Title: All in a Day's
Author: vanillavinegar
Rating: T (violence, gore)
Summary: "He's a hard one, Major Mustang."
Warnings: SPOILERS for Ishval. Please also note the rating.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.
Author's Notes: This fic was written for prompt 108, 'stoic', at fma_fic_contest. It won first place that week. Sorry about the lack of update last week – I was out-of-state and without reliable internet at the time. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Kristen Sharpe and Ricorum Scaevola for reviewing!
Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)
Snap.
A house, shabby but still habitable, suddenly becomes a furnace. The people attempting to find refuge within it flee, only to be shot down. Wild-eyed survivors panic, some rushing the soldiers while others leap through the flames back into the house.
Snap.
The furnace becomes a bonfire. The roar of the flames buries the wild shrieking; hollow crashes echo as the house collapses from the inside. The soldiers beside him whoop with triumph as the last Ishvalan in sight falls, clothes reduced to little more than rags from the bullets that ripped through him.
Roy does not join them. This is not the last block on their extermination list for today, much less the last house. There is no reason for celebration.
Snap.
"Did you see the major's face?"
"Cold as ice, him."
"Wish I could say the same!"
Laughter.
"No, man, really. Doesn't anything bother him?"
"You kidding? Nothing touches him!"
"One time this Ishvalan got within two feet of him. Little rat had a knife, but the major didn't even blink – just took him out, bang, like it was nothing."
"He's a hard one, the major."
"Glad he's on our side!"
Snap.
It doesn't matter that guilt is surging up his throat, clawing at him from the inside, that his stomach churns with nausea. It doesn't matter that he still doesn't know why he has become an instrument of death, why he has abandoned the oath of protection common to alchemists and soldiers in favor of destruction.
Snap.
Smoke stings his eyes. The sun and the fires he has summoned himself blister his skin. Half-melted flesh spatters his uniform, the smell of singed hair sears his nose, charred bones crunch beneath his feet.
Snap.
They say nothing touches him. His face remains carefully blank.
Only his eyes – filled with a horror made of the constant refrain of why– give him away, but few notice them.
Snap.
He squares his shoulders, marching on.
There is more work yet to be done.
Snap.
THE END