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Fanfic Post - Nameless, Chapter 4
Title: Nameless
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: April 27, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Nothing this chapter.
Genre/Continuity: AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.
Disclaimer: “Fullmetal Alchemist” belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.
Author’s Note: As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. Especially![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mintysage, who got this thing in tiny little pieces and endured lots of early morning brainstorming sessions. Also, just like always, constructive criticism is welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.
Book 1: Analysis
Chapter 4 - Wednesday
Darkness again. But, there had been light not too long ago. After they came to him, telling him he had to wake up, wake up, wake up quickly. And then, there had been light and sound – real sound, not just whispers - and for a second it had seemed that only a thin curtain separated him from the world beyond.
A world that was cloudy and indistinct and pulsing with danger. Sensing the threat was in front of him, he had prepared himself to fight. He had only needed something simple. Just a shield. Because even if he couldn’t see properly, there had to be ground at his feet, and he could use that to—
Then, the world was gone as quickly as it had come. And, they were telling him that it was safe now even as they urged him to go back to sleep.
“I wish you would make up your minds,” he groused.
He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to be back out in the light. Even if it was dangerous. At least it was something beyond this oblivion.
“Perhaps it will be time soon.”
Ah, that voice again. The one that sounded familiar. The only one that seemed capable of communicating in real sentences instead of senseless babble.
“Soon?” he asked.
“ Maybe.”
It was a completely unsatisfactory answer, but the others were chiming in now.
“ Soonsoonsoon.”
“Sleep now.”
“Sleep.”
“Soon. Promised.”
“Sleep.”
Weary of trying to follow the stream of nonsense, he gave in to their demands and let himself sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------
“Roy!”
For an instant, Roy Mustang almost considered running. But, it wasn’t polite to run from your best friend. Nor was it wise when you needed to prise him for information. Besides, running had never worked before.
So, resigned, Mustang handed the papers he was carrying to Hawkeye and turned to meet his fate.
Today, fate was looking a lot like a little girl in pigtails holding a teddy bear larger than she was. Huh, and there were five more nearly identical photographs behind that one. He wondered if they could be run together into a film.
“Isn’t my Elicia the cutest little girl ever?” his best friend, Maes Hughes, lieutenant colonel, investigator, amateur photographer and doting father, cooed, holding the photos in his face.
“This is a rhetorical question, isn’t it?”
“Of course!” Hughes proclaimed, gesturing grandly with his free hand. “You have no grounds to say there’s a cuter little girl anywhere until you have one of your own.” Hughes’ face with its perpetual five o’clock shadow was suddenly disturbingly close to his own. “Say, have you found a wife yet?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What? No!” Mustang threw himself back, stumbling several feet away from the taller man. He noted with some relief that Hawkeye had already excused herself.
Hughes sighed dramatically. “What a shame. But, to cheer you up in the meantime,” he reached into a back pocket, “I have lots of photos of Elicia!” Grinning, he produced a stack of photos. Then, he was at Mustang’s side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Let’s go to the mess hall and get some breakfast while I show you her fourth birthday party.”
Mustang opened his mouth to protest.
Hughes cut him off with a wagging finger. “Now, now. Since you can’t ever be bothered to come, you can at least let me catch you up on everything.” His voice dropped briefly, and Mustang saw his eyes flash behind his glasses.
Growling a variety of false protests, Mustang let himself be steered toward the cafeteria.
----------------------------------------------------------
Edward Elric looked down at the slowly cooling mug of coffee in his hands. The cold steel of his automail was inexorably leeching away the remaining heat. But, he made no effort to move it. Morning had found him in a military hospital, listless and drained.
A man had died, and he had stood there in front of the killer unable to do anything. And now, he was confined to a hospital room, unable to do what little work for which he was fit.
But, it was the general’s orders. Grand had arrived as he was giving his statement to the military police last night. One look at him, and the general had ordered him to the hospital.
It was pointless, but he obeyed without comment. Even with the voices mercifully silent after their last cryptic message, he had still been reeling from the earlier attack. He knew that only sleep would do him any good. But, it was rather difficult to convince anyone else that he didn’t need to visit the hospital when he was swaying on his feet and unable to make eye contact due to an acute inability to determine exactly where anyone’s eyes were.
Of course, that was their own fault for being so tall.
Fullmetal frowned. Where had that come from?
He shook his head and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee before setting it back on the tray across his lap. At least he had been able to sleep. The hospital bed wasn’t particularly more or less comfortable than his own. And, despite the appalling stench wafting along the halls, breakfast had been tolerable.
But, it was all a waste. The hospital could do nothing but offer him a quiet place to sleep. They could not silence the voices. They could not make him useful again.
They had tried, in years past. He had dutifully reported his condition back then. Back when he first became aware. Back in the earliest days he could remember when he had first truly woken, blinking and confused, to startle a nurse when he hoarsely asked for water.
Doctors and military officers had come then, explaining that he had been unresponsive for a year and questioning what he could remember. The answer was very little. He had known nothing of himself beyond his name, title and registration code. But, the questioning had continued for days.
At last, they had let it go and left him alone to recuperate. The voices had not made themselves known until later. Later, when they asked, as a test of his mental recovery, for him to perform alchemy. He had been presented with a simple task – repairing a broken plate. He had raised his hands immediately, instinctively as the proper equation promptly came to him.
And then, the voices had struck with a wordless attack of such strength it had driven him, screaming, to the floor. It had lasted for days. Days of screaming and pleading for release until his throat was torn and his voice was nothing but a bloody whisper. Days of an agony so intense the doctors dosed him with morphine beyond all recommended limits and finally, finally he had fallen into an oblivion where the voices could not find him.
