Author's Note:
Oh god, this chapter is just massive. I have no idea what happened (more to read...I guess?). Interesting fact: A new character will make their appearance in this chapter (he's not really an OC, as he does appear in the Brotherhood anime, but I don't think anyone bothered to name him so I took some liberty with that). And anyone who can guess who he is/which episode he's from deserves a Highly Commendable Prize (I mean, seriously, I didn't even know he wore glasses until I went back and rewatched the episode). Try to guess before Mustang explains who he is in the next scene!
A big thank you to LishaChan, CripticWolf, Haro kzoids and Red for their lovely reviews.
Reply to Red (Guest) [Because I couldn't PM you] : Thanks so much for the ridiculously high praise! I'm glad you picked up on the subtler parts of my writing (and the bits of sadness I left all over the place), and I am honestly enjoying exploring this AU tangent as well. Don't worry! Mustang will probably figure out a way to make himself useful (can't promise that he wouldn't have some false starts, but he'll be fine...probably?). Hope you will continue to enjoy reading this story!
As always, please follow/favourite and most importantly - REVIEW if you liked it! Your support never fails to make my day.
Disclaimer: Uh...No own?
Chapter 4 – Dog
First impressions can be deceiving.
Yes, that was the very first – and the most significant – lesson that Kain Fuery had learnt from one Colonel Roy Mustang.
It was difficult to remember a time when he was wholly unfamiliar with the colonel. Strange really, how much of his life revolved around that one man and his ideals for a better world. But there certainly existed such a time – when Fuery had been a relatively new military officer specializing in communications and surveillance in East City.
The recently promoted Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. An enigma. A paradox. A shadow trailing fire and light. The Flame Alchemist.
Fuery thought he had known him then, the perplexing colonel, the same way one may think they know a celebrity purely through the scouring of scandalous tabloids and exaggerated newspaper articles. And scandalous he was! The drama that played around him, or played by him, was infamous even then. He was, after all, young and dashing and charismatic, with a taste for women and the high life, and the media lapped such things up with pink tongues as a cat would lap at cream in a dish.
Fuery, however, had his own opinion cemented for him when he had run into the alchemist himself in the darker regions of East City.
Rain, like mist on his cheeks, had been a constant plague since Fuery had left his job at Eastern Headquarters an hour ago. He walked this grimy route back to his own dingy living quarters each day like clockwork, but it was today that a flash of blue against moss-blackened brick caught his gaze.
Hair and eyes as dark as night – darker, perhaps, if such a thing was possible. A back clad in Amestrian blue receding further into the shadows of the narrow alleyway. A scuffle of feet. The flash of a white glove etched with a mysterious array – instantly recognizable.
Fuery stopped and edged closer, wondering what the renowned Flame Alchemist was doing in the shitty side of town at this time of the day.
"…keep your mouth shut…funds…will get your share…understood?" A deep baritone voice – Fuery had never heard it before, but its source was unmistakable – hissed sharply through the gloom, rainfall interjecting each word like the whisper of the xylophone in a grand symphony.
There was another hunched figure standing further into the alley, facing the colonel. A cap was pulled low over his face, and Fuery could make out nothing of him save for a stout build and the same blue uniform.
The whisper of rough notes exchanging hands. Further warnings delivered in low voices. A nod and word of assurance from the mystery officer, pocketing the wad of cash as he disappeared into rain and shadows.
Fuery gasped. The Flame Alchemist turned.
For a long moment, knife-sharp eyes studied his slight form and mist-covered glasses. An eyebrow was raised, and a slow, condescending smirk made itself known on his equally sharp features.
The alchemist had brushed past Fuery like he was nothing – and that was probably true, for what could a meagre corporal do against a lieutenant colonel? Fuery had always known the military was corrupted, but the bare truth of it laid out before him shocked him and took his breath away, for he was convinced, that Roy Mustang had issued a bribe, and from what he had heard, was probably involved in some kind of embezzlement or other.
It pissed him off.
The next day, he had reported Mustang's actions to General Grumman.
"Ah, that certainly sounds rather distressing." Grumman had answered earnestly, but without much concern. In fact, he was obsessively cleaning his prized chess set as he spoke, replacing each brightly polished chess piece back onto its rightful place on the board. "But without solid evidence, there's nothing much I can do."
And so, Fuery had ended up back outside Grumman's office, fuming and angry, and all he could think about was that arrogant smirk, and the fact that Mustang obviously thought he could get away with anything.
Solid evidence. Of course.
The day after, on the pretense of performing a scheduled maintenance on all communication devices in the building, Fuery had carefully selected a time when the colonel would be away on one of his many assignments, entered his office, and bugged the phone sitting on his gleaming mahogany desk.
How smug and satisfied he had felt then. Of course, if he was found out, he could be court-martialled or worse, but the thought had barely crossed his mind.
A fruitless two weeks later with no worthwhile evidence to show for his efforts, Fuery was snagged on the way back home.
His abductors, an Eastern region terrorist group which had the previous misfortune to cross paths with Mustang and his team, and was almost completely wiped out as a result, had kidnapped Fuery for one reason and one reason only: to manufacture a state of the art electronic bug that was obviously meant to be used for listening into sensitive military conversations. More specifically, those of a certain Colonel Asshole.
The situation was so ironic Fuery could have laughed. But he knew that, while the bug he had placed was the result of his own selfish desire to overthrow the corrupted high-ranking officials, this new one his kidnappers had asked of him would be used for far more devious goals.
And no matter how much he disliked a person, Fuery could not stand the idea of being responsible for a death.
He agreed at first, and stalled as much as he could, connecting and welding wires and fusing circuits – but he was not making a listening bug, but rather, a transmitter.
For the bug he had placed in Mustang's phone was equipped with a receiver, and in theory, Fuery could transmit an S.O.S. signal to it if he had all the right components. His despair however, was that there was probably only one man in the universe who would hear his desperate pleads for help, and that particular person currently ranked skyrocket high on his 'Most Hated People in Amestris' list.
Life was strange in that way.
Precisely five days after his capture, while Fuery was lying in his gloomy prison-like room groaning pitifully after a morning of being kicked around – his little plot to call for help had been discovered – the first gunshots had been fired.
A swollen grey eye cracked open. Fuery adjusted the bent frame of his glasses a little better over his nose, and painfully, crawled over to the small flap at the bottom of the locked metal door which his abductors used to push in trays of stale food.
Sticking his nose out through the flap so that he could see through the narrow gap, and feeling rather like a mouse checking the coast for a prowling cat, Fuery blinked as a column of flames burst into view around the next corner, crackling tongues licking the ceiling before instantly extinguishing.
There were shouts and screams of both agony and panic, orders being thrown out by both sides, gunfire and flames.
Fuery retreated back into the relative safety of his cell, dazed and shaking his head in wonderment.
Barely five minutes and a crackle of a transmutation circle later, the door swung open, admitting the dark silhouette of the man whose phone he had bugged. The lights above him seemed to waver and flicker, making his eyes seem more panther-like than ever.
