Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

Chapter 4: Flame and Fullmetal

Colonel Roy Mustang snapped his fingers, sending a wave of alchemical flame washing over the trio of black-robed wizards reducing them nearly to ashes. His nose wrinkled at the familiar stench of scorched flesh. "Damn Brits," he muttered as he scanned the hallway. "So outdated, with their foolish wand-waving and silly incantations. Lieutenant Hawkeye!"

"Yes, sir!" his aide called, snapping a shot from her handgun, punching a quarter-sized hole in the facemask and forehead of another Death Eater, clearing out the last of the attackers in Central Headquarters, located beneath the Capitol Building of Washington, D.C.

The nerve center of the Magical United States of America had been under siege for four days now. Luckily, it was in preparation for this sort of situation that the Founding Fathers had established a permanent garrison of the top-secret Alchemic Division of the Army at Central.

"What's the situation from outside?"

A dark-haired, bespectacled young soldier poked his head into the hallway from a room, inside of which several other troops were stationed around a large radio array. "Comms just went down, Colonel," Master Sergeant Kain Fuery reported, the harsh fluorescent lighting shining off the three golden chevrons stitched onto the right upper arm of his blue uniform.

"Che," Mustang muttered, snapping again as he saw another masked head poke around the corner of the end of the hallway. The spark ignited, channeling down a tunnel of highly oxygenated air saturated with methane and hydrogen, sending a wave of flame down the hallway and causing the Death Eater to hurriedly retreat back around the corner. "Alright, Sergeant. Keep me posted and let me know when you get through to General Grumman. Breda! How're we doing on ammo?"

"Sir, we're beginning to run low!" the stocky, heavyset Second Lieutenant reported after rummaging briefly through the orderly array of weapons and ammunition laid out on a table inside Mustang's main office. "At the rate the past few days have been going, we have enough for about five more hours before we run out. Supplies are getting low too. Maybe a day's worth of food and drink for the group we have holed up here. Dunno how things are 'round the rest of Central, can't say for certain 'till comms get back up."

"Roger that," Mustang replied. "Sergeant Brosh, Lieutenant Ross, take over my position! Lieutenant Hawkeye, you're relieved also." The blonde sergeant and the dark-haired lieutenant saluted, grabbing sufficient weapons and ammo from the table before crouch-running into the hallway, avoiding spell-fire as they took up positions behind the barricade, allowing Mustang and the First Lieutenant to duck back into the room, where they could rest in relative safety from the Death Eaters.

"Falman," the Colonel called as he removed his uniform jacket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, making sure to remove his ignition-cloth gloves before doing so in order not to soak the source of his fire alchemy. "Give me a sitrep on the situation in general. Any word from London about why the goddamn Death Eaters are attack America, of all places?"

"No, sir," intelligence expert Warrant Officer Vato Falman replied, scanning the mass of papers and reports scattered on his desk. "I've been compiling all the reports we received from all the other areas of HQ before communications went dark. From what's come in so far, it seems like the Ministry in Britain's fallen. The leader of the Death Eaters is Voldemort, a.k.a. Tom Riddle, who's apparently come back from the dead, which is impossible-"

"Unless he wasn't dead in the first place," Mustang concluded. "I see what you're getting at. At any rate, if the Brits have failed, we need to get out of here. If they've already beaten the group of incompetent bastards they called the Ministry, we can't count on their Aurors to come stick these guys into jail. We can't hold out forever if they've got free reign around Europe."

"How do we get out of here, then?" Hawkeye asked. "The only way is down the hallway, and that's where the Death Eaters are coming from."

Roy grinned a feral grin. "Don't underestimated me," he growled, pulling a pair of black leather gloves from the pockets of his jacket, donning them instead of his white ignition cloth gloves he used for his flame alchemy. "Just because I'm called the Flame Alchemist doesn't mean that's all I can do. I passed the State Alchemist exam, after all!"

