Kaleidoscope of Hours, Part Nine
Title: Kaleidoscope of Hours
Author: mfelizandy
Rating: PG-13
Type: Post-anime AU plotfic, featuring alchemical time travel and a ten-year-old Roy Mustang.
Warnings: Language and hints of one of Roy Mustang's past love affairs.
Author's Notes: This story starts in an AU in which Edward Elric was not catapulted into another world at the end of the series, and Al did not lose four years of growth and memory in regaining his body. Other AUs will make an appearance through the story. When the kaleidoscope turns, we're in a different timeline.
Summary: The State Alchemists were disbanded years ago. The homunculi have been destroyed. Amestris is finally enjoying some peace--until one of Brigadier General Roy Mustang's old flames brings him evidence that someone is tampering with powers that could tear him and his world apart.
In another version of history, Maes Hughes is a Central City police detective, with a very strange case on his hands.
Click here to go back to Part Eight.
Click here to go back to the beginning.
“Third Mirror”
Eastern District, Amestris
October 22, 1924, 11:36 AM
From the darkness I have seen the light, and I am not afraid. The headstone was ruthlessly plain, as military memorials were. There were no carved fillips or knobs, nothing to soften the stark fact of a soldier's death. 1st Lt. Elizabeth Cassandra Hawkeye, 1888-1918.
Roy Mustang knelt at her feet, feeling the damp of the grass soaking the knees of his prison uniform.
“Shall I send Jerome for flowers, sir?” Armstrong's tone was pitched to be heard only if wanted.
Mustang contemplated the tombstone a moment longer, then his face visibly hardened. “No.” He managed to get to his feet despite the shackles still holding his hands at his waist. “Thank you for the thought, Alex, but there's nothing more I can do here.”
“As you wish.” The former major's blue eyes held secrets behind sorrow.
“What's the next stop?” Mustang asked brusquely, turning away from the grave of his lieutenant.
“Matthew's House,” Armstrong answered. At Mustang's lifted eyebrow, he clarified. “An ancestor of mine upset his mother with certain...indiscretions...but as he was the sole heir to the duchy, she could not prevail on her husband the duke to disinherit young Matthew. A house in the city was purchased, and Matthew was given some resources to prove that he was worthy of the title.”
“Apt,” Mustang commented dryly. “Are you on the outs with your family?”
“Is it not the way of children to upset their elders from time to time?” Armstrong helped Mustang into the car, and buckled his seat belt with exquisite care.
“If they know you're taking responsibility for convicted murderers, I'd guess they're more than upset,” Mustang rasped. His voice had been too long unused-the words scraped like sandpaper in his throat.
“There was an oath I swore some years ago,” Armstrong said quietly. “To faithfully serve my country, and to place loyalty to her people above even love of life.”
“The government you swore loyalty to fell six years ago.”
“My word was given to the people ruled by that government. As was yours.”
Mustang turned his scarred face to look out the window. “Why are we going to Ishbal?”
“The Circle of Elders asked for you.”
Mustang turned back to his traveling companion. “What? What would they want with me?”
“They did not say. All we have been told is that the Great Eastern Rail link will not be laid through Ishbalan territory unless the Flame Alchemist is surrendered into Ishbalan custody.” Armstrong lowered his eyes.
The prisoner said nothing for a long minute. “So I'm a human sacrifice?”
“No!” The sharpness in Armstrong's tone, and the circles of white around his eyes, said he'd asked the same question, at least of himself. “Ishbal is a civilized culture.”
“A small desert country that needs at least two or three generations to recover a population capable of putting up a fight.” Mustang pinned Armstrong with his gaze. “A bloody ritual execution, public enough to create some horror stories. Demand one of the military dogs who slaughtered Ishbalans with forbidden alchemy-then let one of the zealots carve out his heart in public.” Mustang turned back toward the window. “It's a very Ishbalan sort of logic. In one act, they appease the more radical elements in their society by exacting some revenge for the war, create an image of themselves as dangerously devoted to their god in Amestrian minds, make themselves the middlemen sitting on a very lucrative trade link, and helpfully rid a powerful neighbor of a dangerous criminal who escaped execution on a technicality.” There was no humor in his smile. “I almost don't mind being the one on the altar, to seal that kind of victory.”
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 1:32 PM
“Time travel.” Maes Hughes had seen and heard some bizarre theories in the course of his investigations, but this one went right off the weirdness meter. “You're sure there's no other possible explanation?”
“I did some research last night.” Which probably explained the dark circles under Professor Theo's eyes. “It's a long way from safe, and the cost is higher than any sane man would contemplate, but it can be done. It has been done,” he corrected himself, looking down at Roy, who had his kaleidoscope out and was carefully rotating its barrel while pointing it at various objects in the room.
Hughes followed the professor's gaze, and watched Roy push his hair out of his eyes. “So Roy is stranded?”
“The man who told Roy he's an uncle had the power to get him here-or rather now. The question is why he'd do something so risky not only to the boy but to himself.” Theo frowned in thought. “If he was only concerned about Roy's health and happiness, he could have just claimed him from his mother's family. An alchemist with the power to warp time certainly has the power to convince even the most stubborn people to surrender a child they consider an embarrassment.”
Hughes sighed. “We're missing too many pieces of this puzzle.”
“His uncle came to protect him from Edward,” Theo pointed out. “He obviously wants Roy safe and healthy, and doesn't think that anything less than hiding him in his future is enough of a precaution.”
Hughes' stomach started to twist. “And whatever can pose that kind of threat to an alchemist with this kind of power...”
Theo's face seemed carved from stone. “There are horrors that mankind has pushed back into the realm of nightmares and boogeymen. The stories of them are discounted as the myths of a more imaginative time.” He turned his attention to Roy, who met the amber eyes with a troubled look of his own.
“Wenrui chupat akai temrinni ninyanni fedroosh.”
Theo's brows lowered a fraction, then he took off his glasses to rub bloodshot eyes and answer, “Caen trudinya ledji mya ee genrui, decinyu trinai.”
