I don't own FMA.
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Journal of Kristoph Mistan
I don't know exactly what happened during that conversation with Elric. I just stopped talking. I didn't even know why. But the few sentences I said before he left seemed to get to him. Like he hadn't been able to believe it.
I pulled the dirt covered ponytail holder from my hair. I hadn't noticed how long it (as in my hair, not the ponytail holder) gotten. It was almost to my shoulder blades. I don't think I even remember how long I was in there. With no windows it was hard to keep track of the days. But it seemed as if it had been years. Years upon years.
This room was, except for when they opened the door, was only slightly lit. A small window allowed a slight glimmer of golden light to stream through the bars. A light was held over in the corner. It had been forgotten by the furor earlier that day; he had placed it nearly out of my reach. Not that I quite had the will to go after it. I wanted to sleep, but I didn't trust this place. That's why I didn't eat. If they really thought that I was Scar then they would do anything that they would to kill me if they were pissed off enough, which I imagine that most of them were.
Not saying that I didn't eat at all. That's impossible. I would have died, which wouldn't have been completely unfathomable. I mean that no one would really care nor would I get the extremely surprised or sad or angry mix of emotion, but nonetheless. There was one person who truly didn't think that I was who I said I was. He was the only one that asked, instead of just assumed. I don't know. I think I liked him more than anyone at that time. He was almost able to gain my trust utterly and completely.
I didn't know what to do with all of this silence. I think I was losing grip on reality. I hated the dark. I wasn't scared of the dark; I just didn't like it since the first day of the war.
I remembered I was walking with Rison. He had to go pick his little sister up from school, I guess. No, I knew. I knew like it was today. I couldn't forget.
"Hey Ris?" I said, looking over at him.
"Yeah?" The blue eyed, basically brother to me, said. His voice was always so nonchalant, so laid back and uncaring. I on the other had had always been tense, too aware for comfort. It was like he was my alter ego. My completion.
"You heard about this war we're supposed to have with the military?"
"Ah, it's a load of bull. Least that's what my Dad said. Those Dogs don't have the guts to do nothin'." He didn't even care. He just yawned and shook it off saying "whatever" like he might do to school work or cleaning his room. I loved that about him. While I was worrying about everything, he worried about nothing.
"We don't know that. We've never had to fight anything before really."
He shrugged. We were walking pass my house right then.
"You two. In here. Now." my father said. His eyes seemed more distressed than I had even seen them. And I'd seen him really bad. Really, really bad.
"Mistan-san, I have to go pick up Sheriece." he said. His voice usually got really quiet when he was around.
"That's not important! Get in here!" he shouted.
"That's my little sister! She is too important!" he yelled.
"Father... Don't get mad. He just has to pick her up first. We'll be right back." My voice was always wispy when his was strong. My personality was tucked away into a corner when Father was around. The thing was I didn't… I didn't mind so much.
"No. Both of you get in there and hide. I'll go pick up Sheriece. Just stay right here." he had attempted to calm himself down. Since I'd been born, since Mother, he'd been doing a much better job at that or so I'd heard. It didn't seem that way to me.
"Come on." I took Rison's arm and lead him into the house.
"He's never acted like that before..."
"You've never acted like that before."
"I know. Why did he say hide?"
"I don't know, but I don't think that it's going to be too good."
The two of us went and sat in the closet, trying to be as quiet as possible. I think he fell asleep, I could almost hear him snoring as he leaned against my arm. But as soon as I moved a centimeter he sat up and looked around.
"How long have we been in here?" he said after who knows how long.
"I don't know," I stuck my head out of the closet door. It was dark. I could actually see the stars in the sky. "Come on." I whispered as I stepped out of the closet.
"Do you hear that?" he said as he followed. It sounded like Death it's self. Little did I know, I was right.
"A gunshot."
"What is going on..." he murmured. This is the first time it seemed like he cared in a while, but then again the topic of guns always got him interested. He walked to the door of the house.
Another gunshot. Much closer this time. I felt the warm liquid on my face; it ran down my lips and was making me sick to my stomach. The droplets fell to the ground in such an unorganized way...
