Why can't I ever write these things short?
Winry walked, and the ground trembled beneath her feet.
In another life, that might have been a good omen, she thought briefly, sparing a moment to reshoulder her travel case. It was filled to the brim with only her best tools, and a couple models that showcased the extent of her skill - an arm, a leg; all the credentials that she needed to prove herself as a mechanic and researcher. Her prowess and appearance had already carried her past the perimeter, and now all that remained was the last few miles on foot. The hardest few miles, Winry thought bitterly as the earth shook again, for more reasons than one. Some of the tremors were nearly strong enough to throw her off balance.
Above, the new citadel in Central loomed up over everything, like a boil on the face of Amestris.
She gripped the handle of her travel case harder and forced herself to keep moving, past the abandoned ruins of stores and taverns and the glittering eyes of rats that peered curiously out at her, the only signs of life. It had not been many months since the advent of the invaders, and so paradoxically it seemed the ruin was that much worse. Few evacuees were bold enough to have attempted to return to the city proper yet; and while the new order was indeed searching for members to add to their cause, the fear was still in general too great.
Or perhaps it was that Central's newest rulers simply liked their space, and considered the blighted inner city 'breathing room'. No one knew that much about them, really. They were an entirely different race of people, with their own language and culture and technology, which somehow they had used to breach the barrier between their homeland and hers. Winry had been one of the few at ground zero, she and Sheska, when Alphonse Elric had found the runes etched into the landscape of the underground city, and she wasn't sure she would ever forget, not even in her dreams and especially not in her nightmares, what it had been like to witness them come.
He opened that Gate, and all hell came pouring through.
Monstruous flying machines. Guns with range and power unlike anything Amestris had ever seen before. They could fly up into the air and rain fire down upon you in a second, and that alone had been enough to cow the majority of Amestris. How in heaven's name did they do that!? The few pieces the resistance had so far been able to collect had so far yielded few answers. It was obvious they were using alchemy to manufacture many of their weapons - too many things were seamless, fashioned together without using proper screws and bolts, a classic alchemist's shortcut. In some cases, it lead to weapons that paradoxically did not hold together as well...Winry had long fought the battle against fully alchemized automail, because alchemists just never seemed to be able to get the lynchpins in the joints right. They didn't understand the need to consider the torque forces and --
She shook herself hard, trying to bring back her focus on the mission at hand. A passing rat twitched its nose at her and she grinned a little at it. At least this past week had gotten her thinking more like her old self again. When General Armstrong had come to her, reluctantly, it had been like someone had reached down inside and thrown a great switch. Finally, it felt like she had something she could be doing to help the situation, other than merely tend to the wounded. The resistance needed inside information about the Thule, their weapons and technology; someone who could piece together the puzzle of their flying abominations. She was severely handicapped on the alchemical side, but with Edward and Alphonse missing, possibly (oh please heaven let them not be) dead, she was one of the few who might possibly work.
She and General Armstrong, together, were to be moles on the inside, and with his alchemy and her mechanics, perhaps together they could find a way to take this menace down.
She continued walking until she made it to the very gates of the citadel, set her case down and smiled to the two guards standing there, hands spread wide indicating she wasn't armed. One of them trained his gun on her leerily; the other one barked something harsh.
"Shambala," she replied in their tongue, the word that she had been coached to say, and the man with the gun eased up a little, smiled back.
***
The citadel itself was an impressive bit of alchemy, even to Winry's admittedly untrained eye. An entire section of what had once been Central's old industrial district had been warped into a raised plateau with a stone wall around it, granite bedrock drawn up to provide an impregnable defense. The buildings themselves had either been shifted or redone completely, into styles that Winry had never seen before. She wondered if they were fashioned after places in the Thule peoples' home land, or if they were just something that had sprung to the mind of the alchemist creating them. She had seen the Elrics work enough time to know that creativity was a part of it. Alphonse's works were highly stylized and minimalist; Edward's were so elaborately embellished with viney facades and geometric designs that at times they were nearly useless. Another brief stab of sadness ran through her, thinking about it. She had not seen either of them since the first day of the battle for Central.
