Edward could deal with physical pain. That trait helped him disguise the severity of his injuries and kept him mostly removed from hospitals for a good portion of his life.
The broken ankle was only the latest of injuries, but the agony it caused him every time his foot so much as brushed the smooth tile was not optimistic for the outlook of his recovery. Creek's estimation was off by about a week. It was splinted so that it wouldn't mend itself sideways or something, but there was nothing at the camp that would speed the healing.
And he knew that that was exactly what the good general wanted. He was taking advantage of Edward's injuries to teach a lesson, reminding him that out there in the real danger there would be no real medical treatments, and if injured, he would have to keep going. This was practice. Although Creek didn't seem to get that.
Edward saw the taller boy glancing at him every once and a while with discreet nervousness. He couldn't really blame him. After all, if he were to suddenly collapse or something, it would be Creek's fault.
He, however, pretended not to notice the covert looks and instead focused on what was in front of him. They were almost outside and, no matter how good he was at dealing with pain, he had no idea how he would run laps if the slightest drag on his ankle caused sheer torture.
At the moment he was ignoring the not so physical spheres of pain. The memories were finally all together. For some strange reason, it seemed like now that his memories were together, it was harder to focus on the present. He caught himself staring at nothing, vision going out of focus. The decision to ignore the problem, again, was his temporary solution.
UEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUE
General Aperstein stood by the window of his office. He glared out at the trainees, paced a few steps, glared again, and paced, in an endless cycle as he tried to come to some sort of conclusion about what could be done.
He stopped and aimed a hateful, purposeful stare at his desk and the pile of paperwork on top of it. Under normal circumstances, his desk would be spotless, every duty fulfilled with extreme and precise diligence. But there was one sheet, bent neatly into thirds so that it could fit into the envelope in which it had been delivered to him, that sat on top of the stack and precluded any other subject from gaining his attention.
He'd read it nearly half a day ago, and the paperwork was accumulating tremendously since then. It was all useless, after this. He pulled a stocky finger through his thick mustache and sighed heavily. And paced again.
'General Aperstein,
Your position at the Third Military Camp for Trainee Soldiers of Amestris is now of the utmost essentiality. As of the ninth week of official war against the northern country of Drachma, the war is not in Amestrian favor. Soldiers from all training camps and all remaining resources are needed in order to proceed with the frontal battle, following the now standard soldier prerequisite of a full four weeks detailed in camp, which has been changed from the previous prerequisite of ten weeks. All remaining bodily able soldiers are to be declared ready and deployed as soon as possible. Should the amount of time to finalize preparations amongst your camp be considered an unnecessary duration, you will be replaced by a more effective soldier and thereby permitting you to be placed also among the frontal troops.
State Alchemists, although presumed to be already deployed, are the maximum priority at the moment, as the Drachmans have determined the current Alchemists' identities and are themselves prioritizing the deaths of those individuals. The alchemists that have been placed in your facility are as follows:
Ice Alchemist, Trentin West
Paper Alchemist, Vincent Imagaro
Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric
Mineral Alchemist, Terra Stone
Please assure that all of those listed are sent out as a main concern. The soldiers that you deploy, no matter the urgency, must meet the requirements at the mid-stage physical exam in order to be put out in open battle.
Due to a recent incident involving a grenade explosion and subsequent injury among several trainees, a military official will now be observing the training in your section.
Signed,
Fuhrer Jin Hakuro
Aperstein ran two fingers through his mustache as he finished reading the dreaded thing for the billionth time. So he would have to send out his remaining troops. That much could be easily met, but the mid-stage physical exam was the worrying part. He had to actually prepare them enough to pass it, or they would come back here and he would be fired.
And obviously they wouldn't pass it. There was a reason, after all, that they were still here and not already in battle. They were useless. It wasn't entirely their fault that they were useless; some were born that way, and others just weren't raised correctly. But they were recruited, nonetheless, so he had to deal with them.
