And All Manner of Things Shall Be Well
Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, nor any of the characters originally created by the honorable Hiromu Arakawa. But I do claim ownership of any OCs I've created in the writing of this story. I just like to play around in it's world and annoy the characters for awhile.
Summary: Now promoted to Colonel, Edward Elric arrives in New Britain to meet with Colonel Ian Bond, spymaster of MI7. After an unexpected dunk (along with Alphonse) into the River Thamar and a short hospital stay; Edward finally makes it to his new lodgings. He meets his housekeeper, Hetty Ravensworth (who is actually one of Bond's operatives), and discovers the rather grisly fates of the five people he was supposed to meet. Edward begins his the second day of his mission already hyper-caffeinated.
Warning: A bit of bad language towards the end of this chapter.
After-beta: ShiniLuv
Chapter Eleven: In which Edward sees dead people and gets the "heebie jeebies."
Ian's car - a Maurice Major V6 - proved to be a lot more comfortable than Prince's little Humber-mobile; and Bond was as adroit a navigator of Londonium's traffic. Which still didn't ease Edward's mind - despite wearing a seatbelt - he kept tapping his foot on an imaginary brake pedal. Still, better Bond behind the wheel than him.
Ed had learned one important fact during his first time in the machine world - he was aterrible driver. This had made his and Alphonse's time there very difficult, because Al was too young to get behind the wheel, and Noah refused to drive at all. Something about Romany distrust for technology, which Ed could relate to. He had two strong legs, the train system of Amestris, and alchemy - who needed technology?
Meanwhile, he was hurtling through morning rush hour traffic on the way to a morgue. If traffic got any heavier, Edward felt they stood a good chance of becoming customers of the morgue, rather than just visitors. After what seemed to be an eternity of dodging dangerous traffic, Ian pulled up before a large, colorless building made of grey Portlandian stone - the central Londonium Morgue.
After they passed through the building's pneumatic glass doors, it was like they entered another world. It reminded Ed of his least favorite place - a hospital, any hospital. The morgue smelled of disinfectant, cold, a faint coppery tang of blood, but above all, it was unnaturally quiet. Standing there in the reception hall, Ed could hear only the faintest of sounds: the rustle of papers at the main desk, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes, the 'gara-gara-gara' of gurney wheels, and finally, the muffled sobs of those who had just identified their loved one's corpse.
Ian had gone over to the desk, and after a few words with the receptionist, he came back with two rectangles of laminated cardboard attached to clips. After attaching one to the lapel of his coat, he handed the other one to Ed: one side was blank, the other read "VISITOR" in tall black letters. Ian touched Edward's left shoulder and motioned with his head 'this way', and Edward followed while simultaneously clipping the card to the lapel of his coat. The air grew chillier after they passed through a set of swinging wooden doors and found themselves in a long corridor painted an ugly shade of green.
Ed was totally sobered up by now, his earlier caffeine-fueled manic phase a distant memory. Had I really asked him 'Did you lose an argument with a brick wall?' Such flippancy seemed so inappropriate here. The corridor was mostly blank, but it was punctuated with occasional brown painted doors, some had windows of frosted glass, but most were plain wood. A faint sound of sobbing grew louder as they approached another set of swinging doors - metal instead of wood this time. The final brown door before they got there was open, and Ed looked over as they passed by to see a woman in a glittery, short sleeved long gown sitting, doubled over, in a chair. All he could see was her fashionably marceled hair, and it shook violently as she cried. He threw an inquiring look at Ian who shook his head. "Nothing to do with us, her boyfriend was killed in a motor smash early this morning." Bond pushed through the doors, and into the morgue.
In the casualty ward of St. Pixil's Hospital, Alphonse Elric sat on the end of his bed and impatiently waited for his friends. He'd spend a peaceful night at the hospital, but now he was tired of sleeping, and Al couldn't wait to get out into the fresh air. The door poppped open and Dr. Luthor bustled in. "Ah! Mr. Elric! Ready to go home!?" He looked at the clipboard in his hand. "Hello, this is queer, it says you are - a Major?"
