bare three centimetres from his distinctive black vest. Ed's own blade, his transmutated right arm, buried itself in the shoulder joint of the man's armour, buckling plates and driving into the hollow space within, Ed's entire body weight behind it. The man's rapid, reflexive jerk flung Ed through the air into a roundoff, coming to a skidding stop five metres from their engagement. A bare five seconds had passed, but already he felt exhausted. Again the man darted in, the two figures intertwining in a dance as skilful and graceful and it was deadly, the smaller man relying more and more on parries and gymnastics to evade the sweeping blade of the taller, more powerful figure. Finally, Ed managed to gain enough space to backflip off the steel breastplate of the armoured man as it overextended a strike, his vault carrying him several metres past the striking range of his larger opponent. His breath coming in deep panting gasps, Ed stared at the implacable suit of armour across the glistening expanse of transmuted automail arm.
Weeks of travelling and years of fighting, of living off his wits, had taken its toll on him. Waking up somewhere in the highlands to the east of Amestria, after shutting his eyes to the sight of Envy's blade slid deep into his body (had he died?), close to a year ago, as far as he could tell, disorientated, alone, and unsupplied, his only thoughts had been to return to Central and see if his final attempt to save his brother had worked, to see if Mustang – his lip twitched in an insolent smile – had finally moved his ass and decided to do something and dealt with that fucking impostor of a Fuhrer, to see if Winry, and Hawkeye, Havoc, Fuery, Falman, Breda, and Major Armstrong had survived the tumultuous events unscathed. His paths had led him ever closer to the border – and the closer he got, the greater the amount of armed men, vehicle tracks, suspicious rumblings and flashes of light. Ed was too good an alchemist and – he winced – to good a dog of the military to ignore the evidence.
An invasion was coming.
A shrill whine sliced through the air before the trees to either side of Ed exploded into bark and wood chips, showering the already-moving alchemist with fragments. Ed moved before the sound of the bullets registered in his head, his feet throwing his to his left in a crouched half roundoff. Regaining his feet behind a cluster of moss-covered rocks a couple of metres away, he looked up to see the pointed end of a blade rushing towards him at great speed. Frantically throwing himself to one side, Ed watched as the man vaulted over the rocks – bullets pinging and ricocheting into and off his armour – and commenced his attack. High-low-low-high-middle-high-flank-low-flank-low-high – the shining katana seemed everywhere. Sweat flicked off golden hair, limbs seemed made of jelly, lungs burning as Ed ducked, dodged, and barely parried his way backwards, each blow visibly tiring him. The world contracted to the point of the katana. The man seemed inexhaustible, and time and time again Ed was a fraction too late, a bit too slow, a tiny bit wrong. Blows sliced clothing, pinged off automail, bit into flesh, drawing blood from dozens of cuts. In the background he was vaguely aware the fighting around the Amestrian-held rock outcrops had reached a crescendo, dull whoomphs of grenades interspersing the crack and whine of bullets. The cries of men in hand to hand combat had entered the sound of battle, so Ed figured it was only a matter of time before the men in blue-and-gold were overr-
Misstep.
The indefatigable katana-wielding suit of armour made a misstep, its weight placed too firmly on the wet, dewy ground. For a fraction of a second the man hung in space – as it recovered, a single clap cut through the sound of combat, accompanied by a flash of blue light.
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The figure stopped, cocked his head, listening. After a second, he loosened the knives in the small bandolier hanging off his belt, patted down a brace of grenades slung across his webbing, and checked the clip on his rifle, before heading off at a fast pace for the sound of gunfire.
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Half a kilometre in front of the departing shape, a column of men stopped at the command of their leader. Experienced, they fanned out, taking fighting positions as their leader, known as the Huntsman, cocked his head as if tasting the air.
A slight tremor in his shoulders betrayed him to those closest to him.
Intruder.
The hunt was on.
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Ed stepped back from the warped and bent remains of a suit of armour on shaking legs - legs that buckled under him, depositing him on his butt. He was tired, so, so tired. It could have been Al…the remains in front of me, could have been my brother…Al? Are you even alive right now? Is ANYONE alive…?