He liked his job. That was the simple truth of it. He liked the power, the prestige, the respect, and the little fact that he didn't have to actively fight on the battlefield. Getting fired was something that he'd rather avoid at all costs, so those useless soldiers would need to find some usefulness, deep down inside, and be ready within the week. A week's time was a good duration. A week would probably save his position, if everything worked out.
UEUEUEUEUUEUEUEUUEUEUEUEUEUUEUEUEUEUEUE
Edward struggled along, right arm swinging its wooden extension to the front over and over, metal foot pounding in exchange with the crutch. The solution to his ankle problem had been almost congruent to his solution for everything else; just don't use it. He worked around the lack of a leg with ferocious involvement of the crutch, and kept up with the others decently enough.
It may have been due more to the fact that the others had already run eighteen laps before he joined in, but he was still keeping up and that was good enough.
Creek trotted alongside him, purposefully slowing himself and persisting in his habit of nervous, secretive glances. Edward ignored that, too, for a long while, but it was lasting so long that he was starting to think that it was something more than concern for his ankle. Did he look disfigured? He'd seen as much as his face and arms; the burns there were already healing or bandaged over and didn't look too bad. Then it was something else. Creek could know something that Ed didn't.
He pushed it off again. It was easy to ignore things, with his current strange detachment from reality. Or rather, the reality of the present. He was still caught in the reality of the past. And pushing those away, because they would only cause trouble right now, was harder than pushing anything else away, so everything else was easily dismissed. It was like a dream state, denying everything. All he had to do was run. Nothing else, just run. One foot in front of the crutch.
Now the others ahead of him were clearing off the track. Someone motioned that he should come off as well, so he did. He didn't mind missing a few laps.
They traveled in a group, going to what was presumably the next stage. There were several tracks of obstacles, including barbed wire, a wall, and fire traps. The others grouped themselves into the tracks, so Creek and Ed did the same, putting themselves into the fourth one. It was farthest away from the usual drill sergeant, but closest to some man Edward hadn't seen before.
He held a clipboard, a ready pen, and a serious and superior air. His overall appearance was really just snooty and unappealing in general. The mystery man had dark brown hair and glasses that flashed too much to see his eyes. Edward didn't like him. He stared disapprovingly at Ed's crutch (possibly he was also taking in the metal limbs, bandages, cuts and burns and thin frame, but that was discounted in Edward's mind), shook his head, and scribbled on his clipboard.
A whistle sounded, and they were starting. Edward took off as best he could with the crutch, and dove to the ground. First obstacle: low barbed wire and a muddy stretch to army crawl through. He held the crutch awkwardly with one bent arm, dragging it through the mud. A wire lower than the rest caught his hair, and the mud beneath him was cold and the slightest hesitation caused him to sink an inch or two into it. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but after the last wire passed overhead, he jumped up and faced the next leg.
This one had to do with those pesky fire traps, from what he could tell.
At this point, over half of the other trainees were ahead of him. The fact that any were behind him at all was pretty pathetic for them, but he guessed some people just weren't really cut out for this kind of thing. After all, almost none of the remaining people were actually here voluntarily, and he was pretty much the only one with any previous fighting experience. They were all newbies, regardless of how long they'd been in this place, and it showed.
Ed swung the crutch forward ferociously, determined to pass some of his 'peers'. Just because the rest of them sucked didn't mean he had to suck with them.
The fire traps were set up randomly, mostly concealed in the still muddy terrain. He hadn't actually seen these in action before; they were a relatively new innovation, after his time, and he hadn't seen one go off at camp yet.
That changed quickly.
There was a crinkling sound, followed by a whoosh and a boom. The sound reminded Ed eerily of Mustang's alchemic ability, and he turned to see one of his fellow trainees get engulfed in a very brief flash of bright orange and yellow. It was designed for training, so a single one couldn't actually hurt the idiot who set it off, beside a few temporary burns if you were unlucky.
It still definitely was not something you really wanted to happen though, and for the first time Ed thought of his wooden, highly flammable crutch. He took that into consideration and eyed the ground around him more carefully. He saw a cluster of little traps, peeking out of the mud, a few meters in front of him. He would swerve and avoid it –
Oh. The crutch, at that exact moment, caught in the mud. Maybe it hit a rock or something, he couldn't tell, but he tripped and fell forward. He almost caught himself, got ready to save the day with an awesome ninja move, and then his ankle hit the ground.
