[Fic] A History of Violence, Chapter 4

[cryogenia]

*posts, flees*


The back of the paddy wagon isn’t the worst ride he’s ever caught, but he’s never made a habit of riding in cars, to begin with. Al had rarely fit in the closed-top kind, and he’d never personally been comfortable in any automobile, regardless of the top. Unless he was sitting up front, where he could see out, he often ended up carsick; and not many people had wanted to let hitchhikers sit in the front with them. So given his druther’s, he’d rather take the train, or just his own two legs.

The police certainly didn’t give a damn about his “druther’s”, he notes with a rueful smirk. The back of the paddy wagon he certainly can not see out of, and it smells faintly of cabbages. He wonders if maybe they use the thing to move supplies with, if they are too cheap to bother with a real transport vehicle. Or maybe - not likely, but the word ‘hope’ has started to creep into his vocabulary more and more often, of late - maybe he can hope that things are slow enough, they just don’t need to cart people away so often. The truck bed IS filled with dust, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Six years. Central could be a nice town, now.

And pigs could fly too, but hey. Mustang has sent him Falman. That is a start.

They turn a corner suddenly, and Edward bends over to keep a handle on his stomach.

Fucking soft of me.

“We’re almost to the station.” Falman informs him suddenly, through the little grate that separates the cab from cabbage-soup world. Edward ducks his head in acknowledgement, isn’t sure how he is supposed to respond. Yessir? All right? Thanks? It would be pretty fucked up to thank the man for telling him it was time to march to his incarceration, but hey, that’s what some guys wanted.

“Okay.” He ventures finally. Falman doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“You’ll be glad to hear that the so-called alchemical vandal in Andenfield was caught.” The man says, casually.

“I understand it was a local boy, playing around with something he found in a library. He was quite shocked when it worked, apparently…spent a few nights in the bush, I think, afraid his daddy would spank him. Gave everyone quite a scare, but it seems it turned out alright.” There was a knowing arch to his eyebrow.

Edward frowns. An excuse is one thing, but he doesn’t like the thought of Al getting pulled into it. Especially not so obviously.

“That’s-“

“--what Officer Roost’s report said, on my desk this morning.” Falman cuts him off, smoothly. “I believe you are familiar with Officer Roost?”

Edward eases back, still frowning. “Roost” is Mustang-speech for go to ground. Cease activity, wait for reinforcements to bail him out. Hear you’ve found a nice place to roost. The postcard would go. Better watch out, I hear you’re about to experience an awful heat wave.

- he is surprised to realize that after all these years, it still made his blood boil. He’d never cared to just sit back and wait until things happened, until things got worse, and he’d certainly, certainly never stayed quiet.

Lame fucking code, too. You’d think an alchemist would be smart enough to speak in elements, at least.

“Warrant-Officer-“

“You will speak when spoken to!” Falman snaps, though Edward had the feeling it was more for the driver’s benefit than anything else. The man has never been comfortable giving orders, and it shows.

“You will get your chance to explain your five missed phone reports in due time. Neither I, nor Officer Sikes, will be interested in hearing anything else out of you.”

Don’t talk about Al. Hears Edward. Got it.

“I wasn’t intending to chit-chat.” He grinds out. Like I would tell HER about Al, at all, ever.

“Good.” Said Falman. “This is neither the place, nor the audience. Save it for your friend in blue - you’ll be seeing him soon enough.”

Edward nods. He knows damn well, just as Falman does, that Sikes doesn’t wear a blue uniform. Nor is she a he. Nobody wears blue anymore, actually, not at prison, not the cops either. They’re all gray now, to distinguish them from the military uniforms because theoretically the civilian force has been privatized. The only friends in blue…

“I hear he’s hot to see you.” Falman says, and Edward still hates the stupid, egotistical code, but he can’t deny that he’s happy to hear it.

“So don’t get yourself into too much trouble before you get your chance to talk. Got that?”