Eyes glazed, he stared into space, mentally cordoning off thoughts of home, of the past.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash. Splash.
Rain slipped through the trees to land on the teenager's head, following the curve of his skull to collect in his golden hair before mingling with the tears that flowed freely down his pain-ravaged face, tracing his battered, beaten and bleeding body, to land on limp hands in a lap sheathed in tattered and stained black leather, then streaming over the waterproof pants onto the sodden ground. Ed barely noticed that the pooling water was tinged pink.
All he could see was the faded blood seal on the inside of the neck piece, being slowly wiped off the face of the earth.
Just like Al…
The image of a young Al vanishing in a whirlwind of purple sprang unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Four years of a silver Al flashed past in a second, and inexorably, no matter how hard he fought, his thoughts turned to the end. Al sacrificed himself for me. I…I was his brother! His only family…and I let him sacrifice himself?! What kind of brother am…was…I, to put him through four years of torture and then let him sacrifice himself?!
His shaking had nothing to do with the rain.
"Hey, what the fuck?"
Followed by the distinctive chunk-thunk of a round being chambered, then a soft click of a safety being removed.
Ed looked up. Fifteen metres away, on the fringe of the forest, stood two men in blood-spattered brown leather of mercenaries. More importantly, each one was armed, and each of those weapons was aimed at him.
Vaguely, he was aware he should do something. Circles, diagrams, plans of attack span through his mind with such force he became dizzy. His arms itched to fight but his muscles were disconnected from his nerves. His body twitched.
Fingers tightened on triggers.
The black circles of the barrels, barely distinguishable from fifteen metres, were clear as day to the young alchemist. All he could see was the powder-stained barrels, so close he could practically touch it…Al…Winry…Mustang…I never forgot you. Please…please don't forget me…
Twin schlicks pervaded his senses, and both men collapsed, blood spraying into a fine mist behind them. Both men fell almost soundlessly, slumping as if they were marionettes and their strings had been cut.
A strong, calloused hand yanked him upright, depositing him behind a tree. Vaguely Ed caught sight of a medium-sized man, shrouded in a faintly-camouflaged cloak with hood as he crouched, peering around the other side of the tree they sheltered behind. The man ducked his head back, let out a breath, squared his shoulders, then, quick enough that Ed barely caught a glimpse of his cloak whispering around the trunk of the tree, he was gone. Several more schlicks split the air, followed by dull thumps of bodies hitting the ground.
A twig cracked.
Ed's head jerked to the side. There.
A bare two metres away, a third brown-clad man was adjusting his aim. Time stood still as Ed saw the slender man's eyes – dark brown eyes, just like Mustang - flicker towards the alchemist, drawn by Ed's sudden movement. Surprise flooded his face, and his rifle wavered in Ed's direction. Then it swung back towards the fight between Ed's saviour and the mercenaries.
Ed acted on instinct, throwing himself at the mercenary.
Startled – obviously assuming that the battered, huddled blonde youth was no threat – the man swung his rifle at Ed again, only to have the youth bat the rifle down with an arm made of shining steel extending into a blade that slid deep inside his chest. A faint gurgle escaped the dying man, and out of the corner of his eye Ed saw a green-brown shape suddenly move, twisting around to search for the sound.
For a second their eyes met.
Crack.
Ed drew breath between clenched teeth.
And everything went black.
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Stryder swore inside. The guy was just sitting there, waiting to be blasted to a beckoning oblivion. What the fuck…Twitch. Oh, shit-!
His silenced semiautomatic rifle spat fire a split second before the second man's finger would have depressed enough to fire. His subsonic rounds shredded both men, dropping them almost soundlessly. Shit. Nothing against it, anymore. He covered the twenty metres distance between his position and that of the kneeling teenager in barely a second, his hand extending to grasp the teen's shoulder and roughly throw him behind a tree, his back slamming into the rough wooden trunk a split second later. Peeking around the curve of the grey-speckled brown trunk, Stryder glimpsed two more men moving stealthily through the woods. Stepping over the sprawled corpses of their two compatriots, each man moved with their knees bent, rifles in shoulders and eyes down the sights, swinging their weapons in slow arcs. Despite being separated by a few metres, each man kept to his own arc of responsibility, sweeping only 180o and leaving their partner to cover their back. Not good.