Roy's eyes widened in surprise, and he scooted a little toward Hughes.
“What did you say to him?” Hughes asked, reaching to put a hand on Roy's head.
“He asked what we were talking about, and I told him we think his uncle is in danger.” Theo put his glasses back on and ran a hand through his hair.
Hughes didn't contradict the alchemist, but he knew the man was lying.
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 17, 1915, 1:45 PM
“Colonel!”
The voice yanked Roy Mustang out of a doze, and he looked up and right down the barrel of his lieutenant's drawn pistol.
“Hawkeye?” Mustang was fairly sure the woman wouldn't shoot him for something as minor as falling asleep at his desk, but he still lifted both hands into her view and firmly told his stiff back and faintly queasy stomach to wait.
“It's fifteen minutes until your monthly review of the troops, Colonel.” Hawkeye holstered her pistol. “You asked me to remind you.” She cast a critical eye over her commanding officer. “You have time to clean your teeth and comb your hair, sir.”
Only Riza Hawkeye could make a plain statement of fact into an uninflected critique of her CO's appearance. Mustang took a comb from his shirt sleeve and took a few swipes at his hair. As they inevitably did, a few of his bangs slid right back into his eyes.
“I'll make an appointment with your barber for tomorrow, sir.” Hawkeye opened a desk drawer and whipped out a lint brush.
“I'm fine for another week yet, Lieutenant. Can't be neglecting my duty to the country every time my hair grows a quarter inch.”
Hawkeye flicked the brush over Mustang's jacket, removing purely imaginary lint. “If you have time to nap on duty, sir, you have time to have your hair trimmed out of your eyes.”
“It serves a purpose,” Mustang answered lightly. “Women love to play with a man's hair, and it's all the more irresistible if it gets in his eyes from time to time.” It was an old and not entirely serious argument.
Instead of making the usual comment about obstructions to his vision, Hawkeye straightened her commanding officer's collar tabs, and said, “That's the third time this week you've dozed off, sir. Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a little tired. Defusing FullMetal's latest potential bomb took a lot out of me.”
“His yearly reCertification is coming up,” Hawkeye commented.
“Tempting, but I'm not sure I could arrange for him to fail without his catching on or simply bulling through and winning anyway.” Mustang tugged his cuffs into place. “Besides, I'd miss the challenge of staying ahead of him.”
“Are you sure you're still ahead of him?” Hawkeye asked quietly. “You may not have noticed, sir, but the Edward personality is getting to be more and more of a problem.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant, I haven't missed that. I think Alphonse is starting to realize just how thin the thread he's hung his hopes on is. For now, though, 'Edward' is just the Major's way to scream insults at me and start the occasional street fight without having to take responsibility for his actions.”
“He's taking bigger risks,” Hawkeye pointed out. “He's drawing attention from the generals in Central, sir.”
“I know.” Mustang pulled on his gloves. “The smart money has always been against Alphonse Elric. For the time being, though, he's still sane enough to control himself when it counts.” He took his uniform cap from the coatrack and set it atop his head, then pulled on his embroidered gloves. “And even a long shot comes in, now and then.” With a blink of dark eyes in a face too young for his colonel's stars, Mustang assumed the unreadably stern demeanor of the Commander of the Army in the East, and marched out to inspect his troops.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 4, 1924, 7:22 PM
The doorbell rang well after the dinner hour. Mustang got up to answer it, and found himself hurrying to catch up with the angry blonde who barged into his house with barely a glance his way.
Al looked up from the notes and books scattered across the kitchen table. “Winry!” He fumbled for words. “What are you doing here?”
Winry crossed the kitchen and put Jilly into her father's arms. “You left in the middle of the night. I found a note on your pillow in the morning. A note, Alphonse.” Her voice was rising.
Mustang put a hand to Anna's back. “Let's give them some privacy, Anna.”
“You sit down,” Winry ordered him. “Don't think I don't know who's behind this.”
“Do you? Please tell me, then, because it would make my job much easier.” The Brigadier General kept his feet and frowned at the blond mechanic, who despite marriage and motherhood still looked very much like the infuriated girl who'd once accused Mustang of murder.
Al shifted Jilly uneasily. “I didn't want to worry you, Winry.”
“You didn't--” Winry stared at her husband, speechless in fury for a moment. “You're as bad as your stupid brother!”
Roy winced as the inevitable shouting match exploded. Winry had clearly spent the entire train trip considering just what she was going to say to both Elric brothers, and Ed had had a tantrum brewing for at least the past hour, even if one didn't count the effect of days of frustratingly difficult research. It was bad enough among adults, but when Jilly finally added her piercing shrieks to the din, the General summoned his “parade ground voice” and roared, “As you were!”
The resulting quiet almost echoed. Jilly whimpered and squirmed in Al's arms. Mustang glared at each Elric in turn, sparing only the baby. “That's better. Now, let's go into the living room and talk about this like adults instead of children fighting in the schoolyard.” He gave Anna his arm, and escorted her out of the kitchen without looking back to see whether the Elrics followed.
“Third Mirror”
Eastern District, Amestris
October 22, 1924, 6:18 PM
What the Armstrong family considered minimal was palatial by most standards. Roy Mustang sat in a bathtub large enough for four and stared up at the coffered, painted ceiling of the bathroom. He'd run the water nearly scalding hot, and held himself submerged in it until his lungs screamed for air. Then he'd scrubbed his skin and shampooed his hair, drained and refilled the tub, and repeated the whole process. The water was cooling, but Mustang didn't move to drain it. For the time being, it was enough to simply exist, and let his mind wander.
A soft, deferential tapping on the door broke the blessed silence. When Mustang didn't answer, the sound came again.
The erstwhile Flame Alchemist sighed. “What?”
A man a generation older than Mustang opened the door and glided in on soft feet. He was dressed as a “high” servant, down to the mirror polish on his shoes and buttons and the spotless white gloves on his hands. “Begging your pardon, sir, but His Grace asked me to advise you that dinner will be served in an hour. I am to assist you in dressing for dinner, sir.”