“Yessir.” He whispers, and again, unbidden, hope stretches its fragile wings in his chest. For the first time in years, starts to soar.

Two hours are nothing, in the Central drunk tank. Though pigs seem firmly earth-bound, indeed - even for noon, the lock-up is packed. He keeps scanning the crowd, restless, but nobody messes with him. Half the idiots aren’t even up to it - nodding off, snoring, one old wino even passed out in a puddle of his own damn piss. The only other guy who looks remotely worth his salt, big bastard with a knife and skull tat on his neck, is just staring at the wall with a blank, coked-as-fuck expression. Nobody messes with him, either.

At one point, a hooker from the south side offers him a discount, if she could bum a cigarette. He told her to fuck off. That was the last conversation he had until Dumb and Dumber come to pick him up.

“E-Edward Elric?”

Once upon a time, he might have come up with something witty. That’s my name, don’t wear it out. Stupid shit. Kiddie shit. Tried that on Matheson once (by accident, didn’t know the asshole then), and almost got his jaw broken.

“Yeah?” He says instead, unfolds himself from his seated crouch. Never let your ass hit the ground, you can’t get up fast if you have to, not with your hands behind your back. And here there is probably piss hazard, vomit; the wino in the corner couldn’t be first guy to soil himself. He wonders if they even bother cleaning in here, or if it was like Iso. They only cleaned there when you did it, with a toothbrush.

“This way.” The bolder half of the Chickenshit Duo announces, and Edward follows.

Skull-and-knife stirs a little as he brushes past, and Edward watches him with a mistrustful eye, but he doesn’t do anything but mutter unintelligible curses. Edward feels free to sneer at him now. Just another tweaked-out junkie. The doors slide shut on the holding pen, and he drops out of Edward’s world entirely.

The policemen don’t move to take his arms again, but whether it’s because they feel safer here - in the heart of their power center, probably five billion other guys waiting in the woodwork - or because they’re still residually afraid of touching him, he doesn’t know. He just walks dutifully between them and keeps pace, like they’re some kind of moving blockade. The hallway is too narrow; he wonders what will happen if someone appears and needs to get by? Will they break file to let the other party by, or will they all three have to back up down the hall until the newcomer can make it past?

The thought is so ridiculous that he snickers and they nab his elbows almost immediately. Well, that solves that question.

“In here, please.” They say, and guide him through an unmarked door into a bright room with one table, one chair. “Sit.”

Edward sits. It’s pretty obvious what they’re trying to do. Everybody else gets to loom down at him, circle around. Make him nervous. The lights are bright to make it nastier, and the furniture is white to reflect it.

Kiddie fucking stuff. He thinks. It was worse when the military was running the joint. When they’d questioned him at Central PD before…just before, it had been with his eyelids taped open, under harsh, giant lamps that made the sun look like a candle in comparison.

He clenches his automail, flesh hands into fists and just breathes through his nose. I survived that. He chants, his lifeblood, his mantra. I can make it through this. Automail surgery is the benchmark for all pain; the police captain, then the Fuhrer’s, heat-lights are the benchmark for interrogation.

There is no benchmark for indignity, because it is better just not to keep one.

“I thought I was going to First Correctional.” He hazards. They look at him sharply.

“Change of plans.” Says the bold one. “Officer Sikes is coming here.”

Edward nods, keeps his eyes down. Hadn’t expected that, but well, he highly doubted the bitch was doing him any favors. Unless this was one of Mustang’s things, too.

Keep your head down. Wait for help. Roost.

The man kept his promise once. Whether or not he could deliver again, that was anyone’s guess.

Edward leans his head back, traces endless lines with his eyes in the cracked ceiling plaster. If he can map out every one to completion, maybe the answer to what he should tell them will drop out of the sky…maybe a genie will come, grant him a wish, fuck, he doesn’t know.

