Silent Night

A/N: In this one, I'm really having fun with the fact that most of my favorite characters were named after WWII aircraft. I'm trying to tweak the characters' purposes to mesh with what their namesakes' uses were, all except for Hawkeye that is. The Grumman E2 Hawkeye was a completely undefended scout, so, nothing changing there, but the others…(insert maniacal author chuckle here). No, really though. I don't have to make anyone out of character to do this. And it won't interfere with the plot either.

Colonel Mustang narrowed his dark eyes as he rested his chin on his hands. He was at his desk, scowling at the wall across the room in sheer frustration. Every nerve in his body screamed that he needed to get out of his office and do something, but orders were orders. His were to sit tight despite his excellent skill at suppressing threats to himself and those that worked under him.

It was late at night, but the day hadn't ended for anyone yet. Not even Sheska, who served the military as a clerk and document recovery person.

"Ya know, I've about had it with antimilitary extremist groups," snarled Breda, scratching his chin, currently coated with five o'clock shadow. "Day in and day out, everyone's complaining about every little thing we do. I'm sick of it! Now they're threatening innocent people just to mess with us!"

"And you would do well to keep your voice down," reprimanded Riza Hawkeye, who was technically one of the lowest ranking officers in the room. When it came to who gave the orders though, even the Colonel followed hers.

"There's a relatively easy way to deal with thugs like them," Jean Havoc mused lazily, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "We just sneak up real quiet-like and take 'em out."

"Think you been smoking' too much lately Havoc," Breda wheezed, turning pallid. "I think you're crazy."

"Afraid of the dark?" Havoc mocked, smirking. Everyone thought he was a coward that preferred the safety of deskwork to the hazards of serious field duty. That was only true during daylight hours. Under cover of dark, however, he was one deadly soldier.

"No, I just think you're stupid for thinking of sneaking up on a bunch of terrorists armed with explosives," Breda countered. "Never been afraid of anything a day in my life."

Black Hayate, Riza's dog, scampered past Breda in pursuit of an imaginary rabbit, and suddenly Breda was standing on his chair and shouting about how much he hated dogs. Yeah, he'd never been scared a day in his life.

"A covert attack by night, Havoc?" queried Colonel Mustang, seeing the possibility in it. "How do you plan to pull it off without attracting attention?"

"Easy. Don't be seen, make no noise, and make sure they die quietly," Havoc replied. He was already attracting attention. Jean Havoc was the office goofball, an easy-going and generally harmless fellow who always had a good joke available to brighten the mood, and here he was talking about how to be the perfect assassin. Even Hawkeye and Mustang had to admit that something about this change in Havoc's demeanor scared them.

"But what about the hostages?" asked Warrant Officer Falman. "If you do something wrong, the hostages die."

"Yeah. I don't intend on screwing up. Now, who's going with me?"

Nobody was quick to volunteer. Mustang would have, except that as the Flame Alchemist, stealth was nowhere near his forte. Basically, he was one of the worst choices in the entire military for a stealth operation. Riza Hawkeye, being the resident firearms expert, was little better, though if she could use a knife half as well as she could use a gun, she had potential. Breda, aside from being a coward, couldn't sneak up on a rock, let alone lethal extremist operatives with training in not being surprised by the enemy. Falman and Master Sergeant Feury had the very same problem. And Sheska the clerk, well, she was about as dangerous as a teddy bear. She had an amazing recall ability and could reproduce in perfect accuracy a document she'd read once even a few years back, but dangerous? Absolutely not.

"I'll go," Riza volunteered at last. She was reluctant to walk into a situation that required her not to draw her gun, but she was the only other one in this branch of the office that could do the task at hand without dooming the mission to failure before it was even started. Besides, before his death, Lt. Colonel Maes Hughes had taught her a thing or three about the use of knives. 'Much quieter than the gun,' he had said. 'Faster too, if you use them right. And they don't rely on bullets, so they never run out.'

