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Chapter Four: Familiar Faces
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STILL DAY ONE
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In the hallway, just a few doors away from Vertrag's office, a soldier each on either side of Roy pressed harder down on his handcuffed wrists as he thrashed, eyes seeing nothing but red red RED—
The first lieutenant punched him in the stomach, in the exact same spot Vertrag had targeted before, and as he struggled to breathe, the soldiers were able to force him to march forward a few steps more before he started to resist their hold once again.
"I'll just knock him out," the first lieutenant grunted, and Roy felt the man grasp one of his shoulders from behind him—
He leaned forward as far as he could and threw his head back, making the first lieutenant stumble forward and get his nose smashed in a headbutt. In quick succession, he used his body weight to slam the ones flanking his left and right side (both hitting the walls after the impact) before jumping over his handcuffed wrists and running ahead. Heart pounding.
"GET HIM!" someone shouted. Grunts and pounding footsteps answered the order.
Powered by adrenaline, Roy attempted to jerk his arms far apart, but was unable to break the chain in between his cuffs through mere strength. Ignoring his aching head, he tried desperately to think of a place to hide in until the soldiers have been fooled into completely losing him. After which, he could then grab Hughes, get him to a safer place where they could talk, and get takeout dinner together like the old times.
Urrrrrgh. Time to get the soldiers off his back first.
He made a series of turns down branching hallways in an attempt to lose his pursuers, and their voices grew softer and softer as the distance between them increased. At one point, he accidentally slid on a smooth patch of the floor and knocked the edge of a huge table placed by the wall, then he recovered quickly to sprint a bit more before taking a right turn that turned out to be a dead end.
A dead end with a janitor's supply closet.
Inspiration struck him as he halted, and then he peeked his head out to the bigger hall and began loudly shouting insults about how slow and pathetic the soldiers' asses were. Luckily for him, that part of the building didn't seem to have any other soldiers working during the late hours of the night.
As he heard the faintest sound of running, he opened the closet door, grabbed and unsealed a three-liter bottle of bleach, spilling some of the liquid inside and allowing it to flow out past the doorway, before using both of his hands to hurl the bottle back into the closet, making sure it created plenty noise as all the mops and buckets came down, the tight space amplifying the din. Slamming the door shut, he quickly went back as he heard the soldiers' voices getting louder (and therefore closer), and dove underneath the table as he reached it, then he hoisted himself up by wedging his feet into the bottom corners before bracing his hands against the top, as far apart as the handcuffs would let him.
The instant he was settled, the soldiers entered from an adjacent hallway a bit further away, then thundered past the table. The first lieutenant's voice in particular was growling in frustration, as he appeared to be the one leading the chase.
Suddenly, the first lieutenant stopped. In response, the two soldiers with him followed suit.
Roy's heart drummed against his chest, and hoped that they didn't see the table shake ever so slightly.
And then he heard their footsteps shuffle to the right and into the dead end. Roy released a sigh of relief, came down from his hiding place and followed after them, peeking around the last turn first to see that they were all pointing guns at the supply closet.
Hah! Amateurs. Not even one bothered to cover his teammates' backs. Vertrag did a rather poor job at training his direct subordinates.
The first lieutenant glared suspiciously at the spilled bleach as he inched closer. He knocked on the closet door, glowered some more at the bleach as if it called him a nasty name, and then called out for Roy to cooperate so nobody would get hurt. He then spat on the poor spilled bleach for emphasis.
In the time it took for the first lieutenant to threaten, Roy had come forward and hit the backs of the necks of the two other soldiers, whack whack, knocking them unconscious. He clasped both of his hands together into a ball and bashed the first lieutenant in the face as he finally turned to check on the noise, and the man also went down, dropping to the floor with a thump.
Roy took a moment to breathe, surveying the damage he had inflicted. He shrugged and set aside their weapons. He took out a piece of chalk, drew and activated an array on the floor, and then he hovered his handcuffs above it to break them. Next, he drew another array next to the door to stretch out the dimensions of the supply closet, so Roy would be able to fit three people inside. After which, he dragged their bodies and locked them in with alchemy.
He brushed his hair out of his face, his fingers trembling between the strands.
He hadn't realized he was walking backwards until he hit a vertical surface and felt the cool temperature of the wall seeping uncomfortably under his skin. And then, the overwhelming fatigue and stress of the past eight days crashed down upon him like a raging waterfall. Migraine pounded behind his eyes. Shivering, his knees buckled and he slid down onto the floor.
A choked sound escaped from his mouth and he immediately clamped a hand over it.
He had no right to cry.
After all, this was his entire fault, wasn't it? Wasn't it?!
Seven days. Everything he had ever worked for, invested in, poured his heart, sweat, and blood in…just…
…just…
Gone.
Fucking GONE.
If anyone had the right to cry, it would be the people he cared about. People who…
People he had shared a laugh with.
People he had protected.
People whose lives he knew he had influenced greatly.
People who…
…who didn't know that he should have existed.
He held up his wrist, glaring at the array that had been tattooed on it. The sight of the black ink tainting his skin made his blood boil.
What was he doing? There was no time for self-pity! A few hours in and he was already starting to collapse.
There had to be a way to climb out of this shithole he had foolishly fallen into.
He dug his hand in his left pocket and fingered the coarse texture of his ignition gloves, which he was thankful for Vertrag forgetting about.
It should be easy to burn the tattoo, shouldn't it? Sever the link tethering him to the contract?
The glove sliding onto his right hand offered him a sense of comfort. His thumb and index fingers skimmed against each other, checking that, yes, the familiar piece of cloth was present. No, the glove hadn't begun fading. Yes, it was still whole and real and…and existing.
Snap!
A thin line of fire jumped from his digits and targeted the middle of the tattoo. Roy bit his lip as he awaited his skin to start blistering, eroding the inked abomination away—
Nothing happened.
He sensed the heat, sure, but the fire…
Snap!
Fire leaped again, and fizzled out into smoke the exact moment it touched the array.
Snap!
Third time. Just slightly more intense than the last. Same results. Not even the faintest sign of a burn marring his skin.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Fourth, fifth, sixth.
He was about to do a seventh try before he arrived to the conclusion that the deal array couldn't be tampered with.
What was it the bastard had said? Something like…the more blood beneath the array, the stronger the deal would be and the more severe the consequences when either one of them breached the contract. Roy couldn't remember the exact phrasing, which was rather dangerous, as he had quickly learned the value of wordplay in this whole contract alchemy business.
The ideal solution would be to lop off three-fourths of his lower arm, cutting off the array entirely and the blood connection to it. But would that count as breaking the deal?
Why not simply kill Vertrag?
After all, he was alone in his office right now. What the hell could stop Roy from roasting him?
It could be a trap, the pragmatic side of him said. He's one of the few people who have been able to manipulate you. He could have anticipated your escape. You're the Flame Alchemist and he just conveniently forgot about your gloves? Suspicious, wasn't it?