“What?” It took a moment for the words to make sense. Mustang grabbed for the towel on the edge of the tub. “All right. Thank you for the message.” He waited, but the man didn't leave. “Was there something else?”
“His Grace the Duke thought it would be best if I attended to your hair and face, sir. You are not the only guest who will be joining him for dinner.”
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed, then.”
“As you wish. I recommend that you wear the short jacket, sir. It is appropriate for the company.” The man turned and left.
Mustang had to call the (butler? Valet? Mustang wasn't sure which of Armstrong's assorted servants would be stuck with the job of attending to a convict's grooming) to cope with the bow tie he'd found on the hanger with the “short jacket”. He'd once known how to tie one so that it would lie relatively flat and not chokingly tight, but his fingers had forgotten the sequence. The solemn servant whipped the tie off in a flicker of silk, draped Mustang in another thick towel, and proceeded to lather his face for a shave. Bemused, Mustang allowed the man to take the straight razor from the vanity and delicately shave what little facial hair Mustang had. He'd never needed to shave more than once every two or three days, unlike his friend Hughes, who'd always had a five o'clock shadow, even if he shaved morning and evening.
The memory of Hughes didn't ache as it once had. Mustang probed it while the servant patted his face dry and went to work on his hair. No-it still hurt, but the guilt wasn't as sharp. It seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Maybe it did.
“How would you like your hair cut, sir?”
Mustang looked at the reflection in the mirror. His hair hung past his shoulders, combed and shining. He blinked. “Just tie it back.”
“Long hair is no longer in fashion for men of means, sir.”
“Did Alex tell you who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know I'm not a man of means. Just tie it back.” Mustang eyed the man behind him in the mirror. “Who are you, by the way?”
“Gibbs, sir. His Grace's valet.” Gibbs deftly gathered Mustang's hair up into a ponytail and tied it with a wide black ribbon.
“He sent his own valet to shave me?”
“His Grace holds you in high esteem, sir.”
“His Grace is dangerously sentimental.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“You don't agree?”
“It's not my place to say, sir.” The man ran the comb through Roy's ponytail once more, then laid the comb on the vanity. “Would you like me to do something about the scars, sir?”
“What?” Mustang frowned at the valet's reflection.
“They can't be entirely concealed, but a little powder and coloring cream would downplay them, sir.”
“Leave them,” Mustang heard himself order roughly. He glared at the dual slashes across his face, and felt the scars pull his cheeks as he scowled.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 4, 1924, 10:39 PM
Roy Mustang had a beautiful, intelligent woman in his bed for the first time in...well, longer than most who knew his reputation would have believed...and he wasn't enjoying it. Anna had solved the problem of sleeping quarters by packing her things and moving them into Roy's bedroom. That left the guest room upstairs for Al and Winry, with a drawer serving as a cradle for Jilly, and Edward on the living room sofa. It worked out very nicely, and under other circumstances Roy might have made the most of the opportunity.
“You're going to volunteer to go, aren't you?” Anna propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at Roy.
Mustang sighed. “I'm the logical choice. Al has a family to consider, and if something goes wrong, FullMetal and his brother are the best alchemical minds to figure it out and make sure it's not repeated.”
“Do you really trust Edward that much? He's so...” Anna trailed off.
“Explosive? Crude and without social graces? He's a genius, which all but guarantees him some eccentric habits, and anyone who'd lived the life he has would be a little strange.”
“His brother seems all right.”
“Al's quirks aren't as obvious. How he grew up as well-adjusted as he has is one of the mysteries ordinary men may never comprehend.”
“Why does his wife hate you so much?”
He could have rolled over and gone to sleep without answering. Instead he sighed. “Hate is a strong word. I don't think Winry would waste that much emotional energy on me.”
“She's not afraid of you, but she didn't want to stay here.”
“I took Ed and Al away from her when they were children, and often kept them so busy that she only saw them when Ed's automail needed repairs. She didn't much appreciate the danger I sent her childhood friends into.”
Anna sighed. “So if something goes wrong, she's going to argue against trying to bring you back.” She stroked Roy's forehead, lifting his hair away from the patch he'd left on. “This isn't really about the logical choice. You're still trying to redeem yourself.”
“No.” Mustang turned on his side, putting his back to the woman. “This is much more important than that.”
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 17, 1915, 2:12 PM
Al! The hint of panic in the voice jolted Alphonse out of a vague, confusing dream. Al, snap out of it! Come back to me!
Huh? Al gathered his wits, grasping for the remnants of the dream, but they broke up like puffs of smoke behind a rushing train, and he was left with only a sense of being cold and unable to escape.
Al, what the hell happened? Are you okay? Edward probed at Al's presence in their shared head-none too gently, either.
How should I know what happened? I was asleep!
No, you weren't. Ed's tone was certain, and laced with the angry growl that meant he'd just had a bad scare. One minute you were talking to the librarian, the next you-it was like you were suddenly far away. We nearly hit the floor-I told the librarian we were recovering from a long illness and got the hell out of there. My soul-seal's been burning like the bastard Colonel set it on fire and yours is cold, so something's gone to shit and we need to figure out what it is!
Al reached up to touch the back of his neck, and shivered involuntarily. The lines of the array etched in his skin felt like ridges of solid ice embedded in the skin just under his shirt collar. The other forbidden array, the one that held Ed's soul inside their mutual body, throbbed like it had been just burned in by a hot brand. “I don't know,” he said aloud to the narrow alley his brother had chosen as a place to hide. “I think there might have been something important, but it's gone now.”
We've got to find it again, then. Ed was calming down, now that he was sure the seals had held. Let's see-you were talking to the librarian about third-century translations of Olin's Discourses. We were gonna see if the stuff about the lions at the gate was in the part about fluids or solids.
“I remember.” Al got to his feet and dusted off his hands, then his pants. “The librarian said the six extant copies of the original material showed it had been rearranged sometime before the third century.”
Yeah. So what happened next that made you just about hit the floor?
