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Fanfic Post - Nameless, Chapter 8
Title: Nameless
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: May 11, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Implied violence.
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: And, back to the present.
Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist
Chapter 8 – Why Did It All Go Wrong?
Two weeks ago, Roy Mustang had stood frozen in a suddenly empty corridor, unsure exactly what he had just witnessed.
Instants after Fullmetal had fallen silent, a flood of personnel had descended on the cramped basement room. There had been a medic, a State Alchemist he vaguely recognized, and a bevy of soldiers. He had briefly recounted those last, terrifying minutes to the medic – minus Fullmetal’s “message” for the general – and then the situation was swept out of his hands. The medic had taken over, barking orders, and, minutes later, they were all gone, taking Fullmetal with them.
Mustang took a step after them. Grand had ordered him to accompany Fullmetal to the hospital after all. But, something made him pause. Turning, he looked back into the room in which he had spent so much of his week. The only evidence of the tumultuous events was Fullmetal’s chair, lying on its side in the floor.
Spying the older man’s glasses not too far away, Mustang moved to collect them. He gave them a brief glance, but they seemed to be undamaged. Then, his eyes fell on the red coat draped over the fallen chair. It was a simple affair with a hood. Its only distinguishing features were its bright color and the fact that it, oddly, didn’t have any form of buttons or snaps to close it. He collected the coat as well and then let his eyes run over the notes scattered across the table. It looked like Fullmetal had been on a roll again. He recognized the gray-haired alchemist’s scrawl across most of the papers.
For a moment, Mustang was tempted to stay and see what Fullmetal had uncovered before his latest attack. But, there wasn’t time. And, General Grand had left looking like a man running damage control, not a man carrying the secret to the Philosopher’s Stone. Giving the notes a last longing look, he started for the door.
Something… off played across his peripheral vision. Mustang stopped and looked to the other side of the table. Where there had been a simple, wooden chair there was now a monstrosity. It was still a chair. Technically. Just the ugliest one he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. The slats that formed the back were shaped like twisting serpents topped with grinning skulls. Walking around the table revealed that the legs were similarly decorated and the seat was in the shape of a demonic, fanged mouth. Charming.
“Where did this—?”
His eyes picked out the telltale smudges of chalk on the floor.
“Alchemy?” Mustang stared numbly at the silent evidence still faintly visible on the concrete floor.
Then, he stretched out a foot and further obliterated the afterimage of a transmutation circle. Minutes later, he was trotting up the stairs to the outside, holding Fullmetal’s belongings and more confusing thoughts than he cared to admit.
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“Here’s the report on that alchemist conman we’ve been tracking,” Breda announced, laying a paper on Colonel Mustang’s desk, startling the dark-haired man out of his memories. “He’s been spotted out east, probably trying to get as far away from Western Headquarters as he can after that stunt with Lieutenant General Northrop.”
“That stunt being the only reason we’re bothering with a petty thief,” Mustang murmured, his eyes drifting to the report. Admittedly, a petty thief who had robbed the general blind in an embarrassing incident involving far too much alcohol and the entire Greater Amestrian Ballet Troupe.
“Did anyone get photos?” Havoc asked, leaning over in his seat to flip through the stack of files Breda had left at his own workspace.
“Officially, no,” said Breda. “Unofficially – Talk to Sergeant Bell in Communications. Might cost you some cigarettes, but the tutu? It was pink with sparkles.”
Sometimes, Mustang mused, it was like running a kindergarten. But, he had missed the inane banter during his week spent locked away in the library.
Fighting a scowl at the thought, he nodded an acknowledgement of the report to Breda and hunched over his paperwork. It had been two weeks. Two weeks since Fuhrer Bader had announced he was stepping down and naming Lockheed his successor, throwing Central Command into a secret furor of shifting allegiances. Two weeks since the struggle to decode Parker’s – no, Fullmetal’s – notes. Two weeks since he had found himself able only to watch helplessly as the Fullmetal Alchemist slipped away into oblivion.
A coma, the nurse had said. The gray-haired alchemist had been comatose when he reached the hospital. At least the blood oozing from his mouth had only been from biting his tongue while seizing. Aside from that and some bruises, Fullmetal was, physically, in good health.
As to his mental health, no one would say.
Of course, no one was supposed to say anything at all. It had taken all of the Colonel’s considerable charm – plus an absurd story about Fullmetal being an estranged half-uncle on his mother’s side – to pry the little he knew out of a nurse he met that first night in the hospital. And, from the look on her face, she had told him out of pity. Or, possibly, as a reward for his creativity.
Whatever the case, he had heard nothing since. Grand had suspended the project the same night Fullmetal collapsed. The Monday after that surreal Friday, Mustang had found himself back in his office surrounded by mountains of paperwork.
“Nice to know I was so vital to the project,” Mustang thought.
He suspected his presence had been purely to babysit Fullmetal. Because he was young, new to Central Command and unlikely to be missed. And, because Grand could hold Ishval over his head.
Mustang grimaced.
“A cenz for your thoughts, Colonel.”
Mustang looked up to find that Breda was still in front of his desk. The heavyset man had appropriated his stapler and was fussing over the exact placement of a staple in the upper corner of his reports.
“A cenz?” Mustang arched a brow. “It’s going to cost you more than that.”
“Fine then.” Breda finally found the perfect place for his staple and stamped it home. “It’s Friday. How about I buy you a drink?”
A thin smile lifted Mustang’s lips. “I believe I’ll take you up on that, 2nd Lieutenant.”
“Good.” Breda turned. “Hey, Havoc, you got a date tonight?”
The blond man scowled. “No.”
“Then, come on with us.”
“Like I’m going to find a date with the Colonel there,” Havoc groused. He had made no secret of the fact that his last three dates had approached him purely to fish for information about his commanding officer.
“I’d be happy to give you some tips,” Mustang purred.
Havoc snorted and tossed his pen across the table at the gray-haired Falman. “Yo, Falman. You still owe me a drink. Come along and treat me, huh?”
Covering his smile by bending over his paperwork once more, Mustang mused that his particular kindergarten was well worth some minor irritation.
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“Can you hear me?”
Glazed eyes tracked the white-coated doctor as he moved around the bed. Hear? Yes, he could hear. He started to close his eyes again.
Wait.
He was supposed to do something now.
He should… answer. That was it.
“Yes.”
“Good!” The doctor beamed. “Understanding and response – good signs.” He scribbled something on his ever-present clipboard.
Behind him, there was a knock at the room’s only door. Before the doctor could move toward it, the door swung open to reveal a bespectacled man swathed in a coat and hat. Tipping his head back, the man regarded the doctor with narrowed eyes. The little of his face that was visible between a thick mustache and his hat was dotted with age spots, a mute testament to his years.
“Who are you?” demanded the doctor. He took a step toward the newcomer. “This is a restricted ward.”
“I should hope.” The old man reached to remove his hat, uncovering a head of wispy, thinning hair. “That Grand… calling me out in this weather. It’s getting chilly. Not good for these old bones. So, it had better be something important.” His eyes swept past the doctor to focus on the patient sitting up in bed. “This is?”
The flustered doctor started to answer but visibly stopped himself. “You’re the specialist General Grand was sending?”
