Prologue
His coat blew about in the sudden inferno. The sound and feel of dry scorched air was too familiar to him for his body to not respond without instruction. He activated the array on his gloved hand and quickly stalled the explosion across the street. The flames hit a gaseous wall of carbon dioxide of his creation and they faltered. Their liquid lives spiraled upwards towards fresh, untainted air. Screams, chaos, unnerving silence. His black eyes saw the damage in the hollowed walls of the library. It was a shell where once had been a haven of knowledge.
He was the Flame Alchemist. Fire, in any shape, form or style, was what he did. It was the fuel that had blasted him up the ranks so early. Gave him ammunition in a debate. It was the source of his humility, the fountain that kept him levelheaded. Because when you can kill people with a snap of your fingers, you learn to keep everything tightly reined in. Even something so inconsequential as a snap could end a life.
That didn't mean he used it solely in lieu of guns or fists, but it sure came in handy when the other two weren't the best or foremost options. It had become so much a part of him that even when he wasn't wearing the gloves, he wouldn't let himself snap. He wouldn't ever let himself forget that seemingly innocent sound which could kill, save, and destroy.
Fire had become so much of who and what he was that he didn't think twice about running into the inferno to do his duty. Fire wasn't controllable, but air was. Creating oxygen, dispersing carbon dioxide, clearing a path from the fire…he had practice doing it all. Putting his hand out in front and snapping, the circle on the back of his glove lit and he watched the flames in his way die and wither only to leave singed but walkable paths for him to traverse. The hollow tunnel of carbon dioxide kept him insulted from the flames like glass and the tube of breathable air he walked through was hot, but not impassable. He would walk through clear blackness before stopping, putting his hand out to snap, and start the process all over again. The flames caved in behind him when he stopped choking them of fresh oxygen and made another section of safe tunnel to walk through.
The scream coming from so far away told him that his path was right. Someone had survived. Wrong time, wrong place, but perhaps still not without some luck. He coughed into his shirt sleeve, his eyes dry and burning the same as the wooden beams that fell from the ceiling.
He pushed through the thick smoke like it was fog. He could feel his throat tighten and he fought back another chest-racking cough. He heard the scream again. He trudged forward. A beam fell in front of him, fire and embers roaring to life where once had been a clear pathway. He lost his concentration and the flames tried to flood back in like water. Embers landed on his shirt, singing his flesh beneath cotton and forcing him to refocus his alchemy and encase himself within a gaseous barrier. Finding his mission and a clear path again, he heard the scream once more. He ran, ignoring splintering floorboards. Coming to a room not yet completely engulfed with flame, he saw a child.
Ignoring all of the questions that trod over his battling mind, he picked the wailing child up in his arms. He turned to leave the room and found the clear path he'd used to get in consumed by ravaging wisps of flame. His alchemy brought in more oxygen surrounded by carbon dioxide to give him a barrier between himself and the red, living heat.
The child was holding tight to him, tears and ash staining them both. So close to his own ear, Mustang was grateful the bawling had stopped. The cool, pristine air enveloped them again when he stepped into the street, the child held to himself. The fire brigade had already assembled; onlookers had mobilized to help those who'd managed to walk away.
A single cry of relieved love and a young woman rushed forward to claim her son. The cry of 'mommy' and Mustang let go his hold on the child. She dotted kisses to her child's face and hair, swaddling him tightly to herself. A hurried thank you and they were ushered away by MPs who had already taken control of the scene. Looking back to the flickering lights, Mustang could only stare at the golden red hell in front of him.
Amestris was under attack.