The enigma. The paradox. A shadow trailing fire. Fuery now understood perfectly.
The moment stretched on, the colonel gazing at Fuery with a rather bemused expression on his face. A thin streak of red dribbled from the edges of his obsidian hair, curving around his ear and down the pale curve of his neck.
Fuery struggled not to pass out.
The colonel raised both eyebrows, planted his feet, and in an almost comical gesture, pointed a finger at the middle of Fuery's forehead. He yelled behind his shoulder: "I found him!"
Fuery did pass out.
It would be many days later before Fuery ran into the alchemist again. Was he still his enemy? Or his saviour? The lines had blurred imperceptibly.
But there was still one thing Fuery was certain about.
"I bugged your phone." said Fuery flatly to the lieutenant colonel's back. He had tried to adopt a voice as non-caring and casual as possible, but being an absolute failure at the fine art of deception, was struggling to maintain it.
Mustang was crouched on the grass, a bacon rind dangling from his fingers. A thin swathe of white bandage gleamed starkly against his fringe of black hair – the dressing for a bullet-graze wound.
He clicked his tongue soothingly, trying to lure out the stray greyhound which had made the back wall of Eastern HQ its home and was currently wedged in between two trashcans.
Fuery fidgeted, favouring his bruised right leg. "Sir?"
No response save for the low clicking of Mustang's tongue and a weird little sound which Fuery suspected to be the colonel's poor attempt at mimicking a bark.
"Sir! I bugged your phone!"
"Shush, Corporal. Do you want the whole of Eastern Command to find out?" One black iris regarded him lazily. "I know."
"You –" Fuery was at a loss. Surely he would have been reprimanded by now? "Aren't you…going to do something about it?"
"Why should I?" The end of a white-speckled nose had appeared from its hiding place, and Mustang dangled his leftover lunch a little closer. "You passed the test. I was rather impressed, really. Just reporting me to Grumman alone would have sufficed, but I wanted to see if you would take further action. You're quite a man of principle, Corporal Fuery."
"Uh, thank you?" Fuery replied uncertainly.
A pause. The hound, barely bigger than a pup, edged out of the shadows, sniffing warily at the string of fat-slick pork. Mustang shook the bacon, and its pink edges wriggled most tantalizingly.
"My team needs a technician." said Mustang simply, his back still turned to Fuery as he watched the advancements of the stray dog. "A communications man. Espionage and surveillance. We've been searching East City for months now, using the same trick over and over – you were the first one to turn me in."
"Then the –" Fuery had to stop and wind back Mustang's words, struggling to comprehend their meaning. "The bribe I saw you giving to that other officer… It was just an act?"
A low chuckle. "That 'officer' is Lieutenant Jean Havoc, and he was kind enough to humour me in my little performance of sorts. You'll meet him soon, if you're willing."
"Willing?" Fuery felt his own eyes drawn to the dog. Its coat was a glossy black sprinkled with white, and he found its colouring strangely similar to that of Mustang's, except that it was rather less well-groomed and had bits of chewing gum sticking out of its fur. "You mean you want me to…"
Mustang gave a small whoop of gleeful laughter as the greyhound snatched up the bacon in one snap of its jaws, completely ignoring the fact that his own fingers had nearly been taken off in the process.
Fuery blinked in astonishment as the colonel petted the dog's head, then quickly withdrew as it twisted and snapped menacingly, one paw placed protectively over its newly acquired supper.
Mustang shrugged and stood up, brushing blades of grass off his dress pants.
He whirled and nodded sharply at Fuery, as if laying eyes on the corporal for the first time. "Corporal Kain Fuery, I would like to formally offer you the proposition of transferring to my unit as technician and mechanic."
And just as clearly as he knew that he needed to own up to his little crime, Fuery's answer was already tumbling out of his throat and in between his teeth before Mustang could finish. "Y – y – yes, lieutenant colonel!"
Mustang's black eyes glinted with mirth. "Well, wasn't that a hasty decision? If I were you, I wouldn't be so quick about deciding to devote myself to a dog of the military."
"Sir – I mean, lieutenant colonel," Fuery flushed crimson. "With all due respect, you are…a puzzle, sir. A mystery – and an unsolvable one. But I can't help but want to solve it –"
Fuery snapped his mouth shut, his face still alternating between various hues of red.
"Why, I must say, Corporal Fuery. You've never struck me as a particularly noteworthy person – but you have proven me wrong." Mustang's lips quirked in amusement.
"I guess first impressions can be deceiving."
Nearly six years later and the mystery still remained as unsolvable as ever.
But that was alright. mused Sergeant Major Fuery as the train pulled into the station. As long as Colonel Roy Mustang maintained his ideals for a better world and continued to fight for them, Fuery was perfectly content to follow him to the end of the world and back.
All of them were.
The heavy package in Fuery's arms jerked out of his grip as the train jolted to a jittery stop, smoke billowing and whistles blowing. Breda automatically reached out and grabbed it before it could smash to the ground – mechanical pieces and all – nearly toppling over with its weight. "Christ. What the hell did you put in this thing?"
"It's the control panel for all our communication devices and radios," answered Fuery promptly, making no move to take the package back as Breda sweated and grunted. "I need it to establish a connection with –"
"Forget it," groaned Breda. "Forget I ever asked."
Havoc audibly sniggered behind his lighter.
Breda shot an irritated glance at the light-haired lieutenant, and with a small snigger of his own, shoved the wrapped package into Havoc's chest. "There! You seem to have your hands free at the moment."
Havoc – whose hands were definitely not free at the moment – dropped the cigarette he had been in the process of lighting and yowled in protest as his hands automatically caught Fuery's package. "Wha – Breda!"
A series of actions that involved pushing the parcel back and forth ensued, punctuated by snatches of raised voices. Above the clamour, Fuery moaned in distress: "Careful! Careful with that! It's fragile! Falman, stop them!"
Falman looked up once, shrugged, and went back to the book on Ishvalan culture he had been perusing.
"Gentlemen, if you may."
Mustang rarely shouted, if ever, the strong bass notes of his vocal chords simply commanding the utmost attention of all those present. Such an effect could be observed as the fighting instantly ceased, Havoc and Breda freezing with the package wedged in between them, Fuery trying to tug it out of their grasp.
All four men – including Falman, who looked miffed at having to put his book down – turned around to salute their commander (as you can tell, this was a rather difficult motion between Havoc and Breda and Fuery's precious control panel).
Mustang stood in the aisle, Hawkeye at his shoulder, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand massaging little circles in the middle of his forehead. Dark shadows smudged the alabaster skin beneath his eyes.
"Men, can we please try to maintain some semblance of professionalism here?" His forced annoyance just managed to disguise the traces of tiredness in his voice. But his unit knew him well enough to be able to pick up on these subtle changes in pitch and tone.