“Obviously, or the guards wouldn’t have allowed me this far.” The old man shuffled toward the bed.
The patient turned his head slightly to regard the newcomer with drug-fogged golden eyes. The sight froze the old man in his tracks.
“This is—!” A hand snapped back to snatch the clipboard from the younger doctor. “Who is this man?” he asked again as he scanned the scrawl of notations.
Scowling, the doctor answered. “Elric. He’s a State—”
“Fullmetal!” the old man chortled. “Why, it’s been twenty years. I barely recognized him with his hair a sensible length.” He moved closer to the patient, eyes bright behind his thick spectacles. “Not aged well, have you, Fullmetal?”
There was no answer.
“Well, it’s your own fault. Such an unreasonable child.” The old man’s gaze returned to the clipboard as he rattled off questions at the doctor. “Is he eating? Sleeping? Responding to direct orders?”
“I— yes,” said the doctor. “It’s all recorded.”
“Yes, I see.” The old man tossed the clipboard toward the young doctor and turned to grace Fullmetal with a smile that showed off a single, glinting gold tooth. “Well, let’s fix you back up, Fullmetal. It’ll be like old times.”
And, though his eyes remained blank, Fullmetal released a tiny, involuntary shudder.
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“C’mon, Havoc, it could have been worse,” said Breda.
“How exactly?” Havoc slurred, briefly moving his glass from his swollen cheek to take a great gulp of his beer. “I barely say hello and she punches me!”
“Which is a terrible amount of restraint coming from Major General Armstrong,” said Mustang from the opposite side of the table, taking a sip from his own drink.
“That was Major General Armstrong?” Havoc looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him. Then, he jerked his head up and twisted in his seat to search the room wildly as though afraid the blonde general would reappear and finish the job. Their table in the back corner of the bar commanded a good view of the room – Breda’s choice. But, there was no sign of the imposing woman.
“She left almost immediately after she punched you,” Falman informed him helpfully.
“Armstrong?” Master Sergeant Fuery, the youngest of Mustang’s group with a boyish face that only highlighted his youth, looked torn between curiosity and terror. “Like the Major?”
“His older sister,” said Breda before turning to Mustang. “What’s someone like her doing down here in Central? I thought she had command up at Fort Briggs?”
“She does.” Mustang’s gaze was thoughtful. “I suspect she’s here to take stock of the political situation.” He took another drink. “It’s nice to have all my competition assembling themselves in one place. I wonder if they all frequent this bar?”
“Sir.” Beside Mustang, Hawkeye sipped at her water. She was posing as the colonel’s driver for the night. “Please be more careful with what you say.” Like the others, she was dressed for a casual evening out. Her long, blonde hair was unbound and fell past her shoulders. But, her face was all business as she admonished her superior.
Mustang was unrepentant. “They’re all thinking the same about me,” he argued.
“Unlikely, Sir.” A smile danced behind Hawkeye’s brown eyes. “In your current position, you’re probably not included in their calculations at all.” Her eyes narrowed, serious now. “This gives you a tactical advantage so long as you avoid drawing attention to yourself.”
But, Mustang was oblivious to her final words, having slumped to the tabletop. “Am I not a threat?” he murmured, staring into his glass bleakly. “Not even a little?”
Breda covered a snicker with his beer. Then, he sobered. Now that everyone had arrived, it was time to get some information out of the Colonel.
“So, heard from old man Grumman lately?” he asked.
Something in Mustang’s shoulders tensed minutely. After a second’s pause, he straightened and leaned back in his chair lazily.
“A week ago, actually. He sends his thanks for all that work you did on the east area project.”
“Well, it took you long enough to deliver the message,” said Breda. But, the words were without heat.
“As you know, we’ve been swamped.” Mustang shrugged. “I haven’t had a minute to spare on things like passing along polite nonsense to you clowns,” he added.
“So, what was all that about?” asked Havoc as he put his drink down to light a cigarette. He hadn’t worked on the project, but he knew it was somehow tied to the rare event that was Roy Mustang choosing the company of his subordinates over that of a woman for the evening.
“The general just wanted to verify some old data from the archives,” said Mustang.
Breda nodded. “About thirty years back?”
“Around that, yes.”
Pressing his cold beer against his swollen cheek once more, Havoc puffed on his cigarette and watched the two. Breda and the Colonel had a system. Breda would oh-so-casually ask all the right questions, and the Colonel would oh-so-lazily respond with vague answers. Havoc couldn’t always follow these conversations. He wasn’t clever like Breda or a walking encyclopedia like Falman. But, that was what poker night was for. Alone, without Mustang, who was more likely to be watched, Breda could bring them all up to speed without using word games. Still, the game was always fun to watch.
“Thirty years, that rings a bell,” Breda drawled. He looked across the table at Falman. “Didn’t we research something else from around then?”
“I believe that was when the State accepted the youngest alchemist on record,” Falman answered. “Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.”
“Yeah, Fullmetal,” said Breda. “The one with the automail, that got captured by Drachma. I wonder how he’s doing these days.”
Mustang sipped at his scotch. “It’s my understanding that he’s become quite the eccentric. I’ve met him. Rather entertaining really.” He smirked. “Especially if you mention his height.”
“His height?” Fuery asked.
Mustang held out a hand. “Shorter than even you, Master Sergeant. He’s about, oh, this tall.” Mustang’s hand was indicating someone about four feet tall, if that. “Touchy about it too.”
“If I was that short, I would be too,” Breda snorted. He had no doubt the Colonel was exaggerating.
“See, I was right,” said Havoc suddenly, remembering their early morning discussion on Fullmetal nearly a month ago. “He did pick a fight with a bear after thinking it called him short.”
“Havoc, you aren’t drunk enough for that to be funny yet.”
“As I recall, Fullmetal has at least two automail prosthetics,” Falman put in, serious as always. “And, he had them at twelve when he received his State certification.” Falman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Automail is an incredible strain to put on a developing body. Especially the heavier models they had decades ago.”
Mustang had been joking, but Falman’s words gave him pause. Yes, that had probably been a contributing factor in Fullmetal’s stunted size. That plus ten years of malnourishment and beatings in Drachma starting when he was fifteen.
Something nagged at the back of his mind.
“Tell the general he’s a…”
Now, there was an uncomfortable thought. He put it aside for later.
Looking past Breda, Mustang let his eyes wander over the busy bar. “Unfortunately, it seems like Fullmetal’s in poor health at the moment.”
“Shame,” said Breda. “Know where to send flowers?”
“No, I didn’t hear where he’s staying.”
“Mm.” Breda flicked his eyes toward Hawkeye, who had been silent thus far. Like Mustang, she had chosen to sit facing the room. He caught her gaze for a minute, and she offered the tiniest of nods. Good. No trouble then. “So, since you’ve met him, what’s Fullmetal up to these days?”
There was a sharpening in the Colonel’s dark eyes. “Wild goose chases, the way I hear it,” he said. “Digging up records of nearly legendary alchemic amplifiers, things like that.”
Breda arched a brow. “The military actually spends money on that stuff?”
“Under the right circumstances, apparently so.”