That was one of her mission objectives, though. Ascertaining whether or not they were still alive. Certain signs definitely pointed to the possiblity - the most encouraging of which being the trademark pouting caricture emblazoned on the inside of one of the gun barrels they had retrieved from a skirmish. A barrel from a gun that had exploded in its user's face. She had reverse-engineered enough of the scraps to realize that the weapon had been made with an obvious flaw, and she had needed some time to herself after that. Ed must have been taking a great risk, leaving a message for them like that. And to put it on the inside like that, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd left it for her. He had always joked about alchemizing a tattoo inside his automail somewhere, just to see her expression when she pulled it apart for maintenance and found it.
If they were alive and being forced to make weapons, then so be it; at least they were alive and still fighting. She kept her eyes peeled for any signs of Amestrians as she and her armed guard proceeded into the citadel, but so far, she had only seen more Thule.
Her escort was Thule as well, one of the two young men she had run into at the gate. He didn't really seem old enough to be a soldier. He was fair skinned and blonde, like most of the Thule were, but his physique seemed more suited to field work than holding weapons. Winry fancied she could even see a bit of a farmer's tan around the neckline of his shirt. A lot of the Thule seemed like that, actually; nervous young men who jumped a lot in battle and oftentimes ran. There had been much speculation about that. Perhaps the Thule weren't really used to fighting, or perhaps in their home land, someone else did the fighting for them - or perhaps their resources were already stretched thin. Regardless, if it weren't for their armored, alchemical golems and mystical war machines, the Thule probably wouldn't have stood a fighting chance against the seasoned soldiers of Amestris. Winry filed away this bit of information about the so-called 'guard' in her head and kept following him.
She did wish she knew where they were headed.
"Where are you taking me?" she tried in English, but the young man only scowled and shook his head. He seemed to speak only Thulian, as did the others they had run into so far. They came to the grand entrance of a building that looked like it might give the old Fuhrer's mansion a run for its money, and the pair of guards there conversed with her escort for a long time in their raspy language. They made her open her travel case, examined the bits and pieces of automail she had prepared; asked rough questions periodically that she could not begin to understand. Finally one of them jerked his head toward her and said something that sent one of the others off at a trot. She then got to stand there with farm-boy, waiting.
The runner returned with another man in tow, a tall boy who didn't look that much older than she was. Winry clucked her tongue softly to herself. He had a sweet face that reminded her a tiny bit of Al, she thought, if Al were just a few years older. And here she'd thought Farm-boy was young.
Not doing so well either, she noted when he coughed. The Thule with her said something rapid-fire to him and he tried to respond, but at first the best he could do was a deep, horrible chest rattle. The doctor in her didn't like that at all. The patriot in her was offended.
Sick, young farm kids...is this honestly what Amestris has fallen to!?
The boy finished coughing finally and turned to her, offered a shy smile. She was surprised that when he found his voice a second time, he spoke in passable Amestrian.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Alfons."
The name made her start, how close it was to Al's. Again, that sudden, inescapable sadness, and along with it anger, white-hot in her chest. She kept it down by tightening her jaw muscles, forcing herself to relax, forcing herself to stay calm. She was in the heart of the enemy's encampment now, and if this was to work, she needed to keep her head and work with them.
"I have been instructed to ask you what you are doing here," the boy continued.
Winry pulled herself up a bit straighter, got ready to deliver her spiel, a well-polished lie about being tired of the dreadful conditions in the countryside. Before she could go on though, Alfons cut her off.
"I would advise that you are mistaken, if you think you'd like to work here. This is not Shambala."
Winry blinked, looked around at the other men to see if this was some kind of joke. The other Thule nodded approvingly at the mention of "Shambala"; apparently it really was the only word they understood. 'Alfons' coughed briefly and went on. "Why have you come? It is not safe here."
"I-It is not safe in the country, either," she said, wondering if she was being tested. "I come to join the new order. I have skills." She gestured to her travel case. "I can build automail, if that interests you. And my family are doctors. I can be quite useful."
She tossed her head proudly, tried to act the way she thought a Thule might. "Let me be useful to you. I am like you, see?" She flaunted her blond hair, her blue eyes - the characteristics that the Thule, for whatever crazy, crazy reason seemed to cherish as much as actual talent in the propaganda they spewed.