It had been the worst attack, but not the last. In the months to follow, the attacks came every time he attempted alchemy and every time he tried to remember his past.
It was only during one of the later, lesser attacks that he became aware of the voices. Became aware that it wasn’t just an explosion of pain in his head; it was voices. Hundreds, thousands when they all chose to join the effort. Those were the worst “attacks”. As one, they were an unintelligible roar. In smaller numbers, he could discern individual voices, words, sentences. All chanting that he could not, that they would not let him.
So, he had told the doctors. But, there was nothing the doctors could do.
Oh, there were drugs, and he had spent months that were as lost to him as his past while they drugged him senseless. The voices were quiet when he was on the medication. But, he was as useless drugged as he was writhing in agony. And, the drugs could not take the voices away.
He had eventually been left to recover on his own as best he could. And, he had. He had. He could function. He could do his job, such as it was. He learned what kept the voices at bay. He learned what made them attack.
His past and his alchemy were inextricably linked, and grasping for either prompted the voices. But, he could fight them. And, he did. For years, he fought and won little battles here and there. He found a balance. It was hard-won and even harder to keep, but he did it.
Only now… Now, this new assignment was forcing him to upset that balance, to cross lines he had long ago surrendered. And, he didn’t even understand how or why it connected to him.
All he knew was that he needed to win this battle. He needed to be useful again.
----------------------------------------------------------
“And, this is Elicia unwrapping her new pink party dress!”
Mustang very nearly stabbed the photograph as it was thrust between his fork and the eggs he had been planning to eat.
“Hughes,” he began slowly, “the next photograph to come between me and my breakfast will be set on fire.” It was his second breakfast, truth be told, but Hughes didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Roy!” Hughes whined, pulling the picture to safety. “We haven’t gotten to the birthday cake yet!”
Forget the photographs; he was going to burn Hughes.
Seeing the murder in his eyes, Hughes gave the room around them a surreptitious glance. They were alone at the end of one of the long mess hall tables. In fact, as soon as they had entered, space had magically opened up around them as anyone familiar with the over-enthusiastic lieutenant colonel had abruptly found somewhere else to be.
Noting that, Hughes’ hazel eyes sharpened into something more serious as he addressed Mustang again. “Judging by Elric’s statement, our murderer is Ishvalan,” he said quietly.
Mustang started and nearly choked on his eggs. Ishval. His face clouded as he forced himself to calm down and chew slowly and deliberately. Ishval, it seemed, was determined to haunt him.
“Ishvalan?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
“Red eyes, dark skin.” Hughes gestured to his face. “And, a large, x-shaped scar centered between his eyes.”
Mustang’s frown deepened, and he jabbed at a sausage on his plate. “Definitely Ishvalan then.” He released a humorless snort. “And, his targets make sense. All State Alchemists.”
Hughes nodded. “Elric’s lucky he doesn’t wear a uniform.”
“And, that the killer doesn’t care if he’s seen,” said Mustang.
Hughes waved a hand. “If he’s Ishvalan… You know their situation. Even now, most of them live in hiding in slums and refugee camps.” Hughes reached to adjust his glasses. “He already has to hide his features. Having an eye witness doesn’t change his situation.”
“All the same, most murderers wouldn’t leave an eye witness.”
“Too true,” said Hughes. “But, for now, I’m just as glad he’s not interested in branching out in his targets.” He leaned forward. “Given he’s killed three State Alchemists, two with combat experience, I know you’re aware of how dangerous this guy is, but…” His voice dropped. “The coroner sent his initial findings over this morning.”
Hughes fished in his pocket again and produced another stack of photographs that he pushed toward Mustang. They were accepted wordlessly and slipped into an inside pocket.
Hughes continued. “I’m no expert, but if this isn’t some kind of alchemy, I’ll change departments.”
“Alchemy?” Mustang barely kept the word at an appropriate volume. He leaned forward until he was nearly nose to nose with the investigator. “But, you think he’s Ishvalan!” he hissed.
And, it was a well-known fact that the people of Ishval did not practice alchemy. A deeply religious people, most of them viewed alchemy as heretical, a sin against God. And, that was before the State Alchemists had been called in to end the civil war with Ishval. Before alchemy was used to reduce their entire province to a blistered crater.
But, Hughes was smiling thinly. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he said, leaning back.
Mustang swore and drew back. “Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” he said loudly. “I swear, Hughes, any more photos, and I’ll—”
Hughes took the cue smoothly and held up his hands. “You’ll carry that threat out, I get it.” He pushed his chair back. “Keep them anyway. After all, how can my precious Elicia’s face not brighten anyone’s day?”
Mustang scowled, then asked quietly, “That new case of yours – what are you calling this State Alchemist killer?”
Hughes stood, grinning. “Using the Investigative Department’s famous wit and intelligence, we’ve decided to call him Scar.”
“Clever.”
“I thought so.” Then, with a jaunty wave, Hughes was gone.
----------------------------------------------------------
It was noon before Grand and the doctors agreed to release Fullmetal from the hospital. To the alchemist’s surprise, the general came in person to collect him. He was still trying to fathom why as he was escorted out to Grand’s private car. For that matter, he was trying to fathom why, after half a day spent wasted in the hospital, now the general seemed to be in a hurry. His – not short, just normal as compared to a giant – legs were having to work twice as hard to keep up with Grand’s long strides as the larger alchemist propelled him through the hallways, across the lobby and out the main doors to where a military issued car was waiting in the drive.
Grand had just opened the rear door and given Fullmetal a shove toward the open compartment when a voice cut across his gruff, “Get in.”
