Three Wise Monkeys
Hey! pale-blue11 here!
And late again. I had this chapter ready to post about an hour ago, but something happened on and I suddenly had to edit it again. For the third time. But, in better news, this is the longest chapter so far! Please review and let me know what you think. It really helps to hear your opinions :)
WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language, and torture in this chapter.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters
CHAPTER SIX • The Second Saturday
There were many thoughts cascading through Ed's head, but one was loudest of all.
'This is not fun!'
It wasn't really as if he had expected to be. Anything that Colt enjoyed didn't sound all that pleasant to Ed. Hobbies like painting, murder, bird-watching, and—more recently—torture.
Why couldn't he enjoy normal things? Like golf? Or soccer? Even alcoholism would be preferable.
Ed's thoughts were shattered as yet another knife entered from somewhere beneath his ribs. It was white hot, yet cold, and seemed to expand as Ed's muscles contracted around it. He wanted to scream, to move away, but to do either would only make his situation worse. Colt had promised food, and Ed wasn't going to lose it just to relieve some pain.
The knife twisted, up, and he gasped in agony, clenching his eyes and fist until blood seeped from his palm and tears rolled down his cheeks.
Deep inside his mind, a firework exploded and sparked ferociously, demanding to be noticed. Ed opened his mouth, a single syllable slipping from his lips.
"Eight."
Colt hummed and Ed felt him pull the knife out. With its absence, breathing became less of a chore, and Ed puffed and wheezed until it was comfortable once again. His arm and leg fell weakly, held to the table by just the rope.
Colt was talking, somewhere to Ed's left. He didn't have enough energy—or interest—to listen to Colt's explanation, but he heard it anyway.
"That only took about... six seconds, I think. Much faster than the other one, but it's harder, isn't it?"
Ed cracked his watering eyes open to glare at Colt, but he didn't even notice.
"It's not that good against people in a real situation... It's just too much trouble to get the right angle! Maybe with more practice," he said with a toothy grin.
Rolling his eyes, Ed tried his best to tune himself out of the world. His mouth was full of blood—blood he desperately wanted to spit into Colt's face. It wouldn't make much of difference. Everything was covered in Ed's blood. Even the ceiling had collected a few flecks. 'Grotesque' came to mind, along with 'sickening'. Distancing words, vague words. They said nothing about the hurt, the need to scream, to yell, to writhe in agony even though the physical pain was long gone. They said nothing about the person behind the mess.
What was left of them.
Ed was determined to retain as much of himself as possible. Using those words allowed him to imagine he was reading a report. He could pretend it was all happening to someone else. That poor, unlucky bastard. He was glad it wasn't him.
Glad it wasn't...
"Hey! Don't fall asleep, now."
Ed shook his weary head. "Never. Wouldn't think of it."
Another knife entered his chest, just above his heart. Slowly, carefully, twisting anti-clockwise. Colt wanted him to feel it, and feel it he did. Utter agony.
It was harder to pretend when that blade was determined to prove him wrong. Reality hurt. Really badly.
Again, light sparked beneath his eyelids and Ed ground out a number from between gritted teeth.
"Nine."
Colt had promised ten. Ten and no more. If Ed could get through ten 'experiments' without making too much noise, he could eat. Otherwise...
Colt had also expressed an interest in how long it would take him to starve to death.
The tip of the knife kissed his side and Ed shuddered. Hopefully, that would be the last one.
But it barely pierced the skin, allowing only a single drop of crimson to spill before the wound closed over. Ed kept his eyes closed, knowing he would be able to tell when Colt chose a 'better' place.
And he did.
For a few moments, there was nothing. Perfect, blissful, beautiful numbness.
Then his eyes shot open, swivelling upwards. There was a silver glint at the top of his vision.
As a waterfall of blood flowed over his face, into his gaping mouth, Ed stared at the knife standing to attention in the middle of his forehead.
He couldn't help it.
He screamed.
XxX
The monster sat in its usual place. It rarely went away, and when it did, Colt daren't ask where.
