Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.
- x -
Alphonse was far too polite to slam the door, but the finality was there just the same.
Roy remained where he was, idly rubbing his thumb and middle fingertips together in his pocket. He used a light touch, feather-soft, just exploring the texture of the material as he had so often done in the past. Havoc said it was tactile addiction, the same reason he felt better with a cigarette in his mouth, lit or not. Whether or not Jean was right, he found himself doing it when he needed to keep calm, subconsciously reassuring himself that he did indeed posses the means to make the danger go away.
The general, for his part, clasped his hands behind his back. "That could have gone worse, I suppose."
Could have gone worse. Yes, that was definitely true. He modulated his tone, trying to add a trace of amusement to it, though he wasn't sure he succeeded. "What exactly did you do?"
The general's chin dropped fractionally. "Ordered Alphonse Elric and Russell Tringum be taken to the HQ hospital to have their injuries assessed. Obviously there was some creative interpretation by my staff."
That apparently had to do with giving Alphonse sedatives. Mustang smiled humorlessly. "I see. After everything he's been through, your people would have had to wake him up to accomplish this. And you did this to prevent him from making a mistake?"
Hakuro was watching him through his eyebrows. "All due respect, Minister, you've already wasted too much time playing with your alchemist friends. Getting Elric out of the way until we had something to actually tell him was a sound idea."
"Getting Elric out of the way," he repeated softly. "General, did it occur to you that I handle the Elrics the way I do for a reason?"
"Of course," the general replied. "Because you're far too close to your subordinates, just as you have been your entire military career. I've watched you for a decade now, Mustang, and you've yet to treat any subordinate like a soldier."
"A characteristic you're taking advantage of as we speak," Roy warned him, but the general only shook his head.
"If Alphonse had heard from an enlisted that Full Metal was on the front lines, do you truly believe he would behave any better than Russell Tringum? What do you think would happen to him when he tried to storm through security? And even assuming he did handle it appropriately, do you have any idea how much time you've spent on the subject of Fletcher Tringum since Patterson came here to kill you? And do you appreciate that he would have succeeded – been caught, but succeeded – if not for the boy?"
Mustang fought an inner battle with his anger. "I spent an appropriate amount of time-"
"All told it's been eight hours! Eight hours that your country has been at war, you've been in a part of the building few know exist, completely unreachable by any but your personal staff and a handful of my men-"
"Is this a criticism or an observation?"
Hakuro stared at him as if he'd suddenly turned mauve. "Don't be petulant."
"I only ask because you seem to think the country was without leadership during that time. The equivalent to a good night's sleep," he added.
The general snorted. "The position of Prime Minister was created exactly for this purpose, Mustang! Parliament was looking to you for military guidance-"
"And they had it," he interrupted quietly. "I left this country in the capable hands of my head general for eight hours." He cocked his head to the side as Hakuro mentally took a step back. "Or did you not recognize that as one of my subordinates you too had my trust?"
The general didn't miss the implication. "You must have already assumed I was going to make quite certain Fletcher Tringum was no longer a threat. Your unconditional acceptance that Alphonse Elric was capable of diagnosing something so ludicrous is borderline irresponsible."
Roy withdrew one of his hands from his pocket and waved it casually. "I'm not talking about trying to get Tringum and Elric away from Fletcher."
The general watched him for a moment, quite closely, before taking a careful breath. "I'm not aware of any indiscretions on my part," he said slowly, clearly weighing each word. "My staff, with the recent exception, has been responsive."
Mustang studied the pattern on the upholstered chair beside Hakuro. He spent more time standing around it than actually sitting in it. "Speaker Morian would say differently. In fact he did, just today."
Hakuro's eyes shifted to the right as he searched his memory. "Morian supports me, as I'm sure you're well aware. May I inquire as to the nature of the indiscretion?"
Mustang flicked his eye directly to the general's. "He seems to be aware of the Fullmetal rumor."
Hakuro looked neither surprised nor guilty, though Mustang wasn't expecting either. "If he knows it came from the Speaker." He unclasped his hands, rubbing his chin in thought. "Possibly he's a member of the inner cabinet. Not for his technical or political merit, of course, but because he is unafraid of opposing you."
Roy waited a long time, to see if his silence would encourage Hakuro to say more, but he seemed satisfied with his answer. No squirming. "Then I must admit to being highly disappointed with the Speaker." No one else had been in the room, after all, besides Hawkeye, Hakuro, the Speaker, and two transcribers. It was possible, he supposed, that they were to blame, though currently the papers were sealed. One of the transcribers was female. He made a mental note to ask Sheska to track down any record of work by that young lady for Morian.
"Though I shouldn't be surprised I was your first suspect," Hakuro murmured, finally with a trace of self-deprecation. "I doubt he would have done it though, to be frank. Are you certain Morian knows?"
