Fanfic Post - Nameless, Chapter 9
May. 18th, 2011 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristenskTitle: Nameless
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: May 18, 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: And, the research resumes. As always, thanks to everyone reading!
Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist
Chapter 9: I Want to Know What’s Going On
Darkness. Deep and cold and broken only by echoes.
It was familiar. He had been here before. Perhaps he had always been here.
He wasn’t sure.
But, it was familiar.
It was dark and empty, but not empty. He was alone, but not alone.
Because there were others all around him. They were unseen, intangible. But, he could hear them. Hear the whispers in the darkness.
“So long.”
“Waiting.”
“So long.”
“He promised.”
“Save us.”
“Free us.”
“All trapped.”
“Waiting so long.”
“Waiting.”
He wondered what they meant. What they were waiting for. Was he waiting for something?
He wasn’t sure.
“Remember.”
Louder now. Were they speaking to him?
He tried to find words to ask.
“You? Me?”
Words were hard.
“Yes.”
But, he must have made himself understood.
“Remember.”
“You remember.”
But, he didn’t. He didn’t remember anything.
“Remember?” he asked.
An excited murmur answered him, too fast and muddled for him to comprehend. Then, the murmur rose into a sudden roar.
“Remember!”
“Don’t forget!”
“Don’t lose!”
“Remember!”
He was sent reeling, confused and hurting. It was too much, too loud! And, worse, the voices sounded upset now. Were they angry with him?
“I… Sorry?” he managed.
“No. No, sorry.”
The voices quieted.
“Just remember.”
“Please.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Remember, Ed.”
----------------------------------------------------------
“Well?” General Grand thrust himself into the tiny examining room, making it suddenly even smaller.
Its two occupants were oblivious. They stood side by side, opposites. One young and old and small in clothes too big for him, staring vacantly at nothing. The other unquestionably ancient and stout with a frame little diminished by the years, smiling pleasantly.
“He’s hiding from me again,” the old man said, never losing his smile. “It’s uncanny how he does that.” He tugged at his moustache as he regarded his silent companion. “Really quite the challenge, this brat.”
“So, you haven’t gotten anything out of him.” Grand’s face was a mass of knotted muscles.
“Mmm.” The old man shrugged. “It’s not that he won’t say anything about the Stone. He’ll do whatever you ask.” The old man snapped his fingers in front of the other’s face. “Fullmetal, sit.”
Wordlessly, Fullmetal moved from the old man’s side to sit in the room’s single wooden chair.
“See? Perfect. My best work.” The old man grinned over at Fullmetal before looking at Grand again. “The problem is that he can’t say anything about the Stone. Puts him right back into that seizure. I didn’t even bother trying since you’ve already proven that hasn’t changed.”
“Didn’t bother—?” Grand clenched his fists. “I told you to get the information on the Philosopher’s Stone!”
The old man was unperturbed. “And, I’m telling you it won’t work that way,” he said. “Frankly, you already got further than I thought possible.” His smile widened. “Clever method really. Shame you had to go and rush things.”
Grand ground his teeth together at the thinly disguised jab.
“Still,” the man continued, “my advice is to try again. Fullmetal here tends to lose time before and after his ‘episodes’. Just recreate the scenario from before.”
Slowly, Grand let his fury ebb away. He had been close, and he still had his trump card. Fullmetal was functional, if damaged, and the ruse had worked. He could start again. He had the notes, and, with the decoding Fullmetal had already done, he might even find another alchemist who could crack the last code.
“Do you still have that little black notebook they confiscated?” the old man asked suddenly.
“Yes.” Grand’s smile was slow in coming, but all the more terrible for it. “Yes, that would work nicely.”
----------------------------------------------------------
“And then, she thanked Scar for taking the ‘bait’!” said Mustang, slapping his hands down on Hughes’ desk.
“Let me guess what – no, who – the bait was.” Hughes’ grin was growing by the minute as Mustang related his story.
Mustang scowled. “It’s not like I was helpless!”
“Because you had Hawkeye there to save your neck.”
“That’s not—”
“Excuse me. Colonel?” Mustang turned to find Fuery standing in the doorway. “General Grand wants to see you,” he said breathlessly. It was clear he had run all the way to the Investigations Department
“General Grand?” Mustang repeated blankly.
“Yes, Sir.” Fuery nodded. “He came by about twenty minutes ago and said for you to meet him in the National Library immediately.”
Mustang barely concealed his surprise before nodding. “Very well then. Thank you, Master Sergeant.”
As Fuery left, Mustang turned back to Hughes. His friend was watching him with a thoughtful look.
“Old man Grand’s looking for you again?”
“So, it would seem.” Mustang moved toward the door but paused at the threshold. “Has the Fullmetal Alchemist’s file re-surfaced by any chance?”
“Nope,” said Hughes. “Sergeant Ryan in Records isn’t happy about it either.”
“I’d imagine not.” Mustang took on a thoughtful air. “Would someone rescued from a Drachman prison have a file in Investigations as well?”
“Most likely. Not in this division though,” said Hughes. “Probably over in Sunderland’s department.” Hughes frowned. “You know, I haven’t spoken to him in ages. Which means he hasn’t seen Elicia in her sundress!”
“A travesty, I’m sure,” said Mustang with a small smile.
“I should go visit him at lunch!” Hughes proclaimed. “The sight of my Elicia is sure to brighten his day!”
