OUTSKIRTS OF CENTRAL, ISHBALAN REFUGEE CAMP
Flex.
Release.
Flex.
Release.
The weights went up and down as his arm moved, keeping his hand steady at all times. Sweat rolled down his tan flesh. His tan, untattooed flesh.
Flex.
Release.
Sweat slicked his bandages, the fresh bandages on the stump of what had once been his... No, his brother's right arm.
The stranger had done that. The demon swordsman, with his own arm, a false thing of automail and alchemy.
Scar's lips twisted, as he remembered the showdown in the streets of Eastern. If he had only been a little faster, or the swordsman a little slower...
It's done. He shoved the feelings of regret aside, and concentrated on his workout.
But it wasn't done, he knew. Somewhere, the Black Swordsman was still alive. Still helping the dogs that had killed his country.
Shouts and laughter from outside the tent made him raise his eyes, and put a slight smile on his face.
Well, not ALL of his country.
The twitch of the tent flap was the only warning he got, as he dropped the weights and whipped his hand up in front of his face. The leather ball THWACKED into it, as it hurtled in from outside. As the tent's front blanket swung back, he saw the concerned faces of the camp's children, including their ringleader, a young boy of perhaps ten with a gap in his teeth.
The laughter paused as the large man came into sight, and the children looked slightly worried. He was still a stranger to most of them, and he knew that his appearance could be unsettling.
Scar wandered out, and returned the ball with an easy, underhand throw. The kids scrambled for their ball, the laughter washing away their previous fear, and the ringleader scooped it up and gave him a friendly wave. Scar waved back, as he headed to the river to wash. Along the way, he passed women setting up the noonday laundry, men returning with what food they could scavenge from the city, and more children playing games. He paused to watch a young family putting up a new shelter, watched as they faltered and their neighbors moved in without a word, steadying their falling tent and using their own supplies to help build the shelter properly.
He hid a smile behind his red eyes.
As long as the people remain, and we help each other as people do, Ishbal yet survives.
These are my people...
And he was filled with pride.
He watched the children laugh, and the ball go flying again.
I could stop, he thought.
The stump of his right arm throbbed. He grimaced and rubbed it... It was like the arm was still there, still hurting. He could feel its phantom fingers clench, and nonexistant wounds bleed.
No. He thought.
No, I cannot stop.
He watched the ball roll into the river, and the children wade in as one of the women on laundry duty shouted at them, and waved her stick in their direction.
The pain eased, and he closed his eyes.
Well. My cause is just, at least. They are worth fighting for. THIS is worth fighting for.
And leaving the happy settlement to its business, Scar retreated to the darkness of his tent...
---
"What are you doing?" The Elder asked, his hand still holding the curtain open. Scar looked up at him with a steady gaze, meeting his eyes without hesitation. This one was bald, and a single mustache was his only concession to facial hair. He was not the oldest of the elders, but he had shown his wisdom the few times Scar had heard him wield his authority. The rumors whispered that he had been a warrior, one of the few to survive the war with Amestris. Scar liked him.
The Elder was also reasonable, perhaps too much so. If he knew what Scar was setting out to do...
"Nothing that concerns you, or the camp." Scar replied. With his remaining hand, he tucked the wrapped burden away in the pack, and started to fold the carrying flap over it.
The Elder moved into the tent, and flipped the pack open. Scar did not stop him, as the older man uncovered the package in the middle, and unwrapped the oiled cloth from around it. Metal gleamed.
It was called a Parangu, in the tongue of Ishbal. A little over a foot of thick blade, folded over and sharpened to lengths that would make a razor envious. Attached to a simple wooden hilt, it was a weapon made for chopping, without finesse or decoration. It was heavy, and that was what Scar was counting on. Heavy meant momentum, meant that a one-armed man could let the weapon do much of the work, once it got moving.
The Elder turned it over, tested the edge with his calloused thumb, and sighed. He put it back.
"We know who you are. What you have done."
Scar started, hid his reaction, but not fast enough. The Elder nodded. "Yes, you are the Alchemist Killer. The Avenger. You were in Eastern last, and now you are here. A painful and legend-worthy journey, for someone with such a grievous wound."