“A moment please, General.”
Fullmetal felt Grand stiffen all the way to the palm of his meaty hand. Then, the hand grasped the back of the diminutive alchemist’s jacket and all but threw him into the car.
“Major Archer,” Grand growled, turning to face a pale man with a narrow face. “What is it you need?”
“Merely wondering when you had become involved in the murder case,” Archer replied, smiling thinly. “I understand there was a witness?” Keen eyes swept across and around Grand to settle on the alchemist just pulling himself out of the car’s floorboard. As though sensing the stare, Fullmetal glanced up, golden eyes still clouded by pain. “And, this is?”
Grand interposed his not inconsiderable bulk between Archer and the dazed alchemist. “A soldier currently under my command,” he said. “He was the witness. He has already given his statement to myself and your superior in the Investigations Department.”
Archer took a half-step back. “How considerate of you to be here for your subordinate.” His smile was a thin, vicious line. “No uniform?”
“He’s just been released from the hospital. And, a serial killer targeting State Alchemists is a serious matter.”
“Very.” Archer inclined his head. “I understand you were planning to meet with the Earth Alchemist prior to learning of his unexpected demise?”
“Yes, as I already told Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.” Grand began to bend over to enter the car. “I don’t have time for questions I’ve already answered, Major.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Archer turned as though to leave. “Oh, General, it might interest you to know that Fuhrer Bader will be making an announcement before the assembly Friday evening.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Things may be changing soon. I do hope you haven’t made any... unwise decisions.” His lips twitched. “I would hate to find myself investigating such a decorated general for anything seditious.” His tone was at odds with his words. “Well, good day.”
But, the car door had already slammed shut and Grand was barking directions at the driver. Archer merely smiled.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Grand swung around to level the full force of his fury on Fullmetal.
“You will forget everything that was just said,” he snarled. “That’s an order.”
Fullmetal drew back. The backseat suddenly seemed far too cramped.
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“An order, Fullmetal.”
The gray-haired alchemist stiffened. “Yes, Sir.”
Grand watched him for a long moment. Then, he grunted and leaned back. “So, the reports are accurate then,” he rumbled.
“Sir?” Fullmetal looked at him in confusion.
Grand ignored the question. “It’s unfortunate about the Earth Alchemist,” he said as he leaned back. “But, now that you’ve provided a description of the killer, this business should be settled soon. Good work, Fullmetal.” There was a curious strain in his voice.
Fullmetal started at the praise and quickly looked away out the window at his side. “Sir?” He searched for words. “I just… I just happened to be there,” he finished at last. He glanced at Grand and wondered why the general’s fists, resting on his knees, were clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked ominously.
“All the same, your information should get Investigations moving,” said Grand. Catching Fullmetal’s eyes on his hands, he crossed his arms. “Killing three State Alchemists in two days… And, an Ishvalan too…” Grand’s eyes narrowed. Then, he glanced down at the gray-haired man beside him. “In the meantime, I’ll have escorts assigned to you.”
“Escorts?” It took a moment for Fullmetal to fully process the statement, but, once he did, something desperate surged in his chest. “Sir! I don’t need—!”
He was a State Alchemist, and the general meant to give him bodyguards. Because he couldn’t— His shoulders slumped. Because he couldn’t defend himself. It was an effort for him just to test his own simple housekeeping arrays. Combat alchemy was far beyond his limited abilities.
He looked up to see Grand studying him with a thoughtful expression.
“Unless you’ve had a recent breakthrough in your condition, Fullmetal, you need escorts,” the general said. He fixed the alchemist with the same intent, searching look he had used when he first entered the car.
“No, Sir.” Fullmetal slumped back. “It… my ‘condition’ is the same as always.” The words were acid on his tongue. He was useless. And, he sounded pathetic.
“Well, it can’t be helped.” Grand looked away from him. “I’ll assign a couple of men to escort you from now on. For now, I’ll take you to the National Library, and you can resume your work.” The general turned his gaze back to Fullmetal for a moment. “It’s already Wednesday,” he noted. “I expect to see some results by Friday.”
“Yes, Sir.”
In his lap, Fullmetal’s mismatched hands clenched.
----------------------------------------------------------
With Fullmetal still in the hospital for observation, Colonel Mustang had made good use of his time since breakfast with Hughes. After some consideration, he had decided to set aside the false travelogue for the moment. Instead, he had turned to skimming over the last of Parker’s official reports. They were, as he and Fullmetal had assumed, largely unhelpful. For the sake of completion, Mustang soldiered on.
In the next to last report, an odd, cryptic comment immediately flagged his attention. It was a footnote in a document concerning alchemic amplifiers.
“I have not yet had the opportunity, but am most interested in speaking with Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist, concerning the amplifier he noted in the Cornello case,” Mustang read to himself as a thin smile graced his lips.
Finally, a connection between Parker and Fullmetal, however tenuous. The report had been filed in May 1884. Leaning back, he ran through the necessary math in his head. May 1884 would have been just months before Fullmetal was reported missing. Frowning, Mustang reached for Parker’s personal file. He flipped a few pages to the pertinent information and sucked in a breath. He had remembered correctly. By the end of the same year, Parker too had been gone.
It might not mean anything. Or it might mean everything.
As he considered the possibilities, the door to the musty study room was flung open with such force it sent Mustang leaping from his chair and into a defensive crouch. Long habit had one hand already on his sidearm as he looked up to identify the slim figure in the doorway.
Fullmetal arched a brow at him. “What are you doing?”
Behind him, one of the guards was yelping, “Sir! Please be more careful!”
“What am I doing?” Mustang stood. “What are you doing barging in here like that?” he demanded.