Beside Mustang, Hawkeye shifted in her seat. Taking the hint, Breda smoothly moved on to other things.
“Well, I wish they’d spend a little more money on practical things.”
“Like some of the communications equipment.” Fuery sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep some of the radios running with just scrap parts.”
“And, getting some of the older records transcribed,” said Falman. “A number of them are becoming illegible.”
“And, serving beer in the mess hall,” Havoc slurred around the beer against his cheek and the remains of his cigarette between his teeth.
“Havoc, that’s still your first beer,” said Breda, scowling. “Exactly how hard did the Major General hit you?”
Fuery thrust his hand toward Havoc. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
As Falman inserted a warning about concussions and the need to keep Havoc awake, Mustang tuned out their chatter and focused instead on the man who had just entered the bar. He easily recognized him as one of the two guards who had stood outside the study room day after day as he and Fullmetal read and bickered. And, who had collected and secured their findings, along with Parker’s notes, day after day. He also recognized the sharp featured man standing and moving to greet him amicably.
“Hmm, it seems Major Archer is doing some fishing,” he murmured.
----------------------------------------------------------
Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong listened to a stuttering soldier explain the destruction cutting across the street with thinly veiled disgust. Dressed in a long coat more suited to Briggs’ frigid northern winters, she was the picture of poise despite Central’s laughable idea of cold weather. At her side was a similarly dressed man with even more incongruent dark glasses despite the late hour. Olivier’s pink lips curled as she looked past the harried soldier to survey the damage. The entire face of one building was so much rubble blocking both lanes of traffic. A bevy of soldiers and military police surrounded it. In particular, they were clustered around a specific patch of debris. A patch strewn with the remains of something rather less solid than a building. And, rather messier.
“And, it looks like the fight ended when the Silver Alchemist, Giolio Comanche, was killed by Scar,” the soldier stammered on, guessing the direction of her stare. Pointedly, he did not turn to look himself.
“Scar?” Olivier asked idly.
“An Ishvalan serial killer who’s been targeting State Alchemists.”
“Ishvalan…” For an instant, Olivier frowned. She could have sworn something had moved in the alleyway to her left. Ignoring it, she let her lips twist into a true sneer. “Hmph. If this is the quality of Amestris’ famed ‘human weapons’, the Fuhrer-Elect is correct that they’ve outlived their usefulness.” Yes, there was something there. She raised her voice slightly. “Soft weaklings, the lot of them. Like that so-called ‘Hero of Ishval’ I saw just tonight out carousing. Pathetic.” She turned away, long coat snapping behind her. “Miles.”
Her companion obediently fell into step beside her.
Olivier didn’t look at him as she strode back the way she had come. “From the looks of it, this ‘Scar’ didn’t take any damage from the fight,” she said quietly. “He may be searching for another target.” Now, her lips lifted in a grim smile. “That upstart Mustang should have had his fill and be heading home soon, don’t you think?”
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Having refused a number of well-meaning suggestions that he head home early, Havoc was now well and truly drunk. In fact, he was drunk enough that no one could tell if he had recovered from the Major General’s punch or not. Considering his condition, Falman and Fuery offered to walk him back to his place. The directions he gave them were dubious at best – “Fi’ blocksh pas’ th’ fish n’ a left at th’ green horse. Shecond ‘partment buildin’.” But, Falman, with his incredible memory for details, seemed to have correctly interpreted “fish” as the logo of another pub and “green horse” as a statue of General Benjamin Avro astride his horse commissioned to commemorate the Battle of Cameron two hundred years ago. Or something like that. Mustang had to admit that Falman’s encyclopedic recitations made even his eyes glaze over.
At any rate, the three were the first to leave. A half hour later, with a weather eye trained on Archer, Mustang was ostensibly engrossed in an argument with Breda over the merits of chess versus the Eastern variant, shogi.
“But, in shogi, when you capture pawns, you can turn around and use them again as your own,” Breda argued.
“That’s exactly what I don’t like about it,” Mustang countered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the guard Archer had been speaking to was leaving and Archer himself seemed to be preparing to make his exit. “In chess, captured pawns are captured and out of play, not turned into nasty little surprises to use against your opponent later.” He thumped his fist on the table for emphasis. “It’s more honest.”
“Nothing fair in love and war, you know,” said Breda with a smirk.
Mustang growled at him and half-rose.
Hawkeye caught his sleeve. “Sir, if you’re ready to leave, I’ll go start the car.” She stood, gathering her purse, and nodded to Breda. “I’ll see you Monday, 2nd Lieutenant.” Then, her brown eyes locked with Mustang’s. “I’ll bring the car around in ten minutes, Sir. If I find that you’ve slipped out with one of the waitresses, I will be cross.”
And, no one liked to see Hawkeye cross. Her purse was just large enough to conceal a handgun, and there was little doubt that it was her only one.
Mustang nodded and offered her a charming false smile. “I’ll behave myself, Lieutenant.”
“See that you do.”
Then, Hawkeye was gone, threading her way through the thinning crowd.
Mustang turned to Breda with a look of utmost seriousness. “2nd Lieutenant, procure me a waitress immediately,” he said in his best command voice.
Across the room, he could see Archer casting him a considering look, but the man quickly turned away with a smirk and moved for the door.
The corners of Breda’s lips twitched. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I make it a point not to accept suicide missions.”
“This isn’t the Aqua Fortis; the waitresses here are quite friendly.”
“It’s not the waitresses I’m afraid of.”
Mustang stared at the stocky man intently. “Does this mean you’re disobeying a direct order, 2nd Lieutenant?” he asked softly.
“’Fraid so.”
The two stared at one another for a long minute.
Mustang laughed first. Then, he stood, wobbling slightly. “Well, as I’m also not feeling suicidal, I’d better meet the 1st Lieutenant before she decides I’ve disobeyed her orders.”
Breda grinned. “I always knew I had a smart commanding officer.”
Mustang let out another short laugh and, tossing up a hand, turned to go.
A few minutes later, all semblance of drunken mirth was gone from Mustang’s face as he slid into the backseat of his military issued car.
“Major Archer and 1st Lieutenant Gloster rendezvoused outside the pub and headed down Fifth,” Hawkeye reported.
“As I expected,” Mustang murmured. “Take the next turn and then pull over, Lieutenant. It seems I’ll have to do some footwork.”
Hawkeye did as he asked, but a worried frown settled on her face. “Are you sure about this, Sir?” she asked, taking the turn he had indicated. “There is still a murderer on the loose.”
“I’m prepared for that contingency,” he said.
She saw a flash of white in the rearview mirror and realized that he was tugging off his plain white gloves and tucking them into a pocket of his long coat. In their place, he pulled on a nearly identical pair. Identical save for the telltale red circles sewn onto the backs. Circles enclosing a pattern of triangles where the alchemical symbol for air surrounded that for fire.
Knowing there would be no argument, Hawkeye pulled the car up to the curb and cut the engine. Then, passing a hand over the thigh holster concealed under her skirt, she reached for her purse.
“I’m coming with you.” And, from her tone, it was clear that there would be no arguing with her either.
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The military police had been faster this time. Probably because of the building collapse. No matter. The alchemist was dead. And, the world was better for the loss of the arrogant fool. Proud veteran of the massacre of Ishval, wholly dependent on his infallible alchemy. And, for all his showy moves, infinitely predictable.
