They had offered Roy a desk job and he had scoffed at the prospect. An alchemist riding a desk? The very thought was ridiculous. His entire life he wanted to be part of the military, to be a State Alchemist. He had studied alchemy, forsaking playing with his friends and forfeiting many beautiful days to stay inside and practice array after array and memorize the elements in everything around him. It had been his proudest moment when they had accepted him and he had a name: Flame Alchemist.
When the war in Ishbal broke out, of course he volunteered. This was what he had been training for, preparing for. What he hadn't prepared for was the reality of war. The heat from burning houses had singed his uniform and his hair. He could smell it even when he was far away from the fires.
Patrolling was dangerous for the State soldiers as much as it was for the Ishbalans. His patrol during his first week was ambushed, the citizens attacking with shovels and pitchforks as well as knives and guns. They would have been dead if another hadn't shown up.
One woman his age, maybe a few years older, swung a shovel at him and he thought he was going to die. Her chest had exploded in a fine red mist and she felt back without a cry, eyes wide with surprise. Trembling, he had looked up into the face of an older soldier wearing the blue uniform of the State.
"Keep your eyes open, Alchemist," he admonished. "They won't hesitate to kill you so you'd better kill them first." Roy had only managed to nod, his eyes still on the woman. Her blood was so red as the ground drank it up.
He grew to hate Ishbal and the war. There were few actual battles; it quickly became apparent to him that most of the people they were fighting were guerillas and he used that term loosely. Many were trying to flee as the State army gained ground. Every day was chaotic and the State soldiers began to blame the Ishbalans.
His dreams were filled with hellish images of what he had witnessed and what he had done. Mothers begged for the lives of their children and State soldiers still killed them, claiming retribution. Some even promised the Ishbalans a chance to flee, laughing as they destroyed their lives. Roy tried to ignore their claims of rape and torture, telling himself that it was just boasting.
The story of the Crimson Alchemist ran through the State camps. It was on everyone's tongues: a State Alchemist turned on his own, slaughtering anyone nearby. Roy knew that if he didn't distance himself, he would turn out the same way and so he stopped seeing faces. They were no longer men, women and children with their own names and stories, they were just the Enemy.
And then one evening they were checking abandoned and destroyed homes for refugees. Roy craved solitude even if it was for a few moments and he entered a house alone. It was quiet, as if the world outside didn't matter. Beams had fallen from the ceiling, walls had gaping holes in them and he picked his way carefully through the building.
Someone appeared in front of him, suddenly out of no where and Roy brought up his hand, fingers poised to snap and complete the transmutation. His eyes widened just for a moment as he stared at the Ishbalan in front of him. It was a boy, dressed in rags and holding a rifle that looked awkward in his tiny hands. They stared at each other, both surprised.
Roy's hand trembled. He couldn't kill a child, this boy in front of him. He had stopped seeing faces, stopped caring, but as they stared at each other, he realized he still cared. He wasn't a cold-blooded killer.
The boy raised his rifle and Roy's instincts took over. He completed the snap before he realized what he was doing and the boy was engulfed in flames.
When the rest of his patrol found him, he was kneeling on the ground, tears dripping from his chin. His hands were pressed tightly against his ears, trying to block out the boy's final screams.
The war ended and they were sent home. The military expected them to put the war behind them and go on with their lives; they were soldiers following orders. Anything less than a war crime wasn't their fault.
Their words did nothing to soothe Roy or stop the nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces, even the ones he had thought he had forgotten, the ones he had refused to see.
The idea came to him when he was washing his hands one night. It had become his ritual, scrubbing his hands until they bled. The blood of the innocent still stained them; he could feel it like an oily film. He watched the pink-tinged water flow down the drain and he remembered the books. Forbidden alchemy. Human transmutation. He would bring them back.
He slowly began to withdraw from the world, putting just enough effort into his duties so that his superiors would ignore him. His sleepless nights were filled with studying forbidden texts. He practiced the arrays over and over again until he had created them from memory.
It wouldn't be enough, he realized. No matter what he did, it wouldn't erase his sins. And so, one night, papers and books scattered around his room, he removed his sidearm from its drawer in his nightstand. He stared at the weapon in his hands. It was the only way to make amends, he told himself as he lifted the muzzle to his mouth. It was cold on his tongue and the metallic taste made him gag. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
His thumb wouldn't complete the movement though. It began shaking as he fought with it. He had to make amends. Blood for blood. Tears built up behind his eyelids and he pulled the gun out, dropping it on a table. He hugged his knees to his chest and pressed his face to them.
The plan whispered seductively to him once again. He had pushed the ludicrous idea away before, but what other choice did he have? It was the only way to compensate for the war crimes he had committed, war crimes the military told him were perfectly acceptable. Maybe, just maybe, he could save his soul in the process.
He would become Fuhrer. It was the only option.