“I’ve been cooped up all day with a bunch of useless doctors,” Fullmetal answered, shutting the door with considerably less force. “I’m ready to get to work.” That said, he strode to the table and snatched up Parker’s notes.
Turning, Mustang stared at him for a full minute before he found words. “To what do I owe this sudden enthusiasm?” he asked, keeping his tone faintly irritable.
He knew the answer. Yesterday. Most likely Fullmetal’s encounter with the newly christened “Scar”. But, he was hoping the older man would give him a hint as to why.
He was not disappointed.
Fullmetal looked up and those strange yellow eyes fixed on his dark ones. “Because I’m tired of being useless.”
The statement was as honest as it was blunt. And, with what he knew of Fullmetal’s past, there was little doubt as to the meaning behind it. But, as he replied, “Fair enough,” and reclaimed his chair, Mustang found himself wondering exactly what it was that Fullmetal wanted to be useful for. And, who.
His eyes fell on the reports he had been reading. For just a moment, he contemplated asking Fullmetal about this Cornello case. But, then he remembered how the man tended to suffer debilitating attacks when confronted with his past. And, Fullmetal seemed so focused and determined he found he didn’t have the heart to risk sending the man into another crippling fit. Decision made, Mustang carefully closed the report binder and slid it to the side.
“I had been reading through the remainder of Parker’s reports,” he said. “As we suspected, they’re not much help.” He ignored a snort from Fullmetal. “So, shall we continue with the research journal?”
----------------------------------------------------------
Unfortunately, Fullmetal’s newfound enthusiasm had kept them in the library well after closing time, locked in a pointless argument over the importance of Parker’s habit of using alliteration in threes while the guards and two soldiers Grand had sent to escort Fullmetal tried vainly to drag them out of the building. By the time they finally agreed to a ceasefire, the library had been locked and the records department was similarly closed for the day. So, Mustang mused as he descended the steps from the library, looking up the Cornello case in Fullmetal’s file would have to wait.
But, the military’s files weren’t the only resources at his disposal.
In fact, he knew just the man with whom to speak.
Twenty minutes later, Mustang was threading his way through the barely ordered chaos of the Central Tribune office. He had shed the more obvious trappings of his uniform, changing his pants and shrugging out of his jacket. Wrapped in his long overcoat, no one gave him a second glance. Thus undisturbed, he made his way through the bustle and roar of printing presses to a corner where a white-haired man was bent over the small keyboard of a linotype machine. An orange tabby cat that sat crouched on a cluttered table to the side looked up as he approached and meowed.
“Hmm?” The old man straightened and twisted in his seat. His eyes, a light blue framed by narrow spectacles, landed on Mustang, and he smiled. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Chris’ boy, right?”
Mustang inclined his head, smiling back as he moved to stand beside the cat’s table. “I was stationed out in East City after the war,” he said as the tabby jumped down to twine itself around his legs. “I’ve only recently been transferred to Central.”
“I heard.” The old man’s smile was knowing. “Not much you don’t hear around here if you keep your ears open.” He swiveled his chair around to properly face Mustang. “I suppose that’s why you’re here now?”
Mustang allowed himself a small chuckle. “I’m afraid so. Tell me, Mr. Snow, do you know anything about the Fullmetal Alchemist?”
“Fullmetal? Ah!” Snow reached to scoop the cat into his lap as it finished its fifth circuit around Mustang’s legs and trotted his way. “I remember that boy.” Snow’s face took on a look of fond reminiscence. “He was quite famous back, oh, thirty years ago. Always up to something or other – exposing corrupt officials, taking on outlaws and terrorists, raising havoc everywhere he went. He made a lot of headlines, that boy. They called him “the People’s Alchemist” because he was always willing to help out anyone in need.”
The more he learned about Fullmetal the more the man’s past began to sound like a particularly outlandish dime novel, Mustang mused.
“Do you happen to remember anything involving Fullmetal and a man named Cornello?” he asked. If anyone would remember, it would be Lucius Snow. The man had worked as a typesetter at the Central Tribune for fifty years, and his memory of headlines, from front page covers to minor interest stories, was uncanny.
“Cornello…” Snow ran his right hand down the cat’s back in slow strokes as he squinted up at the ceiling as though trying to picture the headline in his mind. And, perhaps he was. “Ah!” Snow’s hand came to a stop, prompting the cat to vacate his lap and return to its original perch. “If I remember it right, Cornello claimed to be a priest. Started some new religion out east, claiming he could perform miracles. The Fullmetal Alchemist exposed him for the fraud he was.”
Snow shook his head then. “It wasn’t one of the boy’s wilder adventures really, but I remember it because it was one of his last. Not too long after that, he just up and disappeared. I don’t remember him appearing in the news ever again.” The old man turned curious eyes on Mustang. “Did he die?”
“No.” Mustang considered his words for a moment. “Not entirely anyway.”
-----------------------------------------------------
Lucius Snow and his cat (“Snow's Cat”) aren't mine either. They belong to Columbia TriStar Television, Inc. and CBS Broadcasting, Inc.
Banner bybay115
From Snow's account of how Ed was called the "Hero of the People".
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: April 27, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Nothing this chapter.
Genre/Continuity: AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.
Disclaimer: “Fullmetal Alchemist” belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.
Author’s Note: As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. Especially
mintysage, who got this thing in tiny little pieces and endured lots of early morning brainstorming sessions. Also, just like always, constructive criticism is welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.Book 1: Analysis
Chapter 4 - Wednesday
Darkness again. But, there had been light not too long ago. After they came to him, telling him he had to wake up, wake up, wake up quickly. And then, there had been light and sound – real sound, not just whispers - and for a second it had seemed that only a thin curtain separated him from the world beyond.