Perhaps it was through lack of options that it had finally settled on the tattered couch, since it couldn't haven been from comfort. The springs screeched every time it lounged on it, and the thin pillow just about touched the ground, and yet the monster never complained.
It glanced up from an inspection of its nails as Colt walked into the kitchen. The pipes rattled and spewed out a rusted excuse for water, and the liquid that flowed down the drain was even more discoloured.
"Have fun?" The creature's voice travelled through the open door.
Colt wiped his hands on an old towel, leaving it with even more stains. "It's not about having fun." He started up the kettle. "I'm learning how to do things better on my own."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. One day I won't have to rely on you anymore."
"That's an interesting theory."
"It's true! With all this practice, I'm bound to make the front-page one day!"
"Hm?" The couch creaked as the creature swung its legs down to the floor. "Is that really all you want? Honestly, you humans have such low dreams. It's a wonder you don't trip on them."
"It may seem low to you, monster," Colt said. The kettle was beginning its high scream. "But at least it's something to work for."
It was silent for a while. Long enough for the tea to have been poured and drained.
"What'll you do once I become redundant?" it finally asked, a trace of laughter in its voice.
Colt came out with his cup in hand and dragged over the frail garden chair. "At that time… I will thank you for your services."
The creature cocked an eyebrow. "Is that all you'll do? I helped you get rid of your brother, your doctor, your aunt, and all those rich bastards… and you wanna thank me?"
Unease set in immediately, crippling in its intensity. "I—I don't know what else you want."
It studied him until it seemed to find what it was looking for. By that time, all of the blood had drained from Colt's face and he was having trouble keeping his fingers from shaking. It wouldn't do well to show fear to such a being.
"You have a question for me," it leant back on the couch, "don't you?"
Colt's lips tightened as much as he dared—as much as he could without alerting the monster to his displeasure. He hated the way it spoke to him, but what could he do? "No. Nothing."
It cocked an eyebrow disbelievingly. "I don't like being lied to."
"It's nothing, re—" he stopped talking in a hurry. There was a knife at his throat.
"Well?" It hadn't moved from the lounge, but its arm was extended and much longer than it had a right to be.
Colt licked his lips. "It's about… uh, it's about how… this works." He waited for a reply, but none came. The blade didn't even budge. "Was it the injection?"
"The injection?"
"That made him, um, i-immortal."
The monster laughed. "You really think that a general practitioner would hold the key to immortality?" As its body shook with mirth, the knife tapped against Colt's chin. "No, that particular trait is quite… unique to Elric. He has his father to thank for that.
"But," it retracted the blade and lowered its arm, "We can talk about this later. I can hear something strange in your spare room."
Colt frowned. Even with the immediate danger gone, he couldn't rid himself of the ominous prickling under his skin. "Strange?"
"He's your guest," the monster said with a snort. "You go see what he's up to."
"Ah, right." Colt nodded hurriedly and placed his full mug of tea on the floor. "I'll think about what… about what you said."
XxX
Colt had undone the ropes, at least, before leaving Ed alone. Almost alone. His thoughts were terrible company.
The last death had really shaken him. No warning, no preparation, just bam! There's a knife in your head.
Worst of all, he had been so close to food. He could practically smell it, taste it, feel it filling up the hollow space he called 'stomach'. The wounds healed in an instant, but his hunger was a constant, unwelcome companion. He didn't know how long it had been since Colt left. A minute? Two hours? Ed wouldn't have been surprised with either. The table was hard beneath his back, and while he barely had the energy, he forced himself to move.
His foot slipped in the slick blood as he scrabbled to find purchase. Giving up, Ed simply rolled across the edge and crumpled to the floor. Missing an arm and a leg, he felt like a child's discarded and forgotten toy.
His blurred gaze scanned around the room. He'd never seen it like that before. So many materials to use—iron, wood—and yet none could be accessed without his other arm. They were simply lumps of unused clay, ready for a skilled craftsman to spin them into vases and bowls. Maybe, he could...
Wait.
If Ed wasn't already overly aware of the blood on his face, he would have hit himself. He'd been using his arms so often that he'd damn near forgotten that there was another method for him to use.
