Before October

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. They belong to Hiromu Arakawa and the respective companies, although I created the original characters featured in Before October. I am grateful to be able to create a story from this beautiful concept.

Rating: As this story is rated "T", this chapter contains some coarse language. You have been warned.

Otherwise, enjoy!

Chapter 1: Are You Willing?

He had to save the world before October.

He remembered chaos and havoc, flames spurting into the sky, of a world soaked with ruin. But like bombs scattering to their targets, he could not for the sake of him remember any other details as their traces shattered out of existence. He was watching some mysterious future prophesised by fortune.

The flames would extinguish, sometimes melting into the earth, leaving a land of mud and death. The flames would ignite, sometimes flaring with unrelenting anger until the land had warped into a desert, a parasite sucking the life from its delicate inhabitants. Smoke would rise, intoxicating him in its poisonous embrace. Every path led to the same conclusion; ruin.

Every ending led to browns, greys, black, colours robbed of light, like every paradox surrendering to destruction. He wanted to close his eyes to be rid of it all, once and for all. Why would he care about the fate of the world? It had ended a long time ago. This was the future. Now nothing existed.

Once more. He didn't know why he wanted to see his world ripped apart again as it waved him goodbye. He had seen it a hundred times before. He acted out of instinct, allowing another ending to surface from the recesses of wherever he was. The seconds dragged by, and he sadistically kept his eyes shut, awaiting the cries of pain to ricochet through the night air, the starting notes of the makeshift apocalypse. He would smell cinders wafting along his lips so the dust would settle. It was only ever dust, only ever dust, only dust, dust. His eyelids would flash a violet purple as the first fires whined in the dark. He waited for something. Anything.

This had become "normal" to him, if his circumstances could ever be considered normal.

So when he opened his eyes for the final time, he swore, disbelief muting his senses. He had reached a white ending.

"Shit."

This ending had to be Heaven, he was sure of it. He had been stuck in that infinite loop for too long and now, God was granting him the solace he rightfully, albeit not righteously, deserved. Or it was all a game, an incredibly sardonic game.

After all, God had set him in this timeless warp in the first place.

But it had been so long, he had started to forget. This white wasteland had been replaced with visions of death, horror and details he didn't want to remember. Nevertheless, he would never forget that snarky grin no matter how hard he struggled to escape. There was no escape.

As though a glass frame had shattered, he suddenly fell to the ground-not-ground. He became acutely aware of his heart beating like the solitary marches of an army, legs rigid as they refused to stand. Ash still wreathed around his body, its tingling touch, foul stench and pellet remains of dying embers. A part of his mind still lingered in the apocalyptic Hell, reluctant to forget.

"So you see what I mean." The voice reverberated through the planar void. His head turned in every direction, already accustomed to the pervading white, furious as he couldn't locate its presence. His teeth bared, legs poised in a stance, fingers interlocked, separating into fists. He surely hoped this was some test to enter the paradise which existed beyond because he wouldn't go back to there. God forbid. He smirked. Entirely appropriate.

Still, silence reigned, as though the voice was awaiting his reply. He warily stepped onto his feet, although his body possessed no real weight here. As he sighed inwardly, holding the acute pain stirring in his ribs with one hand, the gun popped from its holster and he pointed it at the sky-not-sky. "No more games, you bastard."

There was a low chuckle bursting out into sonorous laughter. He pivoted around, scrutinising the void for a ripple of colour. His head ached and his fingers tightened around the trigger, knowing he would achieve nothing, but he wouldn't be defeated that easily. Not even by God.

Suddenly, the laughter pierced through the intangible air again and faded into oblivion. He dropped the gun. He knew where he was; he had never expected the immortal git to become so complacent. One sound rang behind him, reflected and real, a blessed real sound of an echo. As he closed his eyes and rested his hand against the ancient frame, he looked up to see the Doorway, as magnificently decrepit as it had been the last time he had seen it.

"I never thought fate was a game, alchemist." He had to admit the bastard knew how to make an uncanny entrance, jolting the sturdy resolve of any mere novice. But this routine was growing old to him. He grinned with a mock bow towards Truth, who continued to sit cross-legged, while a hand pulled a rippling white-grey foot towards them.

Damn he had a headache already; this memory-regaining thing didn't work for him. Every time the world reaped its ending and even the bloodshed became tired of its accomplishments, he was transported back here for a second. And through the Doorway he went again. Another world ending. He paused, wondering if the Door would open but as he focused on his breathing, regaining his already perfect composure and lowered his gun. Slowly, in case his companion wanted to throw him into the abyss haphazardly in Truth's excuse.

"Unfortunately, you have removed every memory of our conversations each time I return. Therefore, I wholeheartedly regret in informing you that I don't know what you mean." He loved being an arrogant ass at times, especially at the Gate between life and death. Truth frowned, contemplating their choices and the white void flashed all the brighter. The Doorway cracked open, only a fraction, but he focused on the insides of the Door, awaiting the shadowy embrace to drag him into its clutches. Nothing burst forth.

But he had glimpsed into the Door, where no ordinary mortal dared tread. His heart accelerated to a rate which would have killed him in the reality plane. His pupils dilated and contracted as information literally poured into his brain. Every conversation. Repetition. The same argument. His refusing to surrender, his pleads to go back and correct the world, like some goddamn martyr, even though that world had ended. Truth sighing and almost reluctantly opening the Gate, and he had fallen into its depths to awaken into another world. Another end. Each time, he was the only one left alive.