A world that was cloudy and indistinct and pulsing with danger. Sensing the threat was in front of him, he had prepared himself to fight. He had only needed something simple. Just a shield. Because even if he couldn’t see properly, there had to be ground at his feet, and he could use that to—
Then, the world was gone as quickly as it had come. And, they were telling him that it was safe now even as they urged him to go back to sleep.
“I wish you would make up your minds,” he groused.
He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to be back out in the light. Even if it was dangerous. At least it was something beyond this oblivion.
“Perhaps it will be time soon.”
Ah, that voice again. The one that sounded familiar. The only one that seemed capable of communicating in real sentences instead of senseless babble.
“Soon?” he asked.
“ Maybe.”
It was a completely unsatisfactory answer, but the others were chiming in now.
“ Soonsoonsoon.”
“Sleep now.”
“Sleep.”
“Soon. Promised.”
“Sleep.”
Weary of trying to follow the stream of nonsense, he gave in to their demands and let himself sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------
“Roy!”
For an instant, Roy Mustang almost considered running. But, it wasn’t polite to run from your best friend. Nor was it wise when you needed to prise him for information. Besides, running had never worked before.
So, resigned, Mustang handed the papers he was carrying to Hawkeye and turned to meet his fate.
Today, fate was looking a lot like a little girl in pigtails holding a teddy bear larger than she was. Huh, and there were five more nearly identical photographs behind that one. He wondered if they could be run together into a film.
“Isn’t my Elicia the cutest little girl ever?” his best friend, Maes Hughes, lieutenant colonel, investigator, amateur photographer and doting father, cooed, holding the photos in his face.
“This is a rhetorical question, isn’t it?”
“Of course!” Hughes proclaimed, gesturing grandly with his free hand. “You have no grounds to say there’s a cuter little girl anywhere until you have one of your own.” Hughes’ face with its perpetual five o’clock shadow was suddenly disturbingly close to his own. “Say, have you found a wife yet?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What? No!” Mustang threw himself back, stumbling several feet away from the taller man. He noted with some relief that Hawkeye had already excused herself.
Hughes sighed dramatically. “What a shame. But, to cheer you up in the meantime,” he reached into a back pocket, “I have lots of photos of Elicia!” Grinning, he produced a stack of photos. Then, he was at Mustang’s side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Let’s go to the mess hall and get some breakfast while I show you her fourth birthday party.”
Mustang opened his mouth to protest.
Hughes cut him off with a wagging finger. “Now, now. Since you can’t ever be bothered to come, you can at least let me catch you up on everything.” His voice dropped briefly, and Mustang saw his eyes flash behind his glasses.
Growling a variety of false protests, Mustang let himself be steered toward the cafeteria.
----------------------------------------------------------
Edward Elric looked down at the slowly cooling mug of coffee in his hands. The cold steel of his automail was inexorably leeching away the remaining heat. But, he made no effort to move it. Morning had found him in a military hospital, listless and drained.
A man had died, and he had stood there in front of the killer unable to do anything. And now, he was confined to a hospital room, unable to do what little work for which he was fit.
But, it was the general’s orders. Grand had arrived as he was giving his statement to the military police last night. One look at him, and the general had ordered him to the hospital.
It was pointless, but he obeyed without comment. Even with the voices mercifully silent after their last cryptic message, he had still been reeling from the earlier attack. He knew that only sleep would do him any good. But, it was rather difficult to convince anyone else that he didn’t need to visit the hospital when he was swaying on his feet and unable to make eye contact due to an acute inability to determine exactly where anyone’s eyes were.
Of course, that was their own fault for being so tall.
Fullmetal frowned. Where had that come from?
He shook his head and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee before setting it back on the tray across his lap. At least he had been able to sleep. The hospital bed wasn’t particularly more or less comfortable than his own. And, despite the appalling stench wafting along the halls, breakfast had been tolerable.
But, it was all a waste. The hospital could do nothing but offer him a quiet place to sleep. They could not silence the voices. They could not make him useful again.
They had tried, in years past. He had dutifully reported his condition back then. Back when he first became aware. Back in the earliest days he could remember when he had first truly woken, blinking and confused, to startle a nurse when he hoarsely asked for water.
Doctors and military officers had come then, explaining that he had been unresponsive for a year and questioning what he could remember. The answer was very little. He had known nothing of himself beyond his name, title and registration code. But, the questioning had continued for days.
At last, they had let it go and left him alone to recuperate. The voices had not made themselves known until later. Later, when they asked, as a test of his mental recovery, for him to perform alchemy. He had been presented with a simple task – repairing a broken plate. He had raised his hands immediately, instinctively as the proper equation promptly came to him.
And then, the voices had struck with a wordless attack of such strength it had driven him, screaming, to the floor. It had lasted for days. Days of screaming and pleading for release until his throat was torn and his voice was nothing but a bloody whisper. Days of an agony so intense the doctors dosed him with morphine beyond all recommended limits and finally, finally he had fallen into an oblivion where the voices could not find him.
It had been the worst attack, but not the last. In the months to follow, the attacks came every time he attempted alchemy and every time he tried to remember his past.
It was only during one of the later, lesser attacks that he became aware of the voices. Became aware that it wasn’t just an explosion of pain in his head; it was voices. Hundreds, thousands when they all chose to join the effort. Those were the worst “attacks”. As one, they were an unintelligible roar. In smaller numbers, he could discern individual voices, words, sentences. All chanting that he could not, that they would not let him.
So, he had told the doctors. But, there was nothing the doctors could do.