With a crackle of alchemic energy, Mustang clapped his hands together, slapping them against the floor. A simple trapdoor appeared, and he yanked it open with a grunt as his subordinates gathered their equipment. Fuery destroyed the large radio with a small shaped charge, slinging on a backpack radio in its place. Falman swept the papers and reports into a briefcase, slinging it over his shoulder and grabbing his guns from the table. Breda slung the rest of the supplies onto his back in a large pack, and Hawkeye expertly reloaded all her weapons with spell canisters, holstering three revolvers, two semi-automatic pistols, and slinging a rifle over her shoulder.

"Sergeant Brosh! Lieutenant Ross!" Mustang barked, already halfway down the ladder leading into the tunnel he had created using alchemy. "Let's go, we're leaving."

"Yes, sir!" they called back, laying suppressive fire down the hallway as they retreated into the room. Slamming the doors to Mustang's office shut, they piled tables, chairs, any furniture they could to delay the Death Eaters and buy themselves time to escape.

Less than five minutes later, the doors were blasted inward and black-cloaked Death Eaters rushed into the room, wands drawn. They were greeted by an empty chamber, a destroyed radio, and tiny, fold-like imperfections on the floor.

"…Colonel?" Fuery asked as they traversed the dark hallway, a lantern swinging from his belt, casting long ominous shadows against the walls of the tunnel. "What do we do now?"

Mustang's heels continued to click against the roughly-hewn floor as he contemplated the young Master Sergeant's question. "Falman," he said, addressing the Warrant Officer. "Tell me everything we know about the Death Eaters' leader, the so-called Lord Voldemort." His voice was filled with distain.

"Yes, sir," the intel officer said. Rummaging through his briefcase, he pulled out a sheaf of papers, scanning through them quickly. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort, attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland. During school, it is known that he made close alliances with people who eventually became the inner circle of his Death Eaters. Upon graduating, one of the first things he did was to seek out and murder his mundane family, since he absolutely loathed non-magical people. He took on the name 'Lord Voldemort,' which is a partial anagram of his name, and began his attacks a few years later. He and his Death Eaters killed many non-magical families and a few well-respected magical families as well before killing Lily and James Potter. James Potter was a high-ranking Auror, and he and his wife were known to have defied Riddle many times in the past. Although they were both killed, when Riddle tried to kill their one year old son, Harry, his spell somehow rebounded, supposedly killing him instead and leaving a lightning-shaped scar on the child's head. Three years ago he apparently returned from the dead using a Dark ritual, and has been building up followers and strength again, probably to reattempt what he failed at the first time."

"So he's a power-hungry bastard with almost no care for human life," Mustang snarled in anger. "I'll tell you what we're going to do, Sergeant Fuery. We're going to kill Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Well said!" boomed a familiar voice from down the tunnel, and all who were present paled. With a crackle of alchemy, a door appeared in the wall, swinging open to reveal a hulking figure clad in the uniform of the army and three teenagers wearing civilian clothing. "It's good to see you again, Colonel Mustang!" the man said again, his voice echoing down the tunnel.

Mustang suppressed the urge to roll his eye at the man's antics. However annoying he may be, the Strong Arm Alchemist Major Alex Louis Armstrong was certainly a valuable addition to their motley band. "Likewise, Major Armstrong," he said, before turning to the three teenagers.

The shortest one had blonde hair and startling golden eyes, wearing a bright red traveling cloak with an intricate symbol embroidered on the back and unmarked white gloves. A silver watch chain hung from his breast pocket. Mustang again resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Fullmetal," he said sternly, addressing the youngest State Alchemist. "You're out of uniform again."

Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, shrugged nonchalantly. "I figured that if I looked like a civilian, it would easier to escape. Those black-cloaked bastards are basically targeting military only right now, and it was pretty easy to just get out of HQ without getting hurt. Right, Al, Winry?"

His younger brother Alfonse nodded sheepishly and said, "We have our uniforms in our bags, Colonel."

The girl, Winry, tapped a wrench impatiently against her thigh. "What I want to know right now though, is what the hell's going on? Why are there British wizards attacking us? I thought we had an alliance with the Ministry?"

"The Minister in London has fallen," Mustang said bluntly. "You remember Tom Riddle? You learned about him while studying for the state alchemist exam, right? Well, he wasn't dead, and now he's back, intent on world domination."

"Dammit!" Ed swore, ducking a swing from Winry's wrench. "Oi, Winry, what was that for!?"