"Me too," Feury offered slowly. The small, bespectacled man was not the type anyone could see killing anyone else. "I'm good with disarming explosives."

Okay, that explained it. He'd leave the killing to the two experienced killers and just sneak around disarming anything that might blow up. What a useful skill to have, disarming bombs. How come he'd never told anyone of his peculiar hobby before? (A/N: Had to make Feury useful with something other than paperwork…)

Cold nights and stealth operations do not mix well. For one, it makes the joints, tendons, and muscles stiff and creaky. For another, it occasionally numbs the mind, making it easier to screw up. And, most obviously, it makes one's breath mist the air, marking one's position and making sneaking up on someone very difficult.

For someone used to working under the cover of night, when it dropped to very low temperatures in the country of Amestris, cold was an advantage. Havoc knew how to breathe without giving away his position, how to keep his joints from locking, and how to keep thinking straight. He was, to put it bluntly, one hell of a sneaky bastard.

With the grace and silence of a hunting cat, Havoc crept up on the old warehouse that was the base of operations for this new group of extremists. He knew that Hawkeye and Feury were around somewhere, but he couldn't see or hear them, which was a good thing. The entrance that was 'his' was chained and bolted. Nothing a common hairpin or two couldn't fix, really. The chains were relatively new, no rust to make them loud, but not new enough to be loud anyway. They'd been beaten up just enough to be relatively quiet, and with caution, Havoc removed them.

The first sentry didn't even have time to gurgle before Havoc slipped a knife in his throat. Not slitting, mind you, for the arterial spray would have instantly alerted everyone else. It was a quiet, almost tender gesture, tilting the blade so that the guard died drowning in his own blood as it trickled into his trachea. Gently, Havoc set the corpse down and moved on to the next guard, restraining him and sliding the knife into his throat in the same fluid movement.

For as much skill as Havoc had in the art of killing silently and moving on, some would say he enjoyed his work. Those would be the people that didn't know him. He didn't like killing people, but weighing the odds in this gamble, it was best for everyone if he disposed of the terrorists quietly before they blew everyone up, meaning themselves, the military people, and the innocent people that had the unfortunate standing as hostages. The aspect of his work that he enjoyed was not the killing, it was the prevention of mass destruction. He didn't like killing, but he didn't like terrorists either.

An hour passed in sheer silence. Havoc found a few people dead, knife holes in their ears. Ah, Hawkeye had already been through here, had she? Slipping the knife into the ear was a relatively low-resistance and quick kill, also silent. If someone had one hell of a sharp, narrow-bladed knife that is. Wider ones would get stuck and the kill couldn't be made without someone noticing.

Some of the living guards that Havoc came across and had to put down were female, but in the arts of terror and survival, heh, gender don't mean much. An extremist is an extremist, and therefore a rabid dog.

Ah, the satisfying sound of a successful mission. The collective thoughts of Feury, Hawkeye, and Havoc that at least one guard remained was confirmed when the lone survivor realized that (a) his beloved bombs were all disarmed and (b) all his comrades were silent and unresponsive.

"What the fuck?" the last extremist swore as he found the body of his second in command, a telltale hole in her throat that emptied her carotid artery into her lungs, flagging her cause of death.

"You know, we soldiers don't like terrorists," Havoc growled, appearing as if out of nowhere behind the last extremist. The sleek crimson blade of Havoc's knife was angled for the kill; one little push and the mission would be over.

"Go to hell, bastard," the lead extremist snarled.

"Been there, done that, bought the stupid tee-shirt at the stupid souvenir stand," Havoc replied quietly. "But really, permanent residents are welcome." With that last remark, Havoc grabbed the extremist by the hair, angling his head downward slightly, and whipped the knife across his throat, sending scarlet spray all over everything in front of him.