Alfons gave her a bitter smile. "You don't know what kind of a mistake you're making..." he said, but turned to their waiting audience, said something in Thulian that made them smile.
No, Winry thought to herself. I probably don't.
****
After a few more minutes of interrogation, this time with Alfons translating, Winry was told she would be permitted to prove herself as a 'daughter of Shambala'. She would be watched, they warned, but if she did her duties properly she would be well rewarded.
Winry mostly smiled and nodded, waited for an opportune moment to slip off by herself.
Her first priority, now that she had indeed made it inside, was to reestablish contact with Fuhrer Mustang and the rest of the rebels, though she wasn't sure how soon that would be possible. She had yet to see General Armstrong anywhere, which could mean a variety of things. They had agreed they should time their arrivals apart by a few days, and that they should approach from different directions. The last thing they wanted was for the Thule to become suspicious. The fact that they had accepted her so readily was an encouraging sign, though. Really, she would have thought they'd question her more. The Thulians definitely seemed to have a thing for blonde hair and blue eyes.
They took her to one of the many identical boxy granite buildings and left her there, with Alfons. It had a workshop inside, albeit an unusual one. She only recognized it by the presence of toolboxes. The cylindrical thing up on blocks was a complete mystery to her. Her fingers twitched even despite the circumstances.
"They say they will be back in an hour," Alfons told her. "They want you to help with the planes. Can you handle a riveter?"
Winry was insulted. "I was born holding one." Of course it was an exaggeration. Though her first baby rattle had been one of her grandmother's wrenches.
Alfons offered her the faintest of smiles. "Good. I'm not sure I can right now." He coughed again, hard, and dropped down into a plain wooden chair, one of the only bits of furniture the drab room had to offer.
Winry's brow furrowed. "You don't sound well," she said, testing the waters. She wasn't sure what to make of this man, who both spoke her language and seemed to have tried to warn her away.
"I'm not," Alfons said bluntly. "I'm dying."
She wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I'm sorry," she said finally.
"Don't be," the boy said. "Now, we need to make some progress before they get back. Can you see where I've started joining the chassis together?"
Winry paused for a moment, scrutinized the construction of what she could now place as the body of one of the Thule's strange flying machines. Oh, how she longed to rip it apart!
"Yes," she replied.
"It needs rivets along those lines," Alfons explained. "I'm going to take a breather for a while, if you don't mind. Riveter's on the floor there."
Winry nodded only absently, picked up the tool. She could see in her mind exactly how things lined up. It was an interesting piece of work, several obviously alchemized parts that were to come together just so, with rivets for added strength. She gave the metal a surreptitious once-over for Ed-marks, just in case, but found nothing.
"What's the hold up?" Alfons spoke up, sounding a little irritated. She had to force herself not to snap back at him. This was what she was here for after all, information gathering.
"Just looking," she said. "This is an amazing piece of work."
She turned around to look at him. Alfons looked faintly embarrassed.
"Not really," he said, eyes downcast. "To be honest, I never wanted to see my plans used this way."
The way he kept acting... Winry bit down on her lip, decided to take a chance.
"You sound like you don't really like the war effort," she said, shot a rivet into the line.
Alfons said nothing.
"Why did you tell me this was a mistake?" she pried, heart pounding. She probably shouldn't be playing this game, but it piqued her curiosity.
"Because it is," he said shortly. "Because I've seen what they do to people. They would have shot me already, if they didn't want me on the assembly line. I don't want to help them more than I absolutely have to."
He gave her a fierce look. "And don't even bother telling on me, because they don't speak English."
"English?" Winry blinked.
"What we're speaking?"
"It's called Amestrian," Winry said. She punked another rivet into the 'plane'. "And don't worry, I don't care enough to tell on you."
Interesting bit of information, though. Even within the ranks, there was dissent. The Thule themselves a people divided, ruled by a despot? If so, it might explain why so many of their number seemed younger and inexperienced. So much they didn't know about the Thule. So much she was now in the right position to find out. She nearly squealed with happiness.
***