“You do that.” Still smiling, Mustang took his leave.
The smile faded as he contemplated what was waiting for him at the library. Grand certainly. Probably Fullmetal as well. But, in what state? And, for what purpose? A new “lead” on the Philosopher’s Stone?
Mustang increased his pace. He doubted he would like them, but he wanted answers.
----------------------------------------------------------
When he arrived at the library, the study room was just as he had seen it last, minus the over-turned chair. The same two guards were stationed at the door – Gloster looking none the worse for wear after his meeting with Archer. Both as stoically professional as ever. Notes were already spread on the room’s single table. Fullmetal’s transmuted monstrosity was even still in attendance against the far wall. Which made Mustang privately vow to claim the proper chair for his own if he had to pull rank to do so. But, it was a fleeting thought.
Because waiting for him just within the door was General Grand. The general’s face was set in its default frown, but there was a curious satisfaction about him.
Mustang quickly decided that he didn’t like it. Good. His hunches were again being vindicated.
“There you are, Mustang,” said Grand. “As you can tell, you’ll be re-starting this project. Fullmetal is back in full health, and I have some new material for you.”
He half-turned, giving Mustang his first glimpse of Fullmetal since that morning two weeks ago. The gray-haired alchemist was seated in the remaining chair. His skin was sallow. Dark bags hung under his eyes, accented by the curve of his glasses. He made no acknowledgement of Mustang’s presence. Not even the faintest scowl of annoyance. Instead, he stared emptily ahead at nothing in particular.
Clearly, the general subscribed to his own definition of “full health”.
With effort, Mustang kept his face neutral.
“New material, Sir?” he asked.
“Yes.” Grand reached to pull something from the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. “Given the extensive decoys built into the code, this may prove more useful.” He produced a small, leatherbound notebook. Its cover was cracked and stained, the pages rounded at the corners with age. There was little doubt as to its origins.
“Sir, this is—”
“Parker’s original notes,” said Grand. “The other was one of several copies printed during the initial investigation. These notes have been studied as well, of course. But,” Grand glanced toward the silent Fullmetal, “you two have already uncovered more than they ever did.” He pressed the notebook into Mustang’s hands. “I’ll be expecting progress reports every other day, Colonel. Everything else will be just as before.”
Fullmetal’s face was still impassive, empty.
“Sir,” Mustang dared at last, “is Elric fit for duty again? He—”
Grand cut him off with an impatient sweep of his hand. “The doctors cleared him,” he snapped. “His condition is a by-product of the fit and the drugs they gave him. It will pass.”
“About the... fit… Are there any warning signs I should know of?”
Grand treated Mustang to a measuring look. “No,” he said after a moment. “That was my carelessness. If questioned too heavily, Fullmetal tends to have fits. The doctors claim it’s a side effect of his time in Drachma.”
It made a deeply unpleasant sort of sense. It also highlighted why Fullmetal had no business here. Especially not in his current condition.
“But, if he’s still—”
“I’ll remind you, Mustang,” Grand growled, “that time is shorter than ever. Lockheed will formally assume command in a month, and he’s already stirring up things in the assembly.” Grand’s voice dropped. “Ishval has been mentioned more than once.”
Ah, the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“I understand, Sir,” said Mustang.
Best to let Grand believe his threats were effective.
“Good.” Grand moved to the door. “I’ll leave you two to work then. You should find all of your notes from before on the table. Fullmetal,” he leveled a glare on the diminutive alchemist, “crack this code. That’s an order.”
There was a visible twitch from Fullmetal, and he raised his head slightly. “Yes, Sir,” he said in a voice devoid of inflection.
Mustang felt something cold slither down his spine.
Then, Grand was gone, and they were alone.
Warily, Mustang crossed to the table.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked Fullmetal quietly.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sir? My, I seem to have come up in the world,” said Mustang, allowing himself a small smile. “Previously, I believe I was ‘Colonel Smug’.”
“I apologize for the disrespect, Sir.”
Mustang kept his smile only with effort. “No… It was fine.”
Then, he moved to collect the ghastly transmuted chair and pull it over to the table. As he took a seat and opened the battered notebook, Mustang thought that he had never so badly wanted to be disrespected.
----------------------------------------------------------
Several hours later, Mustang found himself debating the merits of shaking his largely silent companion. At the least, it would make him feel better.
The handwritten notebook had offered up no secrets deeper than the fact that its original owner had had terrible penmanship. Which prompted the question of if the copy had been accurately transcribed.
So, Mustang had given the notebook to Fullmetal. The general could continue to play his little games, but Mustang was confident in his belief that the notes were Fullmetal’s, written in the youth he could no longer remember. So, he instructed the older alchemist to read from the notebook while he followed along in the copy. Fullmetal had obeyed without comment, reading in a halting monotone.
It was a painful and useless exercise.
The printed copy was accurate so far as he and Fullmetal could tell. The original had some odd ink marks, but they appeared to be the product of the pen dragging across the paper rather than a deliberate effort. Fullmetal had little to say when he pointed them out, at any rate. Of course, Mustang was privately amazed that Fullmetal could even read clearly in his current state.
He was just making a note to re-visit the issue later when here was a knock at the door. Mustang looked up in surprise as the guards entered with their lunches. It was noon already then. And, it was meatloaf day in the mess hall from the look – and smell – of things.
