Disclaimer: Don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. It is the property of Himoru Arakawa and all related companies.
Chapter 2
Now let me tell you. There are two kinds of people in this world. One kind represents the ordinary schlubs, guys like you and me, trying to scratch out a meager existence, some better than others.
Then, there are the others, those that you see on the street, those you know are meant for something else, molded from creation especially designed to do something big. When they did this thing, this thing that was interwoven in their blood, it's as if God came down and possessed them somehow.
The people of Central knew this fact, so they took off. Actually, they ran. One young man left his grandmother to fend for herself.
"You bastard!" she yelled. "I should've killed you when you were born!"
An old man with two canes just dropped them and sprinted like a quarterback scrambling from a blitz. One guy rode his horse backwards for ten miles before he fell off of a cliff. There were lines of piss on the ground. People dove in barrels, hid behind trees, went up women's dresses. History has shown us numerous times that it can sow out a handful of individuals that walked like living gods in the consciousness of men.
Ray Charles could play the piano. Bobby Fischer could play chess. Bill Clinton could grab those interns. But this woman, this woman could kill.
Her name was Hawkeye Jane.
"What do you want?" asked the leader, shakingly. His bravado was pouring out.
"I reckon that you better apologize to that girl, fix her up right, leave her be, and get outta town."
She was a Northerner all right, judging by the accent, born in the Pennsylvanian foothills. Learned to shoot at the ripe old age of four from her father, whom was a major in the Union during the Civil War.
"Kiss my ass, Hawkeye1"
Rose scuttled away with the baby. She knew it was coming.
The McLaughlin gang all stood in a straight line, high noon style. Spurs were jangling on the ground. Sweat was trickling down many a brow. That was it. Blood would be spilled. But to Hawkeye's dismay, two more men appeared. One was on her left, behind a barrel, cocking a Winchester. The other was on the right, on the second floor of the saloon, fingering a revolver. Eight men. One woman. Surrounded on three sides. Six bullets.
Hawkeye didn't even flinch. The vultures circled overhead. They knew it was coming, too.
"Give it up! Outnumbered and outgunned! But since you're a lady, and I'm the perfect gentleman, I'll give you 'til the count of three before I blow you six feet under!"
Jane just spat on the ground.
"Don't need you count. In three seconds, you'll all be dead."
Leader cocked his head.
"O…"
But before he could utter the "k", before he could finish his blink even, he heard the bang of the .45 Colt. Time itself slowed to a crawl. First the closing of the eyes. Bang! Then the opening. After the that, he saw the gun in her hand, six bullet shells careening out of the chamber. He didn't even have his hand on his gun yet.
Too late.
He felt the bullet touch his skin, cold and harsh, before it drilled into his skull and snuggled neatly into his brain matter. Millions of neurons just smashed to extinction.
Blood and gray parts splattered out in ribbons, to make room for Mr. Lead. Sold and bought. Thank you, come again!
The last conscious thought before the big sleep was, She's that fast?
And then, nothing.