"All state alchemists are equivalent to the rank of Major," Al not-so-patiently explained. "The Fuhrer has given me indefinite leave to attend university here." His right food started jiggling. Get on with it! Dr. Luthor kept looking at his arms. "So, only your brother has prosthetic limbs?" He seemed disappointed Al wasn't similarly maimed. You should have seen me five years ago!
Dr. Luthor seemed to shake himself. "Right! Let's have a little look at you, then you can go home!" So Al had to scoot back to the head of the bed and sit against the pillow, to submit to another examination. Temperature taken, pulse checked, eyes peered into, heart and lungs listened to. It seemed to take forever, until Alphonse was ready to scream Get away from me! A large, square hand paternally ruffled his hair. "You're all right, lad!" Dr. Luthor scribbled on the clip board, gave Al another brisk smile, and a nod, then off he went; probably to annoy another patient. Mrs. Deadlocke came in as he went out, looking like she was wearing the same severe grey dress she had on yesterday. Perhaps, Al surmised, she had a closet full of plain grey dresses.
She glided up to Al - Does she even have feet? - and smiled at him. Al swallowed hard before throwing a nervous smile back. Yesterday, that smile had preceded a spoonful of castor oil down his throat, so he had a reason to be apprehensive. "Young man, are you planning to leave the hospital dressed like that?" Al's face turned bright red as he looked down and regarded the skimpy hospital gown he had on. "Um, a couple of my friends are coming with a change of clothes" he mumbled.
He'd asked a nurse about clothes he'd been wearing when the ambulance brought him in; and she informed him (to his shock), after anything valuable had been removed for safe keeping, his clothes had been taken to the basement incinerator and burned. "The river is so polluted, your clothes are full of bacteria, so there'd be no way to get them completely clean."
Al mourned the loss of his coat. He'd found it in a second hand clothing store in Rush Valley while visiting Winry soon after their return to this world. It was of the same cut as Brother's coat, but of a soft green color. It had fit like a glove, and been so comfortable. The moment he got his hands on some black fabric paint, he'd applied a design of the Flamel Snake - the symbol of Perfection in Alchemy to it's back. If it was possible to love a mere piece of clothing, Al had loved that coat. He'd looked so unhappy, the nurse had felt bad about telling him. Whenever he'd looked up that evening, two or three were bound to be gathered close by, gossiping, and looking over their shoulders at him.
The nurses of St. Pixil's were all of a sort - chirpy, with fresh-scrubbed faces, and clean-smelling hair, tied back into either tight braids, or Bourbon knots, not one hair out of place. The clothing helped in the perception of the nurses as a single entity. They all wore the same thing: knee length dresses of a plain blue material, topped with starched white aprons. They also wore pert white caps and squeaked about in white rubber-soled shoes; all completely spotless. The nurses reminded Al of flocks of chattering birds - except when directed by Mrs. Deadlocke to get tough on a problem patient (like Brother). Then they changed, morphing into a pack of wolves.
Alphonse had seen this first hand a few hours ago when a protesting man, who said he didn't want to undergo an enema (he could be heard all over the ward), was seized and dragged into an examining room, where he gave voice to an astonishing series of shrieks and yells which made Al's blood run like ice water. He hid under the bedsheets, and trembled when they came out, the patient sat and moaned in a wheelchair while the nurses chattered away like it was nothing. He couldn't exactly hear wheat they were saying, but he would have died of embarrassment if he had:
"Oh, La! Look at that! The poor, frightened dear is hiding! What a handsome boy, I would love to pinch those cheeks of his!"
"Forget those! Look at his hair, it looks like warm caramel, I wonder if it feels as soft as it looks!"
"I don't know about you, but I could just drown in those eyes, they look like pools of milk chocolate!"
"And did you see his eyelashes? I never saw a boy with such long lashes!"