When it came right down to it, no. "He stated the defeat of a well-known State Alchemist would hurt the military's reputation with our neighbors."
The general's eyebrows twitched. "That was direct," he muttered. "I can see why it would give you that impression."
Mustang put his hand back into his pocket, debating his next move. "Armstrong's next communication is coming to my office directly. Ensure that the secure line is fully secure."
The general gave a small nod.
"Alphonse Elric is off limits," he added bluntly. "I will continue to handle any issues with the State Alchemists personally."
The older man looked disapproving, but he said nothing, and Mustang consciously shrugged off the invisible weight pressing down on him. "Dismissed, general."
- x -
"They've arrived, sir."
She moved across the heavy marble floor smoothly, keeping footsteps to a minimum despite the hell that was the avenue. She knew as well as any other seasoned solider that the ear, on its whim, would ignore even deafening familiar sounds for newer, softer ones.
The last thing she wanted that party to hear was her walking up behind them. Literally.
What had six hours ago been a State bank was now a mess of marble and plaster and rubble. It had taken enough of an artillery hit that the back half of the building had collapsed entirely, but luckily the front was still intact. And facing a mostly intact Commerce Avenue, which had been chosen as the inroad for the Cretian officers.
It was difficult to call a victory if the high-ranking weren't among the group raising their flag over claimed soil.
And there was little doubt in the minds of the Cretians that they had won this fight.
West had taken some heavy damages, particularly the business district, which had been the westmost section. Trading ended when the sun went down, so the stock houses were as close to the horizon as possible. The only building still in relatively good shape was the military headquarters, though it too had taken its share of hits. Nearly all personnel that was still alive had poured through her gates, and now the well-defended wall was the only one left.
And the Cretian military, still picking through the city in search of lone skirmish or sniper teams, was a block out, surrounding her on all sides. Waiting.
Waiting for their general to ask for Amestrian surrender. Otherwise, the base would be overwhelmed.
And it would be overwhelmed. Even if every soldier that the enemy had seen entering was actually still behind those walls, they couldn't possibly hold against that many. The sun was gone, nothing but a burning orange slice against the dark grasslands, and the advantage of reflective gear was gone with it.
Three waves had crashed and ebbed, but the fourth had proved too much to strained resources and insufficient men. Amestris had fallen back, giving the city to the enemy, and soon they would be giving their headquarters and their lives.
At least, that was what she presumed they believed. It was certainly what she had engineered, and she would be very disappointed indeed if they saw through it.
Major General Olivier Armstrong watched through a gap in the granite as the convoy pulled cautiously into the avenue. Across the street, a sniper fired, and the lead jeep's hood popped off in an explosion of diesel and steam. The building face was peppered with fire, and she could not make out if her man managed to get to safety or not.
If not, he would be promoted two ranks posthumously. It had been a hell of a risk, and the shot was good. She was becoming rather impressed with these inept, slovenly men, though she would never tell them. Once fighting got underway they had not buckled when she'd expected, but instead rallied.
They didn't quite have the love for their rock that her men did, but they fought for her just the same. As an outsider on their Briggs, as it were, it was her responsibility to match their effort.
The convoy sent forth men to investigate, and she signaled, pulling back into the shadows. Two of the Cretians did indeed peer through the cracked door, but instead of searching they merely fired blindly into the space. When no fire was returned, they assumed the dwelling was empty and moved on.
Olivier watched them, brushing bits of marble from her jacket and waiting for the ringing in her ears to cease. Occasional chatter from their weapons confirmed they were doing the same up and down the avenue. It had been a long time since she'd been in a light uniform instead of a heavy coat, dealing with heat instead of cold so frigid it burned, and fighting on solid ground, with rock and sand and dirt and liquids that did not freeze mere moments after landing on the pavement.
She almost felt like an infantryman again.
Almost.
The convoy was already trying to move past the crippled lead vehicle, and with large pieces of debris on the right side of the road they had chosen to swerve left, toward the bank. She waited until more than half the vehicles had passed, and then she brought up her hand, bringing it down sharply as the second to last vehicle passed by her piece of cover.
And then a sixth of the men that the enemy had seen enter the West HQ parade grounds poured literally out of the woodwork. And the stonework. But most importantly, some of them were coming out of the storm grates, with heavy, round mines, and tucking them into the inner workings of the automobiles and armors that were parked so conveniently just over their heads. They could have changed the oil while they were at it.
The mines had been set on a fuse, and each commander had been forced to repeat the sequence back to her three times before she'd let them go. There was far too much going on in the avenue for her to tell if her orders had been followed, and frankly, if one of them fucked it up it wasn't really going to matter.