"Watch your language!" Winry snapped. Turning to Mustang again, she asked him, "What are you planning to do, Colonel?" Although she wasn't technically a part of the military, Winry served as an automail mechanic for many of the soldiers and had picked up on some of the mannerisms the soldiers had for superiors.

The Colonel looked nonplussed. "Er, well…"

Hawkeye sighed in exasperation. "You didn't actually have any sort of plan beyond 'kill Voldemort', did you, sir?" she asked.

Mustang shook his head sheepishly. Hawkeye rolled her eyes. "Warrant Officer Falman, as intelligence officer, what would you do in this situation?"

Falman yelped. "What, me?" All eyes were on him now, and the gray-haired Warrant Officer began to sweat. "Eh, well," he looked around at the group. "The force we have here isn't nearly strong enough to go directly against Riddle. Although we have three State Alchemists and another civilian alchemist, there were still enough Death Eaters to besiege Central HQ for four days. If the rest of Central has fallen and the generals are already dead, the wisest course of action would be to go into hiding. We travel around the country, looking for other groups who had the same idea. In time we should be able to amass a force large enough o pose a serious challenge to Riddle, and then we fight him."

Falman suddenly noticed the strange looks they were giving him, and he became flustered immediately. "Ah, you asked for my opinion!" he stated defensively. "All I did was give it!"

"An excellent plan," Mustang complimented, catching Falman off-guard.

"Eh?"

"It was quite well-thought out in general," Hawkeye agreed.

"Much better than what Colonel Mustang could have come up with," Ed said cheekily, nimbly dodging the Colonel's indignant swipe. "It's true!"

"Che," Mustang muttered. "Whatever. At any rate, we will follow your plan. Breda, what do we know about the British wizards' fighting styles?"

The heavy-set intelligence officer spoke up, "They almost exclusively fight with magic, as far as we can tell, sir. Due to pureblooded British wizards' superiority complex, they practically cut themselves off completely from non-magical society. Their hand-to-hand combat skills are a bare minimum, and their spells have a fairly short range. With a sniper like Lieutenant Hawkeye here, we have a large advantage over them."

"How much do they know about alchemy?" Ed asked. "I know that Nicholas Flamel was French, so the British might have some basic knowledge. The old British wizard, Fumble-whatever, tried to get apprenticed to Flamel, but the old man turned him down."

"I believe that alchemy is practiced almost exclusively in America," Armstrong rumbled. "Ironic, is it not? That one of the youngest nations in the world with roots in Europe is the only country to practice one of the oldest forms of art."

The taller, and younger, Elric brother spoke up. "Um, with all due respect, sirs, does that not mean that we should keep our abilities secret from the Death Eaters? Having the element of surprise would give us a great advantage in battle."

Mustang smirked. "Good catch, Alfonse. Sometimes I mistake you for the older brother. I mean, you already look like the older sibling, so all that remains is your maturity level, which is usually higher than that little shrimp's," he said, jerking a thumb to indicate the older but shorter brother.

Steam seemed to shoot out from Ed's ears and his face turned red. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING A SHRIMP THAT'S SO SMALL THAT THE FISHERMEN THROW HIM BACK INTO THE OCEAN BECAUSE HE'S TOO SMALL TO MAKE A DECENT MEAL? HUH?"

Everyone present chuckled at the familiar banter between the Flame Alchemist and the Fullmetal Alchemist. Ed finally calmed down sufficiently to form a coherent statement. "Where are we going, anyway?" he asked Mustang.

"Well, the plan is to look for other survivors from Central," Mustang said, "but we're going to pick someone up first."

Ed and Alfonse looked a bit confused, but all the other soldiers nodded knowingly as they figured out what Mustang was talking about.

A few minutes of walking later, Mustang caught sight of a glint of metal on the wall and stopped. "Here we are," he announced, grabbing hold of the steel ladder bolted to the side of the tunnel, leading up to a wooden trapdoor. "I had this connected a few years back in case I needed to come here in the event of an emergency," he explained as he climbed, the others following him one by one.

They emerged from the tunnel into a large room with shelves lining the walls, their shelves stacked with canned goods and other sultry items. Realization dawned on Ed and Al now. "This is-!"

