Author's Notes

So much for keeping track. This time it's uni's fault. Practical subjects are fun but very time consuming.

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 7

Civil Unrest

Winry enjoyed the lacklustre shine of mechanics from the window. Normally, she would have taken it as a cue to grumble over Edward: the poor condition in which he always returned his automail (which he hadn't even had the audacity to bring with him on the last occasion), the prices she charged (which, despite the Elric brothers' belief, was actually still cheaper than its usual 75% markup – the materials she put into its composition were the best after all, and her effort no less), but current circumstances prevented that. Perhaps it was the fact that she had finally seen him after three years only for him to be snatched away again – and this time for good, she was sure. After all, Al had gone with him, and even those who barely knew the Elric brothers knew the brothers meant the world to each other.

All that was left was the automail craft she had spent a lifetime in perfecting. And her grandmother, friends and the life in Resembool. Her reputation as one of the best automail mechanics in the country, the Convention in Rush Valley that asked for her best – but she'd given her best to Ed. She always gave her best to him.

She wondered if she could still make automail like the one the elder Elric wore with the knowledge that he would never return. But then she pushed up her sleeves and inspected the sub-par designs on display. The sort soldiers had to make do with; located in Central, it was an easier and cheaper fix, but quality was lacking. Rush Valley would have been much more worth their time, but she'd seen many types of people in the military and knew that, so long as control and power was an issue, they would have to suffer from inferior designs and architecture.

Even Ed would be impatient, but impatience was quite low on the hierarchy of Amestris' Military.

And so she entertained herself with the thought and scrutinising the automail from the window, dissecting each imperfect design in her head and making note of anything that stood out from them. For they weren't complete failures; each had its strength and weakness and she gauged them all against her own designs, climbing the rungs of improvement to perfection.

'Need some automail, Missy?' She turned to the speaker, a middle-aged man up to his elbows in grease. 'Nah, you don't look like you're missing any limbs.'

'I'm a mechanic,' Winry responded, scrutinising her peer in trade. 'Are you the one who designed these?'

'Sure am, Missy.' He looked at her curiously; perhaps he was surprised at her youth or appearance. She was still wearing her jacket from the previous day, shaken out to eliminate the dust and particles that had so stubbornly clung. Under that was her usual travelling attire of a blouse and pants not quite to her elbow. The empty case was probably what spoke the loudest; only a trained eye would be able to tell it was equipped to carry such fragile weight.

Not to mention she'd oiled the hinges with automail oil.

'You from Rush Valley?'

Winry shook her head. 'Resembool.' She couldn't blame the other's assumption though; most automail mechanics, particularly the younger ones (and most of those apprentices) hailed from Rush Valley.

'Reesembool,' the man repeated thoughtfully, before snapping his fingers. 'Ah, you must be Rockbell. I've heard about you, down by Garfield's. That preppy girl spoke quite highly of you as well.'

'Paniniya.' Winry nodded; she'd met the girl back when Ed and Al had taken her to Rush Valley for the first time, then again when she'd returned seeking further knowledge about the automail design and industry. Garfield has been the engineer she had worked under the year following, and she'd gained valuable experience, a wider variety of materials to utilise and new customers to accompany her back to the station in Resembool. The extra travel didn't seem to bother them, as she'd seen quite a few for tune-ups since her return. 'I'm Winry Rockbell.' Before waiting for the man to introduce himself, she gestured at one of the arms on display. 'May I see that please?'

Somewhat bewildered, the man granted her request. It took a single flexion for her suspicions to be confirmed. 'The hinge joint is not very versatile.' She gave the lower part of the arm a light twist, wincing at the grating sound that resulted. A soft touch thereafter felt the slight warmth rising from the friction. 'This would be quite painful once the nerves are installed.' She almost got her tools out before catching herself. 'Ah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be – '

Luckily, the man didn't seem to mind being upstarted by a young female. 'Oh, it's no trouble at all. I'm afraid my skills at automail are sub-par to my father's work.' He bent slightly to get a better look at the hinge. 'What would you suggest?'

'Well…' Winry knelt down and snapped open her case. While the arm and leg she'd hauled from Resembool were no longer within, she still kept her tools at hand. Part had been a lapse in confidence; she hadn't known whether Edward would be found before her work fell apart, or whether the limbs she'd crafted with such care would fit, but even she had been amazed at the results.

She blinked, finding her vision slightly blurry, before extracting the right equipment. 'This sort of design is strong here.' She tapped the midpoint of the hinge. 'But the limb needs to be able to rotate. A quick-fix would be to sander down the edges so they don't slide upon one another, and then fit it with a different casing – ' She easily pried the original away. ' – that covers the elbow area and overlaps a little. The better, more long-term, option would be to redesign this joint, and perhaps where it fits into the upper arm as well…'

Her voice continued on, containing the strength and fragility of youth while carrying simultaneously the wisdom of a professional.

In the end, the older mechanic had invited the younger inside. He'd introduced himself as Ol' John, his accent becoming particularly pronounced as it rolled upon the title he attached to his own name. It was odd in itself; he was far too young to be considered "old". But, as he explained, people became old rather quickly waiting in a place like Central.