The avenue was awash in men spilling out of vehicles, and the grinding of the armor turrets sighting targets. She pulled out her pistol, taking aim only for the officers. She shot a colonel and two commanders before her position was overrun, and there was a bloodied face in front of her, waving a bayonet and screaming.
She put him down easily, and the one that came to take his place, nimbly dancing back on the rubble as her people withdrew as suddenly as they'd struck. Yet another Amestrian attack thwarted by sheer numbers of Cretians. A final, disorganized attempt to get to the general, ultimately fruitless.
She pulled back into the bank, taking aim at the nearest enemy intent on following. Despite the dim she'd been recognized as an officer, and the lead armor was bringing its turret to bear on the bank. Olivier ducked behind a large piece of granite, watching the edges chipped by bullets, and did the math quickly. The first mine should go off any second, but if they hit the face of the bank, it might very well trigger the rest of the collapse-
She counted the enemy rounds and popped up over her cover, and the enemy soldier fell with lead between his eyes. He cleared the way for her to witness explosions originating both from the top and bottom of the armor as it was able to get the shot off before the mine buried in its belly detonated.
The street was rocked with explosions, each of the mines going off at its precise moment, and after only two or three she couldn't hear them anymore. Couldn't hear anything. Debris and shrapnel were flying through the twilight air and she remained where she was, back to the granite, watching a finger of inky black crackling along the stone above her head. There was nowhere to go, the avenue was literally a minefield and there was no way to outrun the collapse. Her best bet was to stay in the corner and hope that the structure held.
Her men weren't that smart, and in the flashes of explosions she could see them trying to scurry into cover, even as the main section of roofing cracked fully and began its collapse.
How utterly disappointing.
A blinding flash of blue lit the bank, seeming to come from the center of the crumpled floor, and then she was buried with a breathtaking gust of air. The world shifted, indicating a massive explosion, but she was remarkably still alive when it ended.
The corner had held.
Complete darkness enveloped her, and Olivier waited a moment before shifting. Her hearing was no better than before and her body was quite numb, but her sense of sight and smell were still intact, and she caught diesel fumes and smoke cutting dimly through the dust.
So she was still near the surface, she was still getting fresh air.
A few blinks and careful turns of her head revealed a line of dim, and she used it to orient herself. Flickers of light occasionally flitted through, meaning it was facing the street and the burning convoy. Which meant it was the floor. She re-aligned her body with that in mind, put what she hoped were her feet against what she hoped was rubble, and began to push.
It was quite heavy, but the strip of light increased, and when she could see more fully the space she was in she re-adjusted. All she needed to do was shove the rubble to the side, roll it enough to pass by, not completely up-end it. Hopefully there was enough clear space from the explosions in the avenue that it could be done.
Her back protested, finally, giving her some idea of the effort she was exerting, and she strained harder, until it was effort to breathe. She couldn't hear the gasps, couldn't feel the sinew and tendon, but she could see the progress as light increased along the floor, and that was enough. Smoke tried to choke her, and coughing was a waste of effort, but slowly she worked the massive piece of stone to the side, and it completed its fall as soon as there was no chunk of corner foundation left to support it.
The wind of its collapse caused dust to puff around her, further choking her, but she welcomed the camouflage it granted. Both Cretian and Amestrian soldiers would be covered in dust, it would be difficult to make out one another and that could stay fire. Her people would do as she instructed them, head for Broad Street and get themselves back into West HQ via the insanely complicated storm drain structure that kept West from sitting underwater every time there was an unseasonably hard rain.
It was something the Cretians should have thought of, since their own eastmost cities likely had the same infrastructure. They'd probably thought there wouldn't be enough time or ingenuity on the Amestrian side to leverage the facility effectively. And they'd nearly been right.
Olivier squirmed out of the small gap she'd created, reaching back into the tiny open space for her service pistol and sword. In the fire-lit darkness she could see that she had all limbs intact, and even if she'd been hit with shrapnel in the explosions she had enough mobility to keep fighting. Her back was the only part of her body that she could feel, besides faint impacts of her boots against the ground, and she was really rather glad of it. Get as much leverage of that painlessness as possible.
All she really needed to do was confirm the general had been in the convoy. And that said general had been killed. She just needed to do it very, very quickly, before the mass of soldiers that had been surrounding HQ could be mobilized to check for the exact same thing.
Olivier visually checked the leather strap on the scabbard, which was on a snap to prevent it from being torn in cases like these, and she re-attached it to her belt automatically. Inspection of her pistol showed her an undamaged barrel and a lone bullet left in the clip.
That was fine. She only needed one. If she couldn't get to the jeep without being spotted or engaged, she'd scavenge another gun on the way.