How had this happened? That quick? No time for 'goodbye.' No time for the 'I'm sorries' or the 'I'll miss yous.' Maybe it was better that way? If I had gotten the chance, I would have never in a hundred millennia's have been able to let him go.
I felt my body slip to the ground, as if I had been the one shot.
"Ris... Rison get up. This isn't funny." I whimpered next to my fallen friend, but in my heart I knew the truth. I slipped my arms around his neck and laid my head to his chest.
'Why? Why now?' I never knew. Never found out a reason that was good enough.
Somehow bringing back a woman that I didn't know, that I couldn't remember, didn't seem equivalent to the life of my best friend. The only person that stopped long enough to care about anything. To care about me.
He was dead. That bullet to his head had done him in. I ran my fingers across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. It smeared, and stained my fingers. That color that was going to haunt my dreams that day on.
I felt my chest heave in and out in an increasing rate, like I was hyperventilating. I felt sick. His blood had drenched my clothes.
I wanted it to be fake. To be a dream. A nightmare. That I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there. Next to me. Smiling like always. Being the stupid kid that I'd always known. Why couldn't it just be a stupid nightmare? Why did life have to hurt more badly than a dream ever could?
That man...he was still standing there, in a state of shock. His eyes were as dark as coal as was his hair. He was wearing the clothes of the military, the cloth of dogs. On his hands were white gloves. The right one marked in an alchemy symbol, the other marked in blood. His eyes were wide as if he couldn't believe that he had been capable of such evil.
I think what got to him more than anything, and made me feel even sicklier than I had before, was Rison. Rison. His eyes. They remained open as if looking at the man that had ended his life so young.
He stared at me, wishing I hadn't been there, wishing that I hadn't seen it, wishing that he didn't have to end the life of another child. Another innocent. He brought the gun up level with my eyes.
I stared back at him, wishing that he would do it faster. But he could have never killed me fast enough.
Looking back, I realize that there was little that I could have done to save him unless I had seen it coming, which I didn't. But, back then, I didn't care. So, back then, I blamed myself. I thought that I didn't want to live after seeing that. I didn't want to be alone. Nobody else that I knew cared like Rison had and it would be -and was- an almost unbearable task to move on from my life in Ishbal. I almost died multiple times along the way.
The gun remained pointed at my head. As he spoke his voice quivered, "W-why are you here? Where are your parents?"
"This is my house..." I managed to whisper.
"W-who was he?" he had lowered the gun to his side, and looked at Rison.
"His name is Asumari Rison. He is thirteen, he was just going to pick his little sister up from school," my eyes were glazed over; I would have hardly noticed that he was there if I hadn't been speaking to him. "Why'd you shoot him? What did he do?"
"Those were my orders. To exterminate the Ishballians."
"Then will you hurry up and, as you said, 'exterminate me' because every second you make me wait, the more I want to die."
After placing the gun back in the holster, he ran his hands through his hair. He looked at me. I managed to meet his gaze. I needed to memorize that gaze. I needed to memorize that face. He shook his head, softly muttering inaudible words under his breath and walked away, saying not another word to me. I needed to memorize that face for that would be the only face in the years to come that I wanted to kill. The only face I'd ever wanted to kill.
"KILL! ME! I'm not worth it without him! JUST! KILL! ME! I deserve it!" I shouted after him. "Please..." I whispered it.
Nothing seemed right after that. Nothing seemed to fit. Like life were just pieces of different puzzles trying to fit together. Never quite right, though we tried so hard.
I hated it. I hated crying. I hated this city. This war. The military. The Ishballians. They were all lower than dirt. They all deserved nothing more than death. But most of all... I hated myself. For not protecting him when he needed me. For not being there when he needed me most. For not being along side him in death… I hated than man –that face- for doing this to me. For ruining everything for me.
That was the face that walked in the door less than three minutes later.
I wasn't surprised. I probably should have been, but I wasn't. I had to be Scar-like, even if it killed everything that I was and it was managing that successfully.
"Scar. Resident of Ishbal?" He said. His voice hadn't changed much from what I heard when I was younger.
"Colonel Roy Mustang. Resident of Central city." I responded.