Transmutation circles.
There was plenty of blood to draw with, and plenty of things he could make. Weapons, tunnels... hell—he could probably make explosives, if he really wanted to.
Oh, and to see Colt's face as his precious test subject waved goodbye—that would be marvellous. Ed grinned. Since he was free from that rope, he could do anything. Except walk. Or run.
So that took weapons out of the question. What was the point of a sword if you couldn't stand to wield it? That was about as useful as giving a blind person binoculars. Maybe a cannon would work, but there was the large risk that it wouldn't hit its target.
His best bet was to leave quickly and quietly. While he wouldn't see Colt's reaction, he could escape and call help. If he was fast enough, Ed might be able to catch a glimpse of Colt's expression as he was dragged into the back of a military vehicle. He would have to settle for that.
Decision made, Edward started to crawl across the floor, searching for a relatively clean surface on which to draw. The empty spaces where his limbs should have been made him horribly overbalanced, to the point where he could barely avoid toppling over each time he inched forward.
It was exhausting.
He was almost at the door—almost able to touch it—when his hand slid out from beneath him. His chin hit the floorboards first, slamming his tongue between his teeth, and even more blood filled his mouth. The red light crackled inside his mouth, like a New Year's sparkler gone haywire.
Pushing himself onto his back, Ed coughed until his eyes were weeping and his throat was raw. But, metallic and slimy, the blood wouldn't leave the sides of his teeth nor tongue. He groaned. It would all be so much easier if he had something to eat.
But at least his small fumble had brought him to a clearer area. The floorboards only held a few flecks, which Ed cleared away with the side of his arm before dipping his fingers into a semi-dried puddle.
His head shot around as footsteps echoed down the hallway, just about sending him to the floor again. Colt was coming back.
Hurry!
His hand moved as if independent, sketching out the transmutation circle for a trapdoor. The floorboards were obviously made of some type of wood, but if there was something else underneath, he didn't want to risk the backlash.
The steps were quickening—along with Ed's frantic breaths—until they were right outside the door. The circle was nowhere near complete.
Why was he coming back so soon?!
He didn't have enough time!
The door opened quickly, catching the side of Ed's face and throwing him across the half-finished circle. Colt towered over him, stained, scarlet rag in his grasp. His initial look of worry melted into rage as he recognised the design beneath Ed's defeated form.
Colt reached down and pulled Ed up by the neck. It was a formidable and unexpected show of strength that Ed had only witness twice before. The first: in the pub bathroom; and the second was the phone box. It was that strength—and Colt's ability to hide it—that was partly to blame for Ed's current predicament. The remainder of the blame could only be placed on himself.
Colt's grip was surprisingly tight, forcing Ed to gasp for breath. "Were you trying to get away?" he asked in a low growl. "Didn't you wanna say goodbye first?"
Unfortunately, Ed had enough air left for one quick retort. "Fuck no."
And the next thing he knew, he was flying. Not with wings or anything—and not gracefully in the least. It might have been more accurate to say he tumbled across the room, head over tail, until he met the table with a loud crack!
For the second time in a few minutes, his head was pouring blood.
"Don't move," Colt ordered before he stalked out of the door, letting it slam forcefully behind him. Ed didn't think the warning was necessary—he couldn't move if he tried.
Colt returned not a minute later. Ed was still dazed, unable to focus on one thing for very long. His eyes wandered from the ceiling, to Colt's bare feet, to the mattress on the other wall, and then back to the shiny object in Colt's hand. That captured his attention for a bit longer. Long enough for him to recognize the short, stumpy wedge of metal.
An axe.
"What... for... is that?" Ed managed to slur. A trickle of crimson ran down his chin; sparks of the same colour flickered weakly all around his body.
"I'm getting rid of that bloody hand!" Colt raged, face scarlet. A large grin stretched from ear to ear. "You're not getting out of here! Not now, not ever! Understand?"
Ed blinked slowly and his brows scrunched into a frown. Everything ached. Everything was too confusing. "My... hand? It's covered in… blood?"