"Uh, Havoc?" queried Feury shakily as he untied the last hostage. "Why did you tilt his head like that? Isn't the throat easier to reach…"

"No," Havoc replied, cutting Feury off. He knew the Master Sergeant hadn't the stomach to finish his sentence, but knew what he was asking all the same. In all the books and other media out there, the killer always tilted their victim's head back, exposing the throat before slitting it. The people who wrote those books had obviously never tried slitting a human throat before. Tilting the head back made the throat easier to see, yes, but also caused it to be that much harder to cut through, whereas tilting the head down made it that much easier.

"Mission accomplished," Riza sighed, sounding queasy. She'd killed before, but always standing in front of her 'victim', where they could see her and make the kill if they were fast enough. Sneaking around and not giving her enemies a chance didn't sit well with her stomach, and she much preferred the feel of a gun's recoil over the sickening slide of a knife piercing flesh.

Truth be told, Jean Havoc felt the same way. "Yeah, let's go home."

The three soldiers trudged back to the office. Feury was the only one with clean hands this night of silence, figuratively and literally. He hadn't killed a soul, therefore his hands were the only hands unstained by blood and gore. The sun was just rising as they got back to the office, where they maintained their silence in an effort not to wake everyone else, who had set up cots to await their return rather than go home and miss the call if their comrades needed help.

No noise was made, really, but the smell of blood awakened the Colonel with a start. Three sets of tired, defeated looking eyes stared back at him. Defeated in battle? No. But all three had left pieces of their souls back there in that warehouse.

"We got all the ones at the warehouse," Havoc reported quietly as Feury and Hawkeye went to clean up. One was covered in blood, the other in dirt. "I just bet there's more out there waiting to pull another stunt like this. We should track them down and at least lock them up."

"You didn't happen to take any prisoners, did you?"

"No sir. Wouldn't have talked anyway, too damn fanatic. Let's just use our brilliant intuitions and play it by ear."

"God, Havoc, you okay?" exclaimed Breda, who had fallen out of his cot, jarring him awake. The first sight poor Breda saw upon awakening was his friend and coworker drenched in blood almost from head to foot.

"I am. Can't say the same about the extremists though. Hostages are fine, bombs all disarmed and awaiting removal, all you'll find by way of criminal activities is a bunch of bodies. Hawkeye's pretty efficient even without her gun."

"Good work, Lieutenants Havoc, Hawkeye. Master Sergeant Feury. You did well. Better than I could have hoped," congratulated Mustang tiredly. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, which was not the most restful place to snooze. "But Havoc, do wash up. You look – and smell – like hell."

"Just got back," Havoc muttered as he saluted and trudged off to the men's locker room where the showers were located. He turned up the temperature of the shower as high as it would go, hoping that maybe someday he'd feel clean again. All that blood… it disgusted him, really. At least this time, the innocent people had been spared the blood and pain. Not like Ishbal…

The Ishbalan war had been started on accident and had escalated into an all-out genocide campaign, where most of the Ishbalan people had been terminated, and even now were still persecuted for being Ishbalans. Women, children, the elderly, non-combatants…the list went on. The only Ishbalan people that had been spared had been the ones that hadn't been found.

Hot water cascaded down on Havoc's head, pounding away at his escalating headache. Why was he comparing last night's covert run with Ishbal? He didn't need to think about Ishbal right then, he needed to think about the antimilitary extremist group that was threatening everyone. Yes, they were going to kill and jail every extremist they found, but this was different, right? These were not Ishbalan children and elderly, these were a bunch of bomb-toting murderers with no regard for the sanctity of life. This was justifiable right? No, justification was a bunch of excuses, and he couldn't stand excuses. If he had to make excuses to make himself feel better about what he was doing, then he shouldn't be doing it, plain and simple. This wasn't justifiable in the least, but it was survival, and that alone was going to have to rest his troubled mind for the time being.

Blood removed, Havoc dressed in the spare uniform he kept in his locker and rejoined his fellow military officers. The new plan being formulated by the time he got there was fairly simple – search and capture/destroy all known extremists. Unknown but possible extremists were to be held for questioning. Bystanders were to be protected at all costs.