The door slams suddenly, surprises him, and he nearly falls off the damn chair, so engrossed he was in his pointless time-waster. Stupid. He makes a face and struggles to right himself, uses his core muscles to stabilize himself in lieu of hands. The bozo brothers don’t make any motions to help; rather, they are standing to stiff attention.

A short, stone-faced woman storms her way in, with an expression that says she needs no damn army - she’s got your front line, back line, cavalry right here. Bright, red hair made drab by a utilitarian twist; not so much wide as just very solid, a wall of a woman. His dumbass guards gulp, and Edward doesn’t blame them.

Sikes.

“Ma’am.” They salute respectfully. Privatized or not, the police force is still heavily military. He casts one brief, hopeful look behind her trolling for Falman, but alas, there is nothing that looks remotely friendly.

The wings inside of him wither and burn, come crashing back to earth where they always should have been.

- I have no intention of turning over the people's verdict -

No, get a grip. He just has to do this on his own. That’s what Falman’s conversation was about, wasn’t it? They’ve done what damage control they can. And he may be on his own again, but he has not come this far to turn his brother to the wolves, either.

He can do this.

“At ease.” She barks, and comes thundering to stand across from him, on the other side of the table. He sits up but doesn’t look at her. It’s like being at school. If she gets really pissed, maybe she’ll come around to slap him with a ruler.

“I’ll get right to the point, Elric.” She says. He doesn’t move. She’s always like this in private, when there’s nobody around to be Proper at. Doesn’t mess around with formal bullshit, just gets things happening. Get a job, Elric. Don’t call so late, Elric. He suspects this is her perception of being polite, among convicts. Really, saying nothing at all would be more like it, but they both know she doesn’t have that option. Sikes doesn’t treat him any different from any other guy in her charge, from what little he’s overheard - mass murderer, con artist, rapist, in her book they’re all just slightly different colors of pond scum.

That might be the only chance his dumb ass has.

“Where were you, this week?” As promised, she does get right down to business.

“Andenfield. Then on my way back here.” He answers. This is not a lie.

“Straight answer, Elric. You know what I meant.”

Ah, now - now he is treading on glass. Edward makes very sure not to let his lips move, sucks on his cheeks slightly to be sure that won’t happen. Bad liars lick their lips, or chew on ‘em, or start tasting out the lie that they’re going to say. Sikes is watching him close, and he’s pretty sure she’s smart enough to see that. Not like the bozo brothers, who are smirking at the scene with the anticipatory glee of two boys waiting for a hose to flood out an ant hill.

“I went out there to look up a friend of mine.” He begins. This, also, is still true. “Haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“And?”

“Burned a couple days looking, didn’t find ‘em. Didn’t have much to go on. Stupid idea. I should have asked somebody first. Maybe called around.”

“The halfway house has a phone, at your disposal.” She informs him. “You can pay by the minute.”

“Thank you.” He says, doesn’t bother with the ma’am. Sikes doesn’t expect that out of him, doesn’t like it; if he gets too polite she hardens up. Assumes he wants something.

“You still haven’t explained why you left Sergeant Harp’s custody.”

She thinks I’m a mass murderer. Thinks I’m half-crazy, got no ‘priorities’. If I were her ‘me’, what would I do?

“You ever share a room with that guy? Snores like a buzzsaw.” Gives her a haughty head toss, hopes it is condescending enough. “Anyways, not like I was getting any action, sleepin’ next to him. Gal down the way said there was a place I could take her, so I did. She was nice enough. Brought a couple bottles with her. We went on a bender. To commiserate, or whatever. Her old man’s walked out on her.”

He can see her in his head now, like a character in one of his books; young, maybe late twenties - no, older, mid thirties and desperate. Wearing too much rogue, the real vigor of life has already started to leech out of her face. Already half-drunk, chasing any tail she can find; thick, bangled wrists and a skirt that’s far, far too short. Doesn’t mind a stranger, doesn’t mind street trash; flirt with death, flirt with danger, doesn’t matter any more. Luanne. Or Loraine. An ‘L’ name, in any case.