He moved to take his lunch from Gloster. Fullmetal remained motionless as Boulton set his tray in front of him. His empty stare seemed to spook the younger officer, who hastily backed away.
As the two guards retreated out the door, Mustang took an experimental bite of his meatloaf, watching Fullmetal out of the corner of his eye. The gray-haired alchemist was looking at his tray as though trying to remember what to do with it. Or as though hoping it would transform into something palatable.
There was a thought. But, to transmute the meatloaf, they would first need to know what it was made of. And, that was a mystery every soldier in Central had yet to solve.
Of course, thanks to Havoc, Mustang knew most of the popular theories. The chain-smoking lieutenant especially delighted in telling young recruits that everyone knew the army was efficient, right? And, Central had a maximum security prison, right? Well, where did you think the death row inmates went?
Fuery had been green for a full day after hearing that one.
In light of that, Mustang elected not to mention it to Fullmetal just to fish for a response. Instead, he chose a safer option.
“Not hungry?”
Fullmetal glanced up at him and then back at the tray.
“No, Sir.” He studied the tray for a few seconds, frowning faintly. “No. I need to eat.”
With that, his face smoothed back into its expressionless mask. Then, collecting his fork, Fullmetal began methodically eating everything on his tray, meatloaf included.
The afternoon was no less frustrating. Fullmetal remained silent unless directly addressed. The notes remained inscrutable.
As they gathered the notes at the end of the day, Mustang found himself dreading his first report to Grand. For a distraction, he glanced across the table at Fullmetal. The gray-haired alchemist was carefully cleaning off the lens of his glasses with a handkerchief. It reminded Mustang of the identical pair of glasses still in his possession.
“Ah, that’s right,” he said. “Fullmetal.” He waited for the other man to look at him. “I still have a pair of your glasses from when we worked together before. I’ll bring them next time.”
“Before...” A tiny frown crossed Fullmetal’s impassive face. But, it faded quickly, and he nodded. “Thank you, Sir.”
He did not ask about the coat. And, for the moment, Mustang did not mention it.
Grand arrived shortly thereafter to collect Fullmetal. If he had any comments on their progress - or lack thereof - he did not make them. Instead, he gruffly addressed Fullmetal.
“Any problems, Fullmetal?”
“No, Sir.”
“No headaches, none of the... other nonsense?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good.”
Then, Grand was bundling Fullmetal out the door, guiding him along with a hand as though he were a child. Or a marionette.
Mustang pressed his lips into a thin line. Fullmetal was the key to this mystery. Whatever secrets the notes contained - if any at all - were somewhere in Fullmetal’s tortured, amnesiac mind. The Drachmans had tried to pry them out with force and, if Fullmetal's final invective last month was any indication, General Grand had tried the same.
Perhaps it was time for something more subtle.
----------------------------------------------------------
Mustang just managed to make it back to his office in time to catch Breda as he was leaving.
“Breda,” he waved the heavyset lieutenant back into the office with him, “I have an assignment for you.”
Breda arched a brow. “Will I like it or hate it?”
Mustang smiled. “That depends on how you feel about the cuisine in the east.”
“This is about that conman, isn't it?”
“Well, he’s been quite a nuisance, and I’m sure Lieutenant General Northrop would be pleased if we could round him up with a minimum of fuss.” Mustang’s smile was all shadows and secrets now. “I’m going to be on another assignment again for a while, but I trust you can handle this.” Stepping to his desk, he dug through the pile of folders stacked there and produced the one concerning the wayward conman. “I want you to start in East City and see what you can find.”
Breda’s smile was a mirror of Mustang’s now. “Mmm, good thing I've studied up on the eastern region recently.”
"Convenient, isn't it?" Mustang's face grew serious. “See if you can’t root this one out for me, 2nd Lieutenant.”
Breda saluted.
----------------------------------------------------------
Having given Breda his new assignment, Mustang changed into his casual clothes and set out on a mission of his own. It was time to drop in on Mr. Snow again.
The Central Tribune building was filled with the usual bustle and roar of busy men and machines. And, as always, Lucius Snow was hard at work setting type, his faithful cat curled up nearby. Mustang wondered that the animal hadn’t gone deaf with the racket. But, whether it could hear him coming or just possessed some bizarre feline sixth sense, the cat once more stood and meowed as he approached.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Snow,” Mustang greeted as the old man turned to face him.
“No trouble at all,” said Snow with a wide smile. “So, you’re back to look up some more on the Fullmetal boy?”
Mustang grinned lightly. “I’m hoping to.”
Snow waved a hand toward a door to the left of his linotype machine. “You’ll want to check the archives then. Start with the table by the door. I pulled the dates and headlines I remembered for you and left them there.”
“Thank you,” said Mustang, giving the old man a brief, genuine smile. “Again, sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, I enjoyed re-reading them myself,” Snow assured him. “Just mind the dust,” he called as Mustang turned and moved toward the door.
“Mind the dust is an understatement,” thought Mustang as he opened the door bearing the nameplate “Archives” to be met by a wave of choking, musty air. Flipping the light switch, he found a long, narrow room filled almost entirely by shelves piled high with moldering newspapers. He stepped inside and shut the door before turning his attention to the small table just to the right of it.