"It's coming off! Off! Right now!" Colt grabbed Ed's arm just beneath the elbow and lifted him up like a parent lifts a sulking child. Ed squirmed uncomfortably. Why was everything so blurry? He could barely see. And that loud noise... Was someone yelling at him?
There was a bright flash somewhere above his head, and then the world returned. His senses switched on, working on overdrive as if to atone for their previous break. But there was a single sensation that overcame all others.
Pain.
No—agony.
And, instantly, Ed was back in the basement—eleven years of age and pleading for his brother's life to be spared. His leg was gone, Alphonse was gone, and then only other life form was that... that shaking, shuddering mess on the ground and he was scared and he couldn't stop shaking but he had to be brave because Al couldn't see his older brother so petrified and that didn't matter because Alphonse was gone and Ed was alone and—
He was so scared.
A bloodcurdling scream tore its way up his throat. Words—were they words? They might have been words—blubbered from his lips in the form of large, shuddering sobs.
Everything was white. The pain inside his head, the noise that surrounded him, the heat in his left wrist, the light behind his eyelids. Was he there again—the Gate? Why? Did he do another human transmutation? Or was he finally dead?
Oh God, oh God—
What did he do to his little brother?
Was he screaming? It felt like it, but it was impossible to know for sure. Just like that time, when he was young and foolish. Nothing had changed in four years—only the length of his hair and the size of his confidence.
And then his head was being yanked upwards, and his eyes roughly opened with a sticky, bloody palm on his forehead. His hand was gone—both of them.
Where did they go?!
But as he watched, a flower bloomed in place of his left wrist. A porcelain-white flower nurtured by crimson water and pain-filled tears. A flower whose petals grew and danced and writhed as if they were alive and celebrating that simple, joyful fact.
"You see this?" A gleeful voice bellowed beside his ear. Was it the Gate? Had it come to see him off before he entered its confines forever? "You did this! You're a freak! A useful freak! Nothing more than that!"
"Freak..." Ed watched, entranced, as muscle and sinew grew over the base of the flower, holding it together as it worked towards its final shape. "I'm... not normal..."
The Gate spluttered, its many voices converging into one. Strange—Ed never thought it would choose to do that. "You think this is normal?"
The fuzzy, humanoid form reached forward and shook Ed's regenerated hand so it flopped from side to side. Ed squinted up at the Gate, noticing that its perpetual smile was the wrong way up.
"But..." he said slowly. "I know it's not. But I'm... useful?"
The Gate's snarl relaxed slightly. "You're useful. Nothing more."
"But I don' wanna... be used." Ed turned his pleading gaze to where he guessed to be the Gate's eyes. A few tears fell unchecked—but he was a big boy! He couldn't cry! Al needed him to stay strong! "I... Give him back."
The Gate seemed taken aback by Ed's sudden demand. "What?"
"Give him back," Ed repeated. He balled his new hand into a fist and wobbled to his one leg. "He's my little brother!" Ed's voice took on a shrill, hysteric tone. "Give him back to me!"
And as soon as the words departed his lips, Ed's knee gave out. He collapsed, undignified, to the ground and lay there, silent sobs racking his weaker frame. The tears cleared his vision, until he could see that he wasn't trembling before alchemy's god, but a man. A man with bare feet, skinny ankles, and sanguine pants.
His new God.
And his new God already had a command for him.
"Stop that." His voice was unreadable. "It's pathetic."
Ed nodded, but couldn't stop it. Then he was being pulled up again, keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the floor. He didn't want to see the axe as it swung, higher and higher, until he thought for sure it would never come back down. But it did. With a sickening crunch and dull thud, it did.
"We need to make sure that this doesn't happen again," Colt explained smoothly. Ed could barely hear it through the screaming in his mind—too focused was he on making sure he remained silent. The neighbours might hear.
There was a strong pressure on the stump of his wrist, a strong, rough, scratching pressure. Ed dragged his eyes over to see what was happening, taking in the white bandages rapidly turning red. The grotesque, beautiful flower distorted its wrapping, scratching and tearing but never quite breaking through. Surrounded by scarlet lightning, it writhed.