He had passed through the Gate a hundred times now. He had surpassed being an "ordinary mortal" long ago to reluctantly witness the finale of everything. And he clambered to his feet; sweat beading along his forehead, grip shaky at his holster. He really was at the end of the world. He mustered up the intrepidity harrowed somewhere inside of him, a force he had relied upon to make it back to the Gate every time. "Why."

It wasn't a question. Truth closed the Door to but a hands length, reflecting sparse shadow which blended into nothingness, and rose to their feet, the same height as him. They nearly passed through him as he sidestepped out of the way before resting a hand against the Door. Without words, Truth took his hand and dipped it into the rivers of knowledge the Door had stored, an abundance of knowledge known to drive alchemists to insanity. Those lost souls didn't find their way out of its clutches again.

This time, the tantalising rope of memory unravelled at his pace. He quickly pushed aside the seconds, minutes, centuries, and millennia dwelling within Truth, struggling to reach for beyond. The one who aged and didn't wish to see everything ending and dying so he could escape that Hell, the one who had a purpose to live for. The one who lived in the reality plane, oblivious to the unprecedented fate which awaited them all. There was a reason why he had never surrendered against God. Threads unwound into strings, stretching longer than the hundred hells he had witnessed clustered together. Even he felt defeated for a second.

They were the reason. They were there. Every one of them, the friends, the enemies and of course, the bastards. Years of power and ascension. Years of trials and torments. The exact details were obscured from him yet he knew the experiences were not from some overpowered dream. He reached for them, before they slipped from his grasp. But then the two ropes began to pull apart from each other; they frayed, severed and split. Straight into two strands. One wound down a path of conflict, birthing fear and tension, until the friends, feral, turned against each other. Soon the riots multiplied to an irrevocable level, hate the disease riddled amongst men. And then it ended as abruptly as it had started with a flash of crimson red. And fire. They were…

One day had changed his future.

"This is fucking wrong. All of it!" He snapped his fingers, his signature attack. He knew his struggle was futile; he was defeated before he had begun. But he wouldn't surrender, not when they needed saving. Without words, they had unanimously sworn to protect each other's backs. That's the way it always was.

Truth stood there and returned to its foetal-like position, glaring upwards with their unseeing eyes. The air thickened with the passing moments and a heavy weight started to press down on his shoulders. They itched until the weight became nearly unbearable and vanished. The command issued by God was no light matter. "The events of October 3rd 1910 must be corrected."

It was his turn to laugh. He wouldn't be ordered around by them, deity or not. His mind however searched frantically for that date, flickering through the years as a collected montage of emotions. He had the Door inches from his grasp and he had peered into its depths on too many occasions. So why…why couldn't he remember one date!

"I cannot share the secrets of the universe with you, alchemist. You know that." Truth could never be sorrowful. Truth could never feel any emotion and they had the audacity to look down upon humankind and sneer.

He rolled his eyes, tempted to laugh at the madness presented to him. Here he was at the fringe of the world, and all he could do was watch it bleed. He despised the feeling of being so useless and he scratched at his raw palms, wishing the white fabric covered them as they had always done. Some dreams were hopeless though, and he turned back to the snowfield chasm around him. There was no tear in that white fabric; the only exit and entrance were through being coughed out by the Doorway. The single path was through the locked vault of Truth, but that only sowed the roots of fiendish flames.

Perhaps he had stepped too close to the Sun at this end, just the same as the damned beginning.

"Why."

Truth answered, although they were awaiting the answer to the question they had posed at the start of this cycle. The man knew that they had controlled what he had remembered, despite his reluctance to accept fate. Every heavenly power held a deep resentment towards him. "I like to side with the unlikely heroes."

Was he a hero? He had been called that once for being the savoir to the people by destroying the lives of others. He had sworn never to be responsible, to be violated and used as a catalyst in battle again. But it had been his choice. He had been young and naïve, a shining insignia on impeccable uniform amid an ultramarine ocean of soldiers and officers. Before there had been laughs and memories. After there had been laughs and memories, clouded with nightmares. Every day he leaned closer to his ambition, no, his passion. He could make the world a better place with the power he had been bestowed.

The one he wanted in his past was there. Although, he was here, watching patiently, a coward dressed in the shawls of shame. Was he willing to stoop so low? There wasn't a hope in Truth. Well, he was going to have to improvise.

"The question is, are you willing, Roy Mustang?"

That was his name, true. He was called the Flame Alchemist, true. But even some truths were hidden from Truth. He saw their backs flicker before his mind's eye. He had forgotten to watch them for so damn long. The truth? He couldn't live without those people. He wasn't willing to live without those people. He sighed, shrugging his shoulders, all traces of fear and doubt washed away. They wouldn't hesitate to kill him when he saw them next. Soon. "I've had worse."

He would have no memories, no experiences, if he was born back into the world before the future had severed. He had one chance.

The Doorway of Truth peeled open. He nodded, waved an arm in Truth's direction both in goodbye and…other connotations. That would leave his lasting impression, but none of that mattered now. There was no time left.

Roy didn't hesitate as he stepped straight through the Gate.