As Snow had promised, a stack of papers was waiting for him there. All were neatly laid open to whatever page contained a mention of Fullmetal. Clearly, even the exploits of a popular alchemist weren’t front page news. Except one. On the bottom of the stack, he found a paper bearing the bold headline, “State Accepts Youngest Alchemist Ever!”
Mustang smirked slightly as he read the accompanying article. Ah, the Amestrian military propaganda machine at its finest. The article was a veritable ode to the State Alchemists program, praising the brilliant young lad who, even at such a tender age, wanted to serve his country. Not to mention the praises for the Fuhrer and his generals who had had the foresight to recruit the young genius on the spot so that his talents might be “nurtured” under the military’s guidance. And, of course, such a young boy wouldn’t be called upon for active combat. Oh, no! He would be traveling and researching, growing in skill until he reached his majority.
“Or until they could figure out how he transmuted without a circle at his assessment,” Mustang muttered cynically as he pulled a rickety chair from its place under the table and settled himself into it. If Fullmetal really had been capable of such, of course they wouldn’t put him in the line of fire. If there was any chance the skill was not an elaborate trick and duplicable, he would have been far too valuable to lose until it could be studied.
Which made it a wonder they hadn’t kept the boy closer. Judging by the other articles and Fullmetal’s file – back before it had gone AWOL - he had wandered the country quite freely.
Turning his attention to the accounts of said wanderings, Mustang set the glut of purple prose aside. He quickly found that the other articles were written in a far more utilitarian fashion and were far more informative.
“Fullmetal Alchemist Uncovers Corruption in Youswell”
Fullmetal’s first official assignment had been a routine inspection at the Youswell coal mine. A routine inspection that somehow turned into exposing the local military authority and mine owner, one Lieutenant Yoki, as corrupt and incompetent. It had also somehow ended in the miners coming into ownership of the mine, but the newspaper wasn’t clear on exactly how that happened.
Then, there was “Xenotime Credits Prosperity to Fullmetal Alchemist”.
That one was little more than a blurb about how the one-time gold rush town of Xenotime credited Fullmetal for helping them turn their focus from the vanished gold reserves onto agriculture. There was a quote from a local alchemist named Russell Tringham who said, “All we needed was a little push in the right direction. Elric was the little push.”
Interesting choice of words. Idly, Mustang wondered if Tringham was still alive. They could take turns and see how many short jokes it took to bring the old grouch back. It would be fun.
Not as much fun as it would have been when Fullmetal was a teenager though. According to the Central Tribune, at least one town square had been destroyed in some sort of brawl that had involved a perceived slight against Fullmetal’s stature. And, that wasn’t counting several dozen eating establishments, a train car and Southern HQ’s men’s bathroom. All later repaired with alchemy, of course.
Mustang shuffled through more articles detailing how Fullmetal repaired a bridge here, insulted a general there. Really, it was a wonder he hadn’t been either court-martialed or finally caught in a dark alley.
At last, he reached the final article Snow had been able to find – the one concerning the incident with Cornello. “Father Cornello” apparently. Priest of the sun god Leto, a religion he had created out of whole cloth and spread among the population of Liore by performing “miracles” with the aid of alchemy.
“Liore…” Mustang frowned. He couldn’t send anyone to Liore. Not and find anything meaningful. Liore, once a thriving frontier town on the edge of the eastern desert, was now nothing but a wasteland. There had been an uprising of some sort, and the military had deployed troops to suppress it. And then, there had been the accident. A munitions explosion, the Bradley administration had claimed. Rumor said alchemy. Alchemy worse than anything used in Ishval. Liore was gone. The soldiers were gone. Purportedly, there had been no witnesses. But, a second wave of troops still mobilizing in Ishval, as well as a number of civilians, had reported seeing a red light in the sky. When the additional troops arrived in Liore, there were no survivors.
“This Cornello had an amplifier,” Mustang murmured to himself. He never put much stock in rumors. But, alchemy, even without the aid of an amplifier, could be as dangerous in the hands of an amateur as when used by a combat-trained State Alchemist. And, far less predictable. “Could he…” Mustang shook his head. “No, Fullmetal’s report said his amplifier was destroyed.”
He cast about in his memory for exactly when it was that Liore itself had been destroyed. Around thirty years ago, but….
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed, realizing.
Quickly, he read the remainder of the article. But, it only described how Fullmetal had exposed Cornello for the fraud he was. There was nothing about Cornello’s amplifier or his eventual fate.
“However…”
Checking the date, Mustang stood and moved to the shelves. After a few minutes’ searching, he located the papers from the days following the account of Fullmetal in Liore. Then, in a paper dated a month later, he found what he was looking for.
“Violence Erupts in Liore!”
Eyes widening, Mustang read how Cornello’s remaining supporters had clashed with those disillusioned by Fullmetal’s revelation. How the violence had escalated to the point that Eastern Command sent troops to restore order.
“This is—!”
He reached for the next paper and the next, scanning the headlines.
“Disaster in Liore!”
And, above the headline was the date – July 1884. The same month Fullmetal had disappeared.
“In Drachma,” Mustang reminded himself.
But, he didn’t remember the exact date Fullmetal was listed as officially MIA. And, it took less than a week to reach the Drachman border from the east, even as far out as Liore.
Powerful alchemy might have destroyed Liore.
And, there was nothing more powerful, in reality or legend, than the Philosopher’s Stone.
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I'm betting a lot of readers' theories just got vindicated, didn't they? And, shame Havoc wasn't around thirty years ago. The man might be on to something.