Oh, there were drugs, and he had spent months that were as lost to him as his past while they drugged him senseless. The voices were quiet when he was on the medication. But, he was as useless drugged as he was writhing in agony. And, the drugs could not take the voices away.
He had eventually been left to recover on his own as best he could. And, he had. He had. He could function. He could do his job, such as it was. He learned what kept the voices at bay. He learned what made them attack.
His past and his alchemy were inextricably linked, and grasping for either prompted the voices. But, he could fight them. And, he did. For years, he fought and won little battles here and there. He found a balance. It was hard-won and even harder to keep, but he did it.
Only now… Now, this new assignment was forcing him to upset that balance, to cross lines he had long ago surrendered. And, he didn’t even understand how or why it connected to him.
All he knew was that he needed to win this battle. He needed to be useful again.
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“And, this is Elicia unwrapping her new pink party dress!”
Mustang very nearly stabbed the photograph as it was thrust between his fork and the eggs he had been planning to eat.
“Hughes,” he began slowly, “the next photograph to come between me and my breakfast will be set on fire.” It was his second breakfast, truth be told, but Hughes didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Roy!” Hughes whined, pulling the picture to safety. “We haven’t gotten to the birthday cake yet!”
Forget the photographs; he was going to burn Hughes.
Seeing the murder in his eyes, Hughes gave the room around them a surreptitious glance. They were alone at the end of one of the long mess hall tables. In fact, as soon as they had entered, space had magically opened up around them as anyone familiar with the over-enthusiastic lieutenant colonel had abruptly found somewhere else to be.
Noting that, Hughes’ hazel eyes sharpened into something more serious as he addressed Mustang again. “Judging by Elric’s statement, our murderer is Ishvalan,” he said quietly.
Mustang started and nearly choked on his eggs. Ishval. His face clouded as he forced himself to calm down and chew slowly and deliberately. Ishval, it seemed, was determined to haunt him.
“Ishvalan?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
“Red eyes, dark skin.” Hughes gestured to his face. “And, a large, x-shaped scar centered between his eyes.”
Mustang’s frown deepened, and he jabbed at a sausage on his plate. “Definitely Ishvalan then.” He released a humorless snort. “And, his targets make sense. All State Alchemists.”
Hughes nodded. “Elric’s lucky he doesn’t wear a uniform.”
“And, that the killer doesn’t care if he’s seen,” said Mustang.
Hughes waved a hand. “If he’s Ishvalan… You know their situation. Even now, most of them live in hiding in slums and refugee camps.” Hughes reached to adjust his glasses. “He already has to hide his features. Having an eye witness doesn’t change his situation.”
“All the same, most murderers wouldn’t leave an eye witness.”
“Too true,” said Hughes. “But, for now, I’m just as glad he’s not interested in branching out in his targets.” He leaned forward. “Given he’s killed three State Alchemists, two with combat experience, I know you’re aware of how dangerous this guy is, but…” His voice dropped. “The coroner sent his initial findings over this morning.”
Hughes fished in his pocket again and produced another stack of photographs that he pushed toward Mustang. They were accepted wordlessly and slipped into an inside pocket.
Hughes continued. “I’m no expert, but if this isn’t some kind of alchemy, I’ll change departments.”
“Alchemy?” Mustang barely kept the word at an appropriate volume. He leaned forward until he was nearly nose to nose with the investigator. “But, you think he’s Ishvalan!” he hissed.
And, it was a well-known fact that the people of Ishval did not practice alchemy. A deeply religious people, most of them viewed alchemy as heretical, a sin against God. And, that was before the State Alchemists had been called in to end the civil war with Ishval. Before alchemy was used to reduce their entire province to a blistered crater.
But, Hughes was smiling thinly. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he said, leaning back.
Mustang swore and drew back. “Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” he said loudly. “I swear, Hughes, any more photos, and I’ll—”
Hughes took the cue smoothly and held up his hands. “You’ll carry that threat out, I get it.” He pushed his chair back. “Keep them anyway. After all, how can my precious Elicia’s face not brighten anyone’s day?”
Mustang scowled, then asked quietly, “That new case of yours – what are you calling this State Alchemist killer?”
Hughes stood, grinning. “Using the Investigative Department’s famous wit and intelligence, we’ve decided to call him Scar.”
“Clever.”
“I thought so.” Then, with a jaunty wave, Hughes was gone.
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It was noon before Grand and the doctors agreed to release Fullmetal from the hospital. To the alchemist’s surprise, the general came in person to collect him. He was still trying to fathom why as he was escorted out to Grand’s private car. For that matter, he was trying to fathom why, after half a day spent wasted in the hospital, now the general seemed to be in a hurry. His – not short, just normal as compared to a giant – legs were having to work twice as hard to keep up with Grand’s long strides as the larger alchemist propelled him through the hallways, across the lobby and out the main doors to where a military issued car was waiting in the drive.
Grand had just opened the rear door and given Fullmetal a shove toward the open compartment when a voice cut across his gruff, “Get in.”
“A moment please, General.”
Fullmetal felt Grand stiffen all the way to the palm of his meaty hand. Then, the hand grasped the back of the diminutive alchemist’s jacket and all but threw him into the car.
“Major Archer,” Grand growled, turning to face a pale man with a narrow face. “What is it you need?”
“Merely wondering when you had become involved in the murder case,” Archer replied, smiling thinly. “I understand there was a witness?” Keen eyes swept across and around Grand to settle on the alchemist just pulling himself out of the car’s floorboard. As though sensing the stare, Fullmetal glanced up, golden eyes still clouded by pain. “And, this is?”