“Orange drink and tequila, hell of a mix.” He says, draws on every bit of lewd, inappropriate cellblock conversation he’s ever heard. “Poor man’s screwdriver, goes down like hell, comes up like hell, but she could kick ‘em back like you wouldn’t believe, and when she does, she doesn’t mind kickin’ her legs back, either-“

“…that’s enough detail, thank you.” Sikes’ eyes promise extreme injury if he continues, and he is silently very, very pleased. The big question is the train station. Had they noticed Al, at the train station? If they had, and he doesn’t mention him...

...fuck it, he's iced either way. For his brother's sake, he leaves Al out of it.

"Well, anyways." He says. "Long story, short: I made it back."

Sikes’ broad shoulders twitch, once.

“So you’re telling me you failed to report. Because you were partying.” Her nostrils flare and she recoils slightly, as if catching a whiff of his latent debauchery.

“Yeah.” He says. Draws on his cheeks so hard, they go numb. Can’t react. Can’t give her anything she can use against him.

She can’t prove I'm lying. He reminds himself. She can’t prove anything.

“Nice story, Elric.” Sikes says.

“I don’t buy a word of it.”

He nods internally, makes sure his head stays still in real-time. He's not surprised. Sikes may be many things, but she's not entirely stupid. The story is simple enough she can't disprove it, though. That's the important thing.

"Sure there isn't anything else you'd like to tell me?"

“No...that’s what happened.” He says, and forces himself to drag his eyes up to meet hers. “That’s all there is.”

“…have it your way, I suppose.”

She motors forward to the very edge of the table and bends down to look at him, a school matron from hell, probably would just love to make him write out a list of his transgressions for eternity. She takes a deep breath. Sighs deeply, as if what she is about to say pains her very much.

“I wish I could say it would have been better for you to just tell me the truth and been done with it, Elric, but unlike some people, I’m not in the business of lying.”

Her expression is not very sympathetic, either. There is no such thing as good cop, bad cop, there is only Sikes.

“And to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Warrant Officer-Falman-“ Her lips curl up, as if tasting something particularly bitter. “-has informed me that we will be following protocol for you, since technically missed phone-ins are a minor offense. You will get a second, formal, hearing, and you can feed that bs to the rest of the board if you like. FIVE infractions, Elric, even minor ones - that’s enough to put anybody in. Even if your friends higher-up covered up for the rest of it. You’ll go back to a holding cell, then you’ll go back to a real one, and I won’t have to deal with your lip any longer.”

Say nothing. React to nothing. It is hard. Roost. He reminds himself. Wait and see. It’s always been a bitter pill to swallow, but there are worse things to consider. He would rather sleep with the winos tonight than go back to Correctional.

“So that’s what’s going to happen.” Sikes says.

Pauses. “Assuming, of course, you can explain one TEENSY little thing for me...”

Ah, yes. There, NOW it comes. She’s going to ask him about the boy who was with him at the train station, where he got the money from - damn, he knew the cashier had looked suspicious - and he was going to have to come up with something…something…

Luanne/Loraine’s son George began spinning together in his head, a tow-headed scrap of a boy, yes; she sent him after him because he’d forgotten his wallet, no, that was empty, she was sending some cash along…

Sikes asks for none of it; instead, raps her knuckles on the hard, blindingly white table.

“Do you know why I came out to you here, today?”

“No?” He responds, not because he is actually curious, but because it seems something is required.

She only looks at him, with a hard smile that has probably made lesser men tremble. His mouth is suddenly awfully, horribly, dry.

“…why?” He amends, tries not to fidget.

“Police Commissioner Grant called me today because there’s a boy in his office downstairs, raising hell for him to let you out. He claims to be your brother. Care to explain that?”