Scar started to shrug, then grimaced as his armless shoulder gave a throb of pain.
The Elder shook his head. "But the time for vengeance is done. This is the time of survival now. Every Ishbalan must buckle down and learn patience, or we will not survive."
"I cannot be patient." The words sounded from him like the peal of an iron bell. "Not while the state alchemists still walk."
"You are of Ishbal. You have a duty! You are strong, and you can yet work, yet help our people. You must survive, and raise children, that our way will not perish during..."
"Children!" Scar burst out, unexpected anger rising within him. "Do not make me laugh, old man! What woman would love this wrecked body-"
"More would than you think." The Elder said simply, and Scar closed his mouth, regretting his rudeness. The Elder continued. "Your bravery during the war was seen, and there are enough who know and approve of your actions afterward, no matter if they were wrong or right. Your injury only means that you must find other ways of doing a man's work. It only takes one arm to embrace a woman, or one hand to lift a newborn's face to the sun in praise of Ishvara."
And for a second, Scar saw it. Saw a life where the world was calmer, and tents were forsaken to build new houses. He saw the resettlement of the arid lands to the East, and crowds of Ishbalans, young and old alike working new fields, raising new herds of animals. He saw lives being built anew, and smiling children laughing as mother called them home to dinner, and father returned from the fields.
And then he saw HER face, in the place of the mother. And his brother's face, in the place of the father. And he knew that he had no place in this... He never did, even before the war.
Scar looked down upon his remaining hand, and made a fist. Finally, he took the Parangu back from the elder, who let it go with a sigh. Rewrapping it, Scar slid it inside the pack, and hoisted it to his back with easy strength.
"I cannot let this go." He said, and knew it was right. "I cannot forget the ones who are gone..." The TWO who are gone, his inner voice whispered, and he ignored its truth.
"You have already done enough."
"I do this not for myself, but for those who cannot." Scar said, and that was the truth of it, he felt it in his bones.
The Elder closed his eyes. "Very well. I do not approve of this, but I will not stop you. Know that you always have a home, here."
Scar closed his own eyes, and turned away. "...Thank you." He said, finally, after a minute had passed.
And then he left, before the Elder could see the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
---
TWO HOURS LATER
"Have a nice day, Lieutenant Colonel." The secretary smiled her bland smile, as the officer collected his coat.
"You know, I believe that I will." Hughes smiled, and left.
A full minute or two went by, her typewriter clattering its stacatto beat. Then it stilled, as she glanced toward the open door of the main office.
The Fuhrer stood before the closed window, his back to her, looking down on the parade ground. He did not look around as she left her desk to join him.
"What did he have to say?" Sloth asked.
Pride smiled.
"Less than he knew."
Sloth nodded. "Then he was the one examining the phone lines."
"Without a doubt."
"He is getting too close. We should deal with him."
"We could do that." Pride moved over to his desk, considering his phone for a moment. "It would have been the first order out of Dante's mouth, if she had been around for this situation."
Sloth narrowed her eyes. She could not say why, but she felt a burst of irritation at being compared to Dante.
"You disagree with my assessment?"
"Not at all. He IS getting too close." Pride turned, a broad smile under his mustache, and his visible eye closed. "Which is why he will not find the whole picture, until I have made his entire exercise a moot point."
"What do you mean?"
"There are key elements missing, that will not surface. Dante is gone, and without her the entire puzzle will not make sense. Not to Hughes, and his methodical logic. It will take him at least two months to start putting together a working hypothesis, and he will take another two before he dares to level any sort of accusation towards me, personally. I am in my place of power here, and he simply has no proof."
"Why do you call it a moot point?"
Pride tilted his head, considering her. "I am working with Colonel Mustang, bringing him under my influence. There is a part of him that believes implicitly in hierarchy, that seeks to earn the approval of those above him, and to rise to the top. He hides it well, but my Eye is not fooled. By the time Hughes brings him his theory, he will consider me beyond reproach. The case will be dismissed, and by that time we will have other matters for Hughes and his branch to investigate."
