Author's Notes

I planned to get this up on the fifteenth. So I started on the sixteenth. *Eye roll*. I'm normally not that disorganised, but uni decided to heap all its tests on me at the same time so I wound up mis-anticipating how long it would have taken to write up the chapters I intended to complete before this. At least it was within the month this time.

Enjoy.

In the Midst of a Dream World

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

Chapter 3

The Reality of Dreams

Alfons Heiderich wasn't an irrational man by any means. Or perhaps the correct term would be adolescent, seeing as he was seventeen years of age after all, and considering his current projection of life's path, unlikely to ever reach his eighteenth. In some ways though, he had already become an adult. After all, both his parents were long since dead. He'd completed his studies as an apprentice under Oberth in Rome and returned to his home country of Germany, renting an apartment and sharing it with a homeless friend, and within a year made more headway in striving towards his ultimate dream than most people made in their lifetime.

His dream hadn't been all that surreal. He'd wanted to build rockets, plain and simple. It had been Oberth's thesis that had inspired him to continue on in rocket science, although he'd been studying mechanics since he was four (from tearing apart a toy magic lantern projector set) and then later helping his father with the car repairs until he died.

Etzel Heiderich was a mechanic, albeit an old one. He'd been born in Germany, but had left the country with his parents as the Franco-Prussian War began to peak. He spend a great deal of his teenage years in London and studied an apprenticeship before following his mother (father having passed away in the grey country) back to a Germany hovering between wars.

There, he had married, and his wife had conceived a beautiful baby before passing away in 1906, barely living long enough for her son to imprint more than a gentle smile into his memories. It was hard for Alfons to cling to sadness; he barely remembered her after all. And his father had done an admirable job raising him, sending him to school once he reached the age of five and teaching various tricks to the trade. They had a house in the countryside up till 1914, where business was steady, even if not blooming. But the countryside had begun to be over-represented and they were one of the first to feel the brunt of ensuring warfare. Etzel, like his own parents before him, predicted the bleakest scenario and send his son off to an old acquaintance in London. He found himself too old to be able to bring himself to follow. An old man, after all, belonged in their home, even if it was for just another minute.

Four years later, Alfons, fourteen years of age, received news of his father's death during and yet disconnected to one of the bloodiest battles to hit Germany whilst in the safety and remoteness of the rural farm. For months after that, as the war began to fade a little, his life seemed even quieter than usual. He hadn't the war to blame. It had come and gone without scratching more than an empty home standing on dying winds. His father had passed on upon his own violation, dying peacefully in bed while fixing cars and trucks and other vehicles to the last. And then a shipment arrived. It had seemed his father had planned everything out, anticipated everything. There wasn't a battered old car in the parcel. There wasn't even a suitcase or box filled with memories. There was just an old toy magic lantern projector set, pulled apart and fit together numerous times (and as he had gotten older, he had attempted to adjust things and improve the device) but functional. His first success, albeit rather limited. He had fared better with the pulley.

He could almost hear his father telling him to follow that dream. To make things. To design, to create…

He hadn't thought of vehicles leaving the ground until he sat in a public lecture with Oberth.

Losing his parents at a young age had made some parts of life rather distant. A far future for one. His mother had been terribly young when she passed on; he had barely known her. His father hadn't died till his adolescence, he hadn't seen the man since he was ten. He'd gone to boarding school during that time, spending the summer vacation at the house of an old man that mostly kept to himself. It was a little lonely, but tolerable. The man had taken in other children too. They talked to each other, but even though there was a racial barrier between them (for some, their countries lay on opposite sides of the battlefield), they managed a rather comfortable life.

Some spoke of escaping. Running off to the city. Looking for adventure. Going to war. Alfons saw that as a poor sacrifice on the parts of others: his parents, grandparents…so he studied instead. He picked up old parts still, tinkering with them, but most of his effort went towards studying so one day he could create something grand. And once he returned to Germany at the end of 1918 as the war concluded with Germany's defeat (or surrender), he pressed on with that dream, finding small but sturdy lodgings in Munich while finishing his education at a local school that stood proudly still, utilising his spare time as an apprentice. The prior experience with his father assisted there.