Because if Vertrag knew fully well about it and decided to just let Roy keep the most powerful weapon he owned then, well, that's telling quite a lot. It was like he was telling Roy that he wasn't afraid of him and that his gloves were useless. Which in turn technically implied that Vertrag thought Roy himself was useless.
But if he did forget, then ambush him, his authoritative side ordered. Strike true. Kill him before he kills you.
But then…why hadn't Vertrag done so the moment Roy arrived? Odd that he would do all that and just have him arrested to be thrown into prison. Any self-respecting strategist would do well to eliminate any obstacle as soon as the opportunity arose.
Which left two possibilities: either Vertrag wouldn't kill him, or he couldn't.
Info.
Roy needed more info.
He could still trust his not-best friend.
Right?
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/*/
WHO.
…Is. Roy. MUSTANG?!
Folders upon folders of the profiles of colonels stationed at different headquarters were strewn across the floor. And Maes STILL hadn't found him.
How old was the man anyway? Thirty-five was a safe age assumption for a colonel, right? So minus the probable number of military years the man served in case the folder wasn't updated—but no, wait…Mustang had declared that they studied together in the academy and that they were BEST FRIENDS, even (Maes decided to cast the benefit of the doubt that Mustang was drunk, or at the very least, confused), which meant that the man was at least close to his age. If so, then he was looking at the correct stack of records regarding the colonels the military had accumulated within the past five years.
But Mustang. Just. Wasn't. There.
What if 'Roy Mustang' wasn't his real name? Did he have to scrutinize each picture and…
…Urgh…what if this turned out fruitless like all the other—?
Cursing, Maes scooped up the other folders and replaced them on the shelves with ease, remembering where he had taken them from. He then scooped the stack he had set aside and started his way back to his office, remembering to lock the door in the process and to check that the pick and tension wrench he had used was still safely in his pocket.
As he briskly walked back, the utterly pitiable look Mustang gave him before the man entered Vertrag's office flashed before Maes' eyes.
…Interesting.
First, Vertrag specifically ordered him to bring the guy if they so happened to meet. Second, Mustang met him within the next twenty-four hours. And third—
The office door creaked as he entered. He had pushed it close and taken a few steps forward before it occurred to him that the lights weren't on.
The room was bathed in darkness, but Maes felt a slight shift in the air and he whirled as he flung the knife, which had dropped naturally into his hand, towards the person in the corner.
Maes wasn't expecting said person to dodge that quickly, as if his knife throwing action was anticipated. Next thing he knew, he was pinned against the wall, both biceps held in a tight grip above his head.
Damn his poor reflexes. Kept getting poorer each day.
He thrashed, growling, "GET OFF—!"
"Shush, Hughes," the person said in a quiet voice.
Maes recognized it, and he found himself calming down against his will. Which was weird. "You're…Colonel Mustang."
"I mean you no harm," Mustang said while keeping Maes immobile so he couldn't defend against an attack like a stab or a brutal punch. "I hid in case you were him, okay?"
Him? "By him, you mean—"
"Yes," Mustang agreed quickly, appearing to not even have left room for the thought that Maes could either be pertaining to his bathroom-warbling neighbor or Vertrag. "I'm going to release you. Please don't panic, alright?"
"At least turn on the lights," Maes said as he felt the grip on his arms relax.
There was a click, and Maes blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. By the time he could see properly again, Mustang was back in the corner, watching him. His hair was sticking out in all directions, his forehead was slicked with sweat, and his breathing came out in short, quiet gasps.
"What the hell are you even doing here?!" Maes exclaimed as he pointed at the man. Why couldn't Mustang have hidden somewhere else? Seriously. "Weren't you with Vert—I…I mean, Colonel Vertrag?"
Instead of answering him immediately, Mustang's eyes drifted to the folders Maes had dropped to the floor in his panic, no doubt reading the titles. "Investigating me so soon?"
Maes froze.
Mustang sharply threw his gaze Maes' way once again. "What did you find?"
"Nothing," Maes replied honestly, because why not? It would keep the man talking. "You're not a colonel, aren't you? Unless you were related to a major named Ford and gained the uniform at some point, altered the embroidery on the epaulets you know—?"
"So it's true."
The words were released in soft whisper, delivered in a defeated sort of tone that Maes suspected he wasn't supposed to have heard at all.
He pushed his glasses up his nose with his ring finger. "What was true?"
Mustang dropped onto the seat behind the desk opposite Maes'. "I don't exist in this world."
Maes did not understand. "Ah."
Mustang nodded once, more than likely misinterpreting him. "Yep."
"I'm hallucinating then."
Mustang's tired expression drained, giving way to annoyance. Pretty soon, Maes speculated, they'd be bantering like old friends who hadn't seen each other for more than a decade, and then, before the other even realized it, Maes would have extracted every juicy secret there was from him. From parentage down to the man's toilet routine.
"First of all," Mustang said, holding up his index finger, unaware that he was falling into Maes' beautifully crafted trap. "I am very much real."
"But you said you don't exist—"
"In this world! But—"
"Exist: verb, means to have real being. What you said, sir, was rather contradictory—"
"Oh. My. God."
"—but since you factored in the phrase 'in this world'…
"...Why do I put up with this?"
"THAT could only lead me to one conclusion…"
"And that would be?"
"You," Maes said in a playful tone, "are just a figment of my imagination!"
He waited expectantly for the other man's laughter, or maybe a comeback. Or maybe even a standing ovation! But then he noticed that Mustang's reaction was none of those choices, making him halt his tirade.
Mustang was watching him with utter horror, like Maes had grown a second head, or had knifed him thrice without preamble. He then inhaled deeply through his nose, as if some kind of harsh realization dawned upon him. Next thing Maes saw, Mustang had buried his face in his hands, and he realized he had apparently hit a nerve.
With regret pooling at the pit of his stomach, he opened his mouth to apologize, only for the other man to speak, his words muffled by his hands, "You're not him." Mustang's head bowed lower as his hands travelled to rest at the back of his neck. "God, you're not him."
"I-I'm…" Maes stuttered, rather surprised at the show of vulnerability. Talk about mood whiplash. "I'm not who?"
"You're not Maes Hughes." And before Maes could refute that statement by affirming that he could show his birth certificate, the man's shoulders sagged further. "My Maes Hughes."
Maes stopped. He stared and stared and wondered what one would say to that. Because, wow, surely this man knew that there could be multiple people named 'Maes Hughes' in Amestris. Secondly, there should be no way Mustang would mistake Maes for his Maes Hughes, whoever that could be. Differences in appearance, background, attitude…did the guy just forget about that? Unless Maes had a secret twin brother who may have coincidentally shared a lot of things with him.
Nah. His birth certificate plainly stated he was the only one who was born to his parents on his birthday.
I don't exist in this world, the man had said, looking all the while like he had been forced to run a million miles. And then there was the hiding in Maes' office.