I'm not sure. Al searched his memory, aware of his brother's presence anxiously “looking over his shoulder”. I think...it was like something important was happening somewhere close by, and I needed to pay attention to that. Then you were yelling at me to wake up. I'm sorry, I don't remember anything else.
Ed could tell for himself that it was true-but he wasn't happy about it. It's happening more often now. He didn't say it, but Al knew what his brother was thinking anyway.
We knew we probably wouldn't have long to figure out how to fix ourselves, he told his brother. This doesn't change anything. We still have to learn the secret of making the Stone so we can restore our bodies.
Neither of them cared to voice it, but the words hung there inside their shared skull anyway. Before the seals fail.
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 3:24 PM
Hughes pulled into his driveway and parked the car. “Time travel.” He shook his head and looked at the child beside him. “I don't know how I'm going to put time travel into an official report, but I guess I have to try. Stay here while I check things out, okay? Stay here.” He locked the car with Roy inside it, and took his gun from the shoulder holster under his jacket. Nothing stirred. The house and its small yard seemed just like the others on the quiet residential street. Profoundly aware of the possibility that Mrs. Traynor was probably at her window watching him poke the rhododendrons with a loaded gun, Hughes swept the yard quickly, then unlocked the back door to the house and was about to enter when a crash and a scream from the front brought his heart into his throat. He rounded the side of the house at a run, in time to see FullMetal yank open the door of the car and grab a shrieking Roy by the ankle.
“FullMetal!” Hughes yelled and fired at the same time. The alchemist whirled on him, and the slug from Hughes' gun rang off of metal. Whether it was the car or the State Alchemist's automail, Hughes wasn't sure. He took a breath and aimed for FullMetal's close-shaven head.
“Don't push your luck, Hughes,” FullMetal growled. He yanked, and Roy came slithering out of the car, gripped by a darkly-gleaming metal arm. “You might hit the brat.”
“Let him go.” Hughes advanced a step, trying to force himself to remember his training. Somehow, though, he couldn't recall anything in the official handbook on how to drive off insane alchemists bent on kidnapping ten-year-old witnesses.
“He's mine now.” FullMetal's smile wasn't pleasant. He flipped Roy into a chokehold using his right arm, then let the boy struggle while he took a thick wad of folded paper from one back pocket. He tossed the papers toward Hughes' feet. “This kid's got no documented parents or legal guardians, which means he's a ward of the State. Those papers say I'm his guardian-it's all settled. So fuck off.”
Hughes felt his insides icing over. He stepped over the paper wad, advancing with the gun steadied in both hands. “You're hurting him.”
“Only because he's still putting up a fight.” The State Alchemist pressed his left palm to the steel right one for a moment, let the alchemical energy surge up his body, and extended his left hand toward Hughes. “Pain's a good teacher. The more it hurts, the less likely you are to do something stupid twice.” The alchemical lightning lanced out, set Hughes' hair on end, then arched and dove into his car. The vehicle groaned, then broke out in rusty spots and sank to its decaying rims as all four tires sighed through cracks in abruptly-rotted rubber.
Where are you? Hughes shouted in a desperate sort of prayer to Roy's uncle or any other helpful forces that might be listening. He wouldn't have minded the entire Central City Police Force. “What do you want him for? He's only a boy. You must have other things to do than raise a child.”
“None of your fuckin' business.” FullMetal's golden eyes narrowed, and in a move too fast to be entirely human, he grabbed the barrel of Hughes' gun and twisted it free of Hughes' grip. The alchemist pistol-whipped Roy with the butt of the loaded gun, then tossed the limp boy over the car's hood, grinned at Hughes, and threw the gun through Hughes' living room window with the strength of automail behind it. “Now, you wanna piss me off some more by trying to take me hand to hand, or do you want to keep your head from getting stuffed up your ass?”
Hughes roared and swung for FullMetal's face.
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
December 3, 1915, 11:38 PM
Cold. It's so cold, and dim, and his chest aches from trying to breathe the dry dusty air. His clothes are too thin for this miserable dungeon. His captor and torturer hasn't seen fit to even try to explain what he wants. Or if he has said anything about what he's looking for, the prisoner hasn't understood a word of it. All he knows is that the man is deranged.
Now the door of his cell is heaved open. He knows better than to try and escape. Even if there were no chain around his neck, beyond the cell there are only dimly-lit corridors and locked doors. The one time he tried, he won only the chain around his neck and a set of bruises that still haven't healed. But worse than the beating was the madman's face in his, raving in a language he doesn't understand. The madman wants something from him, and flies into a rage every time he tries and fails to extract it from him.
A small form is shoved through the door and falls bonelessly to the floor. At first, he thinks it's dead. Then it moves, and makes a small sound. His eyes refocus, and he realizes he's been given a cellmate. A boy with frightened dark eyes, a big lump on his head, and small hands and feet tightly tied with tough cord.
There is nothing else to do, so he reaches for the boy and starts picking at the knots holding his hands. The boy puts his head down on the cold stone floor and cries, and the prisoner talks to him, saying nothing in particular, knowing from the child's babbling that neither of them understands a word the other has to say. But he pries and works, and finally frees the child. The two of them huddle together for warmth, and the prisoner does his best to suppress a coughing fit. The air is like a knife in his painfully dry lungs--
Alphonse Elric woke up gasping. He lay there panting for a long moment, too disoriented for a moment to even answer his brother's frantic yelling in his head.
Al! Alphonse, little brother, can you hear me? Don't do this shit, come on, come back! Edward was giving them both a pounding headache.
“I'm here, Brother. It was another of those...whatever...wasn't it? I remember it this time.”
What? WHAT, tell me what happened!
Even after Al recounted it, though, it didn't explain anything.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 5, 1924, 11:06 AM
There was nothing more to be done. The array was complete, laid out and etched into the wide boards of the living room floor. They'd even tested the first two rings of it, as much as they dared. It was a complicated circle, and controlling it made even the legendary Elric Brothers break a sweat. But they controlled it, and they had finally, reluctantly, allowed Mustang to argue them around to his point of view.