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 18, 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: And, the research resumes. As always, thanks to everyone reading!
Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist
Chapter 9: I Want to Know What’s Going On
Darkness. Deep and cold and broken only by echoes.
It was familiar. He had been here before. Perhaps he had always been here.
He wasn’t sure.
But, it was familiar.
It was dark and empty, but not empty. He was alone, but not alone.
Because there were others all around him. They were unseen, intangible. But, he could hear them. Hear the whispers in the darkness.
“So long.”
“Waiting.”
“So long.”
“He promised.”
“Save us.”
“Free us.”
“All trapped.”
“Waiting so long.”
“Waiting.”
He wondered what they meant. What they were waiting for. Was he waiting for something?
He wasn’t sure.
“Remember.”
Louder now. Were they speaking to him?
He tried to find words to ask.
“You? Me?”
Words were hard.
“Yes.”
But, he must have made himself understood.
“Remember.”
“You remember.”
But, he didn’t. He didn’t remember anything.
“Remember?” he asked.
An excited murmur answered him, too fast and muddled for him to comprehend. Then, the murmur rose into a sudden roar.
“Remember!”
“Don’t forget!”
“Don’t lose!”
“Remember!”
He was sent reeling, confused and hurting. It was too much, too loud! And, worse, the voices sounded upset now. Were they angry with him?
“I… Sorry?” he managed.
“No. No, sorry.”
The voices quieted.
“Just remember.”
“Please.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Remember, Ed.”
----------------------------------------------------------
“Well?” General Grand thrust himself into the tiny examining room, making it suddenly even smaller.
Its two occupants were oblivious. They stood side by side, opposites. One young and old and small in clothes too big for him, staring vacantly at nothing. The other unquestionably ancient and stout with a frame little diminished by the years, smiling pleasantly.
“He’s hiding from me again,” the old man said, never losing his smile. “It’s uncanny how he does that.” He tugged at his moustache as he regarded his silent companion. “Really quite the challenge, this brat.”
“So, you haven’t gotten anything out of him.” Grand’s face was a mass of knotted muscles.
“Mmm.” The old man shrugged. “It’s not that he won’t say anything about the Stone. He’ll do whatever you ask.” The old man snapped his fingers in front of the other’s face. “Fullmetal, sit.”
Wordlessly, Fullmetal moved from the old man’s side to sit in the room’s single wooden chair.
“See? Perfect. My best work.” The old man grinned over at Fullmetal before looking at Grand again. “The problem is that he can’t say anything about the Stone. Puts him right back into that seizure. I didn’t even bother trying since you’ve already proven that hasn’t changed.”
“Didn’t bother—?” Grand clenched his fists. “I told you to get the information on the Philosopher’s Stone!”
The old man was unperturbed. “And, I’m telling you it won’t work that way,” he said. “Frankly, you already got further than I thought possible.” His smile widened. “Clever method really. Shame you had to go and rush things.”
Grand ground his teeth together at the thinly disguised jab.
“Still,” the man continued, “my advice is to try again. Fullmetal here tends to lose time before and after his ‘episodes’. Just recreate the scenario from before.”
Slowly, Grand let his fury ebb away. He had been close, and he still had his trump card. Fullmetal was functional, if damaged, and the ruse had worked. He could start again. He had the notes, and, with the decoding Fullmetal had already done, he might even find another alchemist who could crack the last code.
“Do you still have that little black notebook they confiscated?” the old man asked suddenly.
“Yes.” Grand’s smile was slow in coming, but all the more terrible for it. “Yes, that would work nicely.”
----------------------------------------------------------
“And then, she thanked Scar for taking the ‘bait’!” said Mustang, slapping his hands down on Hughes’ desk.
“Let me guess what – no, who – the bait was.” Hughes’ grin was growing by the minute as Mustang related his story.
Mustang scowled. “It’s not like I was helpless!”
“Because you had Hawkeye there to save your neck.”
“That’s not—”
“Excuse me. Colonel?” Mustang turned to find Fuery standing in the doorway. “General Grand wants to see you,” he said breathlessly. It was clear he had run all the way to the Investigations Department
“General Grand?” Mustang repeated blankly.
“Yes, Sir.” Fuery nodded. “He came by about twenty minutes ago and said for you to meet him in the National Library immediately.”
Mustang barely concealed his surprise before nodding. “Very well then. Thank you, Master Sergeant.”
As Fuery left, Mustang turned back to Hughes. His friend was watching him with a thoughtful look.
“Old man Grand’s looking for you again?”
“So, it would seem.” Mustang moved toward the door but paused at the threshold. “Has the Fullmetal Alchemist’s file re-surfaced by any chance?”
“Nope,” said Hughes. “Sergeant Ryan in Records isn’t happy about it either.”
“I’d imagine not.” Mustang took on a thoughtful air. “Would someone rescued from a Drachman prison have a file in Investigations as well?”
“Most likely. Not in this division though,” said Hughes. “Probably over in Sunderland’s department.” Hughes frowned. “You know, I haven’t spoken to him in ages. Which means he hasn’t seen Elicia in her sundress!”
“A travesty, I’m sure,” said Mustang with a small smile.
“I should go visit him at lunch!” Hughes proclaimed. “The sight of my Elicia is sure to brighten his day!”