His pondering was rudely interrupted by three knocks on the door. Actually, it was less of three knocks and more of a BAM BAM BAM.
That was when Maes connected the dots: Mustang had escaped. From Vertrag.
"OPEN THE DOOR THIS INSTANT!" someone shouted.
The door was actually unlocked, but Maes didn't bother to shout back that they could let themselves in at any time.
"Just a second!" he said instead, as he gestured his hand for Mustang, who had snapped up and assumed a fighting stance, to crouch under the desk. Their eyes met for a beat, and Maes read confusion and hope in Mustang's.
BAM. "WE'RE BREAKING THIS DOWN!"
Maes strode forward as Mustang dove below the desk, and threw the door wide open once he could no longer see the other.
"First Lieutenants Gob and Olsen, sirs." Maes saluted as the two soldiers scowled at him. Scary creatures, these two soldiers, with their buff arms and buff legs and their entire general appearance resembling frustrated gorillas. "How may I help you?"
"Second Lieutenant Maes Hughes." Gob sneered. Maes resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You are under arrest for harboring a criminal."
"What criminal? And under whose commands?" Maes leaned against the doorway, making sure that he didn't betray Mustang's hiding place by keeping his eyes pointed forward. "Colonel Vertrag? Please tell him that he's barking up the wrong tree."
"Didn't say." A beefy hand shot out, clutched Maes' collar, and lifted him up like a rag doll. "But orders are orders."
"You can't do that," Maes wheezed as he clawed at the arm. "Not even a warrant of arrest?"
His complaint was met with a smile full of yellow teeth and the smell of tobacco. "Orders," Gob whispered before his grip loosened and he began shrieking at the knife protruding from between the bones of his forearm.
The moment his feet touched the ground, Maes crouched, rolled, and chucked three knives at Olsen. Olsen dodged to the side, but was too slow to avoid getting three nicks in his shoulder. He roared, charging at Maes like a bull, arm pulled back. Another arm, Gob's, took Maes by surprise as it squeezed around his midsection, arms and all, forcing the breath from his body. He gritted his teeth, braced himself for the punch—
Wham! Mustang tackled Olsen to the ground and pinned him with his legs, sat on the man's chest and proceeded to punch him. Maes, on the other hand, wriggled his arm out and elbowed Gob in the space between two ribs. He gripped the man's forearm as he was released, spun on the ball of his foot as he twisted under the extended limb, then used the man's weight against him by guiding him into losing his balance as Maes simply slid forward.
Once Gob was on the floor, Maes leaned down, still applying pressure to the twisted arm so the man would be unable to stand. "Payback for all those years of bullying me."
He got a snarl in response, though it was cut short by a swift kick to the neck, knocking Gob out. It was a rather poor payback, but Maes liked to think of himself as merciful, that way. He had to stop the bloody arm from bleeding though.
He raised his head to see how Mustang was doing, and was rather impressed to find that Olsen was unconscious. And had one of his teeth knocked out.
Mustang met his gaze. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Maes affirmed. "Uh, so, where are we going to hide them for the time being?"
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/*/
Another supply closet, that's where.
"It appears I'm also being hunted down," Hughes said as Roy transmuted the knob. "C'mon. We, uh, need to talk."
Rather surprised at the sudden seriousness the man was displaying, Roy followed as Hughes led the way through the halls and into the closed cafeteria, sneaking out the backdoor, and getting in a car that was parked near the exit.
Their entire walk through the building was thankfully undisturbed, but awkward. Not once had Hughes looked back at him. For a couple of minutes, Roy had a suspicion that he was being led back to Vertrag once again, but then he noticed that Hughes wasn't acting like that's what he had in mind. He would do things like check around every corner, look left and right at intersections, peek into open offices before passing them, etc.
For some odd reason, Roy noticed, Vertrag with all his powers as a colonel, still hadn't made sure that he hadn't escaped and had been safely locked behind bars. The two first lieutenants apparently didn't count, since they were specifically targeting Hughes. That was…rather baffling to say the least. Vertrag seemed to be the type of person to gloat and lord his 'achievements' over another.
Why? What assurance could Vertrag have that meant he didn't feel the need to be hot on Roy's trail, guarding his every action?
"Inside."
His train of thought derailed as he found himself getting inside in response to Hughes' order. Hughes circled the front and took the driver's seat. The engine started, and both of them were quiet as their car passed the sergeant at the gate like any other day. With a salute to boot.
Only once they were driving through the streets of Central, did Hughes begin the questions:
"So…Colonel Roy Mustang, huh?"
"That's my name and rank," Roy confirmed.
"Real name…" Hughes paused to raise an eyebrow "Fake rank?"
"…It appears that I'm not a colonel here."
"By here, you mean 'Amestris'?"
"The world in general."
"That doesn't make any sense to me," Hughes admitted, frowning. "You're an alien?"
"No."
"Alright, alright." Hughes shifted with apparent discomfort. "Sorry for earlier, I guess."
Roy blinked. "That's…fine." He turned his head to look out his own window.
The sound of the car's engine filled the quiet that descended.
After a moment, Hughes cleared his throat and took a very deep breath. Roy knew, from incredibly agonizing experience, that Hughes was about to start singing.
He struggled not to sigh. "Just ask, alright?"
"Sure!" exclaimed the man merrily, grinning. "For starters, what do you mean about…not existing in this world?"
Cutting to the point. Roy liked that. "Well, you see, I had this little talk with Vertrag—"
Hughes let out an unexpected bark of laughter before choking out, "I get it now. You actually signed a deal with him."
"What?" Hughes asked when Roy's took too long to formulate a response. "It's smarter to not sign contracts with that two-faced bastard. Too many repercussions. Really nasty." The man gave a casual shrug. "People kept doing it though. Granted, I heard some demands were really easy but…it's like pressing your luck the more one asks, you know? Some client requests were supposed to be a piece of cake though, and he does give them what they want…but his payments…just-"
Hughes gripped the wheel and changed the subject before Roy could interrupt, "So tell me about your deal, Mustang, oh otherworldly one. What do you mean your Maes Hughes?"
Gears still turning in Roy's head as he mulled over Hughes' rant, reeling over the fact that making deals with Vertrag was apparently a thing in this world, he resorted to multitasking by telling him part of the story. "Like I said, I'm not from around here."
"Okay."
"I signed a deal—"
"Okay."
"…Because…one of the reasons I did so was that…you…" His voice withered. "…died."
"Okay."
A screeeeching sound shredded Roy's eardrums as Hughes slammed his foot on the brakes. Unable to push hard against the metal handrail in front of him fast enough, Roy's forehead was lightly acquainted with the windshield.
"Wait, wait, wait! Let me get this straight," Hughes said as Roy barely managed to keep his soul from leaving his body. "You. Made a deal. Because I. Freaking died?!"