Grand interposed his not inconsiderable bulk between Archer and the dazed alchemist. “A soldier currently under my command,” he said. “He was the witness. He has already given his statement to myself and your superior in the Investigations Department.”
Archer took a half-step back. “How considerate of you to be here for your subordinate.” His smile was a thin, vicious line. “No uniform?”
“He’s just been released from the hospital. And, a serial killer targeting State Alchemists is a serious matter.”
“Very.” Archer inclined his head. “I understand you were planning to meet with the Earth Alchemist prior to learning of his unexpected demise?”
“Yes, as I already told Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.” Grand began to bend over to enter the car. “I don’t have time for questions I’ve already answered, Major.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Archer turned as though to leave. “Oh, General, it might interest you to know that Fuhrer Bader will be making an announcement before the assembly Friday evening.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Things may be changing soon. I do hope you haven’t made any... unwise decisions.” His lips twitched. “I would hate to find myself investigating such a decorated general for anything seditious.” His tone was at odds with his words. “Well, good day.”
But, the car door had already slammed shut and Grand was barking directions at the driver. Archer merely smiled.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Grand swung around to level the full force of his fury on Fullmetal.
“You will forget everything that was just said,” he snarled. “That’s an order.”
Fullmetal drew back. The backseat suddenly seemed far too cramped.
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“An order, Fullmetal.”
The gray-haired alchemist stiffened. “Yes, Sir.”
Grand watched him for a long moment. Then, he grunted and leaned back. “So, the reports are accurate then,” he rumbled.
“Sir?” Fullmetal looked at him in confusion.
Grand ignored the question. “It’s unfortunate about the Earth Alchemist,” he said as he leaned back. “But, now that you’ve provided a description of the killer, this business should be settled soon. Good work, Fullmetal.” There was a curious strain in his voice.
Fullmetal started at the praise and quickly looked away out the window at his side. “Sir?” He searched for words. “I just… I just happened to be there,” he finished at last. He glanced at Grand and wondered why the general’s fists, resting on his knees, were clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked ominously.
“All the same, your information should get Investigations moving,” said Grand. Catching Fullmetal’s eyes on his hands, he crossed his arms. “Killing three State Alchemists in two days… And, an Ishvalan too…” Grand’s eyes narrowed. Then, he glanced down at the gray-haired man beside him. “In the meantime, I’ll have escorts assigned to you.”
“Escorts?” It took a moment for Fullmetal to fully process the statement, but, once he did, something desperate surged in his chest. “Sir! I don’t need—!”
He was a State Alchemist, and the general meant to give him bodyguards. Because he couldn’t— His shoulders slumped. Because he couldn’t defend himself. It was an effort for him just to test his own simple housekeeping arrays. Combat alchemy was far beyond his limited abilities.
He looked up to see Grand studying him with a thoughtful expression.
“Unless you’ve had a recent breakthrough in your condition, Fullmetal, you need escorts,” the general said. He fixed the alchemist with the same intent, searching look he had used when he first entered the car.
“No, Sir.” Fullmetal slumped back. “It… my ‘condition’ is the same as always.” The words were acid on his tongue. He was useless. And, he sounded pathetic.
“Well, it can’t be helped.” Grand looked away from him. “I’ll assign a couple of men to escort you from now on. For now, I’ll take you to the National Library, and you can resume your work.” The general turned his gaze back to Fullmetal for a moment. “It’s already Wednesday,” he noted. “I expect to see some results by Friday.”
“Yes, Sir.”
In his lap, Fullmetal’s mismatched hands clenched.
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With Fullmetal still in the hospital for observation, Colonel Mustang had made good use of his time since breakfast with Hughes. After some consideration, he had decided to set aside the false travelogue for the moment. Instead, he had turned to skimming over the last of Parker’s official reports. They were, as he and Fullmetal had assumed, largely unhelpful. For the sake of completion, Mustang soldiered on.
In the next to last report, an odd, cryptic comment immediately flagged his attention. It was a footnote in a document concerning alchemic amplifiers.
“I have not yet had the opportunity, but am most interested in speaking with Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist, concerning the amplifier he noted in the Cornello case,” Mustang read to himself as a thin smile graced his lips.
Finally, a connection between Parker and Fullmetal, however tenuous. The report had been filed in May 1884. Leaning back, he ran through the necessary math in his head. May 1884 would have been just months before Fullmetal was reported missing. Frowning, Mustang reached for Parker’s personal file. He flipped a few pages to the pertinent information and sucked in a breath. He had remembered correctly. By the end of the same year, Parker too had been gone.
It might not mean anything. Or it might mean everything.
As he considered the possibilities, the door to the musty study room was flung open with such force it sent Mustang leaping from his chair and into a defensive crouch. Long habit had one hand already on his sidearm as he looked up to identify the slim figure in the doorway.
Fullmetal arched a brow at him. “What are you doing?”
Behind him, one of the guards was yelping, “Sir! Please be more careful!”
“What am I doing?” Mustang stood. “What are you doing barging in here like that?” he demanded.
“I’ve been cooped up all day with a bunch of useless doctors,” Fullmetal answered, shutting the door with considerably less force. “I’m ready to get to work.” That said, he strode to the table and snatched up Parker’s notes.
Turning, Mustang stared at him for a full minute before he found words. “To what do I owe this sudden enthusiasm?” he asked, keeping his tone faintly irritable.
He knew the answer. Yesterday. Most likely Fullmetal’s encounter with the newly christened “Scar”. But, he was hoping the older man would give him a hint as to why.
He was not disappointed.
Fullmetal looked up and those strange yellow eyes fixed on his dark ones. “Because I’m tired of being useless.”
