Author's Notes

Why have so many of my fics slipped into statis? *sigh*

Blame a certain character for the delay in this chapter. He just didn't want to die, even if it was for the greater good of the story.

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 8

Central Command

Mustang's current home was small and close to Central Command, but that was about all that could be said in its favour. It was plain; in fact, most would hesitate to label it a "home" for what comfort existed within it? A bare couch was all he owned in it; he hadn't remained in Central long enough to purchase a bed. First had been cleaning up after that whole Scar incident, and then there'd been the riot in Liore followed up by the removal of Bradley, after which he'd transported himself to the most remote outpost he could find once fully recovered.

Actually, that was a lie. The socket beneath his eyepatch was hollow and scarred; some of that could have been avoided for the removal of his eye with the bullet still embedded had been clean and efficient. The scarring had been a result of the cold assaulting the new skin that had germinated in its place; in all retrospect he should have stayed longer to avoid the scarring, the swellings that had occurred and the pus that had oozed out after a week. He had enough medical training from the military to know an infection and frostbite when he saw them; he had made to deal with the former with a snap of his fingers, but before the glove even touched his fingers he felt his eye burning…

Eventually, he had put the gloves safely away and brought a patch of matches. The irony had not been lost on him: the famous Flame Alchemist doing menial house warming (in the literal sense naturally) with a box of matches. And it had been so awkward striking a match outside the heat of battle (which he had learnt to tolerate simply because his weakness in the rain was too well known) that he had wasted a good few before getting the fire alight.

Even then, it was a small and pathetic fire, incapable of doing anything but providing the slightest of warmth. At the beginning, even a sheet of newspaper, discarded from annoyance or some other emotion, stifled the fire instead of kindling it. He got better with practise though, but the flame was never as ravenous as the one he could conjure with a snap of his fingers…and that was a mercy to him, who had killed so many people with the same snap of the fingers.

It had been different – though not very – before knowing the truth about Bradley. At least then he thought he had done it for the sake of his people. For their safety. For their prosperity. For their livelihood. Because he was following orders from the higher ups, who were in turn following orders from those higher…and at the top of that chain stood the Fuhrer himself: King Bradley. It was he who had signed the paper that had brought the State Alchemists into the war. It was he who had ordered the research and experimentation on the red stones, to allow the State Alchemists participating in the war – no, extermination – of Ishbal to bypass the laws of equivalent exchange and kill without hindrance. The knowledge that all of it had been to sow the seeds for the Philosopher's Stone broke that safety-lock, so to speak.

The cold froze his fire. It numbed his nightmares too, and he was well content to spend his days standing in the cold and without thought…for a time. But time was not one to sit still, and always, the warmth came. The snow thawed out when he went indoors and lit a fire. News came from the outside world that opened his eyes. Whispers came…and once, Alphonse Elric himself in his brother's clothes and looking so eerily like Fullmetal that Mustang had all but run to him in a childish glee.

Thankfully, he'd had enough warning to not show that behaviour to the real Edward Elric when they next met.

It was Edward who made him pick up his gloves again. It was Edward who made him return to Central. Roy thought it almost a shame Edward had never set foot in his apartment; he would have probably done something about that too. But there were times, particularly at night, where an empty apartment was highly advantageous. That way, when he stumbled about in the aftermath of a nightmare, it was not to gain a stubbed toe at the end of it.

And in the mornings, it was very easy to find his work-related things, so there was rarely a risk of leaving some important paper behind. Unless there was a crisis of course, which was how the Major General found himself on his hands and knees, coughing dust and going through a stack of papers. It was times like that where he wished he had a table…or at least brought along the one which had come with his quarters at the Northern Outpost. That way he wouldn't look so degraded if someone walked in.

If only someone would walk in. Roy sighed, picking up the stack and dumping them on the couch instead before tackling them in a more organised manner. Hawkeye always knew how to keep his paperwork – and himself – straight. He could well understand though why his ex-Lieutenant was peeved at him. Leaving like that with no explanation…

She was a far stronger person than he was. That he had to admit, and he had little problem admitting it too.