Maybe it, his dream invention, would take him away, he found himself thinking on occasion. Maybe it would carry him to a place where there was no destruction, no war. But that had been a child's mind thinking. But when Oberth first spoke about his thesis, the other found himself thinking about how it would be like to watch a rocket travel to the moon or the worlds beyond.

By that time, he'd either accepted the fact that there was no escape from things like war and conflict. The first world war had died, but he saw the effects in London city: the smoking areas dilapidated by the zeppelins dropped upon them. He saw the effects in Rome, where he had been accepted as an international student. He finished the year under Oberth's guiding hand, then decided to return back to Germany. His father's efforts, he decided finally, were ultimately futile. Unless every single man restrained from fighting war, there would be war. If things didn't work out in Germany, he'd go elsewhere seeking his fortune. Russia perhaps, presuming hostilities had faded. Or the US. Rocket construction was a field that was very rapidly taking off.

That decision had been made before he met Edward Elric. The first time he had come face to face with the enigma hadn't actually been in Oberth's lecture hall but rather on the common street of Paris. They hadn't spoken, although both had stared at the other for a full minute before the slightly elder of the two had turned his head with an almost forceful jerk and faded back into the crowd. He'd, for a moment, considered going after the other, but a bout of coughing had halted his steps before they had even been made.

It had been persisting for years. He had just shoved it aside and kept going, and although he had been coerced into seeing a doctor in Munich, it hadn't done all that much…except having to put up with bitter tasting pills along with the cough and tightening lungs. It was apparently a consequence of his interest with motors. Working on cars and motors at a young age with his father and then pursuing the interest when he could in London (mostly tinkering with a box on wheels that was, years ago, stamped as a write-off; he'd been rebuilding it from scratch and made a fair bit of progress), and finally the apprenticeship he'd undertaken when back in Germany. It was, apparently, worse than living in the polluted cities, having one's face directly in that smog. It had been so natural though that he'd never noted the fact. Even when he was informed of his deteriorating health, he did not redirect his path.

That apprenticeship completed, he went searching for something else. Someone had recommended Paris at the time. A conference of sorts. Gathering the brightest physicians and mechanics of the age. A new form of transport, something that would one day take them to space and the universe beyond. Something he might be interested in, the other said. He'd even paid for the one way ticket, as his own intentions hadn't been entirely in the other's interest.

Alfons had nothing against that though. Not even his deteriorating lungs would hold him back. A single-mindedness he was only beginning to realise carried him to Rome, and in the general vicinity of the apparent conferences, find an opportunity to further his goal.

His dream had simply become that important. The war had been too far away. Family and friends had been equally distant, though perhaps that was more due to circumstances than anything else. But it was easier when there was something tangible to cling to. That car sitting in the garage of a large mansion, almost ready to roll again but probably doomed to rust or the recycle heap. The apprentice ship. The single public lecture that had opened up new doors; he'd halted the Professor on the way out to question him, and that was the second time he'd come face to face with Edward Elric.

Edward had taken one look of him and smiled almost nostalgically, before the lips thinned into a neutral expression. Then he got into a discussion with Oberth that the younger boy (although they were almost the same height) could only somewhat follow.

Alfons did, of course, get the chance to talk to the Professor, and the passion he apparently exhibited caused the older blonde to raise an eyebrow, before giving the same sort of smile again.

It had been rather unnerving, and when Edward had informed him later it was because he somewhat resembled his brother, Alfons accepted that with some sympathy.

Somehow, the two of them became friends, united as they pursued Oberth's thesis on Liquid Fuel Rockets.

There was another man at the conference. A gentleman called Wernher von Braun who was working with Oberth. He was actually German, and was anticipating a growth of the project and his own thesis upon his return to Munich. He was only too happy to accept two eager and experienced young minds, one in chemistry and physics and the other in mechanics…after a few months of teasing in the issue. So they returned to Munich in 1920, and working almost round the clock with the uprisings unnerving even those who had always been distant from the war, they hastened their progress.