"To be fair, it wasn't just you who died. Your death was just the beginning."
"But still! I'm hardly important, Mustang. What did you pay?"
"I—er—seven days—"
"SEVEN DAYS!" the bespectacled man hollered at the top of his lungs. "Hahahahaaaa! And to think…I believed you for a moment there!" He pointed at Roy's face. "I'm no alchemist but even I could tell that that little exchange should've been impossible! And besides, I'm alive, see?" He aggressively patted his chest and stomach area for emphasis. "You can't bring the dead back to life." He folded his arms like a child denied of dessert. "Unless I'm a zombie and nobody told me."
"And yet…" Roy gave Hughes a smirk, which he knew was unsettling to look at when coupled with his hollow gaze. "You're here in front of me. Yapping."
Hughes slouched in his seat, and Roy knew that the man was mentally asking himself why he was even humoring the stranger in the car with him. "Alright. You said a while ago that I was your best friend, right? Fine. A quick test then. What's my favorite comfort food?"
Without missing a beat, Roy answered confidently, "Quiche."
Based on the disbelief flashing across Hughes' face, Roy knew he got his full attention.
"Favorite radio drama?"
"Analiza and Fernando. Rather sappy if you ask me."
"Freaking stalker. Favorite color."
"Green."
"Tsk. Favorite fruit?"
"Green apple."
"Vegetable?"
"Spinach."
Hughes pinched the skin in between his eyebrows. "There's no way—!"
"…You clean your glasses at least ten times a day, scrubbing at them as if there was blood present that could never come off."
From his peripheral vision, Roy saw Hughes' hand drop bonelessly onto his lap.
"You always leave a light on during the night, because you are afraid that when you wake up, you'll be back on that hellish battlefield."
"…"
"You always have an extra canned good in your pack. A habit born from when you were never certain when the next supply of food would be delivered. You—"
"Enough."
Roy snapped his jaw shut with an audible click.
Hughes leaned back in his seat with a huff, keeping his face turned toward the window on his side. "How?" he mumbled to the glass.
What transpired in Ishval was too big of an event to be simply erased, that's how. Even without Roy's participation as a war hero.
And though this world's Hughes might not be his best friend, Roy had now confirmed that this was still the same Hughes who suffered guilt for his actions. But still, at the same time, Roy felt like he was chatting with a complete stranger.
He turned his gaze back to the windshield.
"You talk like you know me from the inside out—" Hughes took his glasses off and started polishing them "—but I haven't even seen you before. You must've been an excellent investigator to have found out all those things about me or—" he put his glasses back on, the lenses catching the moonlight "—you've been telling the truth."
He paused, then: "May I see your contract array?"
Without speaking, Roy pulled his sleeve up and exposed the transmutation circle for him to see.
"Tattooed on the wrist, huh?" Hughes tilted his head lower, eyes intent on the mark. "Hold on."
"What?"
"Nothing. He just didn't have the same finesse of tattooing when he drew this on you. Lines are a bit thicker…entire array is a little bigger…like he was out of drawing practice. You don't happen to have the contract you signed on paper with you?"
"No," Roy replied.
"Shame." Hughes huffed as he leaned back. "We could have brought it to a friend of mine to try figuring out the exit clause."
"There's an exit clause?!"
Hughes flicked his wrists upwards. "According to my friend."
"What does an exit clause do?"
Hughes frowned. "I don't know…we haven't even figured out mine."
Roy stiffened at the last statement, eyes widening, before slowly shifting in his seat to face the other man better. "You have a contract."
"I'll tell you about it later," Hughes promised, unaware of the mounting dread inside Roy's stomach. "Meanwhile, I'm not an alchemist so I can't read the contract array drawn on you very well—"
"Hughes…wait—"
"—so I'll have to contact that friend to decipher it for you—"
"—I—"
"— unless you can—"
"MAES. HUGHES." Roy grabbed Hughes' shoulders in a panicked motion, squeezed them in a vice-like grip. "What…why did you make a contract with him?!" He shook the baffled man twice when he didn't answer. "Tell me!"
"I—" Hughes started, raising his hands in a defensive position, but Roy's searching eyes frantically darted to the man's palms or wrists, looking for any telltale sign of the tattooed array in case they coincidentally had the same bright idea of having it marked there. Instead, with a sinking feeling, he noticed something else.
"H-Hughes," Roy stuttered, gaze drawn to the fingers. "Where's your wedding ring?"
He was shoved back, the back of his head hitting the car window. He groaned as he looked up at Hughes in astonishment, but that changed to concern when he saw the same expression mirrored, albeit coupled with terror, in the other man's face.
"What wedding ring?" Hughes asked quietly. "W-what do you mean, Mustang? I…I'm not married in your world. Right?"
Roy let the silence speak for him, too stricken with disbelief at the implication.
"Please tell me I'm right," Hughes pleaded in a wavering tone. "Please tell me—"
Roy gathered his strength to speak, keeping the volume of his voice low. "W-why haven't you talked about Gra—?"
Hughes' hand clamped over his mouth as the man's entire demeanor changed. The man leaned in as his eyes narrowed, a snarl carving an ugly, jagged line across his face, distorting his features into something grotesque. His eyes flashed with fury, lightning and fire striking as one. "Do. Not," he growled as danger bells rang in Roy's mind. "Do not speak of her name. Ever. It makes me hate her for absolutely no reason even more. Understand?!"
Numbly, Roy nodded. Hughes studied him for a moment longer, glaring at him like a tiger deprived of its food. Finally, with a long exhale, Hughes returned his hands to the wheel, pressed the foot pedal and started driving once more.
Roy, for his part, felt like he'd both just taken a step forward in getting to meet his best friend once again, and jumped a humongous leap back. He craved so desperately to ask about the finer details of Hughes' contract. Because why? Why? What could push him to create a deal? Did Gracia do something despicable? No, Gracia's practically an angel. And…what did he mean by 'hating' her?
But he couldn't ask about that for now, couldn't he? He might know Hughes, but this world's Maes Hughes didn't know him. Didn't even think of him as an acquaintance yet, much less a best friend. And Hughes valued his personal life and his fami…
Oh.
Oh.
If this world's Hughes wasn't married, then…
Where was Elicia?
"If you're that curious, you could ask her about it later," Hughes spat so bitterly, it made Roy flinch a little. "If I tell you myself, it'll make my blood boil just thinking about it. Mainly because she's a big part of it.
"And also: fuuuck Vertrag." He emphasized the statement with a hit on the steering wheel before he sharply swerved the car to the left.
"Where are we going?" Roy inquired, to dissipate the tension, as he seized the handrail.
"Safehouse. I don't know why we aren't being chased yet." A sharp glance was thrown in his direction. "Once he starts tracking us down, it's over for you and me."
"Hey, Mustang," Hughes said after a period of silence had lapsed. "Tell me a little about yourself. I find it unfair you know so much about me and I know nothing about you."