A glance around what was left of the structure told her she had probably fared better than her men. A large stone pillar was still half-intact in the center of what had once been the lobby, but it had not been capable of stopping the collapse of the ceiling-
In fact, as far as she was aware, it hadn't been there before the collapse. The top was heavily damaged, only the base and about thirteen feet of it was still standing, but even then there was something quite familiar about the filigree-
Olivier fought between a smile and a frown as she turned her attention back to the avenue. Without the gift of hearing, it was going to be painfully easy to get killed.
Fires were still burning brightly, and she was pleased to see that the vehicles that had not been conveniently on top of storm drains during their halt had indeed largely been destroyed by the explosions of their counterparts. That was why it had been important that certain charges go off at certain times, to trap and damage the largest number of vehicles possible. The jeep that bore the Cretian flag, the one most likely to have been carrying the general, was such a vehicle. It had been flipped and was burning, and a trail of black led from the pavement to the crumpled roof.
Blood. That was a good sign.
She hastily scanned the scene, noting multiple shapes in dust and soot moving in the flickering shadows. None were immediately making for that jeep, and a flash showed that one of them was firing. Not at her, so she ignored him, darting between destroyed armors in a zig-zag pattern toward her target. Reinforcements would be here nearly instantly – the entire city would have seen the explosions.
And that was the point. The entire occupying Cretian army was now aware that the Amestrians had dealt a highly flashy blow to some target. They need only receive confirmation of what from their commanding officers before they were in a tight spot indeed.
If they decided to take West now, they'd have to hold it against the full might of Amestris without any idea of how to counterattack until another general could be smuggled across the border to them. Wired communications could be compromised, there were apt to be spies and militants in the city itself, and they'd proven over and over again in the fighting that they were very, very good at being where they were least expected and able to quickly move about the city.
Even if most of that flexibility lay in the fact that she had almost no men to speak of.
The commanders had a serious question to ask themselves, and she was hoping their hesitation would give them enough time to get reinforcements from South. If it was too late for reinforcing, with luck the city would be taken back by the end of the evening tomorrow.
It depended on how close on the heels of the first Cretian force a second was.
Olivier ducked behind a burning transport, ignoring the feebly moving shapes beneath the canopy. The transport had luckily been one of the trucks bombed, and the floor had exploded up into the men. They were in bad condition or worse, and not enough of a threat to speak of. Nor were any free enough of the twisted bed that she could steal a rifle. She used the torn, blackened passenger door as cover, though, eyeing the jeep again now that she was closer.
Two things grabbed her attention. The first was a shape in a green uniform, on her back, mostly extricated from the crumpled jeep. There was a gun in her hand.
The second was above the overturned wheel well, a flash of blue light and the silhouette of someone between her and it. Someone with their arms raised in front of them.
She didn't hesitate, raising the pistol and taking the shot. The figure crumpled, though she couldn't hear if he'd gotten off a shot of his own. Blue light was continuing to flicker, indicating that the alchemic fight was still ongoing regardless, and Olivier brought her eyes back to the target on the ground, the one with a gun leveled at her.
Oddly, the woman's hair-choked face seemed irritated, and then she tossed the pistol aside, yanking her legs free of the wreckage.
She was the enemy general, and clearly she'd taken her shot at the same time. Even with the faint roar of silence drowning out all sound, it was obvious the gun was damaged or that she'd missed.
Not that it mattered. She'd used her one bullet, and her gun was just as useless.
She tossed it aside as well, moving forward quickly as the other general climbed to her feet. A sword still hung on the Cretian general's hip, and after the quickest of glances she drew it. Olivier gave her a feral grin and did the same.
Armstrong family swords weren't ceremonial.
The first clash was always gentle, even as both of them put some weight behind it. Just feeling one another out. The Cretian general held, despite apparent dizziness, and she never said a word.
Probably couldn't hear either.
If they had been men, they'd have danced around one another, tried to shout, gesture, communicate, and compare the length and breadth of their genitalia. They didn't, and Olivier was glad to see that this woman was on the same page she was.
There was no time for that foolishness. From both their perspectives, the enemy general needed to be dead before the Certain reinforcements arrived.
The second clash was quite a bit stronger, testing done. Each had a firm, flexible grip, each had the strength to back it up. Each had found reasonably secure footing, and dizziness be damned, they were accurate in the extreme. Olivier dodged a swipe at her right shoulder as shallowly as she could, afraid to trust her back too much, and barely felt the tug as her tassels were sliced. She followed with her own upward strike, but the enemy general's footwork was impeccable, and she danced out of range.
The fight moved to the right side of the avenue, away from annoying debris that could inhibit free swinging, and began in earnest. Both seemed just on the outer range of the other, using their feet and position of shoulder to feign and parry. Olivier watched the enemy's sword closely, particularly the hilt. It was ornate, indicating that the tang of the blade could only go halfway through before ending in a delightful curling foil. And it was standing up to her own steel surprisingly well.