Roy was starting to wish he hadn't been so persuasive. Or that he could realistically play dead. But the Elrics would come after him, if something went wrong. They were, to his knowledge, the most experienced living men when it came to surviving the Gate. Al was scratching the scar of his soul-seal even now.
He and Ed had never quite explained that to Mustang-or anyone else that he knew of. Al's body had returned from the other side of the Gate skeletally thin and too weak to stand, which made sense if one accepted the theory that Edward's body had been supporting Al's by feeding its strength through a soul-tie that crossed the Gate. That was just within the realm of possibility, for an Elric. But the soul-seal and the flamel on Al's shoulder didn't fit the logic. Ed swore he hadn't redrawn the seal on his brother, he'd only used it to make sure Al's soul was firmly anchored where it belonged. The flamel served no purpose at all. It was a minor sort of detail, and not one that had ever really bothered the Flame Alchemist. Now, however--
“Are you gonna stand there all day?” The tension in Edward's voice all but crackled.
“Give him a minute, Brother. This isn't the kind of thing anyone does lightly.” Al surveyed the array again, and stretched his shoulders. “We're ready anytime you are, General.”
“Let's do it before I come up with a good enough reason not to,” Mustang muttered. He took a careful step into the array, avoiding treading on the dragons despite the fact that until activated, they were only cut grooves in wood. Those runes were going to make sure the Gate didn't yank him in and rip him limb from limb as it had so many others.
Including Ed, who scowled at Mustang as the General took his place in the center of the third and smallest circle. “Remember, nothing fancy. Just have a look around and make sure you're where-when-you're supposed to be.”
“I'm older than you, but I'm not senile, Ed. I'm not about to go wandering off yesterday.” Mustang closed his eye. “Go.”
Ed's voice steadied a little. “Okay, Al. One.”
Al answered from across the circle. “Two.”
Mustang didn't hear “three”.
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 6:41 PM
Maes Hughes was pretty sure he was alive. Being dead couldn't possibly hurt so much.
“Detective? Maes Hughes? Can you hear me?” The voice was unfamiliar.
“Uh?” On the other hand, his grunt sounded like a sound that should come out of a dead man.
“Detective Hughes, I need you to open your eyes if you understand me.” Female. Middle-aged, most likely. Now his brain was finally working. Too late, far too late, he could actually think. Sort of. He pried open his eyes, found only one of them would even try to focus. The other, his damnably acute nerves told him, was all but swollen shut. There was a blurred figure bending over him. A woman-brunette, he noticed. He untangled his tongue.
“M'lasses.” It didn't sound close to right, but the woman, bless her, understood anyway.
“Your glasses were broken. Don't worry, you'll be all right. Do you think you could drink some water?”
Hughes knew better than to say no-he had to get out of the hospital to find Roy, and the fastest way to get out of a hospital was to agree to anything a doctor or nurse said.
A few interminable hours earlier, Hughes was sitting in his own kitchen with a corset of medical tape and bandaging keeping him from relaxing and potentially moving his cracked ribs. He held the last sheet of wadded paper FullMetal had thrown at him, and squinted through his spare glasses at the crabbed scrawl across the back of it. Pain is a good teacher. You won't be stupid enough to annoy me again.
“I had the D.A.'s office check. It's all legal. Only thing you can do is try and convince the judge that FullMetal's an unfit parent.” Chief Greenward himself sat across the table from Hughes, while two uniformed officers nailed plywood sheets up over the broken living room window and cleaned up the shards of glass.
“He's got nothing to worry about,” Hughes said bitterly, dropping the paper on top of the others on the table. “No judge is going to risk his neck for a stray Xingese kid. Not against both the FullMetal Alchemist and the Fuhrer.”
“You think he's going to kill the boy,” Greenward said heavily. He toyed with the cooling mug of coffee between his broad meaty hands.
“I'm not sure what he's going to do.” Hughes stared at the papers, trying to block out the ache of his abused body. The painkillers were wearing off-but Roy needed him, with his head clear. “I don't think he'd have gone to all the trouble to kidnap Roy if he just wanted to murder him. He could have just snapped his neck and left him.” Hughes licked his dry lips and fought his stomach down. “He's planning something, and he needs to keep Roy alive for at least a little while.”
“D.A. said you could get the boy removed if you could prove a high chance of imminent danger to the boy's life.”
“Putting him in FullMetal's hands created that chance!” Hughes slammed his fist to the table, and winced. “What kind of sick world is this that would grant a sociopath custody of a child?”
“Are you going to sit here and beat up the table or get on the horn to the DA?” Greenward snapped. “I can't do anything about the law, Detective. I agree it's completely nuts that it happened, but all we can do about it now is hope we can get the kid back before FullMetal turns him into FullMetal the Second.”
Hughes glared at the chief for a long moment, then eased his shoulders down and let out a sigh. “Yeah. I guess you're right. Do me a favor and tell the DA's office to get in touch with the Child Protection League. I'll sign whatever they can come up with. But for now, I'm going to bed.”
Greenward relaxed. “That's a good plan. I'll stay here and make sure no one wakes you up tonight.”
“No-go home, Chief. FullMetal's got what he wants. Besides, Mrs. Traynor will alert the whole city if a mouse crosses my lawn.” Hughes' nosy neighbor had not only summoned the police and an ambulance, she'd given everyone who would listen-including Hughes himself-a very detailed report of what she'd seen. Including a blow-by-blow account of Hughes' attempt to take on FullMetal with his bare hands.
“Well...I'll have a few extra patrols swing by, just to make sure everything's quiet.” Greenward got up. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Hughes. No ordinary man could have stopped him.”