Roy blinked, rather impressed with how quickly Hughes' temper had cooled down. "Alright, what do you want to know?"
"How did we meet?"
Roy laughed a little as he rested his elbow at the window, then his face on his knuckles. "During our military academy days, we had this mini rivalry that started with you stealing the last quiche from the cafeteria."
Hughes shot him a look that screamed 'what the fuck.' "That seems rather stupid."
"We did a lot of stupid things. But, we still ended up at the top of our class."
Hughes grinned. "Neat. How did I become your best friend?"
"…We survived together during the Ishvalan War." Roy angled his head a little to the right. "We were emotionally and psychologically exhausted after. My foolish ideals of protecting the entire country were shattered, crushed underfoot, and I vowed…vowed to protect the people closest to me so that, in turn, they could protect the people closest to them—"
"Well, if you have an ideal that involves protecting this nation, you'll have to set your sights towards the top," Hughes interjected.
"Haha! Funny, that's almost the same thing you said to me." Roy brought his fingers together, intertwining them.
Hughes chuckled. "It's still a naïve and simple ideal though."
"It is. Though, my lieutenant once said that it was a wonderful dream."
Hughes steered the car to the right. "Mmm, what's the name of your lieutenant?"
"Riza Hawkeye." Then Roy sucked in air shallowly through his teeth.
Riza Hawkeye has gone missing, Vertrag had said with that mocking tone of his, like he was reveling in his sick achievement.
"I need to go somewhere first," Roy blurted out in cold sweat, as he tried to will away the blooming red stains from his vision. "Please."
After a short odd look at him, Hughes checked the time.
"Alright," he agreed, apparently judging that they had some to spare. "Where do you want to go?"
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By the dim light of the half full moon at an hour past midnight, Roy witnessed another cruel revelation that he wasn't ready for.
The icy wind stung his cheeks. Trees shivered, and the rustle of leaves filled the quiet atmosphere. The smell of timeworn wood and moss-topped stones filled his nostrils.
His eyes raked at what was left of the burned down, decrepit family estate of the Hawkeyes. The entire front lawn was charred black, dead, not a single blade of grass in sight. The main foundation was crushed to the ground. He trudged forward like a weary traveler as Hughes called out to him from the confines of the car.
He reached what he knew had been front porch. He circled around, squatted, and then dipped the tip of his index finger on the ground. Aside from soil, the tiniest bit of grey residue stuck.
Hughes' footsteps came up from behind him. "You knew this place?"
Roy didn't answer as he stood and walked around some more.
"What're you looking for?" Hughes tried again.
"…A body."
"Of whom?"
He scuffed the dirt with the tip of his boot. "…Someone I know."
"Mustang."
He twisted and saw Hughes crouching where his master's study had been. He pinched a small amount of dirt. "Whoever you are looking for…they're not here."
The cold hand that had wrapped around Roy's heart loosened its hold. "H-how would you know?"
Light glinted off of Hughes' glasses. "Because I investigated this house."
"What?" Roy went over to him as he stood up. "Wha-what happened?"
Hughes hummed. "There was a fire, but someone died and was consequently removed approximately eighteen hours before the house burned down. Who do you think it was?"
"M-master Berthold Hawkeye?" Roy guessed, remembering the crippling fatigue etched on the man's face. "Alchemist?"
Hughes exhaled through his nose. "Yep. Did this house burn from where you come from?"
"No. And besides, he's not the one I'm looking for."
The bespectacled man ran a hand through his face. "Oh, did anyone else live in this house?"
"His daughter, Riza Hawkeye."
His companion turned his head around so quickly that Roy jumped back in case it flew off and he needed to catch it.
"HE HAD A DAUGHTER?!" Hughes exclaimed. "I knew it! I was right!" He jumped once and punched his fist through the air. "And the folks at Central Command demoted me when they thought I wasn't on par with their standards—"
Roy's eyes strayed to Hughes' shoulder marks that denoted his rank as a second lieutenant, putting two and two together. "Wait…doesn't the military have records of everyone in Central? What's this…a…a detective guessing game?"
"Not you, too," Hughes whined. "Look, there's no recorded relative of Berthold Hawkeye. At least, none that he'd had contact with for a long time. I've checked, okay? In case there was a family feud and this is a story of family drama and the relatives wanted the land for themselves. And thing is, he had no daughter on record."
Roy shook his head vehemently. "That's impossible." He couldn't stop the distress from lacing his tone. "Then how did you come to the conclusion that he had a daughter?"
"Well not exactly a daughter per se," Hughes shrugged. "But maybe a child? There are more than enough rooms where said child could've lived in. There were also a few toys recovered. No dolls, though. And with Berthold's anti-social attitude, based on his neighbors' accounts, I doubt he had a tenant. Whatever the case, someone burnt it down from the inside." He looked at Roy meaningfully.
They were silent for a few seconds, before the news sank its teeth into him. "Are you insinuating that Riza burned her own house down?! But…wasn't the house unlocked when they collected her father's body? What if they were the one who burned it down?"
Hughes raised an eyebrow. "For what reason would they do such a thing?"
He had a point there. Deliberately burning other people's property, also known as arson, was a surefire way to end up in prison.
"What if the fire started from the outside?" Roy pressed on.
"The fire started from Berthold's study."
"How did anyone know he was dead, then? Someone must've called!"
Hughes shrugged. "Never found out who."
"Fire caused by electrical issues?"
Hughes raised both eyebrows. "I was under the impression that they couldn't even afford to pay the bills."
The image of the Hawkeyes' house, rather rickety and pest-infested, with the grimy windows and the flaking walls and the putrefying roof, popped into Roy's mind.
"But Riza—"
"The house," Hughes interjected, gesturing at the entire lot, "was burned down almost a day after Mr. Berthold Hawkeye was transferred to the morgue. I did ask those who had collected his body if anyone else was present in the house at the time of their visit. And you know what they said? They said the house was practically abandoned. One could conclude that someone unrelated to Berthold did the deed, but, deep down in my gut, I've always felt it was done by someone living with him." Hughes sighed. "My hunches had never been wrong before, but, well, I was unable to procure a person."
Roy pondered the implications if Hughes was telling the truth.
And then he grasped that if he was telling the truth…
Then Roy never truly knew his lieutenant at all.
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"That seems rather unfair." Roy pressed the side of his throbbing head against the cool window. "Demoting you for something so mundane."
Hughes shrugged. "Eh…it has been building up for a while. Vertrag loves to get in on my case. In your timeline, did I ever antagonize him?"
"I don't know." Roy tapped his right kneecap with his finger absently, thinking of several things at once, including wondering what had become of his team and the two brothers. Then he thought of Vertrag's personality, then of the contract, and of the system behind it. "Hughes, tell me what you know about Vertrag's alchemy. How he implements it," he clarified. "It's a public 'service'. Surely, there are laws to limit him and rules for his clients to follow."