I hadn't moved from the position that I was in. I had to dig my fingers into my wrist to keep myself from attempting to kill him in what ever possible way. He had no idea of how he ruined my life. A combination of him and his comrades killed what ever hope for a normal existence.
They killed my life.
My hand hung limp, I must had struck a nerve or something of the sort. He had brought a lamp into the room. The light flickered over his face. With my right hand, the one that I hadn't momentarily paralyzed, I pushed some of the hair into my eyes. I think that he thought I was going to do something dangerous because the second that I moved he placed his middle and thumb fingers together.
"Do you really think that I am that ignorant? I wouldn't kill you in a building full of people who want to see me dead."
"It hasn't stopped you before." He tapped his fingers on the board, in a furious manner. He was mad that he even had to look at the me-Scar.
"Rison Asumari."
His eyes widened and he took a half step back. "What did you just say?"
I didn't respond. He knew perfectly well what I had said. If he hadn't he wouldn't have left the room in such a hurry.
He left the kerosene lamp burning on the table.
Excerpt from the Journal of Roy Mustang
That name. Rison. It was one of my first memories of the war in Ishbal. It had been a misfire.
I'd heard of all the people there that wanted us in the military dead. I was nineteen and a little jumpy. I was also a little bit trigger happy. But by the end of that massacre, I never wanted to be near a gun again.
I didn't know that a thirteen-year-old older brother would be the first person that I killed.
I hadn't planned on killing anyone.
His hair had been dark brown. His eyes were greened to a pale shade. He didn't look Ishballian. The only way to tell he was was to look at his tanned skin.
I didn't know that another kid would have to see it all. I didn't even ask about that one's name.
It didn't seem important at the time. I didn't want to know about the child whose life I had ruined in the time that it would have taken to think over what I was doing.
I hated myself a little bit more at that point.
It only got worse when I held that gun up to the other boy's head. He just stared at me with red eyes that seemed to want to die. His face was blood covered. His clothes were blood covered. Everything about him seemed to be already dead. It hurt to look at him.
I asked him why he was there, where his parents were. He said that it was his house. I'd killed that boy, the one that must have been his brother, on in the door way of his own home.
His name was Asumari Rison. He was 13-years-old that day.
That's all I knew about him. That's all that I needed to know. That right there made me feel the worst I had ever felt in my life up until that point.
"Why'd you shoot him? What did he do?" That voice still bothers me at times. It's haunting in a way. Those questions, my response, and the last things that child said to me bothered me. Chilled me to the bone.
"Those were my orders. To exterminate the Ishballians." To this day I do not know what type of response that was to a boy of twelve, or thirteen, years old, whose brother had been killed right in front of his eyes.
He ran his fingers over his face, again, subconsciously. The blood smeared even more over him, as he said, "Then will you hurry up and, as you said, 'exterminate me' because every second you make me wait, the more I want to die."
I was shaking. I know I was.
I caused a child so much pain that he thought that he'd be better off dead. I was still pointing the gun to his head. I was still making him think that I was going to kill him. Still making him think that I was going to horrible misdeed again. I put the gun away. Brushing my hands through my hair, I stared at him.
He stared back at me. The pain was apparent in his eyes. The hatred was apparent in his eyes. The want and need to kill me was apparent in his eyes. That depressing sadness was apparent every time I looked at him.
"I'm sorry..." he couldn't hear me. "I can't kill you. I can't bring myself to do it. I didn't mean this any of it. It wasn't meant to happen like this. If this war is over as soon as possible we will all be so much better off." I stared at him again and shook my head, walking away.
My conscious was eating me so much that I couldn't kill him.
I vaguely heard the "Kill me! I'm not worth it without him! Kill me! I deserve it".
I just lied. I heard it thoroughly. It echoes in my mind. Unable to make escape. Unable to die… I couldn't do it. Was nineteen too young to end a second life?
No.
I had deliberately disobeyed orders. Why I couldn't have done it other times, I had no idea.
Why I couldn't disobey orders when it came to the Rockbell's lives? I don't know.