'Particularly with the break-in at Central HQ,' Ol' John said cheerfully. 'That was…what? Two years ago? Three?'

Winry remembered. She said nothing though, letting the man chatter on as she fiddled around with the arm still.

That was until the man shoved a wad of bills at her of course.

She blinked blankly, before shaking her head. 'I-'

'There are a lot – by usual standards anyway – of people who lost their limbs yesterday,' the older mechanic explained carefully. 'Some of them are poor enough to barely afford the price of living in a city like this, but they'll scrape the money, beg favours, whatever – so they can stand up again and move on with their lives, grasping new opportunities. It's far better than those out in the villages and slums. Those who can't afford automail at all and have to crawl along on their stomach to survive.'

The smile was still on his face but his eyes were grave.

'The material is cheaper here because a lot of it recycled. Military stuff mostly. Not like out in the country-places where the minerals and metals are mined and polished. So the automail is cheaper too. Admittedly, us engineers aren't quite as great as some others out there either.' He rubbed the back of his head. 'Some don't even try. But I do.' He shrugged. 'People need money to live, but my wife teaches, so even with the tax the military charges, we get by.'

That statement perked Winry's curiosity and she looked carefully around. It didn't take her long to discern the hidden meaning behind "getting by". The shop was well kept certainly, but it seemed…weak somehow. A far cry from the numerous shops lining Rush Valley. Or from their houses in Resembool, spaced out and reaching for four walls and the sky.

Maybe it wasn't just the earthquake…or the attack. To think such conditions existed in Central, the heart of Amestris. But then again, she'd only been to the Military Barracks, the butcher (a shiver ran down her spine at that memory) and the apartment in which the Hughes' family lived.

But the man was smiling again, picking up the arm that lay abandoned. 'Show me?' he asked.

Winry fingered the metal, before nodding. She determinately ignored the money though; she didn't need it. Resembool wasn't exactly an expensive area to live in; nature's elements provided well for them and the combined automail work between grandmother and granddaughter had built up quite a reserve. But arguing wasn't going to get her anywhere.

So she simply smoothed gears and continued coaching.

It was about ten in the morning when the city awoke with a clatter and a bang. Winry blinked from the leg she'd substituted for a perfectly functional arm and turned to the street.

Ol' John looked as well, before standing abruptly and locking the door. It took a little longer to hide the windows; some were broken, but only the main display had a curtain to draw over the street. Even with scrap material and tape, slivers of a collecting crowd were visible.

'You'd best stay here till the noise dies down,' the man frowned, taking his seat in a fashion that suggested he was older than his appearance…or that the years had been unkind to him.

The clashes and bangs continued out of sight, accompanied with various shouts.

'What's going on?' Winry asked, slightly apprehensively. The sounds didn't sound particularly familiar; the closest was the drama about the Ishbalan slums. The riot that had begun to rise.

'A riot,' Ol' John answered, looking rather nervous himself. 'The Military promised a change; the people got tired waiting for it.'

'They've been trying,' the blonde defended. 'They've started rebuilding Liore.'

'And a few other places.' The man nodded. 'But not everyone sees those places as ones that are in more dire need. People want an end; they want to see results. After the fall of Bradley, I thought things would turn better, but even though the Fuhrer's much more popular with the lower-class people, he has a lot of enemies high up. Rumours, little scrimmages – everything ties the Military in place, and an invasion on home soil like that and enemy soldiers looking like the living dead? That's a real confidence killer.' He snuck another look as new voices entered the fray. 'Come with me to the back rooms.'

Winry followed quietly. She recognised a voice. Rather vaguely though. The Military had been rather quick on the uptake. The sounds of shout and clashes followed, but there was no tell-tale explosion or rounds being fired into living flesh and she sought comfort in that knowledge.

People could die – could be dying. Or they could be simply yelling at each other like immature little brats.

For once in her life, she was glad to be ignorant. Glad to not know what went on outside – until one final voice saw her out of hearing range. Raised; bellowing really, and oh so familiar…

And she didn't know how she should feel to hear the voice of Roy Mustang.

'What is it Missy?' Ol' John asked. His tone suggested nothing but a child's curiosity but his eyes told a different tale: one of worry.

'That was – 'Winry began.

'You know him?'

It was to be expected, she supposed, that someone hailing from the countryside like her knew people in the Military.

'He killed my parents,' she responded softly, the barest traces of tears beginning to form around her lids. 'And saved my brothers more than once.'

There was silence after that; the back room was far from the noise, built like a bunker within which one could shelter from any sort of disaster.

'He must be a good man,' Ol' John responded finally. 'In a bad spot.'

'Yeah…I suppose that sums it up.' Her vision blurred ever so slightly, but the tears made no move to escape.

'And you must be a strong young lady.'

A blink vanished the salty pools forming. He smiled at her reassuringly, and it only took a moment of contemplation for her to give a small return.

A small click by her elbow alerted her to the fact that she still carried the automail leg.