Havoc's post was on top of a building, observing the goings-on below through the scope of a rifle. He wasn't as good as Hawkeye when it came to sniping, but he was good enough to be a serious threat to any extremists that obviously threatened his coworkers.

Now, at least, Mustang could get out of the office and help with the mission. It hadn't felt right sending his subordinates out into danger without being out there with them. He didn't have any illusions about protecting them – hell, the military was dangerous – but he sure as hell didn't like being safe when they weren't.

Hell, how many extremists were there in Eastern? It was almost as if the entire region had gone insane and antimilitary in a relatively short period of time. This was going to be a slaughter indeed.

Havoc took careful aim from his position on the roof, hoping to high hell that there weren't any explosives waiting for him. That would be a nasty surprise. Riza was armed with her pistol(s) as usual, removing extremists from the earth with her usual deadly accuracy. Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, was reliving his own personal worst nightmare. Every snap of his fingers and pyrotechnic gloves sent gouts of flame to consume and devour his enemies. Just like Ishbal…

The other military personnel were out there too, but only a select few did Havoc know or interact with. Colonel Mustang kept a tight group of trusted advisors, and that group rarely made contact with anyone else. It was almost like being in an entirely different branch of the military.

Well, different branch or no, the entirety of Central East had banded together against this new threat, and were bleeding together too. Havoc was having no trouble with keeping out of the main danger. It wasn't any notion of he was glad he was safe, because he'd be just as safe sitting back behind his desk doing paperwork. No, here, he knew this was where he was doing his friends the most good. He'd only be in the way on the ground.

Colonel Mustang was faster than he looked, apparently, as he ducked and dodged various things coming his way, be they blades, rocks, a grenade or two… For as often as the Colonel sat behind a desk or spent his spare time either dating or studying, Havoc would have never guessed at the alchemist being as agile as he was. Surprises were everywhere.

By nightfall, the city, no, battlefield, had gone eerily silent. Havoc was sitting down by now, not wanting to test his night vision while there was a possibility of sniping down one of his own. This silence was killing him. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but wasn't stupid enough to light one up. That one little glowing ember gave other snipers a very good target in the dark. At least he knew that he was the only sniper from the Amestris military. The glowing cigarette ash on the rooftop across the street was a clear indication that he wasn't the only sniper in the fight. Since he didn't have any buddies, he could infer that the idiot sniper across the way was a threat. Jean aimed, and a single shot rang out, shattering the silence for a split second. The cigarette ash disappeared. One enemy sniper down, who knew how many more to go…

The rest of the night passed in that same, spooky silence. No one moved, no one fired, no one screamed. All was dead calm.

By morning, it was found that most everyone from Eastern HQ survived. The Colonel, while slightly injured, was still alive, as was everyone else from the office. They made it back in one piece, though it fell to poor Feury to deliver the final note with the death tolls written on it.

"Wow Colonel, it's estimated that over fifty percent of the kills made are yours," Breda whistled as he read, and the paper he was reading suddenly vanished in a wash of fire.

"Do you think I want to know how many people I killed?" roared Mustang, furious. "I don't care how many of those kills are supposed to be mine, okay? I just care that we're all alive, and after hell like that, that's all we need to know." Inside, though the Colonel didn't show it, he was bleeding. The memories of Ishbal, the smell of flesh as his own flames seared and burned, causing skin to boil and char, the sound of gunfire and screams and pleas for mercy, the sight, oh gods above the sight… He could barely handle the memories normally. After this little incident, he felt his sanity wearing even thinner.

"Breda, you just need to keep your mouth shut," Havoc monotoned, staring off through the wall like a man with no soul. "You've obviously never killed anyone, or you would dread hearing the details. Do you hear the rest of us bragging? Huh? Hawkeye never claims the shots she's fired outside of the range. Mustang here's no prouder of using that alchemy on people. I try not to think about how many people I've killed. You could try not rubbing salt in the wounds."