"Yes sir." They all chorused, more out of tradition than for any real reason. Mustang wasn't quite the type of superior officer who was all 'yessirs' and 'nosirs'.
Havoc (having taken advantage of Mustang's entrance to shove the package back to Breda with a sense of finality), lighted a cigarette and grinned. "But seriously, Chief. It's just Miles and Scar. I'm sure they're familiar enough with us to overlook a few gestures of 'unprofessionalism'."
"Scar?" Edward's head popped into the gap between Mustang's side and the wall. "The dude's here?"
"Scar is hardly a 'dude'," said Breda, with a look that suggested the very idea of it appalled him. "The Fuhrer granted him full amnesty under the condition that he offer his support to the military on the Ishvalan Restoration Program. He's been working with Major Miles these past several months, and they were the ones who set up this meeting with the Ishvalan Grand Cleric."
"But there's a chance that they won't be the only ones affiliated with the military waiting to receive us." said Hawkeye, her voice impossibly dry.
The men paused to reflect on her words. Her tone – the one that she used to alert them that 'someone dangerous will be closing in on the colonel' – was unmistakable.
"Did the Fuhrer send someone else?" asked Fuery. "But I thought he trusted Colonel Mustang completely?"
"He does," said Hawkeye, and the expression on her face was as close as it would ever come to aggravation without crossing the line of neutrality. "But his other generals don't. They sent someone else, due to arrive just a day before us, to supervise the process. We ourselves just learnt of this a few days ago."
There was a murmur of general consensus that no wonder the colonel was in a bad mood – Roy Mustang, of all people, did not require supervision.
"So who is it?" Falman posed the dreaded question in the calm and composed manner that was typical of Falman.
But his question remained unanswered as the doors of the train slid open at that very moment, revealing the humble, rickety platform of the Sersa station.
The efficiency and speed at which every one of them rearranged their features never ceased to impress Fuery. While none of them were as adept at the art of masks and façades as their superior, such things were still necessary when working for him, and even Fuery had picked up the skill. It amazed him, really, how differently they acted behind closed doors and when exposed to the rest of the world. That was why, while people generally knew that Mustang's unit was loyal to him, they failed to understand the sheer extent of that loyalty.
All of them piled quickly out of the train, flanking the colonel and Hawkeye as they stepped onto the platform. Edward and Alphonse took up their positions directly behind the group, peering curiously at the near-desolated station.
It was a small affair – perhaps even smaller than the one at Resembool, which was quite a statement. But considering that Sersa was the last stop on the Eastern train line (not counting Ishval), that was only to be expected.
Due to its pitiful size and the fact that they were almost the only people who had gotten off the train, the tall bulky form of the white-haired ex-killer and his slightly leaner companion were instantly noticeable a little ways towards the exit.
"Colonel Mustang!" called out Major Miles, making his way briskly towards the group. Scar trailed behind calmly, his face set in impassive stone.
Mustang perked his head in the direction of the new voice, and Fuery noted with muted awe how he seemed to analyze its source, its tone and pitch, before settling on the name which it belonged to. "Major Miles, it's good to see you again."
Miles saluted smartly, before reaching out to grasp Mustang's outstretched hand. "Likewise, colonel."
"You've been busy, major." There was the trace of a smile on Mustang's face. The Northern Wall of Briggs and Eastern Command had always shared a rather curious relationship which teetered on the border between grudging respect and outward dislike, mostly due to the dynamics between General Armstrong and Colonel Mustang. But since the Promised Day, that respect had grown somewhat from both sides, and Mustang had remarked once that Miles was a good soldier and that Olivier Armstrong was fortunate to have him. "Your efforts in setting this up is much appreciated."
"Anything to further the program, colonel." replied Miles heartily. "Though really, the majority of the praise should go to my ever-so-charming companion." He jerked a joking thumb at Scar. "Who refuses to be given an actual name."
"Our names are a gift from our great god Ishvala. I have forsaken mine, so it is not appropriate for a mere human to bestow another to me." said Scar impassively. "I have explained this to my fellow brethren here many times, but he does not seem to understand."
Miles spread his arms out helplessly, like: See what I have to deal with? "Anyway, the cars are waiting outside. The Grand Cleric and his entourage are expecting us for breakfast."
"Aww, right away?" protested a rather miffed Edward, who had been looking forward to a blissful morning of perusing the local library. He had heard that, despite it being a small town close to Ishval, the Sersan library allegedly owned a compact but valuable collection of ancient alchemy books. While his search for the Philosopher's Stone may be over, his quest for knowledge far from.
"You don't have to come if you don't want to, Fullmetal," commented Mustang callously. "You're not officially part of the Amestrian party."
"If that's another one of your petty attempts at getting rid of me, it's pathetic." Edward grinned and folded his arms behind his head. "Like it or not, you're stuck with me, Colonel Bastard."
"Little parasite." coughed out Mustang, just loud enough for Edward to hear.
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL ALL HIS CLOTHES COME FROM THE CHILDREN'S SECTION!"
And the argument may have continued if it weren't for the emergence of a new voice.
It snaked out from the shadows, slithering and hissing, purring and humming. Poison and honey – oh, what a potent concoction that was.
"Why, this is certainly a pleasant surprise, Colonel Mustang."
All of them, Miles and Scar included, turned around to regard the newcomer – and the motion was so simultaneous that an observer would have thought they'd choreographed it in advance.
The stranger was dressed in full Amestrian blue, the firm heels of his polished black boots clicking against the concrete floor with authority. Fair hair shining an even brighter shade of gold than Hawkeye's flaxen blonde was combed back neatly in a manner that Mustang rarely bothered with. Sharp blue-grey eyes flashed, ruthless and amused, behind the sheen of the pair of glasses perched on his nose.
Fuery swallowed imperceptibly and edged a little closer to Falman. He had always thought that his fellow spectacle-wearing brethren were a harmless species of nerds and bookworms. But this man – this man was anything but.
He caught Alphonse running his eyes along the man's shoulders – taking clear note of the stars pinned there. "Brigadier general." he whispered to his brother.
"Ah, Major Miles," said the general with false enthusiasm. There was a slight narrowing of eyes behind those glasses, as if it strained him to be speaking to an officer who was so many times his lesser that he may as well be talking to an insect. "I see you're here to welcome our…guests."
"General Rourke, sir." Miles snapped into a rigid salute. The smile he had worn when facing Mustang had all but vanished. "I thought we would be meeting you en-route."
"I just felt that it would be rather rude of me if I didn't come down to give Colonel Mustang and his men a proper greeting." General Rourke swivelled around as he spoke, coming face-to-face with the colonel himself.
Up close, Fuery realized that he was young – and amazingly so for an officer of his rank. The outlines of his facial features were sharp and distinct, and Fuery grudgingly admitted that he was very good-looking, and with charisma and charms that could rival even those of the colonel.
For what felt like a long moment, but in reality was less than half a second, Team Mustang watched the general with wariness in their eyes as he stood before their commander, chest puffed out and eyes alight with something akin to scorn.