But physics was physics. Olivier leapt back at a viciously swift thrust directed at her face, watching as the blade moved silently through the air. Her ankle rolled on some loose asphalt but she recovered, landing on one knee and holding her blade over her head, edge up. Predictably, her enemy's eyes flashed with pleasure and she brought her sword down hard, a shattering blow that would break Olivier's weaker defensive position and cleave directly upon her left collarbone.
Only Olivier deftly changed the angle of her edge, and the Cretian general's ceremonial sword shattered into fragments on contact.
Olivier didn't waste time on gloating. She swung her intact blade over her head as she took her feet, and even then she barely had the momentum necessary to complete the move. There were slight articulations to the roar, now, and she scanned the avenue quickly, crouching back down at the sight of soot men on approach.
Dammit. This was the reason Alex should have stayed where he was, under the street, instead of giving himself away trying to catch the damn bank ceiling-
And probably saving her life. Of course, he was oblivious of her returning the favor, though the alchemic activity near the front of the convoy had ceased. It was impossible to tell if he had won or lost, and unfortunately, it was in the direction of the approaching men.
Olivier wiped her sword quickly on her jacket, sheathing it and grabbing what she had come for before straightening just enough to locate a downed soldier. The one she'd shot, the driver of the jeep, had fallen where he'd stood, and his gun was within reach. A quick check revealed nearly a full clip, and she brought it to bear as movement flickered in her peripheral vision.
Dirty, brown, huge-
She barely stayed her instinct, and while she could see him talking, she couldn't make out the words. Angrily she gestured at him to get down, pointing to her ears, and he answered with a grim look. He turned obediently, the chords on his filthy neck standing out prominently as he brought his fist to the street. It shook as energy coursed down the avenue toward the approaching soldiers, and she imagined there was quite a loud noise accompanying it.
She caught a whisper of it, and swallowed hard in an effort to pop her ears.
"Have the men escaped?"
She bellowed it, though she could barely hear her own voice, and her brother simply gave her a nod, bringing his fist to the ground again as the alley to their right erupted with shadows. They were going to have to run and hope the darkness covered their escape into a storm drain or hiding place in the rubble.
Olivier grabbed Alex's arm with her free hand, pulling him aside as some type of projectile went by, and then realized her mistake. A grenade. He was turning so she dashed for it, dropping her prize to snatch it up and lob it from whence it came. It exploded in midair, and she was knocked a step back either by the blast or shrapnel. A sudden mound of human was wrapped around her, and she barely was able to grab her token before she was bodily carried down the avenue.
"Put me down, you idiot-" She coughed at the smoke and the rough handling, and her sense of smell and taste provided her the sharp tang of copper.
Shrapnel, then. Damn.
Olivier was unable to see much from her position, a reluctant bride in the arms of an ogre groom, and after several rather impressive leaps they were over an alley wall and at least out of direct line of sight. The articulations were quite a bit stronger, so that she was able to hear gunshots mutedly, and Alex finally stopped his rocking-horse run, crouching behind a large dumpster.
He set her down very gently and she slapped his hands away with a growl, glancing down at herself. In the dark it was too difficult to see, and she unabashedly unfastened the uniform jacket. The shirt beneath was indeed stained with blood, more than she would have liked but less than a gunshot. Obviously at least some of the metal had penetrated her ribcage, but the urge to cough was controllable, and she wasn't dizzy. It was becoming more effort to breathe, but neither of her lungs had collapsed yet.
The left one would if she ran, though. She was sure of that.
Damn. He couldn't carry her and defend himself at the same time. She could probably hide in the dumpster if it came to it. "Take this and go," she grumbled, as loudly as she dared, and she shoved her cargo at her brother.
He didn't blanch, which she'd rather expected, but he didn't accept it either. His voice was too low to hear, but the words 'will not' seemed to cross his lips, and she bared her teeth.
"That's an ord-"
And he covered her mouth with his hand.
For a split second she considered biting him for being a sentimental jackass, but again, he wouldn't feel it and she didn't want a mouthful of dirt and debris. His head had turned to his left, and she looked right – he allowed it, and even removed his hand when he saw she wasn't fighting.
He'd heard something.
Headlights flew by the alley, an open-aired jeep containing at least two men. In the dark it was hard to tell uniform color, and she was going to insist he leave again when she saw red reflected on the windows of the shop across the street.
Brakelights.
Alex moved away from her, in a crouch, preparing another attack, and the jeep hurtled back into view with a muffled screech, swinging its headlights in their direction.
So much for remaining hidden.