Sloth looked away, out the window to the drilling soldiers below. "You are forgetting something."
"I think not."
"What of me?" She asked. "I am involved in this as well. He could uncover evidence implicating me in one crime or another. And while Mustang might not believe that you are guilty, he would be willing to think that perhaps I was the one at the center of the web."
Pride's smile had faded by now. "It is a possibility. One that I have considered. I have already found a solution that does not compromise your position."
Sloth's lips thinned. "And you did not think to consult with me on this answer? That perhaps I might have something to offer to protect myself?"
Pride stared at her, his eye cold. "Tell me. How did Lust escape you?"
Sloth stared back. "I told you. The warrior kept me off-balance until they were gone."
"Yes, you did tell me that." Pride turned back to the window.
"I am not lying." She said to his back.
"I know. But I wonder if a part of you did not wish to let her go."
"..." Sloth ground her teeth. "I-"
BOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!
The two sins stared, as a cloud of smoke rose from the western quarter!
The Fuehrer's phone rang, and Sloth snatched it up. She listened carefully, then looked up at Pride. "It's the alchemist killer. He tried to kill the Silver alchemist, but fled after being wounded."
"Who is in pursuit?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Archer."
"Join him. Be my eyes in this, and redeem yourself for Lust's escape."
Sloth shot him a glare, even as she picked up the phone again. And the pillar of smoke in the distance rose to stain the noontime sun a dirty black...
---
Stupid, stupid, STUPID!
Scar bowled over a gawking bystander, as he ran full-tilt down the street. There were yells, and there were babbled questions, as people pointed and stared at the fire burning two blocks away.
The first part had been easy. He had gone to the Alchemist's house during the first shift of the day, when Central's factories were pulling in workers, and the streets were flooded with laborers. Many of them immigrants and some of them had hideous disfigurements from the unsafe machinery they worked with. Even a one-armed Ishbalan drew no comment.
Slipping out of the crowd and into the better part of the city was tricky, but it had been two weeks since the trouble at the palace, and things had quieted down again. The patrols were fewer and far between, and his stealth got him to the back door of the Silver Alchemist's mansion.
He had figured that the staff would be busy preparing lunch, but had found the kitchen empty! That had been the first thing gone wrong. He managed to subdue the two servants, but not before the maid screamed. Fearful, she told him that the Silver Alchemist had been visiting a friend that morning. He cursed his luck, and locked the servants in the pantry. He'd done his best to set up an ambush, but the Silver Alchemist had returned before he could finish his preparations.
The fight... Did not go well. For an old man, the alchemist had been surprisingly spry.
And his blades...
Scar staggered, leaning against a building for a long moment, then leaving a bloodstain against it when he moved on.
One blade had creased his stomach, opening a gash that was still seeping blood.
Another blade had come within a hair's breadth of decapitating him. If he hadn't ducked...
But the third blade, the third blade had been cruelest of all.
"There he is!" The yell came from behind him, and he risked a glance backward. A group of men in military blues had rounded the corner, guns levelled. Scar cursed, and ducked down the alley, ramming through a knot of off-shift workers.
"Hey, watch it pal!" One of them grabbed at his cloak as he passed, and gasped as the cloak came off...
...Revealing a bloody stump at the end of his left arm.
The third blade had taken Scar's hand.
The men gasped and fell back, the soldiers yelled and tried to push through the crowd, and Scar ran on against the agony.
And on his chest, unnoticed, a small rock-like lump stirred, and opened one eye.
Soon, now...
---
SOME TIME LATER
He awoke to dim light, filtered through leather flaps.
Tent... Not mine?
Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes left, then right.
His wrist had been bandaged. And he remembered... The pain came new then, and it was all he could do not to scream. But more than the pain, it was the shame that beat down upon him, the knowledge that he had failed, and forever lost his chance at vengeance.
"I tell you, we cannot take the risk." The voice came from the tent's entrance. His eyes slid over. That voice sounds familiar.
"He is one of us." That was the youngest elder, the one with the mustache. With that, the other voice fell into place, and when a third one spoke up, he knew.