Towards the end of 1921, they launched their first liquid-fuelled rocket at the festival, the contraption reaching a height of 2.2 kilometres. When the offer had been given to build a ship with the same principles except on grand scale, he had been ecstatic. There would be a ship punching through space. There would be his mark left, for only the man in charge would be remembered for launching a rocket that rises a height of 2.2 kilometres…if even him. More likely it would be only Oberth's name that went down in history.

This would be his mark, he decided at that point. His creation, the one he'd headed towards his entire life.

But Edward had thrown up a brick wall, made of spongy prisms and flimsy mortar.

Truth be told, he'd always struggled to understand Edward. For a rather outspoken person he certainly was introverted. He had more knowledge in his head than most people got in a lifetime. His father was one of Munich's most renown Professors, but had disappeared without a trace; Edward hadn't found out until returning to the apartment they had shared to stumble upon the landlord looking for a half-year old rent. He had an artificial arm and leg, designed by the same father, with machinery so complex even the eighteen year old genius failed to understand it, even when Noah had asked, almost a year later. And then there were all the stories he had come up with: the world on the other side of some Gate. A world where magic (he called it alchemy) had furthered instead of machines. He'd told the most entertaining tales, but he had, at some points, found himself concerned over the other's sanity. Particularly when he saw the lips turn down and the golden eyes dip towards the earth.

It had taken him a long time to believe Edward. Too long really. If it hadn't been for all the second hand accounts; the soldiers and Union members gossiping about, Eckhart herself…Noah…he probably wouldn't ever have. Or perhaps the dream itself would have eventually prove sufficient to overlay the incredulousness of the entire scenario.

He had, truthfully, been angered at Edward's reluctance, his adamant insistence not to continue with the project. He'd never gotten the chance to explain, but he'd felt that the other should have understood. After all, hadn't he, whether in a dream or in reality, driven for a goal with his entire being, no matter what the consequences were? Hadn't he admitted at some stage (in passing) that he was hoping to get a step closer to home by exploring the possibility of liquid-fuel rocket technology? It had temporarily enraged him how the other hadn't considered the importance of his dream to build that rocket ship and lay his name down into the cement before he died…and then another bout of coughing had overcome him, and the truth had partially slipped out in the form of blood.

Edward, on the third last step from the bottom, stayed frozen in the position the other had pushed him onto as Alfons took his overnight bag and left for the factory.

The next time had been seeing both of their dreams fulfilled, because he knew one thing about Edward Elric. No matter how he pretended, no matter how he tried to brush things off and live a normal life, he was definitely looking for a way home. It had become his dream, just as it had become his to build that rocket. It wouldn't take a lot of persuasion to take that way. And he'd regret it forever (or a very long time) if he did not). He'd watched his dream in all its glory, fired up to go. He'd watched his friend (yes, a friend) depart, onward to home, face eventually turning to face up towards that yellow glow, just as he knew it would…and then there had been a punch in the back, and he was dying…

And yet he had caught a glimpse of grey and white, broken buildings and strange faces he'd never seen before. He'd heard the sound of voices, and a dog barking, and further shouts in the distance.

And now he could feel fresh wisps of air tickling his nostrils and smells that were somewhat unfamiliar, although the scent of smoke lingered still. His breathing was easier, he noticed. The obstruction that had gradually gone had disappeared in a heartbeat. His heart thumped merrily in his chest, albeit tiredly as if worn by an extensive healing process. Some sort of light shone upon his face, greying the darkness behind closed eyelids.

It was a chore opening his eyes. Already, wisps of white were beginning to invade his vision, but he managed to force them somewhat away. The first instance, all he saw was grey and a speck of pink and blue, and then he blinked. Slowly. A hospital room came into focus. The pink was gone. The blue turned out to be a uniform. Not a nurse, or a doctor.