Concealed, he had lingered as the destruction drew soldiers and bystanders alike. It must have been Ishvala’s guidance. Because, as he watched, a loud blonde woman in the blue of the Amestrian military proper had given him an unexpected boon.
Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, who had left nothing but ash and death in his path through Ishval. He was nearby and probably incapacitated from drunken revelry. And, the bar district was only a few blocks away.
It was the perfect opportunity.
His efforts had been rewarded, he mused, hours later, as he watched a man with night dark hair and white gloves slip out of his car and begin walking down the street on foot. Truly, Ishvala was delivering the murderers of Ishval into his hand tonight.
Still… Red eyes flicked to the grim-faced blonde woman at Mustang’s side. He would be patient, cautious. There was no need to rush.
He clenched his right fist.
He would be patient, but he would not rest until he had avenged his people.
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As businesses and apartments gave way to warehouses, Mustang grew wary of Archer’s intentions. The streets here were poorly lit and devoid of life. It was the perfect place for a covert meeting, yes. It was also the perfect place to dispose of an informant who had outlived his usefulness. Or a shadow that had grown annoying.
Of course, Mustang’s lips tightened in a grim smile, either attempt would neatly remove Archer from the game. Because he was no ordinary shadow.
Unfortunately, in that moment of confidence, Mustang forgot the third thing that a dark and deserted street was perfect for: an ambush.
Fortunately, Hawkeye did not.
When the large man lunged out of the alleyway, arm outstretched, she was already in motion. As her hand wrapped around the familiar weight of the gun in her purse, her foot swept out and caught Mustang’s legs. With an undignified yelp, he tumbled backward. A hand crackling with the unmistakable light of alchemy missed his head by inches.
It wouldn’t get a second chance.
Hawkeye brought the gun to bear and fired off three shots in quick succession.
But, the large man had already recovered from his failed lunge and was dodging away.
“Fast,” Hawkeye thought to herself, tracking him as he retreated into the alley.
Hair rose on the back of her neck as she lined up a shot. Something in the atmosphere had changed. Her finger froze on the trigger, waiting.
There was a sharp snap from the ground to her right. With a rush of igniting gases, the alleyway just behind the attacker was suddenly ablaze.
Hawkeye held the gun steady, keeping her eyes trained on the big man now clearly outlined by the fire’s light. He hadn’t flinched at the sudden fireball either. He stood, resolute, watching, calculating.
“I advise you give up,” said Mustang. Ignoring the stinging pain in his backside, he climbed to his feet, left hand in the air, poised to snap again. “You’ve lost the element of surprise. And, there’s nowhere to run.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the roar of the alchemically fueled flames.
“Roy Mustang.” When the man spoke, it was in a deep voice devoid of emotion. “The Flame Alchemist.” He raised his right hand. “For your crimes in Ishval, I shall bring judgment upon you.”
Mustang started.
Ishval.
“You’re—!”
“Scar, correct?” a new voice cut in. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Mustang risked a quick glance to the left of Hawkeye, catching sight of Amestrian blue and long, blonde hair. His eyes widened.
Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong kept her sidearm trained on the scarred man while her left hand rested on the hilt of her sword.
“How nice of you to take the bait I provided,” she continued.
“Bait?” Mustang murmured.
Olivier’s lips twitched. “I thought he might be skulking around the scene of his last attack, so I mentioned that a certain alchemist might be wandering around, too drunk to defend himself.” Her eyes flicked toward Mustang. “I see I wasn’t far off.”
It took a moment for the statement to click.
“What?” Mustang yelled. “You used me as bait?”
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The woman sometimes called “the Northern Cliff of Briggs” was known for her ruthlessness.
“A State Alchemist should be more than capable of defending himself,” said Olivier. “Or are you all as useless as I’ve heard?”
Mustang’s face slid into its usual impassive mask. “Apparently, I, at least, have my uses,” he said smoothly, pointedly gesturing to himself with his gloved right hand. “And, sometimes, bait bites back.”
The wall of fire behind Scar was still under his control. Careful modulation of the alley’s oxygen levels kept the fire at a slow but intimidating burn. And, just a thought could intensify it.
Olivier sniffed. Then, her attention turned to Scar.
“Well, it seems there’s nowhere left for you to run,” she said. “You can surrender or fight.” Ice blue eyes narrowed. “It makes no difference to me. The outcome will be the same.”
Scar regarded the three figures facing him. Mustang had never stopped watching him, not even while screeching at the loud female officer. And, unnatural eddies still twisted around him, fanning the flames at his back. The Flame Alchemist was still using his accursed alchemy. And, he was prepared now.
The women were dangerous. He had no doubt both would shoot him and that their aim would be deadly. But, it was the alchemist, known for his explosive, long distance attacks, that was the real danger. He weighed his options.
A shadow flickered in front of him. Not from the flames. From above.
Decision made for him, Scar swung his right arm toward the nearest wall.
“Don’t—!” Hawkeye’s finger squeezed the trigger.
“Miles!” Olivier shouted, firing her own sidearm.
The wall nearest Scar exploded as his hand connected.
Mustang swore and snapped again, sending a burst of fire into the debris. But, as the flames shone through the cloud of dust, it was obvious that Scar was gone.
“Miles!” Olivier barked again.
A figure appeared on the rooftop to the left of the alley. “No sign of him, Ma’am!” he called. Lifting his tinted glasses, he searched the interior of the damaged building, dimly illuminated by the flames. “There’s a hole in the floor. It looks like he went into the sewers.”
“Tch!” Olivier cautiously made her way to the alley. She could hear Mustang and his lieutenant falling in behind her.
Stepping over the rubble that had once been a sizable portion of the building’s wall, she peered into the darkened room beyond. Miles had been correct. The room Scar had blasted his way into, some sort of storage area, was empty save for debris, scattered crates, and a gaping hole in the floor. Olivier contemplated it for a moment. But, with no lights, they were ill-equipped to give chase.
Grimacing, she stepped back and looked to Mustang. “I trust you know who to contact in Investigations?” she asked. “For all the good it will do.”
“I’ll inform them,” said Mustang. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Since I did play my part quite well, might I ask a favor?”
Olivier treated him to a level look that she probably used when deciding if a passing insect was worth the trouble of squashing.
“Just a piece of trivia I’ve been investigating,” Mustang continued. “I was wondering if there were any records in Briggs of a State Alchemist being taken captive by Drachman forces near the border? It would have been before your time,” he added quickly. It wasn’t an empty boast that no live Drachman had set foot over the border since an Armstrong had held command in Briggs. “Around thirty years ago.”
“Hmph.” Olivier turned away. “You alchemists really are a useless lot.” With that, she strode away, raising an arm to signal her subordinate on the rooftop.
Mustang and Hawkeye were left standing in the street, flames slowly dying behind them, Archer and his informant long gone. Still, a tiny smile flickered at the corners of the colonel’s mouth.
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Kudos to Sage for the name Aqua Fortis. Yes, there was a reference to canon events in there. No, you don't have to pay attention to the chess/shogi debate, but it's fun if you think about it. And, Mustang and crew are so much fun to write.