Darkness and light, shadow and gold. Polar opposites – now facing one another.
Mustang raised his hand in a courteous, but almost casual, salute. His face was a polite mask, and all traces of fatigue had been promptly tidied up and stored away. "Brigadier General Matthew Rourke. It's an honour to have run into you here, sir."
Edward visibly flinched and looked away. Fuery recalled a time when Ed had confided to him about how alien it felt whenever Mustang addressed someone else as 'sir'. The Fullmetal Alchemist had noted in distaste that he absolutely hated it when the colonel started to act all prim and polite in front of another superior officer – Fuery wholeheartedly agreed.
"The feeling is mutual, Colonel Roy Mustang. It pains me however, that our interactions were limited to a few mere greetings in the hallways of Central – I have been holed up in the West for most of the duration of my service after all. I am pleased that the opportunity to work with you in such close quarters should arise. I look forward to witnessing that infamous resourcefulness and ingenuity that the Flame Alchemist is often associated with." Rourke's every word sent a shiver up Fuery's spine. Scathing double meanings, all of them.
The general was just moving to stretch out his hand when Mustang coolly beat him to it. "Likewise, sir. Here's to a smooth cooperation on the Ishvalan Restoration."
General Rourke eyed the gloved hand distastefully – Fuery cheered inwardly for the colonel. It would have been embarrassing if Rourke were to propose a handshake first, and Mustang, having had his sight incapacitated, would have had to fumble around to find it.
Rourke took the hand and shook it nonetheless, and the rough white fabric crumpled under the sheer force of his grip. The light smile on Mustang's lips never wavered. "Though, if you don't mind me saying this, sir, I was rather surprised when I heard that you'd volunteered to be the overseer for the program."
"And why is that, colonel?"
"Well, seeing that I've had a few chance opportunities to have met your acquaintance in the academy, I rather thought that you had an…aversion of sorts towards the Ishvalan people." the ends of Mustang's mouth curved ever so slightly in an almost unnoticeable scowl. "I guess that first impressions are deceiving."
"People change, Colonel Mustang. Besides, what was it you used to say…that Ishvalans have the same rights as us Amestrians by law?" the general grinned almost savagely. "As a brigadier general, it is my responsibility to uphold that law to the best of my capability, wouldn't you say so?"
Precisely none of them missed the way he had flaunted his superior rank to the colonel.
Edward stiffened and scowled. Alphonse's hand imperceptibly gripped his elder brother's, as if in preparation to subdue a rage-fuelled lunge.
Mustang simply smiled. A master of alternate personalities. "Yes, precisely what I was thinking, sir."
"General Rourke," interjected Miles politely, though he struggled to school his features into a more pleasant arrangement. "Perhaps we should get going now? We are scheduled to meet with the Grand Cleric in half an hour."
"Well look at how time flies! Thank you for notifying us, Major Miles," said Rourke in a tone that suggested he was not feeling very grateful at all. "My chauffeur is waiting outside in my car, so you'll forgive me if I don't dally." he turned back to Mustang. "I'll see you there, Colonel Mustang."
"Of course, General Rourke."
Rourke whirled on his heel and strode towards the exit.
He stopped, golden hair shifting as he turned his head slightly to glance behind his shoulder. "Oh, and Mustang? I heard about what happened with your eyes. A very unfortunate accident indeed." But despite his empathetic tone, he was smiling – oh the bastard was actually smiling in glee. "You have my condolences."
And with a flourish and a click of his polished shoes, the general made his way down the steps and away from the station.
No one relaxed, all too tense to show any sign of weakness until the general was well out of sight and the clipped sounds of his footsteps had completely faded.
Fuery heaved a sigh of relief, his glasses getting knocked askew as he slumped against Falman.
"Mustang?" When he spoke, Edward's voice was low and quiet.
Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Fullmetal?"
"Can I punch him?" A slow smile spread across Ed's lips. "Please?"
Mustang sighed in mock vexation, but Fuery didn't miss the small smile – a real smile – dancing across his features. "No, Fullmetal. Unfortunately, that is completely unacceptable."
And suddenly, the smile widened into an amused grin. "But once I'm Fuhrer, that notion may become slightly more acceptable."
"So, what's the story?"
"Hmm?" Mustang murmured drowsily from the front passenger seat. His forehead was pressed against the window, and he appeared to be nodding off. Understandable, considering that he probably only got about three hours of sleep the previous night.
Feeling a pang of guilt at interrupting Mustang's nap (but really, Edward knew from experience that falling asleep in the car would just make you even grumpier), and yet too curious to let the subject go, Edward wedged himself in between the two front seats and positioned his elbows on the centre console. "You and that stuck-up Rourke guy."
Mustang unsuccessfully tried to repress a yawn. "What makes you think there's a story?"
"Oh come on!" Edward whined. "You seriously think none of us noticed that? The guy obviously had a bone to pick with you. Well, more than the other stuck-up generals at least. There has to be some sort of long standing vendetta here."
Major Miles, who was seated beside Edward as their navigator, smiled. "I don't see the harm in that, colonel. I can't say that I'm more than a little intrigued myself."
The colonel groaned. "It'll probably bore you all to death anyway."
"So there is a story!" Edward pumped one fist in the air victoriously.
"Edward," said Hawkeye, glancing at him with her hands on the steering wheel of their military-issued car. "Back in your seat."
"Not until the colonel tells me the story."
Alphonse looked rather amused. "You aren't going to stop pestering the colonel until you get what you want, are you brother?"
"Well…" Even Hawkeye had the telltale traces of a smile shining in her soft amber eyes. "I think even Edward would be rather impressed by that story, if I should say so myself, sir."
Mustang banged his head against the window in something akin to horror. "How do you know about it?"
"Hughes used to recite it to me." Hawkeye mused. "Multiple times. The turning point in your friendship – he used to say. He was so proud of it I'm surprised that all of Amestris doesn't know what happened that day at the academy."
"Story! Story!" crowed Edward, like a six year old harassing his father to read him a fairytale.
"Alright, fine." grumbled Mustang, before settling back against his seat, arms crossed and eyes closed. "I first met Matthew Rourke during my days at the military academy – he was one year my senior, and even Hughes used to be friendly to him. That is, until…that day."
Edward leaned forward even further, staring up at Mustang, intrigued.
"There was…an Ishvalan at the academy. In my year." Mustang paused. "I hope this doesn't make you uncomfortable, Major Miles."
"Not at all, colonel." Miles said good-naturedly.
"Well, Rourke was a really popular kid – his dad was some big-shot general even back in the day – so he used to have this entire entourage of cadets tailing him around. And he was…awful to that Ishvalan recruit. He would sneer and pick on him, and didn't even apologize when he knocked him over once." Mustang played with his gloves in his lap, head cocked to one side. "I didn't like it. At that time, I really…did believe that we'd all entered the academy to protect Amestris – and Ishval is part of our country. He was also why I absolutely loathed Hughes for a while, since Maes used to run with their group."