With a bang! that resounded deep in Ed's mind, ringing in his ears for what promised to be hours, the stump went still and quiet.
Dazed, Edward almost didn't notice Colt's departure. He vanished quickly and angrily, slamming the door behind him. It didn't matter—Ed was lost in his own head, staring at his hand as it disintegrated into a powdery ash and then less. Soon, it was gone.
Five minutes. That was what he decided, stumbling through his thoughts and recent memories in a dimming shock. It had been five minutes since he first started to draw the transmutation circle.
Five minutes since the door crashed into his head.
Four minutes since Colt threw him into the table.
Three minutes since his first hand disappeared.
Two minutes since he imagined the Gate.
One minute since he lost hope of getting himself out.
XxX
"Alphonse!"
Mustang's team flinched as their commander's cry echoed through the room. All work abandoned, they watched him with thinly-veiled concern as he tossed the files he had been reading through to the ground. They scattered everywhere, causing Riza to sigh and raise a finger to her temple.
Al rushed over to the colonel's side, his armour clanking loudly with each eager step. "What is—"
"Shh!"
Roy continued to scribble on the paper before him, the pen flying and scrawling out an address. A gloved hand landed in front of it triumphantly. "There!" he said with great pride. "I've found it!"
Alphonse gave a happy gasp, bending down for a better look. "This is where Colt lives?"
"Jeremy Colt bought this property on the 24th of March, 1910. There are no records of him either selling or renting it out, nor buying another house. Therefore," Roy concluded, "he still lives here."
An audible sound of relief came from everyone in the office—the loudest of all vibrating through Alphonse's steel.
"So, Boss," Havoc took the chance to push away his paperwork, "when do we leave?"
"As soon as possible." Roy strode over to the larger table and tossed the address to Breda. "Study this. It's getting late, but if we work quickly this can be over before nineteen-hundred. Breda, Falman," he turned to the men in question, "you'll stay outside with the car. It's been three days—we might need it."
Breda and Falman nodded sharply, snapping a quick salute. "Yes, sir!"
"Fuery."
Maybe looking more than a little nervous, Fuery met Roy's determined gaze.
"You'll be driving around the streets, making sure he doesn't get away from us. Don't let any unknown vehicles through, understand?"
Fuery's demeanour changed in an instant, becoming resolved and serious. "Understood."
"Havoc?"
"Yeah?"
Roy pointed a threatening finger at him. "You're in charge of the door. We don't want him to reach the street, so make sure to stop him if he runs."
"Sure," Havoc said, cigarette hanging from his mouth and purposeful hand to his forehead. "I can do that, Boss."
"Lieutenant." Mustang faced the last of his unit to receive orders. "You're coming with me."
Riza nodded in affirmation. "Understood, sir."
"Good." Roy spun back to his desk. His usual, confident air was back—something was finally going right! "Make sure you know the address. I'll see you there at eighteen-hundred. Bring some kind of communication, and wear plain clothes. He can't know we're there."
"Sir!"
In a matter of seconds, the office was cleared. Only Roy, Riza, and Al remained. Al made a quiet noise, staring at his large gloves.
"Colonel… What do you want me to do?"
"You'll wait here, Alphonse," Mustang commanded. His tone left no room for arguments, but Al didn't hear it.
What?" he cried. The plumage on his helmet bobbed up and down in shock. "You're leaving me here?"
"You're a civilian." Roy walked around and sat in his chair. Though it made him considerably shorter than his opponent, the superiority never left his voice. "I can't allow you in such a delicate operation."
"It's not heart surgery!" Al exploded, shaking with anger. "Why won't you let me come?"
"You're a civi-"
"That never mattered before!" he interrupted forcefully. "I can help—he's my brother! Colonel! Please, Colonel, let me see him!"
Roy sighed and dropped his head. Wearily, he said, "I can't let you come with us. Not this time, Alphonse."
