DISCLAIMER: I DON'T CLAIM RIGHTS TO ANY CANON FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST CHARACTERS OR CONCEPTS

A/N: Hope you all liked chapter one! Since I wrote much of this fic before it was posted and I know the agony of having to wait to find out what happens, I don't get to wait for your reviews before I post the next few chapters. As usual, sorry for anything you don't like, but no flames! (pun intended .) Instead, calmly and with correct grammar and spelling tell me what you think I could improve. You'd be surprised how far that gets you in life J! Please read and review! Reviews are the incentive that keeps us writers going!

Incendiary Device

Chapter 2: Alcohol Feeds the Flames

Neon loomed out of the darkness on his left, but Roy passed the first bar by. If anybody did start looking for him, it would be the obvious choice. Besides, it was brightly lit and full of people, and he wanted to be somewhere quiet and alone.

Roy found what he was looking for, a smaller bar with only about ten people inside, a block away and across the street from the first bar. He entered, shivering a little as air conditioning hit his wet skin. Even though it was raining, it was still a hot summer night outside, and the bartender had cranked the AC up to full-blast. Roy found himself a bar stool far enough away from the other patrons for his comfort and rapped his knuckles on the countertop to get the barkeep's attention.

"What'll ya have?" the bartender asked. Somewhere behind the counter, a radio was on, tuned to the news station with the volume down low. The patrons were all keeping any conversation quiet, out of courtesy for any who wanted to listen to what was going on in the world.

"Straight scotch, double," Roy replied. The bartender raised an eyebrow at his tone, but served up the drink with no comments. Roy took a large sip, sighing as the alcohol burned down his throat. He stared at the amber liquid as if he could will it to spontaneously break into song and dance and give him the answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. No musical enlightenment was forthcoming, however, and Roy wasn't one to let perfectly good scotch go to waste. This one's for you, Liza. I'm sorry I got you mixed up in all this, he said to himself, raising the glass ever so slightly in a toast before downing the rest of the drink. "Gimme another," he told the barkeep, who obliged. This one's for you, Jean. I'm sorry I'm such a coward. He nursed his way through the second glass, half-listening to the radio. The barkeep refilled his glass for a second time without being asked. And this one's for you, Maes…Roy blinked rapidly. The alcohol was making his eyes water…yeah, that was it. Maes…I'm sorry…it was no good, he couldn't finish the thought. He chugged the whole glass in two big gulps.

It was at that precise moment that his ears chose to focus in on what the radio was saying, because they'd heard his name, "…Factory Facility Three. Two military personnel were injured, including Mustang himself, but inquiries as to any deaths were met with 'no comment…'"

"Ain't that just the way," said the bartender conversationally, leaning against the counter near where Mustang sat. "Them military hounds are out killin' innocent folk on the pretense of them bein' terrorists an' all, while the real criminals get off scot-free."

Roy wasn't inclined to disagree at the moment, though he was happy that the man hadn't recognized him out of uniform. Instead, he held his glass out for another refill, which was drained almost as fast as it was poured.

The barkeep looked thoughtful, "An' I tell ya what else, that Mustang, he's th' worst of all of 'em, from what I hear. They's stories flyin' around 'bout him that make me wonder if he's got any capacity for emotion at all."

A pause indicated that the barkeep was expecting a reply. "Stories like what?" Roy mumbled, resting his chin on his arm. He really wasn't in the mood to talk. His side hurt, and the scotch had barely even begun to take effect. He took a sip from his drink, wondering how many this was, and not really caring.

"Well, rumor 'round Central nowadays is that he uses his sub-ordinate officers like shields," said the barkeep, failing to notice the tension that rippled through Roy's body at this statement, "No two versions I ever heard were alike, but three of 'em seem to agree pretty well: first, that he let a lady officer of his get in harm's way when he was usin' her as bait to catch a serial killer."

Roy's fingers twitched. That was a dirty lie! Liza…Hawkeye had volunteered for that mission, and nobody could have known that the homunculi were going to show up, least of all Mustang! And he'd gone against orders to save her!

"Th' second story," continued the oblivious bartender, "says that he let one of his most loyal officers take a hit for him while they were fightin' a known murderer, and th' kid's gonna be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life."

The feeling of his gloves in his pocket made Roy's skin tingle. He wanted to toast this guy, but he knew he couldn't…

Unaware of how thin a line he was walking, the barkeep plowed on, "But th' last one, that's a doozy! Th' story goes that this Mustang character, he just stood by an' watched while his best friend was killed, unable to move 'cause he was so scared! An' the guy who died supposedly has a wife and ki – GAAAACK!" The bartender cut off his story abruptly as Roy lunged across the counter and gripped his collar in a fist, lifting him off the ground.

"Those stories are lies," he growled, tugging the man close to him and staring into his eyes, "every. last. one."

The bartender whimpered, unable to look away. A flicker of his captive's gaze was all the warning Roy had before a pool cue caught him across the shoulders. He winced, swearing, and dropped the barkeep, spinning to face his attacker.

Ten burly patrons, the regulars at this bar, were lined up in a semicircle surrounding Roy. One of them held the broken pool cue that was the source of Roy's throbbing back. All of them held something large and blunt that they looked very much like they wanted to hit him with. "Look, boys," he said, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, "I'm not here looking for trouble."

"Well, you found it anyway," said the man holding the broken cue. He tossed it away and pulled a fresh one from a rack nearby. "If you don't want trouble, I suggest you don't go around roughin' up innocent men like my buddy George there. Now, you apologize to him, and then we can all go home."

Roy laughed. Apologize? After this man had taken three of his friends and painted them, and him, as incompetent, cowardly bullies? "Yeah, right," he smirked, pulling on his gloves.

"What're those for, nancy boy?" Taunted another patron, "Don't wanna get your hands dirty?"

Adrenaline had washed most of the effects of the alcohol from his system, and Roy was ready for some action, "Just the opposite," he said as the first attacker lunged at him with the pool cue. Roy stepped neatly sideways, caught the cue in one hand, and set it on fire. While his antagonists were all gaping in surprise, he took the opportunity to set fire to any wooden cues or bar stools that the others were holding as well. As soon as they dropped the burning weapons he snuffed the flames.

Hand-to-hand had never really been Roy's forté, but even slowed down by his wound the fact remained that he was military trained and they weren't. A few of the attackers managed to get in some good punches, but as long as he protected his left side and was careful not to set anyone on fire, Roy held the upper hand. Within a few minutes, six of the men were lying dazed on the floor. Of the remaining four, only two looked like they could be trouble. Roy had faced and overcome far worse odds. He was about to take down one of the four remaining antagonists when he heard the crash of glass, followed by a splitting pain in the back of his skull and the sensation of liquid splashing over his head.

Of course, it was just like him to forget about the barkeep.