"Hughes?" Edward shook his head in disbelief. "With that guy?"
Mustang let out a small bark of laughter. "Oh I haven't even gotten to the best part yet." he nodded to himself, lost in memory. "One day, I saw Rourke and his buddies herding the Ishvalan kid into this deserted alley. I figured something wasn't right, so I followed them…and found him on his hands and knees on the floor, and the others were laughing and taunting him. And he had probably already been kicked around a bit before I arrived, so I snapped and told them to stop."
Miles visibly prickled, but he remained silent, as mesmerized by Mustang's story as Ed and Al were.
"And Rourke – I still remember what he said to me that day – that Ishvalans are just 'backward people who have to do what they said' and that 'the Ishvalan smell would get all over me'. And I…" Mustang winced. "I punched him in the face."
There was a long beat of stunned silence before Edward quite literally doubled over in laughter.
"Ohmygod, Colonel!" cried out Ed in between peals of helpless guffaws. "You punched a senior cadet? Oh god, what I would give to have seen that!"
Mustang merely snorted with a muttered 'yeah, yeah…'.
Edward wiped tears from his eyes, and found himself in a better mood than he had been for the majority of the past few days. Hughes had commented to him once, when he was steaming after a particularly bad row with the colonel, that he and Mustang were more alike than he thought, and had given him a conspiratorial wink.
So this is what you meant, Hughes. And Edward was grinning from ear to ear at the thought of a young, justice-seeking Mustang who didn't have to put up with all that politeness and crap and just punched people who deserved it. That was exactly what Ed would have done.
"So anyway, Hughes showed up. And there was a gun and some theatrics, and then we both started beating those seniors up. It was quite a row, really." Despite himself, Mustang couldn't stop a smile from tugging at the edges of his lips. "We all got bruised pretty badly, but man, was that satisfying. Even the punishment of digging ditches after couldn't quite drench that."
"I can now understand." Edward looked like he was trying not to giggle. "Why Rourke hates you so much."
Mustang's shoulders rose in a nonchalant shrug. "Can't do anything about that. Besides, he probably isn't too happy with the idea that I'll be promoted to his rank once I get back from Sersa."
Edward raised his eyebrows as if the thought of Mustang being able to flaunt his rank in Rourke's face amused him very much indeed. "Ho ho, would I like to see the look on his face at your promotion ceremony."
"You and me both, Fullmetal." And the two alchemists shared a conspiratorial snigger.
"Colonel," piped up Al suddenly, leaning forward to be included in the conversation. "So what happened to that Ishvalan cadet?"
It was an innocent question, one that Alphonse hadn't put much thought into, but the mood instantly plummeted faster than a plane shot out of the sky.
Mustang's smile dropped, and he turned back around, staring unseeingly at the windscreen.
"Uh, colonel?" Edward probed, his gleeful expression now one of concern.
No, he wasn't staring unseeingly, but rather at something that the rest of them couldn't see. Into a bloody past…of flames and fallen comrades. His hands fidgeted restlessly, fluttering across his lap and to his pocket, running slender fingers along the silver chain that was attached to his State Alchemist watch.
"Colonel?"
"His name was Heathcliff," said Mustang suddenly, and his voice was barely a whisper. Edward blinked as he happened to glance down at the colonel's hands – they were shaking, and badly. "And the next time Hughes and I ran into him after our graduation was at Ishval."
Ishval.
Ed grew pale. For that could only mean one thing.
No. No, please stop. You don't have to go any further.
But Mustang was determined to plough on through the story, and his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth could shatter. "I was…My unit was having trouble with a roof full of sniping Ishvalans…so I…I went out to…"
He stopped, panting heavily. Hawkeye cast her superior officer a concerned look. "Sir, do you want me to pull over?"
"No, no, keep driving." Mustang straightened, and Edward shied away like a frightened cat.
Just stop.
"Heathcliff was there – I didn't know that he had returned to fight for his countrymen. He…he saw me. Amongst the corpses of his comrades. And he…" Mustang clenched his fists. "He shot me."
The car was completely silent now, save for the rustling of Hawkeye's hands against the steering wheel and the rumbling of the engine.
"And so Hughes shot him." Mustang slumped over, energy completely depleted, and rested his forehead in his hands. "I survived."
Please stop. Make it stop.
The final words which came out of Mustang's mouth made Edward flinch.
"He didn't."
Scar was never much of a philosophical person.
The exact opposite of his brother – the thinker, Scar was a doer. He would decide on something, and then he would act on it through to the end. He was determined and he was strong, and that made him all the more powerful.
It was not often that he would contemplate his past life choices and muse about them, but today, after meeting the two State Alchemists (Edward Elric would always be a State Alchemist in Scar's eyes) for the first time since the Promised Day, his train of thought, despite the unwillingness of its owner, had wandered back to his days in Amestris as a vengeance-driven killer.
Yes, he often wondered, how was it that he could accept amnesty from the Amestrian military of all people? How was it that he did not feel the undeniable urge to tear down their walls, brick by brick, as he did less than half a year ago?
Scar had honestly been dreading this day since the arrangements had been finalized. That said, the Fullmetal Alchemist showing up unannounced had barely fazed him (it just seemed natural for him to be by the colonel's side). But it was not Edward he was worried about – he did not hate the boy, no. In fact, he rather admired him, even from the very beginning – the young Amestrian child who would commit horribly adult things to protect his little brother and the people he loved. The only reason Scar had attempted (emphasis on attempt) to kill him was quite simply, because he was a State Alchemist.
But his superior officer, the one and only Flame Alchemist – now that was a completely different story.
While Edward had been but a small child situated far away from the front lines during the Ishvalan War of Extermination, Colonel Roy Mustang had been in the thick of it. No, not only in the thick of it – he had absolutely decimated the battle zones with his heavenly columns of fire and heat, and while Scar's own district had not been one of his targets, he had certainly seen the pure destruction and ashes the alchemist had left in his wake.
Not one Ishvalan who had lived through the war would ever forget the demon that was the Flame Alchemist of Amestris. Not one Ishvalan would ever stop hating him for his thoroughly blood-soaked gloves.
At least, that was what Scar had thought, until the colonel himself had stepped off the train that morning, and the former Ishvalan priest found that he did not feel the urge – not even the slightest – to take advantage of his blindness and put an end to him right then and there.
There was no familiar seething anger. No thirst for vengeance. While Scar had not felt the flames of revenge in the weeks leading up to the Promised Day, he had assumed that it was purely because he had a bigger target to pursue, and a larger goal to achieve. But after all that, what was stopping him from going on another full-blown killing spree?
Scar glanced around as their small group – consisting of himself, Miles, Rourke, Hawkeye and Mustang – were admitted into the airy tent which was the Grand Cleric's personal abode. Despite being situated in the depths of the Sersan slums, the interior was brightly lit and cozily decorated, with intricately embroidered carpets, threadbare but beautiful, scattering the hard dirt floor. An oil lamp sat in the corner, as well as an ancient wooden cupboard.
