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Well, I admit it: I'm publishing this but I totally ignore the trends of the FMA /yaoi) fandom. I hope I did not a crappy job with this story. Enjoy the second chapter.
02Dogs of war
Maes Hughes nervously wanders through the camp .
He keeps going back and forth, paying visits to all his comrades' tends.
He talks eagerly to everybody, he has a warm smile for everyone and his hopeful eyes never falter.
Alongside with this, Maes keeps scrutinizing the soldiers' morale.
It's not very high, to be honest, and Maes is not really surprised by the general discontent.
No human will is truly ready to face and deal with the real meaning of war.
There is too much shit inside and outside, there is no more a common sense or a hand that tightly holds you on the ground.
So, invariably, the simple soldier is silent with shock, reluctant to go on, unwilling to cooperate with a monster he doesn't belong with. His will vacillates, after all.
To Maes, it's amazing how the high ranks tend to forget this simple truth.
The soldiers, first of all, are men.
They always reach a certain breaking point and after that he have no choice: they can SET – rearrange – their own humanity…or they can go crazy.
The fact is (and mind you, it's a conundrum from the beginning to the end) that they believe they can choose.
They are trained.
They constantly handle guns, they listen to strategies of attack, they talk about strategies of defence, and they argue, laugh, hate, live in their comradeship.
Still – again, this is fucking mind-blowing - killing is really far from their minds.
They don't know.
They dare to ignore it…or maybe they don't want to see it.
They shut their minds out.
In the end, taking lives becomes frighteningly normal and it happens so often that it's impossible to keep the score…so much that someone can't handle the whole thing without breaking inside.
Nonetheless, high ranked motherfuckers and moronic puppeteers don't give a damn about it.
And, again, this is not something new.
The war goes on while these people move their crystal alcohol-filled glasses, talk in elegant rooms, sitting in expensive leathered couches and curling their precious-shaped facial hair.
They unfold huge topographic maps and move upon them tiny wooden pieces, sometimes forward, sometimes backward.
Then they use some curious gestures and, in the real world, thousands of innocents are massacred.
Their far martyrdom is briefly commented by some very manly handshakes and a couple of future and boring promises of lunch together.
Does the ideal possibly worth the weight of this sacrifice?
Where is the measure?
Maes Hughes can't really give an answer.
Everyone has his creeds and there are situations and times in which it seems that everything can be sacrificed just for the greater good.
Then, bang on time, the reality slaps hard the face of the visionary idealist.
It is the slap of the rivers of blood (it really comes out that easily!), of the clusters of churned up guts, still warm (they really comes out that easily!) and of the piles of abandoned corpses(their numbers multiply that easily!).
Yet, trespassed the wall of the first victim, all the others have the same terrifying and null value.
So the man is consumed end dies a little bit inside with every dead OR he becomes corrupt and learn to get pleasure from the oppression of others.
The more the blood soaks the ground, the more they hunger rises and nothing is never enough.
That's the thin line that separates the pain from the madness and, frankly, everyone reacts as he can, just trying to survives.
Such a mystery is the human being, torn between his flesh's urges and his souls' expectation, engineered to celebrate life and still built around the other's people blood-lust.
::::::
Maes opens with a boom the mould-green tent and gives a look in the direction the other soldier is pointing at.
Maes snaps his tongue: this is really improper.
That body thrown carelessly on the bed doesn't seem to be related to Roy Mustang.
Recently, the young Alchemist has quickly gained some sort of reputation and the rumours of his deeds can be heard spreading amongst his companions.
The man is quite the type: he doesn't speak to anyone, not seeking contact with anyone nor proving to be caring about his surroundings.
He is proud, haughty, self-confident.
And, at least so they say, he's a real killing machine.
But Maes only sees a miserable, sorry, scared shred of human being.
The horror now weighs physically on his body and Maes can perceive an aura of death in the man's immobility.
Mustang doesn't move even if Maes' steps are getting nearer,
His back stays still.
Maybe he's sleeping.
When Maes' hand touches his shoulder to get attention, though, Mustang turns around and grabs forcefully his wrist, squeezing it to death.
With Maes' great disbelief, Roy Mustang is trembling.
It takes a while before the man understands that he's facing a "friend" and that he's real, just in front of him.
Another tremendous second, then the hawk in the man's dark eyes regains control and his immobile face reappears with prim confidence.
He pulls Maes away and sits down.
- Mustang ? - Maes asks, showing his best imitation of being at ease.
He nods, Maes massages his poor wrist.
- So, here we are, the famous Flame Alchemist... – says Maes, with his famous friendly tones.
Roy Mustang looks back without saying anything, not even trying to hide the disgust in the distant squint of his eyes.
- Major Hughes, here, Sir. Colonel Basque Grand sent me to fetch you.-
Mustang finally seems to get a hold of himself.
He gets up and declares:
- Show me the road. –
The two men leave the tent together and head to the medical area, where Marcoh and other people are waiting for them.
But there is someone else.
They are the Rockbells, the doctors.
They accepted to heal casualties on both sides, because the wounded are only wounded, no matter the ethnic group they belong to.
The atmosphere is heavy, unbearable, but Maes is forced to leave.
His thoughts and he hopes are immediately with Roy Mustang.