“You do that.” Still smiling, Mustang took his leave.
The smile faded as he contemplated what was waiting for him at the library. Grand certainly. Probably Fullmetal as well. But, in what state? And, for what purpose? A new “lead” on the Philosopher’s Stone?
Mustang increased his pace. He doubted he would like them, but he wanted answers.
----------------------------------------------------------
When he arrived at the library, the study room was just as he had seen it last, minus the over-turned chair. The same two guards were stationed at the door – Gloster looking none the worse for wear after his meeting with Archer. Both as stoically professional as ever. Notes were already spread on the room’s single table. Fullmetal’s transmuted monstrosity was even still in attendance against the far wall. Which made Mustang privately vow to claim the proper chair for his own if he had to pull rank to do so. But, it was a fleeting thought.
Because waiting for him just within the door was General Grand. The general’s face was set in its default frown, but there was a curious satisfaction about him.
Mustang quickly decided that he didn’t like it. Good. His hunches were again being vindicated.
“There you are, Mustang,” said Grand. “As you can tell, you’ll be re-starting this project. Fullmetal is back in full health, and I have some new material for you.”
He half-turned, giving Mustang his first glimpse of Fullmetal since that morning two weeks ago. The gray-haired alchemist was seated in the remaining chair. His skin was sallow. Dark bags hung under his eyes, accented by the curve of his glasses. He made no acknowledgement of Mustang’s presence. Not even the faintest scowl of annoyance. Instead, he stared emptily ahead at nothing in particular.
Clearly, the general subscribed to his own definition of “full health”.
With effort, Mustang kept his face neutral.
“New material, Sir?” he asked.
“Yes.” Grand reached to pull something from the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. “Given the extensive decoys built into the code, this may prove more useful.” He produced a small, leatherbound notebook. Its cover was cracked and stained, the pages rounded at the corners with age. There was little doubt as to its origins.
“Sir, this is—”
“Parker’s original notes,” said Grand. “The other was one of several copies printed during the initial investigation. These notes have been studied as well, of course. But,” Grand glanced toward the silent Fullmetal, “you two have already uncovered more than they ever did.” He pressed the notebook into Mustang’s hands. “I’ll be expecting progress reports every other day, Colonel. Everything else will be just as before.”
Fullmetal’s face was still impassive, empty.
“Sir,” Mustang dared at last, “is Elric fit for duty again? He—”
Grand cut him off with an impatient sweep of his hand. “The doctors cleared him,” he snapped. “His condition is a by-product of the fit and the drugs they gave him. It will pass.”
“About the... fit… Are there any warning signs I should know of?”
Grand treated Mustang to a measuring look. “No,” he said after a moment. “That was my carelessness. If questioned too heavily, Fullmetal tends to have fits. The doctors claim it’s a side effect of his time in Drachma.”
It made a deeply unpleasant sort of sense. It also highlighted why Fullmetal had no business here. Especially not in his current condition.
“But, if he’s still—”
“I’ll remind you, Mustang,” Grand growled, “that time is shorter than ever. Lockheed will formally assume command in a month, and he’s already stirring up things in the assembly.” Grand’s voice dropped. “Ishval has been mentioned more than once.”
Ah, the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“I understand, Sir,” said Mustang.
Best to let Grand believe his threats were effective.
“Good.” Grand moved to the door. “I’ll leave you two to work then. You should find all of your notes from before on the table. Fullmetal,” he leveled a glare on the diminutive alchemist, “crack this code. That’s an order.”
There was a visible twitch from Fullmetal, and he raised his head slightly. “Yes, Sir,” he said in a voice devoid of inflection.
Mustang felt something cold slither down his spine.
Then, Grand was gone, and they were alone.
Warily, Mustang crossed to the table.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked Fullmetal quietly.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sir? My, I seem to have come up in the world,” said Mustang, allowing himself a small smile. “Previously, I believe I was ‘Colonel Smug’.”
“I apologize for the disrespect, Sir.”
Mustang kept his smile only with effort. “No… It was fine.”
Then, he moved to collect the ghastly transmuted chair and pull it over to the table. As he took a seat and opened the battered notebook, Mustang thought that he had never so badly wanted to be disrespected.
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Several hours later, Mustang found himself debating the merits of shaking his largely silent companion. At the least, it would make him feel better.
The handwritten notebook had offered up no secrets deeper than the fact that its original owner had had terrible penmanship. Which prompted the question of if the copy had been accurately transcribed.
So, Mustang had given the notebook to Fullmetal. The general could continue to play his little games, but Mustang was confident in his belief that the notes were Fullmetal’s, written in the youth he could no longer remember. So, he instructed the older alchemist to read from the notebook while he followed along in the copy. Fullmetal had obeyed without comment, reading in a halting monotone.
It was a painful and useless exercise.
The printed copy was accurate so far as he and Fullmetal could tell. The original had some odd ink marks, but they appeared to be the product of the pen dragging across the paper rather than a deliberate effort. Fullmetal had little to say when he pointed them out, at any rate. Of course, Mustang was privately amazed that Fullmetal could even read clearly in his current state.
He was just making a note to re-visit the issue later when here was a knock at the door. Mustang looked up in surprise as the guards entered with their lunches. It was noon already then. And, it was meatloaf day in the mess hall from the look – and smell – of things.