The statement was as honest as it was blunt. And, with what he knew of Fullmetal’s past, there was little doubt as to the meaning behind it. But, as he replied, “Fair enough,” and reclaimed his chair, Mustang found himself wondering exactly what it was that Fullmetal wanted to be useful for. And, who.
His eyes fell on the reports he had been reading. For just a moment, he contemplated asking Fullmetal about this Cornello case. But, then he remembered how the man tended to suffer debilitating attacks when confronted with his past. And, Fullmetal seemed so focused and determined he found he didn’t have the heart to risk sending the man into another crippling fit. Decision made, Mustang carefully closed the report binder and slid it to the side.
“I had been reading through the remainder of Parker’s reports,” he said. “As we suspected, they’re not much help.” He ignored a snort from Fullmetal. “So, shall we continue with the research journal?”
----------------------------------------------------------
Unfortunately, Fullmetal’s newfound enthusiasm had kept them in the library well after closing time, locked in a pointless argument over the importance of Parker’s habit of using alliteration in threes while the guards and two soldiers Grand had sent to escort Fullmetal tried vainly to drag them out of the building. By the time they finally agreed to a ceasefire, the library had been locked and the records department was similarly closed for the day. So, Mustang mused as he descended the steps from the library, looking up the Cornello case in Fullmetal’s file would have to wait.
But, the military’s files weren’t the only resources at his disposal.
In fact, he knew just the man with whom to speak.
Twenty minutes later, Mustang was threading his way through the barely ordered chaos of the Central Tribune office. He had shed the more obvious trappings of his uniform, changing his pants and shrugging out of his jacket. Wrapped in his long overcoat, no one gave him a second glance. Thus undisturbed, he made his way through the bustle and roar of printing presses to a corner where a white-haired man was bent over the small keyboard of a linotype machine. An orange tabby cat that sat crouched on a cluttered table to the side looked up as he approached and meowed.
“Hmm?” The old man straightened and twisted in his seat. His eyes, a light blue framed by narrow spectacles, landed on Mustang, and he smiled. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Chris’ boy, right?”
Mustang inclined his head, smiling back as he moved to stand beside the cat’s table. “I was stationed out in East City after the war,” he said as the tabby jumped down to twine itself around his legs. “I’ve only recently been transferred to Central.”
“I heard.” The old man’s smile was knowing. “Not much you don’t hear around here if you keep your ears open.” He swiveled his chair around to properly face Mustang. “I suppose that’s why you’re here now?”
Mustang allowed himself a small chuckle. “I’m afraid so. Tell me, Mr. Snow, do you know anything about the Fullmetal Alchemist?”
“Fullmetal? Ah!” Snow reached to scoop the cat into his lap as it finished its fifth circuit around Mustang’s legs and trotted his way. “I remember that boy.” Snow’s face took on a look of fond reminiscence. “He was quite famous back, oh, thirty years ago. Always up to something or other – exposing corrupt officials, taking on outlaws and terrorists, raising havoc everywhere he went. He made a lot of headlines, that boy. They called him “the People’s Alchemist” because he was always willing to help out anyone in need.”
The more he learned about Fullmetal the more the man’s past began to sound like a particularly outlandish dime novel, Mustang mused.
“Do you happen to remember anything involving Fullmetal and a man named Cornello?” he asked. If anyone would remember, it would be Lucius Snow. The man had worked as a typesetter at the Central Tribune for fifty years, and his memory of headlines, from front page covers to minor interest stories, was uncanny.
“Cornello…” Snow ran his right hand down the cat’s back in slow strokes as he squinted up at the ceiling as though trying to picture the headline in his mind. And, perhaps he was. “Ah!” Snow’s hand came to a stop, prompting the cat to vacate his lap and return to its original perch. “If I remember it right, Cornello claimed to be a priest. Started some new religion out east, claiming he could perform miracles. The Fullmetal Alchemist exposed him for the fraud he was.”
Snow shook his head then. “It wasn’t one of the boy’s wilder adventures really, but I remember it because it was one of his last. Not too long after that, he just up and disappeared. I don’t remember him appearing in the news ever again.” The old man turned curious eyes on Mustang. “Did he die?”
“No.” Mustang considered his words for a moment. “Not entirely anyway.”
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Lucius Snow and his cat (“Snow's Cat”) aren't mine either. They belong to Columbia TriStar Television, Inc. and CBS Broadcasting, Inc.
Banner by
bay115From Snow's account of how Ed was called the "Hero of the People".
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B
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*dies*
Otherwise, I still just want to hug Ed. :Þ
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I do promise to put Ed back the way I found him.
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*chuckles at that* And yes, I've seen the icon!
I forgot to mention how I also loved Maes using the Elicia-gushing as a cover for more serious business. *g*
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Spot-on moments of both Roy & Maes interaction
“And, this is Elicia unwrapping her new pink party dress!”
Mustang very nearly stabbed the photograph as it was thrust between his fork and the eggs he had been planning to eat.
♥ (picture perfect moment of Roy-Hughes dynamic!), and Roy & Ed (throughout the chapters moments of *Ed* leave me all happy to know he's still in there, and as we know Roy is pretty good about triggering them.) ^^
Keep wanting to knock down a brick wall with General Grand's face, but oh well... ^^;
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--throughout the chapters moments of *Ed* leave me all happy to know he's still in there, and as we know Roy is pretty good about triggering them.--
It's a shame that Roy didn't know Ed before. I figure he'd have spent those first two hours in the study room letting loose an endless stream of thinly veiled short jokes until Ed finally snapped back to normal. Of course, normal!Ed probably would have immediately tried to kill him for it too ;)