Yes, it's a good thing Al couldn't hear what they said, it might have scared him even more!
So, it was with great relief on Al's part when the main door to the ward opened again to reveal Pratchett, and Prince; Pratchett carrying a small rucksack. Both smiled broadly at the sight of their friend - then just as promptly paled, the smiles fading into grimaces when they beheld the form of Mrs. Deadlocke. Their greetings frozen upon terrified lips, both cautiously tiptoed past the woman Prince had dubbed 'The Patient Crusher'. The matron smiled frostily at them before she glided silently away to bedevil some other poor soul.
"I tell you Alphonse, she's a demon! When she's near, babies turn colicky, milk curdles, sunny days turns cloudy, dogs slink away with their tails between their legs, flowers wilt, and beer goes flat!"
"Oh, c'mon Prince! There's no such thing as demons!"
Prince made a face at him. Placing his hands upon his hips, he retorted, "And next thing you'll be telling me is she fed you on lemon fizzes and Bosphurus Delight!"
"Um, no, she gave me a spoonful of castor oil, but that's all."
Pratchett shuddered. "Just be glad that's all she did to you!" And Al looked at him strangely for a moment before Pratchett shoved the rucksack in his face. "Here's your clothes, get dressed, and let's get out of here before she comes back with something worse!"
If it was possible, the authopsy room was even colder than the corridor had been. Large, and poorly lit, the cavernous room was lined on nearly every well with ranks of drawers which stretched nearly to the ceiling. The floor was wet, and Ed walked cautiously. In the middle of the room were several - each seperated by 3 or 4 feet - stone tables. There was a low, curved stone block on one end of each table; along both edges of each table were carved deep grooves - to carry away blood and other body fluids - leading to drain plugs connected to metal pipes. A coppery tang of blood was strong in this room, overlaying other, even less savory scents Ed couldn't identify. Bond's destination was one of the last tables in a row of them on their left.
This table was the only occupied one - a sheet draped shape hulked in it's center. A morgue attendant soft footed from the shadows and stood at the head of the table, and gave Ian an inquiring look. Once Edward caught up, Bond nodded to the man, who took hold of the sheet at the body's head and pulled it back. The man revealed was roughly middle age, well nourished and with a slight paunch, weak-chinned, balding, and with slightly potruding blue eyes the lids couldn't quite cover. There was a small, neat, and bloodless hole in the middle of the body's narrow chest. Ed had never seen the man before in his life. Still, he leaned forward to commit the facial details to memory, if he could thoroughly describe it to Al, it might spare his little brother a trip to the morgue. He was so intent on his task, his right hand inadvertently touched the body, and he was rudely brought back to reality when the body suddenly sat up while emitting a loud groaning sound.
Edward leaped up and back with a loud yelp of surprise, until he slammed into the table behind him. Brought up short, he stared wide-eyed at the 'corpse' which had apparently come back to life. He looked over at Bond - the spymaster hadn't reacted as violently as the alchemist had, but he still looked quite pale. Ed's heart was pounding like a trip hammer as he gasped for breath - then he looked at the morgue attendent. The man didn't seem surprised in the least by what had just occured, in fact - he was smirking! Now Bond fixed him with a sharp look too. "It actually happens quite a bit, sirs. Something to do with gasses and fluids building up in decomposing bodies," the quiet fellow explained.
Well, now the phenomenon was made clear, both Ed and Ian began to feel a bit embarrassed. I can't subject Al to this, he'll die of fright! Ed put his hand over his chest, the heart inside was gradually slowing down from it's mad gallop. He closed his eyes and thought back to yesterday morning, but he could recall seeing only the back of the man's bald head, and the heavy suitcase he was struggling with. When Al went over the side of the gangplank, Ed had totally forgotten about him.
"Colonel Elric?" He felt a hand on his left shoulder and looked up to see Bond's concerned gray-green eyes upon him. "I'm sorry, Ian, but I only saw the back of him. Al might have seen - wait, Al had some of his college friends with him - they might be able to help you more."