"He is a mad dog. We have shown him pity, and he brings this upon us."
It was a council of the Elders. But who... Wait. They were speaking of him!
"He is an Ishbalan, not a dog! He is our brother-"
"His brother was an outcast, and he is a murderer! We will be better off without him!"
Scar's lips thinned. They could not possibly be considering...
"You did not say this when he came to us for shelter the first time!" That was the young elder. The only voice so far that had spoken in his favor.
"I did not say it because I pitied him! That poor wreck could do nothing more, I thought. But evidently he has not the brains of a dog, to try something like this... To bring THIS to us..."
Scar's teeth clenched. How could they say this?
"Hafiz is perhaps a little vehement, but his suggestion is still sound."
Suggestion? What did they intend?
"How can you suggest this? Giving him up to the soldiers would be bad enough, but this... This is against Ishvara's own law."
"Look outside! The soldiers are circling this camp! They know he is here... And you know what they will do to him, if we hand him over."
"And YOU know what they will do to ALL of us if we do not."
There was a long pause. Then the young elder spoke up again.
"You say that we should kill him, before we give him over to the Amestrians."
Scar's eyes snapped open wide. Kill him? But it was against every law of Ishvara! Brother shall never raise hand against brother...
"Hamal... What other way is there? We must survive. We have women and children here... Do you know what the soldiers will do?"
Another long silence. Then the angry voice spoke.
"It would almost be a mercy. Look at him! One arm gone, and the other arm handless. What can he do? Who would care for him?"
Scar closed his eyes, and the room seemed to fade, and grow fuzzy around the edges. He fought off the agony and tried to shake off the fuzz from his vision... Can't sleep now, I might not wake up.
"I do not like this."
"None of us do."
The strange fuzziness would not leave his vision, and Scar's pain faded. But he was not sleepy... In fact, he found himself rising to his feet.
What? He thought. And then he felt warmth on his chest. Looking down, he saw something pulsing above his heart. He reached for it with fingers that he didn't have, and almost sobbed in frustration.
But then, his shirt moved of its own accord. Rustled. And from within the folds, a green, stonelike object wormed out, hanging from its thong around his neck.
The stone that he'd stolen from the swordsman.
But it wasn't a stone, was it?
It was an egg. And he did not know how he knew this, just knew it was so.
"Come and play!"
What was that? He looked up. He could still hear the elders discussing his fate in the next room of the tent, but it was muted, faded. This voice sounded like it was right next to him.
"Come and play!" A tug, on his... hand? What?
He looked down. A somehow familiar child, who hadn't been there ten seconds ago, was pulling on the air where his hand had been... And his arm moved in response! He gasped, and felt his phantom hand squeeze of its own accord... And the child grinned.
"You have to follow now, or you can't play." And he finally recognized the child.
"Bro... Brother?" He rasped, from a dry throat. The child let go of his hand, and laughed.
"My brother!" The voices from the other room had stilled, but he ignored that as his brother, somehow alive again and eight years old, shoved the tent flap aside and ran out into the light.
Scar followed, lurching after him, his head swimming... Somewhere, there was singing, and from around his neck the stone pulsed in time with his heart.
Around him, the inhabitants of the camp were gathered in clusters, discussing nervously in hushed tones. They shut up as he passed, practically falling down the hillside. They stared with fearful eyes as he ran after the child that only he saw. And the light was fuzzy, strange. Distorted...
"Brother!" He cried, and sobbed as his feet left the shore, and followed the boy out into the river. The child ran on top of the water somehow, but he didn't stop to think or care about it. His brother was back! He was alive!
"No." Said the child, stopping and turning to look at him.
"I'm dead."
"Brother... No, you're..." Scar panted, sweat dripping into the muddy water as he stood.
Around him, the clusters of Ishbalans looked at each other, and at the line of troops, marching towards the camp with slow, malevolent step. The refugees nodded, and started to pick up the rocks scattered around the riverbank.
"I'm dead, and I'm sad, because you never avenged me, Brother."
Scar sobbed, tears running down from red, red eyes. Below him, on his shirt, the egg cried as well. Tears of blood oozed down him, inching towards the river...