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: May 11, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Implied violence.
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: And, back to the present.
Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist
Chapter 8 – Why Did It All Go Wrong?
Two weeks ago, Roy Mustang had stood frozen in a suddenly empty corridor, unsure exactly what he had just witnessed.
Instants after Fullmetal had fallen silent, a flood of personnel had descended on the cramped basement room. There had been a medic, a State Alchemist he vaguely recognized, and a bevy of soldiers. He had briefly recounted those last, terrifying minutes to the medic – minus Fullmetal’s “message” for the general – and then the situation was swept out of his hands. The medic had taken over, barking orders, and, minutes later, they were all gone, taking Fullmetal with them.
Mustang took a step after them. Grand had ordered him to accompany Fullmetal to the hospital after all. But, something made him pause. Turning, he looked back into the room in which he had spent so much of his week. The only evidence of the tumultuous events was Fullmetal’s chair, lying on its side in the floor.
Spying the older man’s glasses not too far away, Mustang moved to collect them. He gave them a brief glance, but they seemed to be undamaged. Then, his eyes fell on the red coat draped over the fallen chair. It was a simple affair with a hood. Its only distinguishing features were its bright color and the fact that it, oddly, didn’t have any form of buttons or snaps to close it. He collected the coat as well and then let his eyes run over the notes scattered across the table. It looked like Fullmetal had been on a roll again. He recognized the gray-haired alchemist’s scrawl across most of the papers.
For a moment, Mustang was tempted to stay and see what Fullmetal had uncovered before his latest attack. But, there wasn’t time. And, General Grand had left looking like a man running damage control, not a man carrying the secret to the Philosopher’s Stone. Giving the notes a last longing look, he started for the door.
Something… off played across his peripheral vision. Mustang stopped and looked to the other side of the table. Where there had been a simple, wooden chair there was now a monstrosity. It was still a chair. Technically. Just the ugliest one he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. The slats that formed the back were shaped like twisting serpents topped with grinning skulls. Walking around the table revealed that the legs were similarly decorated and the seat was in the shape of a demonic, fanged mouth. Charming.
“Where did this—?”
His eyes picked out the telltale smudges of chalk on the floor.
“Alchemy?” Mustang stared numbly at the silent evidence still faintly visible on the concrete floor.
Then, he stretched out a foot and further obliterated the afterimage of a transmutation circle. Minutes later, he was trotting up the stairs to the outside, holding Fullmetal’s belongings and more confusing thoughts than he cared to admit.
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“Here’s the report on that alchemist conman we’ve been tracking,” Breda announced, laying a paper on Colonel Mustang’s desk, startling the dark-haired man out of his memories. “He’s been spotted out east, probably trying to get as far away from Western Headquarters as he can after that stunt with Lieutenant General Northrop.”
“That stunt being the only reason we’re bothering with a petty thief,” Mustang murmured, his eyes drifting to the report. Admittedly, a petty thief who had robbed the general blind in an embarrassing incident involving far too much alcohol and the entire Greater Amestrian Ballet Troupe.
“Did anyone get photos?” Havoc asked, leaning over in his seat to flip through the stack of files Breda had left at his own workspace.
“Officially, no,” said Breda. “Unofficially – Talk to Sergeant Bell in Communications. Might cost you some cigarettes, but the tutu? It was pink with sparkles.”
Sometimes, Mustang mused, it was like running a kindergarten. But, he had missed the inane banter during his week spent locked away in the library.
Fighting a scowl at the thought, he nodded an acknowledgement of the report to Breda and hunched over his paperwork. It had been two weeks. Two weeks since Fuhrer Bader had announced he was stepping down and naming Lockheed his successor, throwing Central Command into a secret furor of shifting allegiances. Two weeks since the struggle to decode Parker’s – no, Fullmetal’s – notes. Two weeks since he had found himself able only to watch helplessly as the Fullmetal Alchemist slipped away into oblivion.
A coma, the nurse had said. The gray-haired alchemist had been comatose when he reached the hospital. At least the blood oozing from his mouth had only been from biting his tongue while seizing. Aside from that and some bruises, Fullmetal was, physically, in good health.
As to his mental health, no one would say.
Of course, no one was supposed to say anything at all. It had taken all of the Colonel’s considerable charm – plus an absurd story about Fullmetal being an estranged half-uncle on his mother’s side – to pry the little he knew out of a nurse he met that first night in the hospital. And, from the look on her face, she had told him out of pity. Or, possibly, as a reward for his creativity.
Whatever the case, he had heard nothing since. Grand had suspended the project the same night Fullmetal collapsed. The Monday after that surreal Friday, Mustang had found himself back in his office surrounded by mountains of paperwork.
“Nice to know I was so vital to the project,” Mustang thought.
He suspected his presence had been purely to babysit Fullmetal. Because he was young, new to Central Command and unlikely to be missed. And, because Grand could hold Ishval over his head.
Mustang grimaced.
“A cenz for your thoughts, Colonel.”
Mustang looked up to find that Breda was still in front of his desk. The heavyset man had appropriated his stapler and was fussing over the exact placement of a staple in the upper corner of his reports.
“A cenz?” Mustang arched a brow. “It’s going to cost you more than that.”
“Fine then.” Breda finally found the perfect place for his staple and stamped it home. “It’s Friday. How about I buy you a drink?”
A thin smile lifted Mustang’s lips. “I believe I’ll take you up on that, 2nd Lieutenant.”
“Good.” Breda turned. “Hey, Havoc, you got a date tonight?”
The blond man scowled. “No.”
“Then, come on with us.”
“Like I’m going to find a date with the Colonel there,” Havoc groused. He had made no secret of the fact that his last three dates had approached him purely to fish for information about his commanding officer.
“I’d be happy to give you some tips,” Mustang purred.
Havoc snorted and tossed his pen across the table at the gray-haired Falman. “Yo, Falman. You still owe me a drink. Come along and treat me, huh?”
Covering his smile by bending over his paperwork once more, Mustang mused that his particular kindergarten was well worth some minor irritation.
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“Can you hear me?”
Glazed eyes tracked the white-coated doctor as he moved around the bed. Hear? Yes, he could hear. He started to close his eyes again.
Wait.
He was supposed to do something now.
He should… answer. That was it.
“Yes.”
“Good!” The doctor beamed. “Understanding and response – good signs.” He scribbled something on his ever-present clipboard.
Behind him, there was a knock at the room’s only door. Before the doctor could move toward it, the door swung open to reveal a bespectacled man swathed in a coat and hat. Tipping his head back, the man regarded the doctor with narrowed eyes. The little of his face that was visible between a thick mustache and his hat was dotted with age spots, a mute testament to his years.
“Who are you?” demanded the doctor. He took a step toward the newcomer. “This is a restricted ward.”
“I should hope.” The old man reached to remove his hat, uncovering a head of wispy, thinning hair. “That Grand… calling me out in this weather. It’s getting chilly. Not good for these old bones. So, it had better be something important.” His eyes swept past the doctor to focus on the patient sitting up in bed. “This is?”
The flustered doctor started to answer but visibly stopped himself. “You’re the specialist General Grand was sending?”