'Where..?' He began in a voice laced with fatigue and dim pain. His body too, he realised slowly, was aching like he had been working too hard and too long and was just beginning to slow down and get back into its normal paces. He took another breath, amazed at the deepness he drew, before changing the train of his question. 'How..?'

His eyelids started to droop again, and then the uniform suddenly made sense. He could see the pins on the man's shoulder, although he couldn't make out the rank. The man in front of him, black haired and bespeckled, was a soldier.

That drove his mind a little closer to awareness. It was enough in any case to drive away the shadows long enough to pay attention for a little while.

'You're in Central Hospital,' the man replied. He deliberately left the second question, hoping it wouldn't be brought up again until someone, preferably one of Mustang's team (it was named as such even when the Brigadier General had resigned his post).

'Central?' Alfons asked.

It sounded somewhat familiar. It took a long moment for his mind to remember why. Perhaps because his handle on consciousness was slipping again. He felt like he'd been drugged with something. Or a co-worker had forced too many beers down his throat.

Edward had mentioned it a couple of times, when telling him stories of his travels and adventures. The capital city, the military command centre, of his country. Amestris if he remembered correctly.

But what was he doing there? If he was in a hospital, it should be in Munich. It should be with heavy lungs struggling for breath…because his end had been approaching with astounding clarity. And he didn't believe in the afterlife. Precious few did after that first bloody and far-reaching war.

'Yes, Central.' There was a pause, before the soldier spoke again. 'Could you tell me your name?'

'Alfons…' The last part came out as a sigh as he lost the battle to keep his eyes open any longer as the light grew ever so slightly brighter. He couldn't help but notice though that the shine was not a blatant yellow, but rather white. Sunlight, he thought to himself sleepily, watching the clouds float behind his eyes. The light seemed purer somehow.

He momentarily forgot all else. Any form of anaesthetic tended to do that. It was of little importance though, in the end. No-one was in any particular rush.

There was a world of time ahead after all.

Post-Author's Notes

Feel free to skip. This is just explaining information mostly.

And we're back to Alfons. I'm hand-waving to his past BTW. Since he's seventeen in 1921, he must have been born around 1904. Reasons: 1, he kind of needs a back-story in this fic, and two, my plan said "wakes up in Central" and that was it, and I needed something to fill the rest of the ~2500/3000 words, considering the next chapter is back to Roy (and Riza I think). That does mean that this chapter mostly turned out to be a filler, but the plot starts moving again next chapter, and hopefully faster.

Guess what (unless you know already)? Alfons' name means "noble and ready" in German. It's derived from Latin. Etzel is another German name. It means "father". So I've named Alfons's father.

Toy magic lantern projector sets were common mechanical toys from very la 1900s

Oberth is a real character who actually did write a thesis on Liquid-Fuel rockets, and there was a man called Wernher von Braun who read his book in 1920 and in 1930 assisted Oberth in liquid-fuel motor tests. In this fic, I've sped that process up, and Braun in this fic is the guy in charge of that factory Alfons (and Edward) worked under in 1921 Munich, simply because the first rocket was launched well after that date (2 were launched by 1934) and that part therefore is not fitting with canon (or canon doesn't fit with the real timeline. Take your pic). Dolcetto was one of the chimeras in Amestris, but he was also one of Alfons' workmates…and part of the whole Aryan stereotype.

The stuff on space…the regular aircrafts wouldn't get someone to space. It was inconceivable…unless someone read Verne…I think he wrote a book on that. I've only read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and the Journey to the Centre of the Earth myself.

The bit about living at an old man's home in the London country-side was derived from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

I'm guessing Germany uses the metric system. Most do. I think. Australia included. Americans (and British?) don't so that's 1.4 miles. Wikipedia info. It was the first rocket launched by von Braun. The second one reached 3.3km/2.2mi.

The pink will be explained in the next chapter. If I forget, remind me because it has to be in that chapter.

The legal drinking age in Germany is 16.

The next chapter will either be early or delayed, because the second half of May marks the final preparation for exam period.