The door to the storage room opened and a blonde man in a wheelchair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and a stubble on his chin, entered, closing the door gently behind him. A grin lit up his face, and he said, "Yo, Colonel Mustang, Lieutenant Breda, Sergeant Fuery, Warrant Officer Falman, Lieutenant Hawkeye. So you guys got out of HQ okay, huh. Been worried sick for you guys ever since we heard that Central was under siege. Store's been boarded up tight for four days now. What's up?"

Mustang smiled at the man, paralyzed from the waist down due to a debilitating injury that had all but severed his spine. "I'm here to recall you to duty," he declared, causing the man to jerk in shock. "That is, if you'll accept. We've got some things to do, and your skills will come in handy."

The man's grin widened, and he pulled a lighter from his pocket, lighting his cigarette. "With pleasure," he said after taking a long drag, blowing smoke nonchalantly into the air.

"Then allow me to be the first to welcome you back to service," Mustang said as the rest of the soldiers broke into smiles as well. "Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc. It's good to have you back."

Half an hour later, they were back in the tunnel, having stocked up on supplies from Havoc's general store, as well as more weapons and ammo that Havoc had obtained secretly from his contacts in the black market. Alfonse had volunteered to push the wheelchair to give Havoc a rest, since he had been working for the past half hour helping with the supplies.

"Well, sir?" Havoc asked, grinding out the stub of cigarette. He was sorely tempted to pull out and light up another one, but a frosty look from Lieutenant Hawkeye stayed his hand. He sighed. Apparently being paralyzed didn't mean the Lieutenant would be any less strict about his smoking habits. "Where to next? Surely picking up little old me wasn't your final destination."

"No," Mustang admitted. "I was going to check around Central to see if any other groups of soldiers had the same idea." He was going to continue, but a burst of static sounded from Fuery's backpack radio.

"Comms are back up!" Fuery announced, grabbing the headset receiver and placing it to his ear and mouth. Listening intently, his eyes widened. Mustang frowned. Whatever the Master Sergeant was hearing wasn't good news.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Fuery shook his head. "Bad news, Colonel," he said, pulling off the headset. "Better hear it for yourself." Turning on the radio's speakers, he adjusted a dial to allow the voice speaking to reach their ears loud and clear. Mustang grimaced as he heard the distinctive British accent in the gruff voice.

"...any groups of resistance, surrender immediately. Your leaders are dead and Lord Voldemort has taken over the Magical United States of America!"

"Dammit!" Mustang cursed. "Well, there goes that plan." An idea struck, and he looked at Fuery. "What frequency are they broadcasting on?"

Fuery looked at a small screen. "The Death Eaters are sending their message on the general frequency."

"Dial it to the classified-only frequency," Mustang instructed, "and send out a general call. The British are pureblood supremacists, they won't know how to operate a radio apart from the bare basics. They'll have no idea how to listen to an encrypted frequency."

Fuery nodded. "Yes, sir!" Pulling the radio off his back, he set it on the ground, turning several dials, flipping switches, and punching buttons in a blindingly fast and dizzyingly confusing sequence. "Classified-only frequency reached!" He reached for a microphone and pressed a switch. "This is Mustang Unit. Repeat, this is Mustang Unit. Any active units in Central, please respond. Repeat, any active units in Central, please respond."

Static crackled as the group waited for a reply, and after a few minutes a voice spoke. "Mustang Unit, this is Miles Unit. Repeat, this is Miles Unit. We're holed up in the East Wing of Central HQ, coordinate grid four-eight-oh-niner. Backup would be appreciated. Over."

Mustang nodded to Fuery, who quickly replied, "Miles Unit, this is Mustang Unit. We're on our way, hang tight, over."

"Mustang Unit, this is Miles Unit. 'Preciate the help. Please hurry, supplies are running low. Over."

"Roger that, Miles Unit. Mustang Unit is ten minutes out. Over."

"Acknowledged. Miles Unit out."

Fuery hung up the radio, slinging it over his back again as Mustang snapped on his white ignition cloth gloves. "Let's go," he said as his soldiers checked their equipment and weapons. "I know Miles, he's a good man. We're gonna go help him out."

