Graveyard
It's crazy when
The thing you love the most is the detriment
Let that sink in
-Halsey
Challenge 1: Overgrown
You watch his dark eyes scanning the horizon, tracing the landmarks, the machinery, the tall grass…
Military, you think, without even checking for a uniform. His bearing tells it all.
This is not a town where the military comes recruiting. This is a small village, surrounded by a sea of wild grass. Houses were very far apart, with one general store, and the small train station.
You were working in your garden, checking samples from your experiments. You were an alchemist, but not officially in the eyes of the military. You didn't think there had been any need since you worked with dirt and plants. While you could do interesting things with dirt, there wasn't much use for plant alchemy that you knew of.
You made your beautiful plants bloom for almost selfish reasons, because they made you happy. If people occasioned by your house, you would provide them with blooms for on the way home.
But most of the time you were isolated on this road, venturing into the village main for necessities at regular intervals.
He's moving down the dirt road towards your home. You don't stop what you're doing, watering and pruning. There are other homes. He could not be looking for you.
"Hey there," an unfamiliar voice calls to you.
"Hm?" You turn around to see the mysterious man at your garden gate. Up close, he's younger than you originally thought.
Dark hair blows in his equally dark eyes. He's wearing the royal blue of the military under a dark coat.
"You're the local alchemist?" he asks. Those dark eyes size you up; some well meaning villager told him about you at the train station you bet. Soon though, he's going to notice something you wish he wouldn't…
"Yeah," you tell him, straightening up. The blustery wind chooses that moment to knock your wide-brimmed sun hat from your head, letting it flap and choke you where it is still anchored to your neck.
"You're…" The words die in his throat, those eyes once cold and calculating now blown wide with surprise.
"Ishvalan?" you say.
Long white hair, tanned skin, and red eyes. You know it's a shock. It's taken your village years to get used to the idea.
"I hadn't noticed," you quip. "You mean, I don't fit in?" you ask, mock gasping.
"But Ishva…" His mouth hanging open is priceless. You know how crazy this seems.
"Ishavalans don't do alchemy? Yeah, when they live in Ishval. I was adopted," you tell him, moving over to the gate. "I only look Ishvalan. My country is Amestrian, I can assure you."
Your adopted mother had been great. She had found you on a mission trip to Ishval, abandoned, and kept you as her own. You had only heard of the place, but never been. Instead, she had taught you her culture – alchemy.
But then, she had died suddenly last year. Your grief was more than you could bear sometimes.
"The file didn't specify," he tells you, regaining his composure. "So, you do earth alchemy?"
"Obviously," you tell him, sweeping your hand over the garden. Your raised beds, only seconds using alchemy when it would have been hours of back-breaking work.
"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Mustang," he tells you. "I've been sent out to scout for new alchemists to work for the state."
"I'm Nijah."
You start to tell him that you're not interested, but he did come all this way.
"Would you like some tea?" you ask, opening the gate.
"Yes," he says, following you into your cottage.
Your home was nothing special. It leaked in the living room when it rained too much. It was drafty in the winter and could be stifling in the summer. However, it had been your home for about twenty years now.
As you prepared the tea, he spoke to you about coming to take the national exam and becoming a state alchemist. You knew the requirements. You also knew that Central would freak if you showed up.
As if Mustang could sense this thought he said, "On a more personal note, it would be nice to have some young blood come up there and shake things up."
"Hm, nice, but I don't think its for me," you tell him, sipping your tea delicately.
A cold look comes over his face. "Do you want to be stuck in this overgrown field forever?" he asks.
You remain quiet.
"I noticed that your mother died, noted in your file. You have no ties to this place," he tells you, his voice softening. "Being a dog of the military isn't so bad. If you become a state alchemist, you can do your own research and experiments. You would get paid," he added, looking pointedly at the growing number of cracks in the walls.
"I'll think about it," you tell him with finality. You both finish your tea in silence. He's stubborn and persistent, but he's right, you think.
"When you get to Central, contact me here," he says, pressing a card into your hands. You smile. He is confident that you're going to show.
"I haven't said I'll come," you tell him.
"You haven't said you won't either. I can see it in your eyes. You're like me," he tells you.
You walk him to the gate.
"You haven't told me your power," you say. You had noticed the alchemical circles on his pristine white gloves but hadn't given them much thought because you couldn't recognize the symbols.
He snaps his right fingers and a small flame appears.
"Flame alchemy," he says, extinguishing the fire.
Now it is your turn to stand, open-mouthed in shock.
"I'll see you in Central," Mustang tells you as he leaves.
You stand at your gate for a long time, clutching the card he gave you with his contact information.
Roy Mustang.
You've got yourself a challenge, you think.