"I... I tried. I tried so hard..."
"Look, brother! They want to kill you!"
Scar turned a heavy head, and saw the people, his people, picking their way down to the river with stern expressions and rocks in their hands.
"No. They... The first command of Ishvara. Do not kill your brother..."
"Look at them! They're afraid of you! After all you've done, they'll do this to you!"
The first stone arced toward him, and he watched it go wide with disbelieving eyes.
"They are no longer people!"
Scar stood mute, as more stones splashed around him. One bounced off his wrapped arm, sending waves of pain up his side.
"Ishbal is dead! And these are all that are left! They are NOT Ishbalans. They are not people. They are only fearful beasts that have given up everything that makes them human."
Scar sunk to his knees in the river, and the stone touched water. The crimson pool started to spread around him...
"But you can change this. You can still avenge me. You can still avenge Ishbal."
A stone missed his head by inches. Doused in bloody water, Scar felt his strength ebbing. The pain of his body was as nothing, compared to the pain in his heart. "How?" He whispered.
"Sacrifice them. Say it, and you will be restored. Say it, and you will be remade. Say it, and you WILL be the Hand of Vengeance you wished to be!"
"Say it, and set the Hand of God upon this world!"
Scar frowned. God? He looked at his brother, and saw his image rippling, fading. There was something else underneath his brother's ghost, and it was hideous...
Then a stone caught him on the forehead, and he toppled into the water, feeling pain pound through his skull. He coughed, and felt water slide down his throat.
I'm dying. He knew with sudden clarity.
Even lying underwater, he could still hear his brother's voice. But it wasn't his brother, was it?
"Sacrifice!"
Then red obscured his vision, when it cleared the egg around his neck was drifting upwards, revolving in front of his eyes. It had both eyes open now, and its lumpy features had arranged into a face. A face crying, mourning the state of the world. Crying blood...
Scar sighed, the air bubbling out of him.
With his last breath as a human, he said one word.
"Sacrifice."
---
Lieutenant Colonel Archer lowered his binoculars, and smiled in satisfaction. "Well. They're saving us a trial."
Sloth, changed from a secretary's outfit to military fatigues, nodded as she watched the stones rain down upon the river. The large, maimed man staggered and fell, and a pool of red started to bubble up from underneath the water.
"Pathetic."
Archer nodded. "So easily they turn on their own. Not that they'd have a chance of saving him from us." He turned to the thirty soldiers, assembled in three loose ranks. "Squad, move down there. Take charge of the camp, secure the body, and shoot anyone who resists - wait, what is that?"
The afternoon light was darkening.
He glanced up. The sun... Something was starting to cover the sun!
"What?" He muttered.
"An eclipse." Sloth muttered. "Ignore that. What's happening to the river?"
"There's no eclipse today-" Archer broke off, and stared. The river was... He raised the binoculars.
"The river is filling with blood." He said, horrified.
The Ishbalans scrambled back, dropping their stones and wailing. His soldiers halted their advance, and were looking around as the sky turned dark. One or two had dropped to their knees, vomiting.
"Form up!" Archer yelled. "Form up, and follow orders!"
The sun was covered, and a reddish hue filtered down as black clouds, masses of shadow, rolled over Central.
"Form..." Archer staggered back, as the ground RIPPLED. As the tents dissolved, leaving startled refugees and panicking soldiers equally confused.
Sloth felt something shift under her feet, and looked down. At her gasp, Archer looked down himself.
The ground underfoot was turning into round, half-buried things. Things with features... faces, twisted in agony.
"Ggggh..." Sloth clutched her belly, and leaned over. Sweat rolled down her face, as her face rippled. And then, she straightened up, panting. Archer shrunk back. The look in her eyes...
"I feel... Good." Sloth muttered, rubbing her face in a caress. And a red glow lit her eyes, as she looked toward the horizon.
And as Archer followed her gaze, he saw the familiar buildings of Central dissolved away, to be replaced with a flat, unending plain of faces... Faces that now opened their mouths, and screamed in thunderous agony...