"But Ed—"
"Alphonse." Riza stepped out of his shadow gracefully, placing a soothing hand on his bulky metal arm. "You'll be able to see him before the night's over. Just let us do our job."
"Lieutenant—"
"Edward will understand," she spoke over him, "if you aren't there. Please, just calm down."
Alphonse let out a small whine, his entire body twitching with indecisiveness. If he had a face, his bottom lip would have been chewed to pieces. The hazards of loving the Fullmetal alchemist, presumably. Constant worry came with the job, written in the fine-print.
"You..." Al started, avoiding both of their faces. "You'll let me see him when you have him?"
Roy answered, "Of course."
Another quiet whine rattled Al's armour. "Then... If you promise."
"We do." Roy gave him a resolute smile. "We'll bring your brother back, Alphonse."
XxX
The sun cast a deep red shadow over the city of Central, alighting her windows with flame. As the sky darkened, lights flickered on in houses and men traversed the abandoned streets, methodically lighting the street lamps. Those men passed by Roy and Riza's plain vehicle without the slightest interest, continuing their jobs ignorantly.
It was eighteen-hundred—six in the evening—but the late-autumn days caused the nights to lengthen and arrive earlier. It was all how the world worked: cold months make shorter days just as surely as wars will cause despair.
Mustang had seen more than his fair share of war to understand that simple fact. Sorrow lurked around the corners of every possible fate.
The radio crackled to life, drawing attention immediately. There was a brief pause, then Breda spoke.
"We're parked roughly fifteen yards away from the door, Colonel. Awaiting further orders."
Roy reached for the hand piece, holding it firmly. There had been an incident where none of the radios would connect, merely because the buttons were too stiff. "Hold your position."
Through the static, Mustang could barely make out Breda's words, "... mow the lawn..." before his voice came through strong and clear. "Roger. Understood, sir."
"Can you see Havoc from where you are?"
"Yes, sir," Falman answered. "He's positioned several doors down from Colt's property."
Roy could imagine Havoc, lounging on the edge of the road with his feet casually stretched out in front of him. A cigarette almost definitely drooped from his fingers, dripping ash onto the pavement.
"Good work. Fuery, you there?"
"Yes, sir. I'm driving north along Cambridge Street at the moment."
"Understood." Roy's hand was beginning to cramp up around the uncooperative radio. "Riza and I are currently stationary at the base of Belmont Crescent. At eighteen-hundred and fifteen, we'll start moving. Be ready."
A chorus of 'yes, sir's greeted his instruction, bringing a pleased smile to his face. They were good men.
"Sir."
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"I would like to clear a few questions I have before we find Edward," Riza said, turning to face her commander. Her hair was down, and a simple light-blue shirt had replaced the military uniform. Those two slight changes seemed to take years off her young appearance, though stress added them back on.
"You want to know why I wouldn't let Alphonse come," he guessed. "Is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
Roy leant back against the car window, admiring how the sunset illuminated his subordinate's blonde hair. "Alright, then. I'm sure this is obvious, but Alphonse is too big for covert missions such as this. He'll be noticed."
"With all respect, sir," Riza started, and Roy knew a much harder task was ahead of him. "I cannot accept that as the only reasoning behind your decision."
"Well it was," Mustang lied through his teeth, throwing in a shrug to appear causal. "We were in a hurry, I didn't—"
"Are you afraid that Edward is already dead?" Riza's eyes were dry, but Roy had known her long enough to recognize the storm brewing behind them. He couldn't lie to her.
Sighing, he checked his watch. Eighteen-hundred and nine.
"It's…" he said, staring intently at the time. The second hand ticked slowly in anticipation. "It's been three days, Lieutenant. The moon's rising on the fourth night. We need to prepare for the worst."
"Understood, sir." She wouldn't look up, and neither would he.
"Listen," Mustang relented after several long moments of silence. "I don't wanna say this as much as you don't wanna hear it. But the chance of Fullmetal being alright is almost zero. And that's if he is here—that's if Jeremy Colt really is the one to blame."
"I understand."