I was on duty... although it wasn't as if we were ever off in this war. About a year into it, and the casualties and injuries on either side were in the high thousands. It made me sick to think about it. The Rockbell's had made it their duties to help any and all wounded... no matter which side of the war they had come from. They were given direct orders to stop. To not continue on with what they were doing. To not help any of our enemies. To not help people live. This order they disobeyed… and it was given to me as a direct order to kill them. I couldn't refuse an order.
That kid.
That same kid was there again, being treated for a wound placed between his two eyes. Probably of mine and Armstrong's doing. Or Kimblee, that evil bastard. Most of his face was wrapped up. I could see the blood through the rag. It hadn't been changed lately. There were so many other people military or not, there simply hadn't been the time.
I didn't want to do this. But it was my job, my duty. I needed to be Furor to change all of this.
And this kid was there every time I attempted to give my self a small amount of accreditation by following wronged duties. This kid had become my conscious. Only showing up when I did something horrible...something unforgivable...something punishable by law. Except that I was the law, I was the military, and I don't think that made me human. It made me inhumane. It made me a legal murderer.
I stared at him, possibly in disbelief. How had he survived? Out of everyone, the thousands that had been killed, how had this one child survived? How had my conscience lived through all of the gore and hatred seeping out of bullet holes?
I'd opened my mouth to say something, but decided against it. He was staring, wide eyed, into that room. He was only there when I did something unforgivable, like I said.
I couldn't find the words to justify what I had done. They were my friends, my brothers in arms, and I'd killed them on an order. I'd killed so many on orders…
My thoughts were disrupted, thankfully enough, by Riza Hawkeye, my blond-haired savior in disguise, who would kill me if she ever heard me say that out-loud. That's what I loved about her. Her hatred of my personality only ran like water, however her love of my body went so much deeper. Yes, I am sexy.
"Colonel, sir! There is this insane woman outside claiming that the Scar that we have in our facility is not actually 'Scar'." She was clearly annoyed (I loved that, too), but managed to give a two-fingered salute.
"Because it's not! It's not Scar!" A voice yelled from outside the room. "I was pretty sure the military was stupid before, but this shows that I didn't even know the half of it!" It was a female. Her light purple hair tied back into a low ponytail and a grim look upon pretty features. Her eyes were a shade of dark purple, her skin unusually pale. How would she have any connection with Scar?
"Miss, if you would like to-"
"No! I would not like to what ever the hell you were going to say. That is not Scar!"
"Miss, if you would like to talk to-"
"NO!" she shouted. Clinching her fist, she glared like a child might.
Even though I had hardly seen this girl for more than an instant, I could tell she remained a) incredibly annoying, b) childish and c) extremely persistent beyond belief, even if she was wrong. Clearly wrong.
"No. Okay, I can tell and show you how this is not Scar!" She was calming herself down. She was doing a fairly bad job at it but she was attempting none the less. Her hand went toward the messenger bag at her side. Hawkeye's hand went to her gun. Hawkeye's had always went to her gun.
'Sort of cute how she's so over protective of me! Probably because it's her job. But none the less, there's no need to burst my own bubble.' I thought happily, although this girl was acting very suspiciously.
She placed a picture on the desk. "This is Scar…" she said quietly, pointing to the picture. I was amazed that someone's voice could drop that suddenly.
Three people were in the picture. A man, just under Scar's current height, was smiling, although looking faintly exhausted and was slumped over. His hair was dark, covering his eyes. His skin was tanned like an Ishballian's was expected to be. A small child was at his side, a little boy, from the looks of it. A pouting look was covering his face...one like Elysia would have given to me or Hughes. The boy wasn't even looking into the camera, but I could tell that with his white hair, his eyes were bound to be dark red. The other came up to only the man in the middle's shoulder. That was Scar, only there was no scar on his face to identify him by. He was younger. He didn't even seem to have been sixteen yet. The most notable change that I could see was that he was more carefree looking, at least. There wasn't the same look of hatred on his face, instead it looked like he was almost about to laugh. I would have never expected that someone like Scar would allow himself to laugh freely.
'But then again... I don't know who 'Scar' really is, do I?' I stared at the picture for a few more seconds. 'That little kid. Who is it? Why the hell is he so familiar?'