The Ishvalan priest who had greeted them at the entrance waved them towards a low wooden table that stretched the length of most of the tent, its dark brown surface smudged and scratched but still providing a sense of elegance to the room. There were pillows set along the floor, and the Amestrian party took their seats in the traditional Ishvalan way.
Mustang stumbled and groped a bit, apparently not understanding where the chairs were until Hawkeye gently guided him to the seat next to hers. He shot the lieutenant a sheepish smile, and she smiled tenderly back – but the exchange was professional enough to an outside observer who didn't know them well. Scar had witnessed many things on the Promised Day, and their cleverly disguised relationship was one of them.
Yes, as they awaited the arrival of food and the Grand Cleric, Scar looked around and he was reminded why the flames of hatred no longer burned as brightly as they used to. He looked around and he understood why, instead of seeing Mustang as a monster, he saw him as a man. An ordinary man who had been wrongly blinded, with his own wounds and gashes which were almost as deep as Scar's.
For when he looked, he saw that none of this – the entire idea of the restoration of Ishval – would have been possible if not for the black-haired man seated opposite him, and for the many people, Xingese and Amestrian alike, who he grudgingly called his comrades.
He looked and he thought, and he came to a decision.
Failing to kill Roy Mustang may not have been such a bad thing after all.
Meetings were boring. Period.
Edward Elric stifled a yawn, shuffled his feet, kicked a rock out of the way with his automail foot so that it clattered noisily down the street, and complained to his brother: "I should have brought a book to read."
Al simply shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Be patient, brother."
"I am." Ed complained, stalking up and down the narrow stretch of dirt road in front of the Grand Cleric's tent The Ishvalan guard posted at its entrance eyed the teenager with a sort of wary suspicion, as if unsure whether a short kid with braided blonde hair was worth his trouble of keeping an eye on.
Obviously he hadn't heard the terrifying tales regarding the Fullmetal Alchemist.
Edward stopped in his tracks and cast his golden eyes over the smattering of grimy tents and ramshackle lean-tos which were the primary theme of the Sersan slums – the Ishvalans' abode, though Ed hoped only temporarily.
He had rarely found reason to visit the slums, not in Central, not in East City, and certainly not somewhere along his search for the Philosopher's Stone. But they continued to exist as a gnawing, uncomfortable presence at the edges of his mind – a patch of dirt packed away in some unnoticeable corner of any city Ed journeyed to, out of sight but still there.
It was horrifying really, the living conditions here – Edward thought sadly as he watched a group of dark-skinned children play tag amongst the half-propped up tents salvaged from unwanted rags and pieces of decaying wood. Their clothes were dirty and torn, and they ran barefoot down the dusty streets.
Miles had mentioned to Ed that he and Scar had briefly – very briefly – considered the idea of setting all these people up in Sersa proper, but it turned out to be an illogical proposal. For there were so many of them, and only so many empty rooms and houses that Sersa could provide and that their government funding could pay for. The Ishvalan Grand Cleric had been offered a more comfortable room in town, but the man had firmly declined, stating that if his people were suffering, he should be suffering with them.
But that was what they were here for, right? That was what Mustang was here for – to turn all of this around.
Edward blew his bangs out of his face, watching them flutter on the artificial gust of wind and swing back into his eyes again. He settled for brushing them away as he turned around and stalked back towards Al. "I'm bored." he told his brother, with a tone used to describe the most painful torture to ever exist in history.
"The colonel said that we could ask someone to drive us to the library." suggested Al quietly and with far less conviction than Edward thought a trip to that blissful palace of knowledge should warrant.
But he understood Alphonse's lack of enthusiasm, and simply shook his head slowly. "And leave Colonel Matchstick in that state? No, I don't think so."
Al lowered his eyes to the ground and nodded miserably. "Oh, brother. It's all my fault again, isn't it?"
Ed was by his little brother's side in a flash. "No, Al. It isn't." he said soothingly. "We're so close to Ishval, and meeting with Ishvalan people. The colonel would have had to deal with it at some point."
"But I reminded him of it." moaned Al, and Ed felt a little stab of panic at seeing his brother look so distraught. For if there was one golden rule Edward Elric lived his life by, it was this: Alphonse Elric was to be kept happy and content at all times.
Ed awkwardly patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Al. We'll make it up to him later, I promise."
Al nodded silently, his eyes still glued to the floor.
"Besides," Edward offered Al a wry smile. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He's probably dealt with worse before. We're just sticking around…you know, just in case."
And Ed did sort of mean that. For Mustang treated his emotions and feelings as trivial things which could be packed away neatly into a box, tied off with a pretty ribbon and sent for a vacation when they became too bothersome. That was the impression the colonel had given him when their car had pulled to a stop on the outskirts of the slum, and Hawkeye had opened his door to find the Flame Alchemist still hunched over in his chair, head buried in his hands and trembling ever so slightly.
"Sir, are you sure you're feeling well enough to carry on?" Hawkeye had asked in concern.
"I'm fine, lieutenant. Just fine. All I need is a moment." His muffled voice filtered through the gaps in his cupped fingers, and Hawkeye shook her head ruefully as if she'd expected that response.
Ed and Al waited uncertainly as the colonel took in a deep breath, and then two.
Then he had straightened, and his face was a calm mask once again. "Okay, lieutenant. Let's go."
Edward had yet to see Mustang lose that impeccable control, especially in important situations such as this, but he couldn't help but feel fidgety nonetheless.
Yearning for a distraction, he stalked over to Falman, who was 'standing guard' at one side of the tent with his nose in a book, and held out his hand imploringly. "Give me the book." Edward commanded primly.
Warrant Officer Falman looked up at him, clearly unimpressed by his tone. "No." He replied flatly.
Ed scowled. "I'm going to die of boredom here."
"It is scientifically impossible to die of boredom."
"Ugh! You know what I mean!" And with that, Edward lunged for the book, only to have Falman sidestep him at the last moment. "Falman!"
"You're no longer a Major, Edward." Falman smiled almost wickedly at him. "I am certainly not obliged to follow your orders."
"Why you –" With a yowl, Edward launched himself at the older man, who yelped as he was tackled to the ground. They spent a few long moments squabbling over the now very crumpled book before Havoc happened across them, and with Al's help, pulled them apart.
"Brother." scolded Alphonse, though he did seem to have shaken his earlier depressed mood.
Edward pointed an accusing finger at Falman. "Don't look at me, he started it."
Havoc looked like he was trying very hard not to burst his sides with laughter. "Why don't you two kids go take a hike, eh? The four of us can handle things here."
Edward and Alphonse exchanged looks and shrugged in mutual agreement. It wouldn't be too bad if they wandered off for a bit, as long as they remained in the immediate vicinity. Besides, Hawkeye was in there with the colonel, and both teenagers had trouble imagining anything happening to Mustang with her keeping him in line.