“Obviously, or the guards wouldn’t have allowed me this far.” The old man shuffled toward the bed.
The patient turned his head slightly to regard the newcomer with drug-fogged golden eyes. The sight froze the old man in his tracks.
“This is—!” A hand snapped back to snatch the clipboard from the younger doctor. “Who is this man?” he asked again as he scanned the scrawl of notations.
Scowling, the doctor answered. “Elric. He’s a State—”
“Fullmetal!” the old man chortled. “Why, it’s been twenty years. I barely recognized him with his hair a sensible length.” He moved closer to the patient, eyes bright behind his thick spectacles. “Not aged well, have you, Fullmetal?”
There was no answer.
“Well, it’s your own fault. Such an unreasonable child.” The old man’s gaze returned to the clipboard as he rattled off questions at the doctor. “Is he eating? Sleeping? Responding to direct orders?”
“I— yes,” said the doctor. “It’s all recorded.”
“Yes, I see.” The old man tossed the clipboard toward the young doctor and turned to grace Fullmetal with a smile that showed off a single, glinting gold tooth. “Well, let’s fix you back up, Fullmetal. It’ll be like old times.”
And, though his eyes remained blank, Fullmetal released a tiny, involuntary shudder.
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“C’mon, Havoc, it could have been worse,” said Breda.
“How exactly?” Havoc slurred, briefly moving his glass from his swollen cheek to take a great gulp of his beer. “I barely say hello and she punches me!”
“Which is a terrible amount of restraint coming from Major General Armstrong,” said Mustang from the opposite side of the table, taking a sip from his own drink.
“That was Major General Armstrong?” Havoc looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him. Then, he jerked his head up and twisted in his seat to search the room wildly as though afraid the blonde general would reappear and finish the job. Their table in the back corner of the bar commanded a good view of the room – Breda’s choice. But, there was no sign of the imposing woman.
“She left almost immediately after she punched you,” Falman informed him helpfully.
“Armstrong?” Master Sergeant Fuery, the youngest of Mustang’s group with a boyish face that only highlighted his youth, looked torn between curiosity and terror. “Like the Major?”
“His older sister,” said Breda before turning to Mustang. “What’s someone like her doing down here in Central? I thought she had command up at Fort Briggs?”
“She does.” Mustang’s gaze was thoughtful. “I suspect she’s here to take stock of the political situation.” He took another drink. “It’s nice to have all my competition assembling themselves in one place. I wonder if they all frequent this bar?”
“Sir.” Beside Mustang, Hawkeye sipped at her water. She was posing as the colonel’s driver for the night. “Please be more careful with what you say.” Like the others, she was dressed for a casual evening out. Her long, blonde hair was unbound and fell past her shoulders. But, her face was all business as she admonished her superior.
Mustang was unrepentant. “They’re all thinking the same about me,” he argued.
“Unlikely, Sir.” A smile danced behind Hawkeye’s brown eyes. “In your current position, you’re probably not included in their calculations at all.” Her eyes narrowed, serious now. “This gives you a tactical advantage so long as you avoid drawing attention to yourself.”
But, Mustang was oblivious to her final words, having slumped to the tabletop. “Am I not a threat?” he murmured, staring into his glass bleakly. “Not even a little?”
Breda covered a snicker with his beer. Then, he sobered. Now that everyone had arrived, it was time to get some information out of the Colonel.
“So, heard from old man Grumman lately?” he asked.
Something in Mustang’s shoulders tensed minutely. After a second’s pause, he straightened and leaned back in his chair lazily.
“A week ago, actually. He sends his thanks for all that work you did on the east area project.”
“Well, it took you long enough to deliver the message,” said Breda. But, the words were without heat.
“As you know, we’ve been swamped.” Mustang shrugged. “I haven’t had a minute to spare on things like passing along polite nonsense to you clowns,” he added.
“So, what was all that about?” asked Havoc as he put his drink down to light a cigarette. He hadn’t worked on the project, but he knew it was somehow tied to the rare event that was Roy Mustang choosing the company of his subordinates over that of a woman for the evening.
“The general just wanted to verify some old data from the archives,” said Mustang.
Breda nodded. “About thirty years back?”
“Around that, yes.”
Pressing his cold beer against his swollen cheek once more, Havoc puffed on his cigarette and watched the two. Breda and the Colonel had a system. Breda would oh-so-casually ask all the right questions, and the Colonel would oh-so-lazily respond with vague answers. Havoc couldn’t always follow these conversations. He wasn’t clever like Breda or a walking encyclopedia like Falman. But, that was what poker night was for. Alone, without Mustang, who was more likely to be watched, Breda could bring them all up to speed without using word games. Still, the game was always fun to watch.
“Thirty years, that rings a bell,” Breda drawled. He looked across the table at Falman. “Didn’t we research something else from around then?”
“I believe that was when the State accepted the youngest alchemist on record,” Falman answered. “Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.”
“Yeah, Fullmetal,” said Breda. “The one with the automail, that got captured by Drachma. I wonder how he’s doing these days.”
Mustang sipped at his scotch. “It’s my understanding that he’s become quite the eccentric. I’ve met him. Rather entertaining really.” He smirked. “Especially if you mention his height.”
“His height?” Fuery asked.
Mustang held out a hand. “Shorter than even you, Master Sergeant. He’s about, oh, this tall.” Mustang’s hand was indicating someone about four feet tall, if that. “Touchy about it too.”
“If I was that short, I would be too,” Breda snorted. He had no doubt the Colonel was exaggerating.
“See, I was right,” said Havoc suddenly, remembering their early morning discussion on Fullmetal nearly a month ago. “He did pick a fight with a bear after thinking it called him short.”
“Havoc, you aren’t drunk enough for that to be funny yet.”
“As I recall, Fullmetal has at least two automail prosthetics,” Falman put in, serious as always. “And, he had them at twelve when he received his State certification.” Falman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Automail is an incredible strain to put on a developing body. Especially the heavier models they had decades ago.”
Mustang had been joking, but Falman’s words gave him pause. Yes, that had probably been a contributing factor in Fullmetal’s stunted size. That plus ten years of malnourishment and beatings in Drachma starting when he was fifteen.
Something nagged at the back of his mind.
“Tell the general he’s a…”
Now, there was an uncomfortable thought. He put it aside for later.
Looking past Breda, Mustang let his eyes wander over the busy bar. “Unfortunately, it seems like Fullmetal’s in poor health at the moment.”
“Shame,” said Breda. “Know where to send flowers?”
“No, I didn’t hear where he’s staying.”
“Mm.” Breda flicked his eyes toward Hawkeye, who had been silent thus far. Like Mustang, she had chosen to sit facing the room. He caught her gaze for a minute, and she offered the tiniest of nods. Good. No trouble then. “So, since you’ve met him, what’s Fullmetal up to these days?”
There was a sharpening in the Colonel’s dark eyes. “Wild goose chases, the way I hear it,” he said. “Digging up records of nearly legendary alchemic amplifiers, things like that.”
Breda arched a brow. “The military actually spends money on that stuff?”
“Under the right circumstances, apparently so.”
Beside Mustang, Hawkeye shifted in her seat. Taking the hint, Breda smoothly moved on to other things.