"This one," The girl pointed to the man that was in the middle. "This is Mattias. This kid is Kristoph. He's about four or five in this picture. And this one is Scar." She pointed at Scar. "Scar. Scar... Scar, Scar, Scar. Scar."
"I think we get the idea, Miss..." Riza said, the annoyed look still on her face.
"Just wanted to make sure. Scar." She pointed to the little boy, "Kris. Scar. Kris. Scar. You've got that, right? I know you're a little slow. Scar."
Hawkeye glared at the girl, and I know from experience, that this was not a good thing. She was prepared to shoot. I mouthed to her, "No. Don't do that. Bad Riza. Bad" She glared at me, and I looked back at my desk. That woman was scary sometimes.
The girl was searching through her bag for a couple of seconds, before pulling out another picture and placing it on top of the last one. I looked at her raising an eyebrow. She nodded down at the picture, "Go ahead. Look at it. Go ahead."
The two were standing back to back. Their alikeness was uncanny. Both having white hair, red eyes, tanned skin, scars from the top of their foreheads to the mid of their cheek in a half diamond shape (from a profile view). The one on the left, the shorter of the two, by about six inches or so, had black lines coming from the top of the scar down to behind the ears. The one to the right had an expression of annoyance and hatred on his face, while the left was more emotionless. That one also looked a lot younger than the other. "Hawkeye..." I said quietly, out of sheer amazement.
'If this girl is right, I can kiss my career goodbye.' I thought sadly.
She looked at the picture. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Which one more resembles Scar? Come on. Come on. You're supposed to know this. Huh? Huh? Come on, Mr. Mustang!" Her voice was incredibly loud and annoying almost making me want for Riza to shoot her, but she had a point. We could, very possibly, still have Scar roaming the streets.
"That one." An arm came over the girl's shoulder and pointed at the one on the left.
"Havoc." I looked at him as if he was an idiot, which he was, but that's what made him so loyal.
"Who the hell are you?! And why you so close to me?! And why are you so stupid, and why smell like cigarettes?!" She screamed, clapping her hands over her ears.
Jean backed up with his hands by his ears and a surprised expression on his face. "I didn't touch her, Mustang! I swear." He said backing up.
"I know. Are you okay, Miss?" I asked sighing.
"Yeah. I'm fine. But you were wrong, anyways." She said pointing at Havoc. "This is Kristoph. What did I say earlier? Scar. Kris. Scar. Kris. Scar. You are wrong. Give me my Kris, now!" She stomped her foot.
"But, when we caught who you call 'Kristoph', he answered to the name Scar." The orange haired man pointed out.
"If you'd notice, during this entire conversation, if you were here," She glared at him, "never did I once call him smart. He just used to being mistaken as Scar, so he's come to answer by it. NOW!"
"Miss, you're going to have to stay in here with him. His name is Jean Havoc. If he tries anything tell me. I need to talk to my superior. Come along, Colonel." Riza said smiling politely. I was in for hell, in what I wanted to be in a mini-skirt.
'She's going to rape me. She's going to murder me. And she's going to blame it all on Havoc. She's too damn good.'
"You caught. The wrong. Person?!" she ended her sentences after a couple words, because it was intimidating.
"He killed a man, Riza. Whether he is Scar or not, he killed that man. Not only that, but he ran when we attempted to talk to him and he answered to Scar." I managed to keep a calm tone of voice. How I managed it, I have no idea.
"And how many have you killed? I'm not attempting to justify his actions, but they were more than likely out of self-defense. He is thought to be Scar by every member of the military. Meaning that every member of this military has, at one point in time, attempted to kill him. And look at how similar he is to Scar. How many times would you guess that he has been called by that name?"
I honestly had no response because all of the points that she made were good ones. "The way that that man was killed... it was ruthless. It was like that boy, whom ever he is, killed him out of cold blood and nothing else."
"Well... your mistake, Mustang, caused an innocent little boy to spend five months in prison. How is that fair to him? Who the hell are you to say that that is okay? That it's just a mistake?"
I stopped. My voice went extremely serious, "You're right. I've made too many mistakes. And it's not fair that I've ruined his life. But the military has always done this haven't we? We've always messed things up for others."
"Roy..." her voice was so quiet.