He pulled his head back behind cover, mind racing. Finding no other option, he exhaled, squared his shoulders and slipped out from behind the tree, rifle coming into his shoulder even as he straightened up into a crouch. His rifle swung into line with the first man, already moving to aim at Stryder. One, two, three, he triple-tapped the man, sending him slipping to the ground, rifle flying from limp hands. The second man was only just turning to engage the dark figure, just catching sight of him before several rounds blew off the back of his head.
For a second Stryder paused, motionless, his body frozen in a crouch, rifle still aimed at the spot the mercenary's head had just taken up, his ears straining for sounds of pursuit or alarm. A faint gurgle drew his attention, and he spun around, body low to the ground.
A bare five metres away, the blonde stood chest to chest with a man a head taller. Between them, the mercenary's rifle was jammed into the youth's stomach, and – was that a sword? – was jammed through the chest of the man, protruding out his back smeared with blood.
Slowly, the blonde turned his head away from the dying man to meet the lieutenant's eyes. Stryder shuddered – the blonde might be physically a teenager, but his eyes showed his real age. In them, Stryder saw hardness, an indifference that said I've done this before. And that put the highly-experienced fighter on edge.
Crack.
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Crack.
The Huntsman stopped in mid sentence as the shot rang out. His eyes flicked towards the man he was conversing with, who suddenly looked decidedly uncomfortable. He gestured, and his men, previously mingling with the remnants of the mercenary company, began to move in towards him.
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The teen's eyes widened as a spray of red mist blew out the small of his back. Slowly, jerkily, he drew breath, before those golden eyes – I've never seen such a colour – slid shut, and he tipped backwards, his modified right arm – it was a blade – sliding out of the mercenary's ribcage with a wet sucking sound. Both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously, the mercenary crumpling at the knees and pitching forward face-first, the blonde's torso being followed by his arms.
Stryder moved faster then he ever had, reaching the teenager in time to catch his automail arm, avoiding the razor sharp edge. Drops of blood splattered his camouflaged trousers, as he dove into one of many thigh pockets for a first aid kit. Quickly, for he knew that last shot had been heard by many ears, he poured sulphur onto the open wound, checked the bullet had gone right through, then packed the wound with padding, wrapping a bandage around the limp waist. In three minutes he slung the youth over his shoulder, careful to avoid the still-seeping wound, and ran.
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Kneeling, the Huntsman ran his hands over the imprint of a boot in the mossy ground. Beside him, behind him, bodies cooled in the chilly mountain air. Scattered all around him, and in a small group of five behind him, his men waited. Many times before they had done this – hunted down fleeing enemies. Many of the sixty two men enjoyed it, and all had killed before. Most were veterans of skirmishes with the military from previous engagements, and so recognised the spent cartridges.
The Huntsman straightened as another man approached, bloodied. He waited, then frowned.
He had sent out two men.
"Sir."
The Huntsman observed the scout through hooded eyes.
"Where's Jacobs?"
The scout flushed.
"We engaged a small group of Amestrian survivors that our," his lips turned down at the corners, "friends…failed to kill. Jacobs got hit – he's dead, sir."
The Huntsman shrugged.
"What did you find?" He smiled, and the scout shivered. It was a predatory smile, full of teeth and the promise that he knew how to use them. "Apart from another hunt."
The scout pointed. Everyone noticed the shake in his hand, but no one commented.
"Tracks. That way. One man." The Huntsman's eyes widened for a second, but the scout continued. "He's carrying something – someone, I think. And it's bleeding."
The Huntsman gestured, and the blood-soaked area was filled with shouts and the sound of moving men. In all the noise no one heard the Huntsman's snort of amusement and anticipation.
"Stryder. This time you've gone too far."
Then he smiled and started to move out.
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Several kilometres ahead, the dark figure ran, carrying the bleeding form of a young, blonde man slung over one shoulder. Behind him, gunfire erupted into the night, faint cries echoing through the valleys and ridgelines of the highlands as the small party of Amestrian survivors were decimated.