"If he isn't here, then who knows how long we'll have to look? Nothing good could come from Alphonse being here. He'd either see Fullmetal and panic, or-or not see him and... and do the same thing. You see? I couldn't—"
"Colonel." A hand landed on the back of his glove, hiding the transmutation circle. "I understand. Alphonse will, too."
Mustang looked at their hands for a long time before he sighed and moved his away. "Right, Lieutenant. Thank you."
"You're welcome, sir."
The next few minutes were passed in silence. Roy fiddled with the hem of his shirt, running it through his fingers until Riza threw him a sharp glance. He stopped.
Sunset was still lingering on the horizon when the clock hit eighteen-hundred and fifteen, the sky the colour of the blood Roy hoped not to see inside Colt's house. But whether it was there or not, he needed to find Ed—whatever was left of him, if necessary. If it came to that.
God, Roy hoped it wouldn't.
"Let's go," he muttered to his subordinate, morbid thoughts careening through his mind. He tried his best to kill them, but nothing seemed to work.
Riza gave a quick military nod and opened her door. Though it appeared casual, Mustang knew her gun was ready to come out at any moment. She was like that—competent and wary. A good soldier.
It must have looked like a nice evening's stroll to anyone without any inside information. A man and a woman—possibly a couple—walking side by side through the derelict neighbourhood. Perhaps, if there had been flowers, the man could have presented his companion with a bouquet. Perhaps—if it had really been a nice evening's stroll.
Perhaps... if Edward's life wasn't undetermined. But the Fullmetal alchemist had become Schrödinger's cat; dead or alive, Roy would have to open the box and deal with the consequences.
"Sir."
The colonel turned to see his lieutenant standing several paces behind him, one hand hidden inside her coat pocket. Roy heard the click of her nails on metal, and knew she cradled the gun in her palm.
"It's this way, sir."
"Oh." Mustang's shoes clopped along the ground like miniature horses. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
Riza didn't answer for a beat, and then they fell into step again. "It's okay to be distracted now, sir," she said with a touch of hesitancy colouring her words. "But you'll need to be focused when we get inside."
"I know." Breda and Falman's car came into view as they rounded a corner, Havoc sitting just a few metres ahead. "Thanks for taking care of me, Lieutenant."
"It's a pleasure, sir."
They lapsed into silence as the crossed through Havoc's blurring shadow, and through the cloud of smoke above his head. Everything had gone smoothly so far, but the real mission had barely begun. First, they had to somehow get through the front gate.
The old metal was so rusted and so discoloured it was impossible to decide whether it was steel or iron. Maybe it was both—a chimera born of leftover junk and bad taste. The latch was barely more than a few chunks of rust and dirt. It didn't look like it had moved in years.
The garden wasn't any better. Grass that may have once been well-manicured ran rampant across what resembled a crumbling footpath. It grew between the cracks in the stone, through garden beds that held only weeds, and even out into the street. The longer strands tickled Roy's boots.
"This," he said, pointing at the peeling paint on the rotting door, "is worse than... than what I expected."
Riza hummed a noise of agreement, but then she squared her shoulders. "We should hurry, sir."
Then, without another word, she climbed over the waist-high fence and started up the path. Her gun was out, gleaming by her face, and though she didn't once glance down, Riza managed to evade the reaching grasp of the weeds with grace.
And, well, Roy couldn't be outdone by his lieutenant.
Soon, they were standing beneath the sorrowful veranda. Not a single sheet of wrought iron remained on its skeletal frame, though plenty littered the ground beneath.
"It's hard to believe someone's living here," Roy murmured, mostly to himself. It really was a pitiful house.
While Riza stood watch behind him, Mustang tested the doorknob. It screeched as he turned it, but the door never opened. He glanced to the lieutenant, an unspoken message passing between them, and then he raised his boot. With one well-placed kick, the lock shattered, allowing the hinges to creak inwards. If Colt was home, he'd know they were there.
But there was nothing. A thick layer of dust—the product of many neglectful years—suffocated furniture that looked weary from disuse. A cheap, woven rug lay on the scuffed floorboards, slowly darkening from age. Large colonies of mould festered on the walls. No picture frames hung against the peeling wallpaper—nor anywhere else for that matter—and it all seemed so… empty. Devoid of life.