Bond looked at his watch, "It's 9:30, think he's out of hospital by now?" Ed shrugged. "I don't know, but it's worth a shot." He inclined his head towards the morgue attendant. "Thank you for helping us." From the corner of his eye, he saw Ian toss a gold coin to the man, but Ed didn't wait to see if he caught it - he had to get out of there before another body reared up and groaned at him. He walked quickly back up the corridor, not even glancing at the crying woman; his heart rate was slowing back towards 'normal', but it was still pounding hard, and he felt like the walls of the morgue were closing in on him. Bond would have identified Ed's feeling as claustrophobia, Al's college friends would have called it the 'heebie jeebies.'
Ed was just feeling very uncomfortable and he couldn't spend another minute there. He felt like he would start bouncing off the walls soon, if he didn't begin screaming first. He - he had - he had to - he had to pee. Very badly. When he re-entered the reception area, the woman at the desk was busy with a visitor, and a line of six people were behind him. She also seemed to be taking her own sweet time helping this man. He couldn't wait for his turn to ask her where the men's room was. This is my fault for drinking all that coffee! Ed pulled off his visitor badge and tossed it into a basket near the desk, then, under a full head of steam, he headed for the outer doors.
He was so impatient, he stood jigging in place, because they were taking forever to open! Before he knew it, he was out on the busy Londonium street. Ah! This is better! The fresh air calmed his nerves, and he took a big, cleansing breath of it. But his full bladder still ached. Maybe he could find a nice, dark alley close by.
"Edward! Are you all right?" Bond had caught up with him.
"I - um - have to go - Bond. Soon."
Ian pointed up the road, at a spot on a long brick wall which joined up to the morgue. "See that sign? There's a public restroom."
Ed muttered "Thanks" as he quickly walked away. The sign said 'Gents' and an arrow on the sign pointed to a nearly invisible gap in the wall, which led down a few stops to a clean, and spacious restroom. A public bathroom! Ed smiled. What a marvelous invention!
Three minutes later, he was breathing a sigh of relief while washing his hands. Ed had just started to dry them on a paper towel when he heard a shoe scrape concrete behind him, and he looked back in time to catch a flash of swift movement out the corner of his right eye. His right hand reflexively shot up and the blackjack, which had been meant to put a dent in his skull, instead split open upon contact with Edward's automail fist.
He pivoted on his right foot and slammed the palm of his left hand into the would-be assailant's face, followed by a right palm heel strike to the chest. The man staggered back, but not far, he was built like a brick wall and absorbed some of the force of Edward's blows. Now there was space between them, Ed got a better look at him and realized his attacker was easily the ugliest man he'd ever seen.
Taller by a few inches, and heavier, by a couple hundred pounds than Edward, the man had a crew cut of graying hair - original color indeterminate - over a small forehead creased with heavy frown lines, and a bushy unibrow. And it just got worse from there. His eyes were so small, Ed couldn't tell what color they were. His nose was wide and lumpy, like it had been broken several times - a narrow trickle of blood ran from one nostril. A livid scar ran across this nose and under his left eye, stopping just short of a large, and oddly shaped ear.
The right cheek was a mass of scar tissue, is if it had been rubbed bloody with high-grit sand paper, and his mouth was a lipless slash, which pulled back to reveal the brown stumps of rotting teeth. He wore a nondescript brown trench coat, which covered him from high button neck to his ankles, the muddy toes of a pair of brown shoes peeped from underneath.
"Clever lad" he hissed, clearly in pain from the strike to his face, "but not clever enough!" Ed put the left sleeve of his coat over his nose, the man's breath was unbelievably foul.
"What're you gonna do, kill me with your halitosis?" The man frowned at this, and if it was possible, the action made his face even more hideous. His right hand dipped into a pocket, and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver.
"Come quietly now, ya little bastard, or I'll use this on ya!"
Author's note: Holy cliffhanger! Looks like our hero has gotten himself into quite a pickle here!