“No.” Hughes accompanied the chief to the door, then let the young uniformed officers out and locked up after them. He climbed the steps to the second floor, went and flipped the light switch in his daughter's bedroom. The bed was made, the toys lined up on their shelves, the cheerful pictures on the walls smiling and bright as always. The only thing wrong with it was that it was empty. Hughes turned off the lights and went to the master bedroom. He went into the closet, stretched a little awkwardly, and fished a key from the back of the highest shelf. Carrying the key, he went to the bureau against the bedroom wall, crouched with a grimace, and took a locked wooden box a bit bigger than a shirt box from the bottom drawer. Setting the box on the bed, he fumbled with the key until it turned in the lock. He raised the lid, and lifted out a soft purple tunic with long, wide-cut sleeves. He rubbed the fabric between his finger and thumb for a moment, then turned to the things lying in the bottom of the box. He pulled a contraption of leather and steel onto his knee, pressed here and there, his bruised green eyes intent. Satisfied, he rolled up one sleeve, angled his left wrist into a loop, pulled a strap tight with his teeth, then adjusted a small steel spring. He got to his feet, faced himself in the full length mirror on the closet door, then flicked his wrist. A palm-sized blade jumped from the forearm sheath, and Hughes' fingers closed around the T-shaped handle just an instant before the weapon fell to the floor.
“Slow,” Hughes said to his reflection. “Slow could get you killed, Lieutenant.” He put the knife back in its sheath with some difficulty, his sore right arm protesting the movement even of fingers. FullMetal had toyed with him just enough to make it clear he could kill Hughes with his bare hands, then he'd kicked him in the side of the head and tied Roy hand and foot before carrying him off. Mrs. Traynor had seen the boy struggling a little.
Hughes felt his frown deepening, and put on the second forearm sheath. He donned the belt with its four spare throwing knives, noting with some chagrin that he couldn't buckle it on the same hole he once had, manuevered into the purple tunic, then threw his coat over it and ventured out into the not-so-safe streets of Central City.
Author: mfelizandy
Rating: PG-13
Type: Post-anime AU plotfic, featuring alchemical time travel and a ten-year-old Roy Mustang.
Warnings: Language and hints of one of Roy Mustang's past love affairs.
Author's Notes: This story starts in an AU in which Edward Elric was not catapulted into another world at the end of the series, and Al did not lose four years of growth and memory in regaining his body. Other AUs will make an appearance through the story. When the kaleidoscope turns, we're in a different timeline.
Summary: The State Alchemists were disbanded years ago. The homunculi have been destroyed. Amestris is finally enjoying some peace--until one of Brigadier General Roy Mustang's old flames brings him evidence that someone is tampering with powers that could tear him and his world apart.
In another version of history, Maes Hughes is a Central City police detective, with a very strange case on his hands.
Click here to go back to Part Eight.
Click here to go back to the beginning.
“Third Mirror”
Eastern District, Amestris
October 22, 1924, 11:36 AM
From the darkness I have seen the light, and I am not afraid. The headstone was ruthlessly plain, as military memorials were. There were no carved fillips or knobs, nothing to soften the stark fact of a soldier's death. 1st Lt. Elizabeth Cassandra Hawkeye, 1888-1918.
Roy Mustang knelt at her feet, feeling the damp of the grass soaking the knees of his prison uniform.
“Shall I send Jerome for flowers, sir?” Armstrong's tone was pitched to be heard only if wanted.
Mustang contemplated the tombstone a moment longer, then his face visibly hardened. “No.” He managed to get to his feet despite the shackles still holding his hands at his waist. “Thank you for the thought, Alex, but there's nothing more I can do here.”
“As you wish.” The former major's blue eyes held secrets behind sorrow.
“What's the next stop?” Mustang asked brusquely, turning away from the grave of his lieutenant.
“Matthew's House,” Armstrong answered. At Mustang's lifted eyebrow, he clarified. “An ancestor of mine upset his mother with certain...indiscretions...but as he was the sole heir to the duchy, she could not prevail on her husband the duke to disinherit young Matthew. A house in the city was purchased, and Matthew was given some resources to prove that he was worthy of the title.”
“Apt,” Mustang commented dryly. “Are you on the outs with your family?”
“Is it not the way of children to upset their elders from time to time?” Armstrong helped Mustang into the car, and buckled his seat belt with exquisite care.
“If they know you're taking responsibility for convicted murderers, I'd guess they're more than upset,” Mustang rasped. His voice had been too long unused-the words scraped like sandpaper in his throat.
“There was an oath I swore some years ago,” Armstrong said quietly. “To faithfully serve my country, and to place loyalty to her people above even love of life.”
“The government you swore loyalty to fell six years ago.”
“My word was given to the people ruled by that government. As was yours.”
Mustang turned his scarred face to look out the window. “Why are we going to Ishbal?”
“The Circle of Elders asked for you.”
Mustang turned back to his traveling companion. “What? What would they want with me?”
“They did not say. All we have been told is that the Great Eastern Rail link will not be laid through Ishbalan territory unless the Flame Alchemist is surrendered into Ishbalan custody.” Armstrong lowered his eyes.
The prisoner said nothing for a long minute. “So I'm a human sacrifice?”
“No!” The sharpness in Armstrong's tone, and the circles of white around his eyes, said he'd asked the same question, at least of himself. “Ishbal is a civilized culture.”
“A small desert country that needs at least two or three generations to recover a population capable of putting up a fight.” Mustang pinned Armstrong with his gaze. “A bloody ritual execution, public enough to create some horror stories. Demand one of the military dogs who slaughtered Ishbalans with forbidden alchemy-then let one of the zealots carve out his heart in public.” Mustang turned back toward the window. “It's a very Ishbalan sort of logic. In one act, they appease the more radical elements in their society by exacting some revenge for the war, create an image of themselves as dangerously devoted to their god in Amestrian minds, make themselves the middlemen sitting on a very lucrative trade link, and helpfully rid a powerful neighbor of a dangerous criminal who escaped execution on a technicality.” There was no humor in his smile. “I almost don't mind being the one on the altar, to seal that kind of victory.”
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 1:32 PM
“Time travel.” Maes Hughes had seen and heard some bizarre theories in the course of his investigations, but this one went right off the weirdness meter. “You're sure there's no other possible explanation?”