He moved to take his lunch from Gloster. Fullmetal remained motionless as Boulton set his tray in front of him. His empty stare seemed to spook the younger officer, who hastily backed away.
As the two guards retreated out the door, Mustang took an experimental bite of his meatloaf, watching Fullmetal out of the corner of his eye. The gray-haired alchemist was looking at his tray as though trying to remember what to do with it. Or as though hoping it would transform into something palatable.
There was a thought. But, to transmute the meatloaf, they would first need to know what it was made of. And, that was a mystery every soldier in Central had yet to solve.
Of course, thanks to Havoc, Mustang knew most of the popular theories. The chain-smoking lieutenant especially delighted in telling young recruits that everyone knew the army was efficient, right? And, Central had a maximum security prison, right? Well, where did you think the death row inmates went?
Fuery had been green for a full day after hearing that one.
In light of that, Mustang elected not to mention it to Fullmetal just to fish for a response. Instead, he chose a safer option.
“Not hungry?”
Fullmetal glanced up at him and then back at the tray.
“No, Sir.” He studied the tray for a few seconds, frowning faintly. “No. I need to eat.”
With that, his face smoothed back into its expressionless mask. Then, collecting his fork, Fullmetal began methodically eating everything on his tray, meatloaf included.
The afternoon was no less frustrating. Fullmetal remained silent unless directly addressed. The notes remained inscrutable.
As they gathered the notes at the end of the day, Mustang found himself dreading his first report to Grand. For a distraction, he glanced across the table at Fullmetal. The gray-haired alchemist was carefully cleaning off the lens of his glasses with a handkerchief. It reminded Mustang of the identical pair of glasses still in his possession.
“Ah, that’s right,” he said. “Fullmetal.” He waited for the other man to look at him. “I still have a pair of your glasses from when we worked together before. I’ll bring them next time.”
“Before...” A tiny frown crossed Fullmetal’s impassive face. But, it faded quickly, and he nodded. “Thank you, Sir.”
He did not ask about the coat. And, for the moment, Mustang did not mention it.
Grand arrived shortly thereafter to collect Fullmetal. If he had any comments on their progress - or lack thereof - he did not make them. Instead, he gruffly addressed Fullmetal.
“Any problems, Fullmetal?”
“No, Sir.”
“No headaches, none of the... other nonsense?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good.”
Then, Grand was bundling Fullmetal out the door, guiding him along with a hand as though he were a child. Or a marionette.
Mustang pressed his lips into a thin line. Fullmetal was the key to this mystery. Whatever secrets the notes contained - if any at all - were somewhere in Fullmetal’s tortured, amnesiac mind. The Drachmans had tried to pry them out with force and, if Fullmetal's final invective last month was any indication, General Grand had tried the same.
Perhaps it was time for something more subtle.
----------------------------------------------------------
Mustang just managed to make it back to his office in time to catch Breda as he was leaving.
“Breda,” he waved the heavyset lieutenant back into the office with him, “I have an assignment for you.”
Breda arched a brow. “Will I like it or hate it?”
Mustang smiled. “That depends on how you feel about the cuisine in the east.”
“This is about that conman, isn't it?”
“Well, he’s been quite a nuisance, and I’m sure Lieutenant General Northrop would be pleased if we could round him up with a minimum of fuss.” Mustang’s smile was all shadows and secrets now. “I’m going to be on another assignment again for a while, but I trust you can handle this.” Stepping to his desk, he dug through the pile of folders stacked there and produced the one concerning the wayward conman. “I want you to start in East City and see what you can find.”
Breda’s smile was a mirror of Mustang’s now. “Mmm, good thing I've studied up on the eastern region recently.”
"Convenient, isn't it?" Mustang's face grew serious. “See if you can’t root this one out for me, 2nd Lieutenant.”
Breda saluted.
----------------------------------------------------------
Having given Breda his new assignment, Mustang changed into his casual clothes and set out on a mission of his own. It was time to drop in on Mr. Snow again.
The Central Tribune building was filled with the usual bustle and roar of busy men and machines. And, as always, Lucius Snow was hard at work setting type, his faithful cat curled up nearby. Mustang wondered that the animal hadn’t gone deaf with the racket. But, whether it could hear him coming or just possessed some bizarre feline sixth sense, the cat once more stood and meowed as he approached.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Snow,” Mustang greeted as the old man turned to face him.
“No trouble at all,” said Snow with a wide smile. “So, you’re back to look up some more on the Fullmetal boy?”
Mustang grinned lightly. “I’m hoping to.”
Snow waved a hand toward a door to the left of his linotype machine. “You’ll want to check the archives then. Start with the table by the door. I pulled the dates and headlines I remembered for you and left them there.”
“Thank you,” said Mustang, giving the old man a brief, genuine smile. “Again, sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, I enjoyed re-reading them myself,” Snow assured him. “Just mind the dust,” he called as Mustang turned and moved toward the door.
“Mind the dust is an understatement,” thought Mustang as he opened the door bearing the nameplate “Archives” to be met by a wave of choking, musty air. Flipping the light switch, he found a long, narrow room filled almost entirely by shelves piled high with moldering newspapers. He stepped inside and shut the door before turning his attention to the small table just to the right of it.
As Snow had promised, a stack of papers was waiting for him there. All were neatly laid open to whatever page contained a mention of Fullmetal. Clearly, even the exploits of a popular alchemist weren’t front page news. Except one. On the bottom of the stack, he found a paper bearing the bold headline, “State Accepts Youngest Alchemist Ever!”