She'd lost the gun at some point, probably diving for the grenade, or even when she threw it. Her fingers were working but still mostly numb, and she knew her sword would be no good. The token would probably get her nothing, but she held it up just the same, and Alex didn't attack.
A second passed. Two. A shadow crossed the headlights, and she was able to tell at once that she was not dealing with one of their men. The cut of the uniform was all wrong, though the paunch of the soldier was about right. Curiously, Alex actually stood, and a moment later he was offering her a hand. The words were still muddled.
The meaning, however, was clear. They were to go with these men.
She doubted he'd have surrendered without a fight, so she remained staunchly where she was, until the enemy soldier moved out of the blinding headlights and she could make out his face.
He seemed vaguely familiar, and he reached into his shirt, fishing out his dog tags before offering them to her. They were of Amestrian cut.
"-shell-shocked," her brother boomed, and she glared at him. Giving away their position to the enemy at a time like this. She wasted no time, though, in getting to the jeep, and she resisted the urge to cough as she was crowded into the back seat. The Amestrian soldier, wearing a Cretian uniform, had to be either Major Heymans Breda or Lieutenant Colonel Havoc. Again, he offered her the tags, but she just shook his head, and he gave a nod of understanding.
These men were the two Mustang had sent to back up Elric. Her suspicions were confirmed when she found a teenager stuffed on the floor of the jeep, tucked between the back of the driver's seat and the back bench. She didn't kick him, which was her instinct, but she didn't go out of her way to give him room, either, and the jeep hurtled into the night.
"Head to Broad Street," she ordered the soldier driving, and he shook his head. She glared at the one beside her until he listened to what the driver was saying and relayed it. Now it was safe to shout, and she could hear him clearly.
"Broad's been overrun! We just came from there thinkin' the activity was you. Saw the alchemy, then, and we've been driving up and down hoping to get lucky!"
Damn. If Broad was overrun, it meant retreat for the men had been cut off. She took a considering breath, regretted it, and swallowed back the blood in her throat. The secondary location had always been Shute.
"Take Shute Lane east until you hit the warehouse district."
The driver gave a very obvious nod, and she glared down at the teen at her feet, who was staring at her. It was too dark to make out his expression, but not the object of his interest, and she shifted her token so less blood would run out of it. The blood was useful, and she'd rather not have to use anyone else's to get the same effect.
The jeep sped through the night, dodging rubble, and she considered taking off her jacket. It would reveal her injuries to these soldiers, but she was currently the only obvious Amestrian soldier in the jeep. They might actually be able to pass enemy checkpoints claiming she was a prisoner, though she hoped it wouldn't come to that.
The head of their general and the teenager crouched on the floorboards might make it a bit harder to explain.
The urge to cough returned, and this time she relented, hacking into her elbow to hide the blood as much as possible. She didn't want to panic Mustang's men, and she needed to be the one to place the general's head in view of the enemy. Alex could be ordered to be discreet-
Quite abruptly she realized that everything was completely wrong, and her eyes flew open before she could stop herself.
She was on her right side, a thin pillow wedged beneath her head, staring at a rather startled man in a white mask. And she felt like death warmed over.
Olivier glared at him flatly for a moment, and he moved to pull off the mask. His hands were filmed with blood, and there was a suture needle and thread held between his second and third finger.
"Major General, sir, forgive me for not saluting," Staff Sergeant and also Doctor Pithe murmured. At least, she thought it was soft. She could hear other things, too, cries and moans and hushed voices. It sounded like-
It sounded like the infirmary after a battle. It clearly was West's, meaning the battle was done.
Meaning either the enemy was holding outside the walls, or they had fallen back.
"I'm nearly done. Let me just get you a little anesthetic-"
She glanced down, surprised to find herself naked from the waist up. There were three small wounds, one just between her breasts, one high on her left, and one just beneath her sternum. Probably the one that was causing the trouble, and currently the injury he was stitching. It was, unfortunately, no longer numb, but what surprised her the most was the fact that she wasn't freezing to death.
Once again, she had to remind herself that she wasn't at Briggs.
Her back was to the room proper, as she could only see one other patient over Pithe's head, and a sheet was draped over her shoulders and back. Alex, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.
He only had two stitches to go, so she laid her head back on the pillow and gave him a flat glare. "Finish. And do your best to minimize scarring."
He inclined his head, slipping the mask back on. "Yessir."
They stung, as being stabbed with a needle was wont to do, but she bore it, distracting herself by staring over the toiling doctor's shoulder. What she had assumed was a patient was actually probably not anymore. There was only a thin sheet covering him, to his shoulders, and his head bore a stained wrapping. There was an IV pole beside him, though she couldn't tell if it was connected. But there was no other equipment nearby. No respirator. No heart monitor.