"Call if you need us!" threw Edward over his shoulder as he jogged away, yanking his brother by the sleeve as they went.
They spent several minutes exploring the slums, minutes in which Ed just grew more and more saddened by the sight of tired mothers comforting hungry children, and equally tired men who were patching up their near-collapsing homes as best they could. It wasn't long before the Elric brothers found themselves at the Grand Cleric's tent of light canvas once more, except that this time, they'd ended up at its back instead of its front.
The soft murmur of voices could be heard from within, and Edward edged forward curiously, wondering why no one had bothered to post a guard here.
"Brother, are you sure that's a good idea?" said Al with a frown.
"Oh sure it is, eavesdropping is always a good idea." Ed raised his eyebrows and jerked a thumb in the general direction of the tent. "Just ask Mustang. Besides, aren't you even a little bit curious?"
Al shrugged guiltily. "Maybe just a little."
"See?" said Ed smugly, turning around and creeping over to the edge of the tent where one broad side of the stitched up canvas met another. "Maybe I should just convince Colonel Bastard to let us tag along next time. Being in there has to be better than being out here baking in the sun."
Ed pressed his face to the narrow gap and peered inside.
The first thing he registered was a head of long white hair tucked neatly underneath an equally white cloth hat. The person's back – dressed in simple robes of white and red – was facing Edward, but judging from his position at the head of the long table, this was the Ishvalan Grand Cleric he had heard so much about.
" – as an official apology from the Amestrian military." Ed recognized Mustang's voice immediately, pinpointing its source to the seat next to Hawkeye. The table had been laid with several plates of simple Ishvalan cakes and biscuits, but the one belonging to the colonel sat untouched.
The Grand Cleric was nodding, his fancy cloth headgear bobbing with the motion in a way that made Edward want to giggle madly. "Yes. That would be most appreciated, colonel. And the signing of the treaty will also take place on the very same date?"
"That is the plan," replied Mustang, and Ed was amazed by how confidently he held himself. Even when blind, he sounded unstoppable and thoroughly undaunted. "The details of the treaty itself though, will be the main subject of our discussions for the remaining week. I will report any request that you may make on behalf of all Ishvalans to the Fuhrer, and I assure you that he will consider them in the most reasonable manner. The treaty is more of a formal gesture than anything else, as the Fuhrer has already stated his commitment in providing Ishval with as much funding as it requires to aid in its rebuilding."
"That is certainly very kind of Fuhrer Grumman," contemplated the Grand Cleric, taking a sip from a plain ceramic mug. "Forgive me, it is still hard to believe. After everything my brethren have gone through, Ishval will finally be restored to its former glory."
"And Amestris will do everything in its power to support you in achieving that goal." cut in General Rourke smoothly, and Edward felt his hackles rise at the sound of his voice. Hypocrite.
"One final question before we conclude today's discussion," said the Grand Cleric, running his gaze towards Mustang. Ed felt rather pleased that it was obvious the Cleric saw the colonel as the leader of their group rather than Rourke. "It is clear, that while Amestris seeks to make peace with Ishval, I gather that the Fuhrer will still be placing an Amestrian military officer as the person in charge of this project?"
Mustang nodded, but the motion was rather hesitant. "Yes, that is true."
"And who may this officer be, if you would be so kind as to tell me?"
A long moment of silence stretched down the row of people seated as, for the first time since Ed had met him, Mustang's silver tongue failed him and he looked unsure of his response.
Hawkeye glanced at the silent colonel, sherry eyes glimmering. Edward cursed underneath his breath. Damn it, just say something.
"I believe the Fuhrer was thinking of appointing Colonel Mustang to that esteemed position." Rourke's clear voice rang out in the stillness, slicing like a double-edged sword, and Mustang flinched at those words. "Of course, nothing has been officially decided yet."
The Grand Cleric looked thoughtful. "Colonel… I regret to have to voice this, as you have obviously done a lot in making the restoration program a reality – but I am afraid that that will not be possible."
Edward blinked and furrowed his eyebrows, unable to comprehend the full extent of the words he had overheard.
"Even the mere act of providing an ordinary Amestrian officer with that sort of authority would be pushing the boundaries – the extent of my people's hatred for your military. Myself and some of the other more reasonable Ishvalans may understand that an era of peace is much better than a continuation of this era of war, but there will always be those who are sceptical of the military's hidden agenda. But you, colonel? Surely you are aware of how tainted your name is in our midst?" The Grand Cleric's voice was sincerely apologetic, which just made Ed feel even sicker to his stomach. "And, ah…some may even bring up the issue of your…competency. I'm sure you understand why?"
"Very clearly, Grand Cleric." answered Mustang stiffly, and his tone nor face betrayed nothing, nothing at all. They were blank, as blank as the eyes which he had been cursed with.
Edward felt his fists clutch at the canvas edges. No, this isn't fair. How can this be fair?
"Quite simply put," continued the Cleric in a neutrally sympathetic tone which Mustang had grown uncomfortably used to hearing in recent months. "If an Amestrian officer has to be selected, then I'd much rather it be Major Miles." He nodded approvingly at the half-blood Ishvalan, who jumped guiltily at being named as a candidate. "But I understand that you military people hold position in high regard, so if the Fuhrer requires someone with a higher rank, perhaps Brigadier General Rourke could be a recommendation."
The Ishvalan Cleric gestured to the blonde-haired man, who grinned widely and mock-bowed in his seat. "It surely is an honour."
"I have gotten to know the young general as he was kind enough to drop in yesterday," nodded the Cleric. "And I have to say, his ideals have quite impressed me. He has even assured me that his father, Major General Rourke, will be able to secure a larger amount of funding for the program. An offer that I will be grateful for."
So that's what you promised. Weasel.
"I'll be sure to forward your recommendations to Fuhrer Grumman." Mustang's voice still hadn't changed or wavered, but rather, he spoke with resigned evenness – as if he had predicted this outcome all along.
But you're just gonna sit back and let that asshole take charge of something he obviously doesn't care about?
Many cruelties and injustices existed in this world, and Edward could put up with most of them. But not this one.
He pried open the flimsy opening and slipped through, almost stumbling as his foot caught on the rough cloth.
"Brother!" exclaimed Alphonse in surprise from somewhere behind him, but Edward resolutely ignored him.
"Now hold on a second!" Ed bellowed into the room, and everyone quite literally startled at the unexpected interruption of his voice.
The Ishvalan Grand Cleric turned around, red eyes wide in a crinkled brown face, and Edward made straight for him, automail clanking with the force of his footsteps. "Now listen here, you old geezer –"
"Hey! Who the hell are you?" Edward had failed to notice a pair of Ishvalan priests standing guard on the opposite side of the tent. "You're not supposed to be in here!"
Edward resisted the urge to pick the frail old man up by the shirt, and instead settled for jabbing a finger in his face. "If you can be tricked that easily by just a few misplaced words and honey-sweet lies, then you have no right to be religious head or whatever the shenazzle you are. Open your eyes, damn it! Open your eyes and see the people in this room for what they truly are!"