He finally found the paper the Fuhrer had asked for and slipped it into a folder with other odds and ends he needed for the day. Luckily, Grumman had been more than happy to let him have his old staff back, so he wouldn't have to worry about establishing command over a new lot and putting up with, most likely, remarks of his previous placement.

But that thought changed once he had left the apartment and started the trek to Central.

Roy owned a car, a white box on four wheels unlike the sleek black military vehicles, but he really only used it for the occasional personal thing…or emergencies. Elsewise his status earned him a military vehicle and a driver. Typically Havoc or Hawkeye. And his place was close enough to Central Command to walk without any trouble.

Except someone had failed to tell him there would be trouble. Namely, the unrest from civilians tired of waiting for a change.

The first sign was the clatters and bangs that came down the street, prompting shops to suddenly sprout "closed" signs and many a person to simply vanish. The second sign were the angry shouts that came closer. The third was a gunshot in the air.

He moved towards the chaos, finding several lower-ranked officers attempting to subdue a horde of civilians. The officers were all in military uniform but lacking the stars that gave them superiority, so it certainly didn't seem like a case of arrogant display and flaunting of military power…which occasionally happened despite the shift to the more democratic regime. Military still held quite a bit of ruling power; it would take a long time – and trial – before there was a military-free government ruling Amestris.

But the Military couldn't just turn over and play dead in the current state of affairs. The country was struggling on many levels. Layers of corruption needed to be weeded out, things that had gone unchecked or prompted during the regime of the Homunculus Pride as Fuhrer. All things considered, Grumman was doing a good job considering their lack of manpower and the internal problems. After the initial coup de tat there had been many smaller and less successful insurgents, some facilitated by those who wanted the more fragile Fuhrer position for themselves and others who agreed with the war-emphasised military regiment and less with the democracy. For all of this Mustang had been as far away as one could get while retaining ties with the military, but still the news came to him, brought by one of his men if not by the newspaper print.

Then there was the unrelated disaster of the Gate's opening, creating the after-effect of an earthquake ravaging not only Central but Liore and several other places as well. Not to mention the initial rebuilding of Liore and Ishbal after their own military tore them apart. Naturally, there were other places, some in better condition thanks to others simply because of Fullmetal (Youswell was a prime example of that) and others who simply hadn't come to the stage of total annihilation. Still, there were a fair number of places raked to the ground that needed rehabilitating, and others close enough to which they lacked the manpower or alchemic power to accomplish anything.

Not to mention that mess in creating the Philosopher's Stone. Over a hundred unaccounted for officers of the military; there were a few within the large white walls who still believed the Elric brothers to be traitors. Naturally, as the Hero of the People, the majority of civilians protested violently to the sentiment, however at least the small fraction against Fullmetal were smart enough to keep their mouths shut on things that no longer mattered.

Hell, he (or Envy) could call him a pipsqueak as many times as he wanted, and Edward wouldn't be yelling and screaming and ranting at them anymore because there was simply no way he would hear. Not that there was any reason to tease anymore; Fullmetal had proven himself to be a man beyond most others he had had the pleasure of meeting.

And he was grateful Edward wasn't dead…like another good man.

But the rest of the world wasn't made up of such people. Selfishness was a quality that ran strongly in far too many, and short-sightedness was another. The patch on his right eye felt scratchy and he raised a hand to scratch it, sighing at the irony of it all. Half blinded, he now saw certain things he never had before.

Central had always been the place to be in Amestris, unless you were crazed about something in particular, like Winry Rockbell and automail. Even the lure of alchemy brought aspiring alchemists to Central, offering something the peaceful countryside never could. But the countryside wasn't so peaceful. Resembool, so far east, had suffered under the military even before the Elric brothers had come into contact with him. The Rockbell's deaths – murder – in Ishbal…and even before that, the whispers of a mysterious man who knew more about alchemy than any other in the world.

It was more than simple curiosity that had lead him to the Elric's doorstep, and he had gained so much he could never regret what he had done, what doors he had opened. And he had been right, in what he had seen – with both eyes – in those sunken eyelids hiding golden eyes and the bandages soaked in blood and hiding two missing limbs.