A lone figure in half a Cretian uniform was sitting in a chair beside the body, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gaze unfocused. She recognized the windblown hair as her driver.
"When did he finish dying?"
The doctor's speckled brown eyes found hers as he tied off the last suture. "He hasn't yet, unless he just did." There was an odd pulling sensation, and then she heard scissors. "I'll have the colonel summoned, if you're certain you feel up to speaking with him, sir?"
She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, swallowing back the sudden urge to vomit in the man's face. "Summon the brigadier general." He outranked Mazo anyway, and there was no way she was going to let any officer see her like this.
Until that promotion, she wasn't going to consider Alex an officer. He was a family member who had disobeyed a direct order and she was going to kill him.
The doctor nodded, wiping his hands quickly on a faded but clean towel, and then folded the corner of the sheet over her chest and stomach. She'd rather not be seen in such a vulnerable condition but as she'd apparently passed out in the jeep there was nothing to be done about it now. It wasn't like the oaf didn't already know. And given the way she felt, she knew better than to try to shrug this off, at least for now. What she needed was data and enemy positions, and she didn't need her stripes to analyze it. Much as she'd prefer them.
It seemed the material had hardly had a chance to warm against her skin before a shadow crossed the lights behind her, and she closed her eyes in irritation as her brother's beefy silhouette came into view. If he was crying, so help her, nausea or not she was going to get up and hang him by his entrails from the wall beside her enemy's head.
He surprised her by turning on his heels to face her and saluting. He was also, wonder of wonders, in clothes. The mud of battle had been washed from his face and hands, though remnants still existed beneath his fingernails, and the ridiculous curl on the top of his head was back to its usual spring. If he was injured it wasn't obvious.
"Reporting as ordered, major general sir."
She regarded him a moment, then swallowed moisture back into her throat. "Report."
He did not drop out of attention. "Cretian forces have regrouped at the city's western edge and are currently holding, Major General sir."
Regrouped meant they would have scattered, and she didn't recall anything that would have caused that. "Was an attack launched without my authorization?"
A slight grimace. "Yes sir."
And of course, chain of command dictated that her brother take that role. She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "You tried to steal my victory?"
"No, major general. I regret to report that I lost my temper."
. . . lost his temper? She gave him a strange look, and was even more surprised that he didn't drop from attention, even then. "Explain yourself. Now."
His eyes faltered slightly. "Lieutenant Colonel Havoc was able to get us to the secondary rendezvous point, but unfortunately many of the men in the final attack were captured or killed by the enemy. I interpreted the major general's motives and displayed the enemy general's desecrated body to the enemy at large, but the response of the enemy was unacceptable. I apologize for my actions and accept any discipline the major general sees fit, sir."
Trust him not to say anything plainly. "What did you do?" she growled, as loudly as her aching head would allow.
He grimaced. "I accepted the challenge of the enemy's armor division."
Olivier stared at him. She had kept him in reserve, true, needing him to remain with the party beneath the streets to ensure their success, but he had performed a great deal of alchemy to widen the flood paths and prepare mirrors from sand. Taking down an entire armor division was -
Was something their grandfather would have done.
"How many men were lost for your pride?"
"Fifty-seven at last count."
Not as costly as she feared. "How many did you risk?"
He hesitated. "I'm not certain, sir!"
She raised an eyebrow. "How many did you order into battle."
"None." He finally dropped attention, not moving to parade rest but drooping his shoulders, spine, and even his hair. "I ordered them to remain where they were, but I was unable to keep them in line."
She digested that. They followed him into battle against explicit orders. "What prompted this uprising?"
He sighed. "Propaganda that the Amestrian general was killed alongside the Cretian one."
"Which you knew was untrue."
"I cannot stand such dishonorable tactics," he growled, some of the fire returning to his tone. "The successful attack caused most of the infantry to flee, and their commanders made it official to appear still in control of their army."
After watching one alchemist bearing the head of their general and a hoard of angry, unorganized soldiers destroying the armor division, she wasn't surprised.
He had fought for her honor. In a way, it was as ridiculously old-fashioned as it sounded. She was fine, save a small surgery. Had he truly been so concerned-
"When will reinforcements from South arrive?"
"Within the hour, sir." He straightened into parade rest. "No formal communication has been made to Central yet, on the recommendation of Staff Sergeant Pithe."
Letting her have the victory. She glared openly at her brother. "And what information has been given to the men?"
He straightened back to attention. "That the major general sustained light injuries and would be joining them on the field when she was cleared by the staff sergeant."
So the men might have even believed the Cretians, that she had been killed. Considering how she'd tortured them over these twenty-four hours, she was surprised. However, she only allowed disapproval to show. "Have a phone with a secure line brought to me immediately. Parliament and the military need to be apprised."