“I did some research last night.” Which probably explained the dark circles under Professor Theo's eyes. “It's a long way from safe, and the cost is higher than any sane man would contemplate, but it can be done. It has been done,” he corrected himself, looking down at Roy, who had his kaleidoscope out and was carefully rotating its barrel while pointing it at various objects in the room.
Hughes followed the professor's gaze, and watched Roy push his hair out of his eyes. “So Roy is stranded?”
“The man who told Roy he's an uncle had the power to get him here-or rather now. The question is why he'd do something so risky not only to the boy but to himself.” Theo frowned in thought. “If he was only concerned about Roy's health and happiness, he could have just claimed him from his mother's family. An alchemist with the power to warp time certainly has the power to convince even the most stubborn people to surrender a child they consider an embarrassment.”
Hughes sighed. “We're missing too many pieces of this puzzle.”
“His uncle came to protect him from Edward,” Theo pointed out. “He obviously wants Roy safe and healthy, and doesn't think that anything less than hiding him in his future is enough of a precaution.”
Hughes' stomach started to twist. “And whatever can pose that kind of threat to an alchemist with this kind of power...”
Theo's face seemed carved from stone. “There are horrors that mankind has pushed back into the realm of nightmares and boogeymen. The stories of them are discounted as the myths of a more imaginative time.” He turned his attention to Roy, who met the amber eyes with a troubled look of his own.
“Wenrui chupat akai temrinni ninyanni fedroosh.”
Theo's brows lowered a fraction, then he took off his glasses to rub bloodshot eyes and answer, “Caen trudinya ledji mya ee genrui, decinyu trinai.”
Roy's eyes widened in surprise, and he scooted a little toward Hughes.
“What did you say to him?” Hughes asked, reaching to put a hand on Roy's head.
“He asked what we were talking about, and I told him we think his uncle is in danger.” Theo put his glasses back on and ran a hand through his hair.
Hughes didn't contradict the alchemist, but he knew the man was lying.
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 17, 1915, 1:45 PM
“Colonel!”
The voice yanked Roy Mustang out of a doze, and he looked up and right down the barrel of his lieutenant's drawn pistol.
“Hawkeye?” Mustang was fairly sure the woman wouldn't shoot him for something as minor as falling asleep at his desk, but he still lifted both hands into her view and firmly told his stiff back and faintly queasy stomach to wait.
“It's fifteen minutes until your monthly review of the troops, Colonel.” Hawkeye holstered her pistol. “You asked me to remind you.” She cast a critical eye over her commanding officer. “You have time to clean your teeth and comb your hair, sir.”
Only Riza Hawkeye could make a plain statement of fact into an uninflected critique of her CO's appearance. Mustang took a comb from his shirt sleeve and took a few swipes at his hair. As they inevitably did, a few of his bangs slid right back into his eyes.
“I'll make an appointment with your barber for tomorrow, sir.” Hawkeye opened a desk drawer and whipped out a lint brush.
“I'm fine for another week yet, Lieutenant. Can't be neglecting my duty to the country every time my hair grows a quarter inch.”
Hawkeye flicked the brush over Mustang's jacket, removing purely imaginary lint. “If you have time to nap on duty, sir, you have time to have your hair trimmed out of your eyes.”
“It serves a purpose,” Mustang answered lightly. “Women love to play with a man's hair, and it's all the more irresistible if it gets in his eyes from time to time.” It was an old and not entirely serious argument.
Instead of making the usual comment about obstructions to his vision, Hawkeye straightened her commanding officer's collar tabs, and said, “That's the third time this week you've dozed off, sir. Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a little tired. Defusing FullMetal's latest potential bomb took a lot out of me.”
“His yearly reCertification is coming up,” Hawkeye commented.
“Tempting, but I'm not sure I could arrange for him to fail without his catching on or simply bulling through and winning anyway.” Mustang tugged his cuffs into place. “Besides, I'd miss the challenge of staying ahead of him.”
“Are you sure you're still ahead of him?” Hawkeye asked quietly. “You may not have noticed, sir, but the Edward personality is getting to be more and more of a problem.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant, I haven't missed that. I think Alphonse is starting to realize just how thin the thread he's hung his hopes on is. For now, though, 'Edward' is just the Major's way to scream insults at me and start the occasional street fight without having to take responsibility for his actions.”
“He's taking bigger risks,” Hawkeye pointed out. “He's drawing attention from the generals in Central, sir.”
“I know.” Mustang pulled on his gloves. “The smart money has always been against Alphonse Elric. For the time being, though, he's still sane enough to control himself when it counts.” He took his uniform cap from the coatrack and set it atop his head, then pulled on his embroidered gloves. “And even a long shot comes in, now and then.” With a blink of dark eyes in a face too young for his colonel's stars, Mustang assumed the unreadably stern demeanor of the Commander of the Army in the East, and marched out to inspect his troops.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 4, 1924, 7:22 PM
The doorbell rang well after the dinner hour. Mustang got up to answer it, and found himself hurrying to catch up with the angry blonde who barged into his house with barely a glance his way.
Al looked up from the notes and books scattered across the kitchen table. “Winry!” He fumbled for words. “What are you doing here?”
Winry crossed the kitchen and put Jilly into her father's arms. “You left in the middle of the night. I found a note on your pillow in the morning. A note, Alphonse.” Her voice was rising.
Mustang put a hand to Anna's back. “Let's give them some privacy, Anna.”
“You sit down,” Winry ordered him. “Don't think I don't know who's behind this.”
“Do you? Please tell me, then, because it would make my job much easier.” The Brigadier General kept his feet and frowned at the blond mechanic, who despite marriage and motherhood still looked very much like the infuriated girl who'd once accused Mustang of murder.
Al shifted Jilly uneasily. “I didn't want to worry you, Winry.”
“You didn't--” Winry stared at her husband, speechless in fury for a moment. “You're as bad as your stupid brother!”
Roy winced as the inevitable shouting match exploded. Winry had clearly spent the entire train trip considering just what she was going to say to both Elric brothers, and Ed had had a tantrum brewing for at least the past hour, even if one didn't count the effect of days of frustratingly difficult research. It was bad enough among adults, but when Jilly finally added her piercing shrieks to the din, the General summoned his “parade ground voice” and roared, “As you were!”
