(A/N: The references to the societies, etc. are completely based on fact.)
Everything was perfect.
Two years of hard work had, hopefully, not gone awry. The meticulously etched symbols, the notes scattered aimlessly around...
The blood drying on the concrete...
...So everything wasn't completely perfect. This war wasn't something that he'd expected. Hell, no one had expected it. The troops had begun the slow move what seemed like ages ago. He had too many things on his mind to join them. Even if he did, it seemed like they- the people who called themselves 'Aryan'- had a vendetta against pretty much everyone without blonde hair and blue eyes.
Take it on the Fuhrer not to notice his own lack thereof.
A tired smirk graced his face. He was surprised to have lasted this long, but he supposed being a double-agent had given him some opportunity he wouldn't have had otherwise.
The White Rose Society, a resistance group opposed to the regime now in place, kept his name and membership under the radar of the government while he pulled some strings to allow himself to access information and ties with the Third Empire. Something on his conscience had once nagged him, but it had stopped long ago. This was about more than just himself. He'd made a promise.
Earlier that day, a skirmish had broken out. He looked at the gunshot wound on his shoulder that he'd hastily bandaged, thanking and cursing his luck all at once. Those other people hadn't been so lucky. Many had died and even more were injured. Those left unscathed enough tended to those who would, no doubt, die. They had no access to supplies and what they did have was going downhill fast; they couldn't hold out like that.
There was a sense of regret niggling in the back of his mind, but he shook it off and finished preperations.
This has got to work... there's no other way. Death comes too easily to these people he thought, drawing around the near-dead form. No one stopped him. They didn't understand; didn't know... didn't care.
Equivalent Exchange... what a concept.
His charcoal was almost completely gone when he filled in the last thick line of the array he'd worked on for many a sleepless night.
"Sorry, old man," he said quietly to the form within the circle, then turned around, himself now in it as well, and pressed his hands to the edge.
Work... please, work. I have to get back.
... A faint purple light slowly formed, seeping into the settling dark of Munich.
...And Roy Mustang faded out of existance.