"Roger that!" the group replied, setting off at a brisk run, Mustang in front as he led them towards the position of the beleaguered Miles Unit.

Major Miles cursed as he ducked beneath a glowing green spell, firing two shots from his handgun. They punched through the Death Eater's mask, shattering it and the man's skull, leaving him facedown on the floor, a growing pool of blood slowly spreading beneath the man's head. Miles ignored the corpse as he ducked behind the barricade, which bucked and splintered as another barrage of spells smashed into it. "Report!" he barked, reloading quickly.

"Sir! Reinforcements are coming. Mustang Unit will be here soon, ETA ten minutes!"

Miles allowed a small smile to spread over his face. His red eyes glinted under his tinted glasses as he looked around at the group of about twenty soldiers under his command. "Good," he said, popping over the barricade and taking down another advancing Death Eater before ducking again. "Let's hold out for another ten minutes then! If we can stay alive long enough for Mustang to get here, we'll be fine."

"Yes, sir!" his soldiers chorused, returning to battle with renewed vigor. It still wasn't enough, though, as the overwhelming numbers of the Death Eaters eventually became too great for the soldiers to handle. The masked wizards were a mere fifteen feet from the barricade and still slowly advancing with a sharp snap sounded as roaring flames washed through the corridor, targeting only Death Eaters in pinpoint accuracy. Death Eaters began dropping like flies as a series of gunshots sounded, the staccato rattle of gunfire prompting his own men to begin firing at the flanked Death Eaters. In moments, there wasn't a single living Death Eater in sight.

Miles wiped sweat off his brown, running his hand through his distinct white hair as Colonel Mustang stepped into view. "Sir!" he barked, snapping to attention.

Mustang chuckled. "At ease, Major," he said. Bending down to pick up a discarded wand, he ran his fingers down the wood. "You heard the broadcast a while back, didn't you," he said.

Miles nodded. "Looks like Central's done for, sir," he said.

Mustang slowly nodded, his hand closing into a fist around the wand, crushing it to pieces. It exploded in a wave of energy that was easily absorbed by the alchemical array inked onto the back of his gloves. "We're getting out of here, Major," he said, dropping the useless fragments of wood to the floor. "Your men have five minutes to get ready."

"Yes, sir," Miles said. Turning to his men, he called, "Five minutes! You've got five minutes to pack up everything. We're leaving." Turning back to Mustang, he said, "I don't usually question the orders of superiors, but why exactly are we abandoning the defense of Central, Colonel?"

"Most of the defense is done for," Mustang replied solemnly. "High Command is either dead or taken prisoner, and the rest of the forces here at Central can't hold out for much longer if they've already infiltrated far enough to get at High Command. We can't defend HQ any more if they're going to be attacking from all sides. The only option left is to pull out and regroup."

Miles nodded in understanding as he and his men followed Mustang Unit into the tunnel, Armstrong sealing the entrance behind them. "What about the rest of the survivors?" he asked.

Mustang considered a bit before turning to Fuery. "Send out another general call to all surviving forces on the classified frequency. Tell them to evacuate Central as quickly as possible and rendezvous with us at grid square Golf-Lima-Oscar-six-two-oh-seven."

Fuery quickly did so, receiving a few static-filled replies. "That's the best I can do," the glasses-wearing communications officer replied. "Comms are pretty shaky right now."

Mustang nodded. "Alright. Let's move then, no point sticking around here any longer."

I have so much to say about this chapter, but I can't bring myself to write about anything so trivial in comparison to what happened today.

This morning at 9:40 AM EST, a gunman walked into an elementary school in the small town of Newtown, Connecticut. When the situation ended, twenty children between the ages of 5 and 10 were dead, along with seven others. The gunman killed himself. I don't know what caused the twenty year old gunman to commit such a horrendous act, and I don't know how much pain the families of those killed in the shooting are feeling right now. But I want to show my support for those families who are suffering today. My heart goes out to those who have lost a loved one today. It is truly a tragedy that so many lives, just beginning to flower, were cut short today. Rest in peace, all those children and teachers who lost their lives today. May God be with everyone in Newtown, Connecticut as they attempt to recover from this horrifying tragedy that occurred.

~fokker333