“Well, I wish they’d spend a little more money on practical things.”
“Like some of the communications equipment.” Fuery sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep some of the radios running with just scrap parts.”
“And, getting some of the older records transcribed,” said Falman. “A number of them are becoming illegible.”
“And, serving beer in the mess hall,” Havoc slurred around the beer against his cheek and the remains of his cigarette between his teeth.
“Havoc, that’s still your first beer,” said Breda, scowling. “Exactly how hard did the Major General hit you?”
Fuery thrust his hand toward Havoc. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
As Falman inserted a warning about concussions and the need to keep Havoc awake, Mustang tuned out their chatter and focused instead on the man who had just entered the bar. He easily recognized him as one of the two guards who had stood outside the study room day after day as he and Fullmetal read and bickered. And, who had collected and secured their findings, along with Parker’s notes, day after day. He also recognized the sharp featured man standing and moving to greet him amicably.
“Hmm, it seems Major Archer is doing some fishing,” he murmured.
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Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong listened to a stuttering soldier explain the destruction cutting across the street with thinly veiled disgust. Dressed in a long coat more suited to Briggs’ frigid northern winters, she was the picture of poise despite Central’s laughable idea of cold weather. At her side was a similarly dressed man with even more incongruent dark glasses despite the late hour. Olivier’s pink lips curled as she looked past the harried soldier to survey the damage. The entire face of one building was so much rubble blocking both lanes of traffic. A bevy of soldiers and military police surrounded it. In particular, they were clustered around a specific patch of debris. A patch strewn with the remains of something rather less solid than a building. And, rather messier.
“And, it looks like the fight ended when the Silver Alchemist, Giolio Comanche, was killed by Scar,” the soldier stammered on, guessing the direction of her stare. Pointedly, he did not turn to look himself.
“Scar?” Olivier asked idly.
“An Ishvalan serial killer who’s been targeting State Alchemists.”
“Ishvalan…” For an instant, Olivier frowned. She could have sworn something had moved in the alleyway to her left. Ignoring it, she let her lips twist into a true sneer. “Hmph. If this is the quality of Amestris’ famed ‘human weapons’, the Fuhrer-Elect is correct that they’ve outlived their usefulness.” Yes, there was something there. She raised her voice slightly. “Soft weaklings, the lot of them. Like that so-called ‘Hero of Ishval’ I saw just tonight out carousing. Pathetic.” She turned away, long coat snapping behind her. “Miles.”
Her companion obediently fell into step beside her.
Olivier didn’t look at him as she strode back the way she had come. “From the looks of it, this ‘Scar’ didn’t take any damage from the fight,” she said quietly. “He may be searching for another target.” Now, her lips lifted in a grim smile. “That upstart Mustang should have had his fill and be heading home soon, don’t you think?”
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Having refused a number of well-meaning suggestions that he head home early, Havoc was now well and truly drunk. In fact, he was drunk enough that no one could tell if he had recovered from the Major General’s punch or not. Considering his condition, Falman and Fuery offered to walk him back to his place. The directions he gave them were dubious at best – “Fi’ blocksh pas’ th’ fish n’ a left at th’ green horse. Shecond ‘partment buildin’.” But, Falman, with his incredible memory for details, seemed to have correctly interpreted “fish” as the logo of another pub and “green horse” as a statue of General Benjamin Avro astride his horse commissioned to commemorate the Battle of Cameron two hundred years ago. Or something like that. Mustang had to admit that Falman’s encyclopedic recitations made even his eyes glaze over.
At any rate, the three were the first to leave. A half hour later, with a weather eye trained on Archer, Mustang was ostensibly engrossed in an argument with Breda over the merits of chess versus the Eastern variant, shogi.
“But, in shogi, when you capture pawns, you can turn around and use them again as your own,” Breda argued.
“That’s exactly what I don’t like about it,” Mustang countered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the guard Archer had been speaking to was leaving and Archer himself seemed to be preparing to make his exit. “In chess, captured pawns are captured and out of play, not turned into nasty little surprises to use against your opponent later.” He thumped his fist on the table for emphasis. “It’s more honest.”
“Nothing fair in love and war, you know,” said Breda with a smirk.
Mustang growled at him and half-rose.
Hawkeye caught his sleeve. “Sir, if you’re ready to leave, I’ll go start the car.” She stood, gathering her purse, and nodded to Breda. “I’ll see you Monday, 2nd Lieutenant.” Then, her brown eyes locked with Mustang’s. “I’ll bring the car around in ten minutes, Sir. If I find that you’ve slipped out with one of the waitresses, I will be cross.”
And, no one liked to see Hawkeye cross. Her purse was just large enough to conceal a handgun, and there was little doubt that it was her only one.
Mustang nodded and offered her a charming false smile. “I’ll behave myself, Lieutenant.”
“See that you do.”
Then, Hawkeye was gone, threading her way through the thinning crowd.
Mustang turned to Breda with a look of utmost seriousness. “2nd Lieutenant, procure me a waitress immediately,” he said in his best command voice.
Across the room, he could see Archer casting him a considering look, but the man quickly turned away with a smirk and moved for the door.
The corners of Breda’s lips twitched. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I make it a point not to accept suicide missions.”
“This isn’t the Aqua Fortis; the waitresses here are quite friendly.”
“It’s not the waitresses I’m afraid of.”
Mustang stared at the stocky man intently. “Does this mean you’re disobeying a direct order, 2nd Lieutenant?” he asked softly.
“’Fraid so.”
The two stared at one another for a long minute.
Mustang laughed first. Then, he stood, wobbling slightly. “Well, as I’m also not feeling suicidal, I’d better meet the 1st Lieutenant before she decides I’ve disobeyed her orders.”
Breda grinned. “I always knew I had a smart commanding officer.”
Mustang let out another short laugh and, tossing up a hand, turned to go.
A few minutes later, all semblance of drunken mirth was gone from Mustang’s face as he slid into the backseat of his military issued car.
“Major Archer and 1st Lieutenant Gloster rendezvoused outside the pub and headed down Fifth,” Hawkeye reported.
“As I expected,” Mustang murmured. “Take the next turn and then pull over, Lieutenant. It seems I’ll have to do some footwork.”
Hawkeye did as he asked, but a worried frown settled on her face. “Are you sure about this, Sir?” she asked, taking the turn he had indicated. “There is still a murderer on the loose.”
“I’m prepared for that contingency,” he said.
She saw a flash of white in the rearview mirror and realized that he was tugging off his plain white gloves and tucking them into a pocket of his long coat. In their place, he pulled on a nearly identical pair. Identical save for the telltale red circles sewn onto the backs. Circles enclosing a pattern of triangles where the alchemical symbol for air surrounded that for fire.
Knowing there would be no argument, Hawkeye pulled the car up to the curb and cut the engine. Then, passing a hand over the thigh holster concealed under her skirt, she reached for her purse.
“I’m coming with you.” And, from her tone, it was clear that there would be no arguing with her either.
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The military police had been faster this time. Probably because of the building collapse. No matter. The alchemist was dead. And, the world was better for the loss of the arrogant fool. Proud veteran of the massacre of Ishval, wholly dependent on his infallible alchemy. And, for all his showy moves, infinitely predictable.