That was what set the first seeds of doubt to grow in Roy's mind. He had an idea that the amount of noise they created was irrelevant—they were the first houseguests in a long time.
"Sir—"
"I know, Lieutenant," he interrupted, holding a hand up for her to quieten. "Let's just check."
They had wandered straight into the foyer. And living room and dining room, also. A rickety table wilted in the corner, joined by a faded garden chair. Almost directly beside it in the cramped space sat a pale green couch. The centre was sagging towards the floor and stains spotted the arms. More mould crept up the sides, creating its own pattern on the otherwise plain sofa. It smelt like damp and dust.
A tiny window above the table appeared to lead to the kitchen. Roy gave the signal to Riza and she vanished down the adjoining corridor, gun prepared as always.
He followed her example and raised his weapon. Maybe he was wrong; maybe Jeremy was lurking just behind the next corner.
But it didn't take long to disprove that theory. The kitchen was even smaller than the foyer/living/dining room. Barely more than a row of cupboards lined the wall, with a tiny wood oven opposite. Roy allowed himself a few moments to feel sympathy for the man who lived there, before starting to dig through the cupboard drawers. There must have been a clue somewhere. A new address—one that the military never found. Maybe it was in the kitchen. Maybe.
The first drawer held nothing more than a broken key ring; the second just three forks, four knives, and a teaspoon; the third contained a plate, bowl, and—oddly enough—a wooden peg. But the fourth held the most interesting objects. A pencil, a blank notebook, and a photograph.
Roy gently lifted the fragile paper by the corner. It was black and white, though probably no more than five years old. Flipping it over revealed that it was taken on the 5th of November, 1912. Two years old, then.
It showed a blurry image of two men, similar in both looks and attire. Attitude, too, it seemed. Their black suits reflected their expressions, being somber and dark. A crowd of people stood frozen in the background, all wearing black, and one of the men held a white lily in his hand. In neat handwriting below the image, someone had written:
Arthur and I at Mother's funeral, November.
Roy's mouth tightened. So that was Jeremy Colt. The photo was a much better representation of their target than the military profile.
Loud, purposeful footsteps strode down the short hallway, and Roy stiffened before recognizing them. Riza stuck her head into the kitchen, making no effort to be quiet. The house was empty, then.
"I found something that may be important," she informed him, without wasting any time. "Follow me."
Roy did so with no questions asked. She had that look on her eye, the one that said everything was under her control. She had the advantage.
There were only three doors leading out of a hallway that could have been better described as a central meeting area. And a small one, at that. The one facing the foyer was a laundry, but Roy didn't see much more than that before he was forced through the left doorway.
A single bed occupied most of the space, so much so that Roy's knees hit the frame as soon as he entered. The window wasn't doing much to illuminate the room, so he felt around and tugged on the light string. With a quiet click, he was able to see what had the lieutenant so interested.
It was a shrine, dedicated to 'Margaret', an old woman with deep lines in her face. Most of them seemed to be from unhappiness—Margaret must not have been the most fortunate woman in the world. A single look at her crumbling shrine said just that. It featured just an amateur portrait of her face and several unlit candles.
"A mother?" Riza suggested. She stayed out of the room, knowing there was no more space inside. "Grandmother?"
"Mother," Roy confirmed as he passed the photograph back to her. "Died two years ago."
The frown was clear in Riza's voice. "But there was no mention of family in the report."
"A mistake." Roy reversed into the hallway and closed the door behind him. "An oversight. But if Jeremy isn't here, he's probably staying with that other man. Maybe they're accomplices."
"Or brothers," Riza said, pointing to the picture. "They have very similar features."
Roy hummed and nodded, agreeing. "I noticed that. So this... Arthur Colt is our next suspect?"
"It would seem so, Colonel." Riza's gun disappeared into her coat. "Are you ready to begin the new search?"
So was it alright? I really don't know what many people think of this story—please review and tell me!