The Cleric apparently recovered enough from his initial shock to glare in the direction of the Amestrians seated before him, his gaze accusatory. "Who is this small child?"
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A PIPSQUEAK WHO HAS TO STAND ON HIS TOES TO REACH THE FIRST RUNG OF A LADDER!" screamed an already enraged Edward, and even the bodyguard-priests who had advanced to restrain him actually shrunk back at the force of his height-complex-imbued-tantrum.
Mustang looked torn between denying that he even knew the kid, and smacking himself in the forehead – well, at least there was some emotion flickering across his face now, instead of that scarily empty mask. "Fullmetal," he said, tone low and dangerous. "What are you doing?"
Edward snapped around. "What do you think I am doing? If you won't defend yourself, then someone has to do it for you!"
Everyone in the room was up on their feet now, Rourke watching the events unfold with his eyebrows raised in amusement, Scar giving Edward an appraising look with something like approval in his scarlet eyes, and Miles just looking plain dumbfounded.
"Fullmetal."
But Edward wasn't done yet, far from it. "Are you really just gonna sit there and let this guy be deceived? We all know what's best for Ishval, colonel!"
"Fullmetal."
" – And I actually thought that you cared! You can't just let people beat you into submission like this – "
"EDWARD!" Mustang roared.
Ed's mouth snapped shut in shock.
Mustang had never, in his life, ever yelled at him before.
The raven-haired man stood there, fisting and un-fisting gloved hands. Grey eyes stared wide and unseeing at Edward, but he could almost feel the fury of the gaze behind it drilling into his soul. Mustang clenched his jaw. "Out."
"What? But –"
"OUT, Fullmetal!"
Edward nearly took a step back, feeling those words cut into his core like broken glass. He blinked. But I was only trying to…
He swallowed, and blinked again, but Mustang's angered expression didn't change.
And so he bit his lip, and forced the last bit of defiance he had left into his shaking voice. "Fine! Suit yourself!"
Edward turned and sprinted out of the tent, pushing past the guards and bursting into the stifling hot air outside.
He didn't stop, not even when he heard Al calling for him, the white noise of hurt and betrayal filling his head.
He didn't understand.
I was only trying to help you.
The scorching, stifling air made it hard to breathe as Roy stepped out of the tent, feeling sand crunch underneath his military shoes and the hot glare of the sun on his face.
He had thought that being inside an enclosed space was what made everything feel so stuffy, but his condition didn't improve in the slightest even out in the open. Roy struggled to inhale, oxygen clogging up his windpipe like warm mush.
"Colonel?" Hawkeye's voice sounded by his side.
"It's nothing. Just…light-headedness." Roy tried to reassure his lieutenant. Really, it felt like all he did as of late was try and convince others that he was okay, everything was fine, it's nothing – though he himself didn't believe his own claims in the slightest.
No, it's not okay.
"Where's Edward?" he struggled to get the words out of his mouth. His lips felt dry, his throat parched.
Hawkeye was silent for a second, and Roy figured that she was surveying their surroundings. "I don't see him right now, sir. But I'm sure that we'll find him eventually."
Great.
I shouldn't have yelled at him.
No, you shouldn't have.
"Shall we head to our lodgings now?" suggested Hawkeye, her voice carrying just the right amount of firmness to pass as casual to a stranger, but Roy knew what she really meant was: I order you to go back and take a break right this instant.
Roy nodded wordlessly, too drained to keep up this charade any longer.
He stumbled ahead, waving the lieutenant's hands away. He felt bad for wanting to get away from her – really, when had he ever wanted to put some distance between himself and Hawkeye? But he needed space, and the prickly, part-desert air was not doing a great job of clearing his head.
Darkness, darkness everywhere.
He caught the whiff of burning sand and smoke on a dry gust of wind, and nearly gagged.
The scent of Ishval would be forever recognizable in his mind, and being in Sersa came eerily close to it. Without so much as a knock on his mental door, the memories came rushing back.
Major?
Major Mustang!
"Colonel, perhaps we should –" Who had said that? It didn't sound like Hawkeye. Breda, or Falman, perhaps?
Roy! Damn it, Roy Mustang! Get out of the frickin' way!
What – It was bright, and blindingly so. Squat brown buildings stretched out on either side of him, the narrow snaking alleys which wound through them red with blood.
Grenade! Get down!
Wait – I'll handle this.
Something exploded, and the bang! it produced was close enough to penetrate his eardrums and make him flinch away in fear.
We have to get out of here!
Major –
Do it!
Do it, Mustang! Or we'll all die!
He glanced down, discovering that he could see his hands once again. His ignition gloves were on, and he flipped his palms over, examining the bright red transmutation circles etched in thread on the back of the pure white fabric. Such a curse. I should have known better than to yearn for such dark things.
But I can't –
Do it! That's an order!
Hot, so hot. He couldn't breathe.
Roy, behind you!
Roy whirled around reflexively, feeling the brush of a threatening presence against the nape of his neck. His skin tingled, and he knew that someone would be waiting there with a gun trained to his head. This was war, and people die. Yes, people die, just like that.
Not if I get you first.
His fingers were already poised and ready – a horrible instinct ingrained into him in the meagre weeks which he had been stuck in this hellhole.
Snap.
Fire erupted in his face, the surrounding air expanding rapidly and slamming into his body like a massive heat wave.
He stumbled backwards, falling, hitting the ground on his hands and knees.
The familiar stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and as if a switch had been flipped, the darkness came flooding back.
Voices swirled around him in a maelstrom of chaos as he sat back on the hard ground, dazed and horrified.
Wha – What just happened?
"What happened?" Fuery's voice, shrill and panicked.
"The colonel –"
"No, no. Everything's fine. It's just a stray dog."
A dog? What had he done as he was reliving Ishval?
Despite the heat of the day, a cold shiver found its way down his spine.
Oh god, what if it had been Hawkeye? What if he had burned her by accident, mistaking her for a long-dead Ishvalan soldier from a past long gone? What if it had been Havoc, or Fuery, or an innocent pedestrian? What if it had been Edward?
He wheezed, feeling as if he might suffocate.
But then warm hands wrapped around his forearm, and Roy looked up, desperately searching the depths of the darkness for a familiar face.
All he got was her voice. "It's okay. The men will handle things here. The car's waiting."
But that was alright. Her voice was enough to anchor him in that terrible sandstorm of swirling memories and fear, and he felt himself breathe just a little easier.
"Hawkeye." he voiced softly as she hoisted him to his feet and led him away from the smell of burning.
"Sir?"
"What's wrong with me?"
Just in case it wasn't clear, Rourke's character is from the FMAB OVA:Yet Another Man's Battlefield. You guys should definitely look it up if you haven't already (Seriously though...Couldn't Mustang's OVA be less...depressing?)