Concealed, he had lingered as the destruction drew soldiers and bystanders alike. It must have been Ishvala’s guidance. Because, as he watched, a loud blonde woman in the blue of the Amestrian military proper had given him an unexpected boon.
Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, who had left nothing but ash and death in his path through Ishval. He was nearby and probably incapacitated from drunken revelry. And, the bar district was only a few blocks away.
It was the perfect opportunity.
His efforts had been rewarded, he mused, hours later, as he watched a man with night dark hair and white gloves slip out of his car and begin walking down the street on foot. Truly, Ishvala was delivering the murderers of Ishval into his hand tonight.
Still… Red eyes flicked to the grim-faced blonde woman at Mustang’s side. He would be patient, cautious. There was no need to rush.
He clenched his right fist.
He would be patient, but he would not rest until he had avenged his people.
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As businesses and apartments gave way to warehouses, Mustang grew wary of Archer’s intentions. The streets here were poorly lit and devoid of life. It was the perfect place for a covert meeting, yes. It was also the perfect place to dispose of an informant who had outlived his usefulness. Or a shadow that had grown annoying.
Of course, Mustang’s lips tightened in a grim smile, either attempt would neatly remove Archer from the game. Because he was no ordinary shadow.
Unfortunately, in that moment of confidence, Mustang forgot the third thing that a dark and deserted street was perfect for: an ambush.
Fortunately, Hawkeye did not.
When the large man lunged out of the alleyway, arm outstretched, she was already in motion. As her hand wrapped around the familiar weight of the gun in her purse, her foot swept out and caught Mustang’s legs. With an undignified yelp, he tumbled backward. A hand crackling with the unmistakable light of alchemy missed his head by inches.
It wouldn’t get a second chance.
Hawkeye brought the gun to bear and fired off three shots in quick succession.
But, the large man had already recovered from his failed lunge and was dodging away.
“Fast,” Hawkeye thought to herself, tracking him as he retreated into the alley.
Hair rose on the back of her neck as she lined up a shot. Something in the atmosphere had changed. Her finger froze on the trigger, waiting.
There was a sharp snap from the ground to her right. With a rush of igniting gases, the alleyway just behind the attacker was suddenly ablaze.
Hawkeye held the gun steady, keeping her eyes trained on the big man now clearly outlined by the fire’s light. He hadn’t flinched at the sudden fireball either. He stood, resolute, watching, calculating.
“I advise you give up,” said Mustang. Ignoring the stinging pain in his backside, he climbed to his feet, left hand in the air, poised to snap again. “You’ve lost the element of surprise. And, there’s nowhere to run.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the roar of the alchemically fueled flames.
“Roy Mustang.” When the man spoke, it was in a deep voice devoid of emotion. “The Flame Alchemist.” He raised his right hand. “For your crimes in Ishval, I shall bring judgment upon you.”
Mustang started.
Ishval.
“You’re—!”
“Scar, correct?” a new voice cut in. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Mustang risked a quick glance to the left of Hawkeye, catching sight of Amestrian blue and long, blonde hair. His eyes widened.
Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong kept her sidearm trained on the scarred man while her left hand rested on the hilt of her sword.
“How nice of you to take the bait I provided,” she continued.
“Bait?” Mustang murmured.
Olivier’s lips twitched. “I thought he might be skulking around the scene of his last attack, so I mentioned that a certain alchemist might be wandering around, too drunk to defend himself.” Her eyes flicked toward Mustang. “I see I wasn’t far off.”
It took a moment for the statement to click.
“What?” Mustang yelled. “You used me as bait?”
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The woman sometimes called “the Northern Cliff of Briggs” was known for her ruthlessness.
“A State Alchemist should be more than capable of defending himself,” said Olivier. “Or are you all as useless as I’ve heard?”
Mustang’s face slid into its usual impassive mask. “Apparently, I, at least, have my uses,” he said smoothly, pointedly gesturing to himself with his gloved right hand. “And, sometimes, bait bites back.”
The wall of fire behind Scar was still under his control. Careful modulation of the alley’s oxygen levels kept the fire at a slow but intimidating burn. And, just a thought could intensify it.
Olivier sniffed. Then, her attention turned to Scar.
“Well, it seems there’s nowhere left for you to run,” she said. “You can surrender or fight.” Ice blue eyes narrowed. “It makes no difference to me. The outcome will be the same.”
Scar regarded the three figures facing him. Mustang had never stopped watching him, not even while screeching at the loud female officer. And, unnatural eddies still twisted around him, fanning the flames at his back. The Flame Alchemist was still using his accursed alchemy. And, he was prepared now.
The women were dangerous. He had no doubt both would shoot him and that their aim would be deadly. But, it was the alchemist, known for his explosive, long distance attacks, that was the real danger. He weighed his options.
A shadow flickered in front of him. Not from the flames. From above.
Decision made for him, Scar swung his right arm toward the nearest wall.
“Don’t—!” Hawkeye’s finger squeezed the trigger.
“Miles!” Olivier shouted, firing her own sidearm.
The wall nearest Scar exploded as his hand connected.
Mustang swore and snapped again, sending a burst of fire into the debris. But, as the flames shone through the cloud of dust, it was obvious that Scar was gone.
“Miles!” Olivier barked again.
A figure appeared on the rooftop to the left of the alley. “No sign of him, Ma’am!” he called. Lifting his tinted glasses, he searched the interior of the damaged building, dimly illuminated by the flames. “There’s a hole in the floor. It looks like he went into the sewers.”
“Tch!” Olivier cautiously made her way to the alley. She could hear Mustang and his lieutenant falling in behind her.
Stepping over the rubble that had once been a sizable portion of the building’s wall, she peered into the darkened room beyond. Miles had been correct. The room Scar had blasted his way into, some sort of storage area, was empty save for debris, scattered crates, and a gaping hole in the floor. Olivier contemplated it for a moment. But, with no lights, they were ill-equipped to give chase.
Grimacing, she stepped back and looked to Mustang. “I trust you know who to contact in Investigations?” she asked. “For all the good it will do.”
“I’ll inform them,” said Mustang. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Since I did play my part quite well, might I ask a favor?”
Olivier treated him to a level look that she probably used when deciding if a passing insect was worth the trouble of squashing.
“Just a piece of trivia I’ve been investigating,” Mustang continued. “I was wondering if there were any records in Briggs of a State Alchemist being taken captive by Drachman forces near the border? It would have been before your time,” he added quickly. It wasn’t an empty boast that no live Drachman had set foot over the border since an Armstrong had held command in Briggs. “Around thirty years ago.”
“Hmph.” Olivier turned away. “You alchemists really are a useless lot.” With that, she strode away, raising an arm to signal her subordinate on the rooftop.
Mustang and Hawkeye were left standing in the street, flames slowly dying behind them, Archer and his informant long gone. Still, a tiny smile flickered at the corners of the colonel’s mouth.
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Kudos to Sage for the name Aqua Fortis. Yes, there was a reference to canon events in there. No, you don't have to pay attention to the chess/shogi debate, but it's fun if you think about it. And, Mustang and crew are so much fun to write.
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B