He had never thought to look more closely at the people he was around on a less…professional level. No doubt he'd flirted with a handful of these women. Maybe he'd even slept with a few of them in the prime of his life. Before he had been transferred out east.

Now he could see their dissatisfaction, their hardened anger. And, after stopping and staring a little longer, he could also see a hollowness that didn't seem to fit with Central's wealthy image.

Still, the economics of the country was hardly the most pressing problem, with buildings that still need repaired and people that still needed rescuing, healing and returning. Foundations that need resurrecting. Affairs that needed straightening. It was hardly the time to be thinking about the tightness of boots.

A fleeting part of him wondered as to the timing, but then he reconsidered. Small changes inevitably paved the way to larger thoughts. Just like small desires pave the way to larger ones.

The poor Sergeants looked as though they had no idea what they were dealing with. No doubt they were fresh out of the training school and about as unprepared for the real world as a dog let out of his basket. Sadly, no-one had gotten around to changing the towering Amestrian flag into something democratic, nor had the pocket-watches undergone any particular changes (except new ones being flattened to prevent someone sneaking in substances after an angry tip apparently originating from Fullmetal had finally reached the top). So the term "Dog of the Military" still stuck quite firmly.

Even more sadly, the best way to get attention, barring a gunshot or a snap of his fingers (which were more dangerous than most other snaps because of his gloves and alchemy), was to whistle. Like calling a dog to heel – unless the dog happened to be Black Hayate, and the master happened to be Riza Hawkeye.

Regardless, he whistled and the noise and clatter momentarily paused. The Sergeants looked relieved; the civilians on the other hand were on the whole not too pleased. A few recognised him, but he had lost his youthful charm with his right eye. If Ishbal hadn't turned him into ice inside, Pride had.

The stars on his shoulder spoke the same. One shiny and new, hurried to him by Sheska before he left Central Command for the night. "On Fuhrer Grumman's orders," she explained, giving him a small smile before hurrying off again. Friendly as always – except when she had accused him of giving up on his best friend – but rather harried as soldiers left and right were asking her to regenerate lost paperwork.

For Sheska, it was a very good thing the records department and its typewriter had gone undamaged. However the shininess of the new star was probably just adding a little extra oil to the fire.

Mustang rubbed his temples; this was one part of his job he hated. The people deserved a voice, and this would be the third major occasion in which he was shooting it down. Still, left unchecked they could turn into riots and then into Civil Wars, and in no time they would have another Ishbal or Liore on their hands.

'Sergeants.' He raised his voice so he could be heard as the shouts started up again. As a Major, and then a Lieutenant Colonel in the field and finally a Brigadier general before the insurrection, he had plenty of practice. 'Back to your jobs.'

'But –' one began, before eyeing his uniform and the stars of rank it held, and quickly snapping to salute. 'Yes sir.'

The other only did the latter, and both of them hurried off, with as much dignity as they could manage to put into fleeing from an ugly situation.

It would have been nice to have some backup. Heck, it would have been nice to not have to deal with the issue, period. But there was no escaping such matters. They followed him, even all the way to the northern outpost in a blizzard.

'Silence,' he cried, holding up a hand. It wasn't gloved, but the other hand was in his pocket, fixed with habit and waiting.

Most fell silent. Some backed away slightly. They saw his eye-patch. They saw the bit of white glove sticking out of his pocket. The civilians weren't blind – not with only one eye and strained at that like him. And some of them had been in Central far longer than he. They may not have known the two Sergeants, but they certainly knew him. Or his reputation.

Chances are most of them didn't know about his whereabouts the past three years. Funny how the whispers of him killing King Bradley never made it past Military walls.

But not all were frightened of dead shadows. Still, the sight of him, the great war-hero of Ishbal, caused people outside the affected epicentre to flare up. People who sought a better life. People who sought an outlet for their dissatisfaction.

Better someone with a face than someone without after all.

'Are you going to burn us to a crisp if we argue with you, Flame Alchemist?'

Mustang went rigid, but before he could muster any sort of reaction to that – and only the Gate knew what sort of reaction that would have been – the sound of a terrific explosion sent them all turning towards Central Headquarters, where the symbol of Amestris and the newly repaired Fuhrer's office lay in a pile of dust and rubble.