Mustang smirked slightly as he read the accompanying article. Ah, the Amestrian military propaganda machine at its finest. The article was a veritable ode to the State Alchemists program, praising the brilliant young lad who, even at such a tender age, wanted to serve his country. Not to mention the praises for the Fuhrer and his generals who had had the foresight to recruit the young genius on the spot so that his talents might be “nurtured” under the military’s guidance. And, of course, such a young boy wouldn’t be called upon for active combat. Oh, no! He would be traveling and researching, growing in skill until he reached his majority.
“Or until they could figure out how he transmuted without a circle at his assessment,” Mustang muttered cynically as he pulled a rickety chair from its place under the table and settled himself into it. If Fullmetal really had been capable of such, of course they wouldn’t put him in the line of fire. If there was any chance the skill was not an elaborate trick and duplicable, he would have been far too valuable to lose until it could be studied.
Which made it a wonder they hadn’t kept the boy closer. Judging by the other articles and Fullmetal’s file – back before it had gone AWOL - he had wandered the country quite freely.
Turning his attention to the accounts of said wanderings, Mustang set the glut of purple prose aside. He quickly found that the other articles were written in a far more utilitarian fashion and were far more informative.
“Fullmetal Alchemist Uncovers Corruption in Youswell”
Fullmetal’s first official assignment had been a routine inspection at the Youswell coal mine. A routine inspection that somehow turned into exposing the local military authority and mine owner, one Lieutenant Yoki, as corrupt and incompetent. It had also somehow ended in the miners coming into ownership of the mine, but the newspaper wasn’t clear on exactly how that happened.
Then, there was “Xenotime Credits Prosperity to Fullmetal Alchemist”.
That one was little more than a blurb about how the one-time gold rush town of Xenotime credited Fullmetal for helping them turn their focus from the vanished gold reserves onto agriculture. There was a quote from a local alchemist named Russell Tringham who said, “All we needed was a little push in the right direction. Elric was the little push.”
Interesting choice of words. Idly, Mustang wondered if Tringham was still alive. They could take turns and see how many short jokes it took to bring the old grouch back. It would be fun.
Not as much fun as it would have been when Fullmetal was a teenager though. According to the Central Tribune, at least one town square had been destroyed in some sort of brawl that had involved a perceived slight against Fullmetal’s stature. And, that wasn’t counting several dozen eating establishments, a train car and Southern HQ’s men’s bathroom. All later repaired with alchemy, of course.
Mustang shuffled through more articles detailing how Fullmetal repaired a bridge here, insulted a general there. Really, it was a wonder he hadn’t been either court-martialed or finally caught in a dark alley.
At last, he reached the final article Snow had been able to find – the one concerning the incident with Cornello. “Father Cornello” apparently. Priest of the sun god Leto, a religion he had created out of whole cloth and spread among the population of Liore by performing “miracles” with the aid of alchemy.
“Liore…” Mustang frowned. He couldn’t send anyone to Liore. Not and find anything meaningful. Liore, once a thriving frontier town on the edge of the eastern desert, was now nothing but a wasteland. There had been an uprising of some sort, and the military had deployed troops to suppress it. And then, there had been the accident. A munitions explosion, the Bradley administration had claimed. Rumor said alchemy. Alchemy worse than anything used in Ishval. Liore was gone. The soldiers were gone. Purportedly, there had been no witnesses. But, a second wave of troops still mobilizing in Ishval, as well as a number of civilians, had reported seeing a red light in the sky. When the additional troops arrived in Liore, there were no survivors.
“This Cornello had an amplifier,” Mustang murmured to himself. He never put much stock in rumors. But, alchemy, even without the aid of an amplifier, could be as dangerous in the hands of an amateur as when used by a combat-trained State Alchemist. And, far less predictable. “Could he…” Mustang shook his head. “No, Fullmetal’s report said his amplifier was destroyed.”
He cast about in his memory for exactly when it was that Liore itself had been destroyed. Around thirty years ago, but….
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed, realizing.
Quickly, he read the remainder of the article. But, it only described how Fullmetal had exposed Cornello for the fraud he was. There was nothing about Cornello’s amplifier or his eventual fate.
“However…”
Checking the date, Mustang stood and moved to the shelves. After a few minutes’ searching, he located the papers from the days following the account of Fullmetal in Liore. Then, in a paper dated a month later, he found what he was looking for.
“Violence Erupts in Liore!”
Eyes widening, Mustang read how Cornello’s remaining supporters had clashed with those disillusioned by Fullmetal’s revelation. How the violence had escalated to the point that Eastern Command sent troops to restore order.
“This is—!”
He reached for the next paper and the next, scanning the headlines.
“Disaster in Liore!”
And, above the headline was the date – July 1884. The same month Fullmetal had disappeared.
“In Drachma,” Mustang reminded himself.
But, he didn’t remember the exact date Fullmetal was listed as officially MIA. And, it took less than a week to reach the Drachman border from the east, even as far out as Liore.
Powerful alchemy might have destroyed Liore.
And, there was nothing more powerful, in reality or legend, than the Philosopher’s Stone.
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I'm betting a lot of readers' theories just got vindicated, didn't they? And, shame Havoc wasn't around thirty years ago. The man might be on to something.
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B