He saluted sharply and left, and she took a few experimental breaths. Her left side hurt a great deal when she did, so she knew her lung had been hit, but the need to cough was fairly easy to contain, and she forced herself into a sitting position, dragging the sheet with her.
"Please, major general, not so fast-"
She closed her eyes more in annoyance than as a reaction to the pain in her head. "My uniform, staff sergeant."
She left her eyes closed until she heard the sound of fabric, and snapped them open to find the doctor offering her a basic uniform undershirt and a jacket onto which her stripes had been hastily transferred. It was better than nothing, and she let the sheet fall as she pulled the shirt - slowly - over her head.
"I took the liberty of changing your other dressing. That wound is healing very nicely, and I could not match the skill of the sutures."
She only frowned at the news. Patterson had done a good job on her side, the bullet that had grazed her during the attack on Mustang, but scars on her breasts . . . she was nearly unfit for marriage. Hopefully the solider that had thrown the grenade had suffered worse. "What about Elric?"
The doctor sighed, averting his eyes politely as she adjusted the shirt. No bra, she wasn't even in uniform.
"His condition is much the same, though I have a better idea of what he went through physically."
He said nothing more, and she pulled on the borrowed jacket - again, slowly. The dizziness was getting worse. "And?"
"The odd lesions on his legs and hands, aside from the obvious chemical burns, were actually caused by electricity," the doctor murmured, glancing around her at a suddenly sharp cry from one of the injured. "The injuries to his wrists were indeed from his bindings. And as I said before, leaving the bullet wound untreated all that time caused a significant loss of blood and fluid around the brain. Coupled with the strain his heart must have suffered, it explains his unresponsiveness to treatment and deterioration even after arriving here."
She glanced around the doctor again. It didn't even look like the alchemist was breathing. "If his condition is worsened, why is he not receiving further treatment?"
The staff sergeant spread his hands. "I'm afraid there's not much more I can do for him. Outside of replacing lost fluids, it's up to him. The bullet exposed his skull but only cracked it in one place, and that's kept the swelling in his brain down. But I've seen other soldiers in this condition, major general. Once he decides to stop breathing, nothing's gonna change his mind. Putting him on a respirator is just delaying the inevitable."
She considered that information even as her brother returned, giving the patient in the far bed a sad look before saluting her. "The line will be transferred to the doctor's extension. I will assist you there."
"That's unnecessary, brigadier general. I can walk." Possibly. "What of the suspect?"
The doctor cocked his head to the side, but her brother answered her. "The Mechanical Alchemist has been bound and is currently being held in the brig."
"See that he remains there." She took another breath, then eased herself off the hard bed. "I assume the two soldiers are Mustang's advance force?"
Alex nodded solemnly, moving so that catching her would be easy, but not reaching out. "They are loyal friends of mine and excellent soldiers."
"They disobeyed orders as well," she growled, "and I would like their excuse so I may pass it along."
Alex seemed to hesitate as they made their slow, regal way towards the doctor's office. "They were concerned for Full Metal," he said quietly. "According to the major, Lieutenant Colonel Havoc took an opportunity to join the enemy execution squad. He fired the shot that crippled Edward Elric."
An odd revelation. Perhaps being unable to rescue the alchemist, he had been left with the option of killing him with a friendly bullet, or at the least an instantly fatal one. The shot had clipped the young alchemist quite badly, though if he'd been put in front of a firing squad she assumed the lieutenant colonel would have had to fire first and thus had the shortest amount of time to prepare and aim. Maybe he'd intended the shot to look messy without doing as much damage as it had done. "Is he safe to leave with Elric?"
They crossed the doorjamb and she settled herself slowly into the doctor's chair, picking up the receiver as her brother nodded. She finally looked at him, surprised to find his eyes dry and serious.
"Edward Elric could not be safer."
- x -
Author's Notes: It's really hard to write a chapter with a cat on your left arm. ; ) So there you have it! Edward is alive and . . . uh, alive. For now. Sorn is safely in custody, and West is about to receive reinforcements. But it's not over yet - in fact, the tear-jerking-est scenes in this story have yet to be written. I expect one of them will be next chapter. Just because the battle is over doesn't mean the story is . . .
Standard typo disclaimer applies. The wonderful Silverfox2702 found a plot-changing typo last chapter, thank you for pointing that out! And everyone that's PM'ed me or submitted a review concerning this fic - please don't be offended if I have not answered you! I don't as a rule, somehow I feel like that's intruding or fishing for comments or something. I know. I'm weird. I read everything you guys say, try to apply criticisms, grin when you seem to be enjoying yourselves, and otherwise am having a blast. So thank you all, and if you specifically would like a reply, let me know and I'd be happy to chat with you!