"Oh right! Yeah, I'll just give you the complete list." A slight rustling sound, a pause, then Roy was hit on the side of the head with what felt like a piece of crumpled paper.
"Thanks."
Roy turned his attention from the sidewalk to the paper Hughes had thrown at him. He picked it up, smoothed out the wrinkles, and began to read.
Contract Alchemy Civil Service
The Rules:
1. Any client at the age of majority (16+), who personally requests a contract to be made, is permitted to demand any equal trade* from the contractor. To ensure safety in this present time, when the aforementioned type of alchemy is considered young among academics, the only contractor in question would be the state-appointed Deal Alchemist, Colonel Theofil Vertrag, founder of this study.
2. The client should be prepared to accept and give any price required by the contractor, as it will be the energy necessary to power a contract array. Bargaining is allowed, but the contractor has the final say on the matter. Rest assured that the prices required are usually reasonable, but largely depend on the proposed deal.
3. It is highly discouraged to have two or more clients per contract. However, writing multiple contracts for one client is permitted. (Multiple clients per contract would mean multiple payments of required prices, i.e. body parts, etc., regardless of the intended final outcome.)
4. All equivalent exchanges between client and contractor are considered final and nonrefundable once the paper is signed. Termination and cancellation of any deal can only be possible when counteracted upon by another contract.
5. Ownership of the fine print of the contract may be retained by the contractor (for safekeeping) or may be transferred to the client. The client's wishes take priority.
6. Stealing a contract that does not belong to you in any way, from either the contractor or the client(s), is punishable with three (3) years of imprisonment.
7. If the fine print of the contract is damaged or annihilated by the client's doing, the client dies.
8. The contractor (or any other third party) has neither right nor the capability to destroy the fine print of the contract. As such, only the entitled client can terminate the deal through brute force** (i.e. tearing it in half), if they wish to do so. However, be reminded that cases like these are treated by the court of law as suicide, and the Deal Alchemist will not be held accountable for the death.
9. Contracts with time limits can be renewed, provided the client can pay the additional price.
10. The contractor respects the privacy of the client, upholds the rule of confidentiality, and refuses to divulge a single word of any contract written by them to any third party. Violation of this rule is punishable by death, and is written in the fine print of the contract. The client, however, may relay the details to anyone if they chose to do so.
11. Any consequence suffered by the client is not the liability of the contractor. Their signature implies that they have fully read, understood, and accepted the terms, meaning that any outcome is the cause of their own irresponsibility.
12. It is the contractor's right and prerogative to refuse a proposed deal for any reason, or to grant a client's request pro bono.
*Acts leading the Deal Alchemist to commit disloyalty to the military, human transmutation, and creations of gold are extremely prohibited and outright illegal.
**The contract cannot also be simply destroyed by leaving it to the forces of nature.
/
Roy looked up. "I have multiple questions."
"Doesn't everyone?"
"About the rules."
"Right, ask away then."
"I know stealing is a crime and all," Roy said. "But why is there such a heavy punishment for the theft of a piece of paper?"
Hughes hummed. "Contracts are considered proofs of purchase. To steal it would be like…er, stealing a contract of ownership for an estate or a piece of land. If something came up, they could be vital evidences."
"What if the client loses the contract on purpose?"
"Their loss." Hughes shrugged. "Nothing will happen to them. At least, from what I've heard. Unless it's a controversial contract, and you're summoned by the court, then you have to present the fine print. If you're innocent but were able to present it, there should be no problem. Fail to do so, and you'll be forced to shoulder trials until you're proven guilty…or innocent, whichever comes first. They don't accept evidence on skin, since the signatures aren't there and the arrays could easily be forged by more skilled tattoo artists." A sniff. "There're rumors though, that you'll grow long tentacles on private parts if you lose the contract on purpose. Easier for the police to track."
"…You're kidding me, aren't you?"
Hughes smirked. "Maybe."
Roy rolled his eyes and smiled a little.
"Oh yeah, I found out that Vertrag can't kill people with his contracts," Hughes added.
Roy's interest peaked. "Is that so? How did you know?"
"I overheard some higher-ups talking."
"You eavesdropped."
"Do I have to repeat myself? I SAID 'overheard'."
"Whatever you say, Hughes. So what did you overhear?"
"What was it? Oh right…some higher-ups were getting worried about Ishvalans slaying their precious State Alchemists."
"…Was this Ishvalan person dubbed 'Scar'?"
Hughes shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I was kicked out of Investigations far too early to know. I also didn't care enough to look into it. But anyway, said higher-ups tried to settle the matter with Deal. They had brought someone from death row as payment for the serial killer's long-distance execution. The contract array didn't even light up." He smirked. "I heard Deal was also so very shocked about it. Man, I would've paid my soul to see him brought down from the pedestal that day!"
Roy nodded vigorously before focusing his attention on the second and last rule. "Interesting."
"What is?"
"Rule number two states that the client has to give the price required of him or her, and yet, the last one contradicts that by stating that Deal can grant requests pro bono. In other words, for free." Roy tapped the backs of his fingers twice on the paper agitatedly. "How could he power an array when he doesn't ask for something to satisfy the equal trade?"
"I was asking myself that same question," Hughes admitted, scratching his index finger behind his ear. "My alchemist friend suspects that Deal uses a power source. Like a Philosopher's Stone."
"Philosopher's Stones do not exist, Hughes."
"I know that! It was just a speculation."
"By the way." The paper crinkled lightly in Roy's grasp. "There's nothing in here alluding to exit clauses."
Hughes raised an eyebrow at the road. "You think Deal is the type of person who'd make it easy for the masses to wriggle their way out of their misery?"
"Not at all." Roy peered carefully at the list of rules, analyzing each and every word. "The closest thing here to termination of contract is by signing another to…revise or oppose the original. I doubt Deal would let me do that, though. Not with rule number twelve. Know any stories about cancelling contracts?"
Roy waited for additional input, but Hughes kept staring at the road.
"Hughes?"
Hughes exhaled heavily. "Yeah."
"Okay," Roy said carefully. "Whose story is it?"
Hand squeezing the leather grip of the wheel. "Ours."
"Oh." Roy remained quiet, read the rules again, then looked at Hughes. "I want to talk to her."
"Now?" Hughes asked irritatedly.
"Now."
"We had too many detours—"
"Rule number nine. Contracts with time-limit." Roy took a deep breath. "Have I told you that after seven days, I'll cease to exist? Because apparently, Vertrag took the day that I was born?"
Hughes spun to look at him with widened eyes. "The fuck? Why didn't you tell me that sooner?!"
"I forgot." It was true, what with all the excitement.
"You forgot. How do you forget an impending death— Argggghhhhh fuck! Never mind—"
Then Hughes cocked his head exaggeratedly to look at something outside, presumably a road sign, before he took another sharp turn.
Roy was certain the man was trying to kill him.