Office chatter was reduced to the bare minimum the next day. The Elric brothers returned from their trip to Resembool to see the blood in the streets that hadn't been cleaned up yet, the bodies that hadn't yet been tagged and removed…

"What happened?" Edward breathed, surveying further damage through the window at Eastern. "What happened?"

"Antimilitary extremist faction," Riza replied, drawing the blinds on the window. "It's better if you don't see any more."

"It might not have gone this far, but they started blowing up innocent bystanders as well as us," Havoc sighed heavily, taking a long, soothing drag on his cigarette. Now that he wasn't on sniper duty, he afforded himself that comfort. "It was ugly, even before the city got involved."

"Havoc, you look like shit," Ed commented, taking in the sight of the Lieutenant's red-rimmed eyes, the dark marks under those eyes, the sheer defeat and sadness written in every line of Havoc's features. He was in his twenties, and yet he seemed to have aged decades in those few, short days.

"Guess I look better than I feel," Havoc shrugged. He was trying to be flip, but his attempt failed miserably. He needed a few days to recover from killing so many people and seeing other people killing so many other people. Then, maybe, he'd be back to something resembling his usual self. Edward stopped pressing the subject. Having taken life before as well, he fully understood.

The battle was over, for now. The military had won, but at what cost? Many of their own lay out in the streets, dead or nearly there, right next to the terrorists they had died fighting and the bystanders that they had failed to protect. Life was based on the concept of Equivalent exchange, and yet, there seemed to be no equivalency in this. But, if the balance seemed off, at least the townsfolk could rest this next silent night, in not the silence of death, perhaps, but the silence of peace.

A/N: Sorry if you stumbled across this and don't like death, blood, gore, mental torment, or expletives. There's a reason the rating's kind of high on this one.

If you're done reading and have no wish to learn all the tedious facts about the planes the characters were named for and why I framed the story like I did, exit now. If, however you are interested, why, by all means keep reading. Reviews are completely your choice, though I am curious to know just what you think.

Okay, onto the planes…

Douglass A-20G (Havoc): The Havoc was built for stability, not for speed, maneuverability, or any other skill dog-fighting warplanes of the era found useful. Instead, the Havoc was a torpedo plane, an air-to-ground snipe, and a night fighter/light bomber. The WWII influence on this story, well, since I saw that the character Havoc was just about as useless for daytime things as his counterpart of the sky, I figured that, like his namesake, he should have some skill by cover of darkness. There, he wouldn't have to be as strong, fast, or agile as his coworkers, and he could still, well, wreak havoc. Also, since the plane was an air/ground snipe, I thought that having Havoc on the roof with a rifle was a fitting picture.

North American P-51D (Mustang): The Mustang, in its heyday, was responsible for over 50 of all the American pilot-made kills over the European theater of war, as well as the annoyance factor for the enemies that couldn't touch it. The Mustang was just too fast, dangerous, and agile to be shot down as often as the enemy would have liked to shoot it down. Colonel Mustang, like his counterpart, is one dangerous dude anyway. Thought I'd throw in the kill-stats as a little bit of a historic reference.

Grumman E-2 (Hawkeye): The Hawkeye was a scout with no guns, and despite being WWII, is actually still in service observing the weather. Think, if you will, our dear Riza wearing beige business suit/skirt attire, maybe some beige pumps to go with, completely unarmed and employed as the chief meteorologist for the local weather channel. Picture doesn't seem right? I didn't think so either, so I left her alone except to put her in a situation where she couldn't use her guns.

There are other plane references in the FMA plotline, but none that I really used here. As for my inspiration to write such a sick war story, well, you're reading the work of someone who's mother read her Richard Marcinko books as a child rather than the three pigs. War stories, all true. Besides, my non-anime favorite shows are things like CSI, NCIS, and Criminal Minds. I also like the Discovery Military channel.

Anyway, feel free to comment on my insanity.

Love y'all,

Heron