That was it. Blinding pain tore through his mind, rendering it useless. He fell. What's more, the crutch got unstuck and flew forward, landing on even more of the metal disks.
There was a second where time stopped. Maybe this wasn't real, maybe the traps were faulty, maybe he didn't actually fall on any of the cluster that he'd seen…
The crinkling sound was more of a loud, horrible crackle up close.
EUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUUEUEUEUUEUEUUEUEUEUE
General Aperstein glared over the soon to be soldiers in the yard outside the window. He wasn't glad, per say, but he was somewhat satisfied to see that Fullmetal's glinting metal and ridiculous hair was present among them. He seemed to be doing decently enough, given that one of his legs was out of commission and the other wasn't even a real leg.
Nervously, he shifted his glare to the ominous clipboard-toting figure on the sidelines, viewing the same scene. This was the man who would be the judge, who would either secure his job for another few days, or have him replaced immediately. He needed this to go well. Every touch of pencil to paper that that man put down decided his future.
The little alchemist leaped up from his army crawl, with a kind of spry energy that Aperstein thought impossible, considering what his condition had been not three hours ago.
The fire traps now. They were a brilliant addition to the training arsenal, developed two years ago by some loser from Eastern Command. They were small, flat metal disks that were easily hidden and produced a moderately harmless flash of fire. Unfortunately, because of their size and the elements that allowed the spark to occur, they couldn't be used in actual battle too often. Not to mention how ludicrously expensive it was to make each one.
Really, they were only very effective in large bunches; then they could produce quite a bit of a wallop. There was only one area that had any really closely bunched together ones, and that was off to the side, nearer to the inspector if he was correct. No one would be in that line, so close to authority…
Wrong. Fullmetal was in that line. Well, he was a practiced ex-military figure, he more than anyone should be able to deal with the cluster, regardless of his handicap.
Aperstein shook his head. When he ordered them to be placed there, he hadn't thought that anyone would find it. The cluster was placed close to the next obstacle, so that it would be out of the way. The wooden climbing wall.
What came next was… Sheer, repulsive chaos.
For some reason, Fullmetal fell forward just as it looked like he would turn away from the cluster. He and the crutch fell exactly where they shouldn't have.
It as one breathless second before the dreaded outcome swung into motion.
The fire traps all went off as they were designed, in a huge sudden burst of a fiery giant from the earth. The small alchemist managed, at the last second, to jump away roughly from the brunt of the eruption. The fire overtook the crutch and the entire wall, wooden structure sustaining its usually short life. Several men were caught in the blast.
But it wasn't over. Of course it wasn't over.
The wall, support beams weakened by flame, fell.
And like Fullmetal, it fell back onto the exact wrong spot. The 'wrong spot' being the entire area that held the fire traps. Which, as they were supposed to, went off on contact. All of them.
No one, including the inspector, came out without injury.
Aperstein sprinted out of the building, horrified. By the time he got out onto the yard, the fire was nearly extinguished. The inspector stood waiting for him, glasses broken, meticulous hair half burnt off from the fire. He held out his report.
At the top were notes (upon later review, most of them were negative), but written over everything in dark pencil were just two words.
You're fired.
EUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUEUE
Edward was in the infirmary. Again.
This time, however, it was crowded to the point of overflow with the thirty or so trainees who he'd accidentally debilitated.
He was, ironically, not as affected by the mess outside with the fire traps as everyone else had been. The only additions to his already existing injuries were a few more scrapes on his arms, which hurt like heck because of the burns that were already there. He needed to go to the infirmary, though, because he'd seriously worsened the break in his ankle when he fell, of all things.
That wasn't too bad. He didn't really care, honestly, now that it didn't hurt so badly. It was broken before, it's broken now, and who cares. No, his main concern right now were the other people in the infirmary.