"Right, you really do need to talk to her. Now. Shut up and I'm not speaking to you in a million years."
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"Over there. Fourth door on the right, first floor." Hughes parked the vehicle with the speed and temper of a rampaging bull. "Tell her I sent you. Go! You might need all the info you're going to get, so scram!"
Roy was out of the car in a flash. The moment he was at the entrance, he took a quick look over his shoulder to see Hughes reclining back in his seat, visibly miffed. Sighing, Roy entered the building and followed Hughes' directions.
The inside of the building was rather well-maintained, but the blank white walls and the eye-searing orange linoleum floor suggested that whoever designed the interior had poor taste. Lighting was good, though the ventilation could use some adjustments. Already, he could feel sweat rolling down his back.
He counted the doors as he passed, and came to a stop in front of what he assumed was Gracia's apartment, knocked once, twice, thrice, then waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Someone flicked the switch on and light filtered from under the door. After a few more seconds, the door itself was opened a bit, held in place by a security chain,
Gracia's green eyes peeked out from behind.
"Good evening, Ms. Gracia," Roy greeted, very much aware that it was not evening. But he was more aware of the bizarreness of being so formal to his best friend's supposed-to-be wife. "I apologize for disturbing you at this time—"
"Oh no, it's quite alright." Gracia smiled, and Roy couldn't help but notice the tiredness hiding behind it. "I couldn't sleep. What business would you have here…er…" She glanced at Roy's epaulets. "Colonel?"
"Maes Hughes sent me."
At this, her eyes widened, sparkled a little with what seemed like hope. "Maes? W-why?"
Roy ignored, for the moment, the fact that her tone sounded rather sorrowful. He turned his head from side to side, alert for any suspicious people. He lowered his voice. "He told me to ask you about his contract. He's outside in a military car right now, actually."
Gracia regarded him for a few seconds, considering. "Alright," she said. "Just a moment please."
Then she gently closed the door and Roy heard her footsteps retract, presumably to peek out the window and see if he was telling the truth. Then he heard her walk back and unchain the lock, before fully opening the door.
"Inside then." Gracia ushered him in. "What your name, Colonel?"
"Please just call me Roy."
Gracia gave him a funny expression, before Roy realized how personal he sounded.
"Or Mr. Mustang!" he amended, embarrassed. "Sorry."
"It's alright."
Roy admired how Gracia seemed to take his late visit in a stride. But then, she had married Hughes in the original timeline.
"How did you know my name?" Gracia asked of him, which baffled Roy.
"Well, Hughes—"
"I know he can't say or write my name," she interjected, placing her hands on her lap. "Without getting angry."
Roy paused, thinking, then decided to spill. "To tell you the truth…I knew you personally, Ms. Gracia."
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Somewhere in Roy's storytelling, Gracia had found time to brew them both some tea. A cup of chamomile warmed his hands, the scent inducing tranquility in him.
Gracia sipped from her cup, visibly digesting his tale. Roy told her what was necessary to save time. Like Maes, he offered her facts about herself, though there weren't as many. He told her about his contract with Vertrag, and she was rightfully frightened when she discovered that Roy's mistakes had started with Maes' death.
"You're a victim of his deception, too," she empathized as she set her cup down. "Like us.
Roy met her eyes. "What happened?"
"During the Ishval War…" She paused, inhaled, exhaled. "Maes suffered from blunt trauma in the head…caused by an Ishvalan."
Even in this timeline, Roy thought, wincing. Maes' luck is equal to any number on the left side of the number line, depending on the situation. "Then?"
"The ones in charge of him took him off the battlefield and hospitalized him. H-he was comatose for some time. And I-I couldn't do anything." Gracia took a moment to wipe beneath her eyes using the back of her hand. "Two months passed and he still wasn't waking up. I f-felt so useless, a-and so I sought a way to make him feel better."
She closed her eyes. "I visited the Deal Alchemist…and requested a contract."
Roy was afraid of where this was going. He clenched his fists, the word 'stop' on the edge of his tongue, but Gracia plunged on before he could speak.
"The Deal Alchemist took my ability to love in exchange for Maes' consciousness."
Roy blinked, having expected a different price. "Your ability to love? How is that possible?"
"I don't know," Gracia admitted quietly. "What I do know is that, during that time, I'd feel that nothing is right. Everything I was once happy about, felt dull and boring in comparison. I'd feel sad or angry instead, and nothing Maes could do normally would return me to my proper self." She held her cup once more between trembling fingers. "It was horrible."
"But…you seem…better now." Then as Gracia stared at him, the answer hit Roy. "Oh, Hughes."
Maes Hughes, that dumb and noble man, signed a countercontract, as allowed by the fourth rule. Because of course he wouldn't be able to bear seeing Gracia suffer like that. And so he'd accepted the price, gave her ability to love back, and relinquished his own.
"The Deal Alchemist was kinder to him, though," Gracia told him.
Roy gaped at her, scandalized.
"At least he only took Maes' ability to feel love for me."
Roy's insides twisted and churned, the urge to vomit growing strong. Dizziness washed over him and he barely managed to squeak out, "Bathroom."
Through the sudden fuzziness of his vision, he felt a hand firmly grab his elbow and lead him to the room. He knelt down in front of the porcelain and retched. From the corner of one his eye, he saw Gracia retreat and come back with a glass of water.
"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "The tea might've been brewed too strong for you."
He waved a hand after wiping his mouth. "No, it's just…it's not the tea." His fingers encircled the cool glass and he gulped down half of the liquid.
Gracia, who Maes' considered almost his whole world, fixed him a worried look as he stood up.
"I better get going," he said. "I've troubled you enough." He bent his spine, bowing to her. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Gracia."
"Of course," she said as she accompanied him to the door. "Take care, Mr. Mustang. Call me if you need anything else. Tell Maes…" She drifted off, seemed unsure as to what to say.
"Please sleep well," Roy told her as he nodded to show that he understood. He was about to step out when he saw a vase of flowers sitting on a desk by the door.
It was a perfectly innocent vase containing perfectly innocent flowers, blooming bright in contrast to the rather dreary room.
"Yellow roses, Xingese chrysanthemum, cape jasmine," Roy named as Gracia turned to see what he was gazing at. "A beautiful bouquet of joy. The chrysanthemum is a bit telling though." He spun to face her. "I seem to remember that you used to work in a flower shop, Ms. Gracia."
"I still do work in one, sir."
Oh right, different timelines. He needed to get used to this. "How is the business going?" He tilted his head a little.
Gracia blinked. "…Quite alright. It's not far from headquarters, so it's a bit popular for soldiers to visit and buy flowers."
"I'm going to take a wild shot and guess that that is where you've heard about him?"
Understanding seemed to dawn in her eyes. "Yes…"
"I hope to receive irises sometime." Roy feigned a thoughtful look. "You'll be receiving my payment, of course. I'll call. Or maybe find a way to pick them up? Though I would prefer new arrivals in stock."