Mostly because he was the reason most of them were in here. Everywhere he turned he got hate filled glares and death threats. To be honest, it wasn't such a new experience in comparison with his time being a State Alchemist, but these guys had a certain savagery. Perhaps it had something to do with the stress from sleeping on terrible beds for too long.
The temporary nurse who was splinting his ankle declared his work complete, albeit grouchily, and moved on to the next patient. Technically Edward was required to stay there until everyone was dealt with, but he really saw no point in remaining in that room now that he was treated.
He snuck around the crowd, looking for a crutch or something similar to lean on. There was nothing, nothing… A cane. Good enough, he supposed, to get him out of the unfriendly atmosphere as quickly as possible. He grabbed the metal, rubber tipped thing from its corner and dashed for the door. He made it out alive.
Now that he was free, he meandered down the hallway a little. Then he realized that he was, yet again, going in the wrong direction, and turned around. Damn this stupid building and its unnavigable halls.
He just walked (limped) around as casually as possible for a while, bare feet and cane clanking/thumping awkwardly, and for some reason seeing no one in any of the corridors. Well, census was down since everyone was shipped out, and what was left was mostly in the infirmary, so he guessed it made sense.
He turned a corner, and saw a figure among the monotony of the grey halls, at the far end. His interest morphed briefly to horror when he recognized the clothing, though; it was Asserstein's clothing, the ones that represented his general-ly-ness. Asserstein would not be happy to see him, Edward knew that he'd been fired because of the incident. But then he saw that this guy was not nearly as large as the ex-general. Someone new, the new general.
At first he tried to appear as strong, durable as possible, despite the cane and bandages and general state of his hair.
And then, as he got closer, something weird happened. The new general picked up his pace, almost jogging up to him. As he got closer, Edward made out more features than the clothing and black hair.
It was Mustang.
He picked up his speed too, as much as he could. What was Roy doing here?
They met almost halfway, and mutually held a silent examination of each other's state.
Roy was all together, for the most part, aside from a bandage on his head and a look in his eyes that was more haunted than he'd seen in a long time.
"What the hell have you done to yourself? I leave you on your own for two months and it appears that you've managed to break what parts of you are left, and apparently become a mummy. Are those burns?"
"In my defense, most of this isn't my fault. What did you expect? I tend to have bad luck with these things."
"Not to mention the new, ah, 'nursing home' look. Is that a new trend or," he smirked, only half maliciously, and gestured toward the cane.
"Like you can talk about age, you old fart. Bastard."
Both of them almost smiled, but not really.
"I have to cut our meeting short here, places to be. You, get to the infirmary already. Your head's bleeding."
Edward, only marginally shocked at the sudden end to their reunion, reached up and felt his head bandage. It was wet; somehow the stitches had split. He had to go back to that place. The thought was conceptualized with a groan.
Roy was already leaving, so Edward turned and went his own way, seemingly toward the infirmary. He knew he had to be strong for Mustang. This was a place that required that much of him, and Mustang knew that. But when he glanced back quickly over his shoulder, he saw Mustang's concerned glance just turning away.
He looked away. Before they had gone from the hallway though, Edward called out.
"Are you going to the general's office?"
Roy hesitated a second and then shouted back his answer, both of them still walking in his own direction.
"Perhaps."
"You're going the wrong way."
He heard Roy mutter a curse on the building's layout and keep going. Edward knew it was to preserve dignity; the new general would have to turn around eventually. But he wouldn't as long as Ed could see him.
They both turned their corners and officially went separate ways.
It was nowhere in Edward's plan to go back to the infirmary. He somehow made it to the cafeteria instead. He was famished and did not argue with this wonderful turn of luck.
He sat down at an empty table with a sandwich, fruit item and something that was supposed to be a vegetable. It was quiet. Then again, by now it was nearly midnight and no one else among the reduced population was really likely to be in the cafeteria so late.
So Mustang was the new general. And in the exchange of a bastard for an ass, he couldn't say that he was too displeased.
-philos
Well here's a Valentine's Day post. I guess it's almost romantic. There's fire, and a letter, and some red here and there. Have fun with those fake alchemist names, they're all puns. Don't worry about Riza, she'll be addressed next chapter.