"Of course…but could I interest you in dogsbane?"
Roy grinned, marveling at the wonder that was Gracia. "Crush those. I don't mind."
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Instead of Maes lounging in the military car, Roy was met with the sight of Maes lounging in a vehicle that appeared to have been salvaged from the junk shop.
"What is this?" he asked of the world in general and Hughes in specific as he got in, eyeing the dusty car door a little distrustfully.
"It's fast," Hughes said as way of explanation. "Also, we've got to leave a separate trail for Vertrag to chase, you know, in case he starts tracking us."
"Where's the other car?"
"On another street."
Roy shifted around. "How did you get this…trash?"
"Hey!" Hughes adjusted his position. "Just because it has scratches and dents, it doesn't mean it's already trash!"
"There's two bullet holes in this door," Roy observed. "And the seats are moth-eaten."
"Yeah, whatever. It's fast, less conspicuous."
"So, how did you get this?"
"I borrowed it."
"You hotwired the car."
"You always seem to mistake my words for another, Mustang. I borrowed it."
Roy relented as he folded his arms.
"So, any more detours?" Hughes asked. "Takeout?"
"Let's just go to your safehouse," Roy replied. "Aren't you going to ask about my chat with her?"
"I don't care, so I'm not going to ask."
"Caring…loving," Roy muttered, contemplating. "When you think about it, love is simply produced by the hormones dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin being in equilibrium in your body. If one is unable to feel love…well, that means the feeling is suppressed as the dopamine levels rise and the oxytocin levels drop. All that giddy, warm sensation replaced with depression. Must be what Deal did to you."
"That would be an alchemist's explanation, yes. Thank you for the much needed science lesson."
They lapsed into another of those awkward silences as the night sky started to become lighter. Roy mused how painfully familiar their banter with each other were, how great it felt to have even a part of his best friend back. Mannerisms, word choice, intelligence…it was all there. The only missing thing was Hughes' experiences of fatherhood.
"In my timeline," Roy said, gazing at the roof of the car. "You have a daughter named Elicia."
Hughes grew rigid, seemed to stop breathing altogether. Roy was concerned he was going to blow his top again, but then Hughes surprised him. "According to the legends, the people of Xerxes believed in a place in the afterlife called Elysium. The land of bliss and happiness."
Elysium, plus the name of the woman that captured Hughes' heart.
"It's beautiful," Roy approved, a sense of purpose sparking in him. "I'm going to make sure you get your kid back."
If Hughes noticed how Roy's eyes crinkled with emotion, he didn't comment, and instead patted Roy's shoulder.
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"We're here."
Roy jolted from his mini nap as Hughes parked the car. He darted his gaze around, trying to pinpoint their location.
"Looks like a district near the outskirts."
Hughes hummed an affirmation. "By the way, since you slept on me, I forgot to tell you that you have a housemate."
"Can he keep a secret?" Roy asked as he stumbled groggily out of the vehicle.
"As far as I know, she can," Hughes answered. "Well, actually you have two. But the other one isn't around right now. Anyway, I found her in an alley when it was storming a few days ago as I was walking home. She looked rather shellshocked and begged me not to call anyone about her. So I gave her a place to stay here. She roams around from time to time, though."
"That's kind of you," Roy said. So what Gracia had said was true: empathy, after all, was correlated in some way to feeling love, and Hughes was capable of feeling empathy for strangers, like he had for Roy himself. But he had none for Gracia.
He followed Hughes, keeping a sharp eye out for potential spies.
"The entrance is through the trashbin," Hughes whispered. "There's a hole behind one."
Roy was hit with the sense of déjà vu, remembering the time Havoc had climbed out of a bin. But a quick glimpse around confirmed that they were in an entirely different destination.
"Hello?" Hughes called out as soon as they got through the hole. "Anyone home?"
The sound of a chair being pushed back announced that someone was present in the room adjacent to theirs.
"Mr. Hughes?" a woman's voice croaked back. "I'm eating in the kitchen."
"I've brought a friend." Hughes walked forward, while Roy turned around to judge the place.
"Oh?" Footsteps treaded on the wooden floor, and then stopped at the entryway. She leaned at the side, smiling at the two of them. "Hello! Nice to meet…" Her gaze locked with Roy's before a sharp intake of breath rasped against her throat as she took a hasty step back.
Roy's full attention snapped to her as recognition and fear flashed in her eyes. An icy frostiness filled him, encasing his heart in a sharp embrace.
Because the woman's identity was unmistakable. Unmistakably her.
HER.
"You." And Roy basked in the fact that the single word alone was an earthquake that almost made her collapse. "Maria Ross."
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Author's Note: I'm baaack! Sorry for keeping you all waiting. Please still review. I deserve even just a few words of anything, don't you think?
Anyway, I'd like to address SomeRandomUsernameYo. Hi! The origin of Theofil's name was actually (forcibly) derived from Teufel, which means devil in German. But I love how coincidental the facts you gave me were. Theopile and Theofil? Whoaaa! I'd rather have what you said as a name origin story. Kudos to that! :)
Before I begin my rant, I'd like to give an overdue thanks to kataraang0 on Tumblr for this: (kataraang0-DOT-tumblr-DOT-com-SLASH-post-SLASH-151358586608-SLASH-arrays-designed-for-manalfedzs-story-world), which I'd like to think as a nice bit of foreshadowing. See those arrays? Kataraang0 researched all those symbols and designed those like a badass master alchemist! And at a time when I was about to spurn out a half-assed contract array too! So thank you for very much for averting the future where I've embarrassed myself :)
The meanings behind those will be posted in later chapters. Most parts of which, of course, will be credited to kataraang0 :) She has a few more valuable inputs along the way. So be on the lookout! :D
Okay, you might've noticed that the age of majority stated in the CACS isn't 18. Batsutousai pointed out that the age of recruitment for the military is 16. I took that to mean that basically, age 16, in a military-focused country, equals the attainment of the status of adulthood. So yep, I agree with her calendar.
Thanks again, Batsutousai :)
By the way, once we hit chapter 5, we're halfway to the end.
Unless complications arise in the story.
Well, you never know with the dynamic characters of FMA. :D
Seriously. I checked my first outline and A LOT have changed. So I've rewritten some of it again so now it's set in stone.
Which is why I'm going to introduce the concept of Theory Time.
The fuck is Theory Time? Comment your theories below. When the time comes that a theory is confirmed canon to this fanfic, you get a point. Hit five points to win a custom fanfic (3000+ words) or fanart from me. HOWEVER, I will only count the FIRST SIX theories you make, so you would be forced to think about the theories carefully and not keep making random assumptions like "Black Hayate is going to die!". Anything more than six theory entries will be ignored.
It's just a game I made up because I was bored though. Whatever. Don't take it seriously. Sometimes, I'm generous with prizes.
Stay safe and thank you for such nice feedback!