The resulting quiet almost echoed. Jilly whimpered and squirmed in Al's arms. Mustang glared at each Elric in turn, sparing only the baby. “That's better. Now, let's go into the living room and talk about this like adults instead of children fighting in the schoolyard.” He gave Anna his arm, and escorted her out of the kitchen without looking back to see whether the Elrics followed.
“Third Mirror”
Eastern District, Amestris
October 22, 1924, 6:18 PM
What the Armstrong family considered minimal was palatial by most standards. Roy Mustang sat in a bathtub large enough for four and stared up at the coffered, painted ceiling of the bathroom. He'd run the water nearly scalding hot, and held himself submerged in it until his lungs screamed for air. Then he'd scrubbed his skin and shampooed his hair, drained and refilled the tub, and repeated the whole process. The water was cooling, but Mustang didn't move to drain it. For the time being, it was enough to simply exist, and let his mind wander.
A soft, deferential tapping on the door broke the blessed silence. When Mustang didn't answer, the sound came again.
The erstwhile Flame Alchemist sighed. “What?”
A man a generation older than Mustang opened the door and glided in on soft feet. He was dressed as a “high” servant, down to the mirror polish on his shoes and buttons and the spotless white gloves on his hands. “Begging your pardon, sir, but His Grace asked me to advise you that dinner will be served in an hour. I am to assist you in dressing for dinner, sir.”
“What?” It took a moment for the words to make sense. Mustang grabbed for the towel on the edge of the tub. “All right. Thank you for the message.” He waited, but the man didn't leave. “Was there something else?”
“His Grace the Duke thought it would be best if I attended to your hair and face, sir. You are not the only guest who will be joining him for dinner.”
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed, then.”
“As you wish. I recommend that you wear the short jacket, sir. It is appropriate for the company.” The man turned and left.
Mustang had to call the (butler? Valet? Mustang wasn't sure which of Armstrong's assorted servants would be stuck with the job of attending to a convict's grooming) to cope with the bow tie he'd found on the hanger with the “short jacket”. He'd once known how to tie one so that it would lie relatively flat and not chokingly tight, but his fingers had forgotten the sequence. The solemn servant whipped the tie off in a flicker of silk, draped Mustang in another thick towel, and proceeded to lather his face for a shave. Bemused, Mustang allowed the man to take the straight razor from the vanity and delicately shave what little facial hair Mustang had. He'd never needed to shave more than once every two or three days, unlike his friend Hughes, who'd always had a five o'clock shadow, even if he shaved morning and evening.
The memory of Hughes didn't ache as it once had. Mustang probed it while the servant patted his face dry and went to work on his hair. No-it still hurt, but the guilt wasn't as sharp. It seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Maybe it did.
“How would you like your hair cut, sir?”
Mustang looked at the reflection in the mirror. His hair hung past his shoulders, combed and shining. He blinked. “Just tie it back.”
“Long hair is no longer in fashion for men of means, sir.”
“Did Alex tell you who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know I'm not a man of means. Just tie it back.” Mustang eyed the man behind him in the mirror. “Who are you, by the way?”
“Gibbs, sir. His Grace's valet.” Gibbs deftly gathered Mustang's hair up into a ponytail and tied it with a wide black ribbon.
“He sent his own valet to shave me?”
“His Grace holds you in high esteem, sir.”
“His Grace is dangerously sentimental.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“You don't agree?”
“It's not my place to say, sir.” The man ran the comb through Roy's ponytail once more, then laid the comb on the vanity. “Would you like me to do something about the scars, sir?”
“What?” Mustang frowned at the valet's reflection.
“They can't be entirely concealed, but a little powder and coloring cream would downplay them, sir.”
“Leave them,” Mustang heard himself order roughly. He glared at the dual slashes across his face, and felt the scars pull his cheeks as he scowled.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 4, 1924, 10:39 PM
Roy Mustang had a beautiful, intelligent woman in his bed for the first time in...well, longer than most who knew his reputation would have believed...and he wasn't enjoying it. Anna had solved the problem of sleeping quarters by packing her things and moving them into Roy's bedroom. That left the guest room upstairs for Al and Winry, with a drawer serving as a cradle for Jilly, and Edward on the living room sofa. It worked out very nicely, and under other circumstances Roy might have made the most of the opportunity.
“You're going to volunteer to go, aren't you?” Anna propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at Roy.
Mustang sighed. “I'm the logical choice. Al has a family to consider, and if something goes wrong, FullMetal and his brother are the best alchemical minds to figure it out and make sure it's not repeated.”
“Do you really trust Edward that much? He's so...” Anna trailed off.
“Explosive? Crude and without social graces? He's a genius, which all but guarantees him some eccentric habits, and anyone who'd lived the life he has would be a little strange.”
“His brother seems all right.”
“Al's quirks aren't as obvious. How he grew up as well-adjusted as he has is one of the mysteries ordinary men may never comprehend.”
“Why does his wife hate you so much?”
He could have rolled over and gone to sleep without answering. Instead he sighed. “Hate is a strong word. I don't think Winry would waste that much emotional energy on me.”
“She's not afraid of you, but she didn't want to stay here.”
“I took Ed and Al away from her when they were children, and often kept them so busy that she only saw them when Ed's automail needed repairs. She didn't much appreciate the danger I sent her childhood friends into.”
Anna sighed. “So if something goes wrong, she's going to argue against trying to bring you back.” She stroked Roy's forehead, lifting his hair away from the patch he'd left on. “This isn't really about the logical choice. You're still trying to redeem yourself.”
“No.” Mustang turned on his side, putting his back to the woman. “This is much more important than that.”
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 17, 1915, 2:12 PM
Al! The hint of panic in the voice jolted Alphonse out of a vague, confusing dream. Al, snap out of it! Come back to me!
Huh? Al gathered his wits, grasping for the remnants of the dream, but they broke up like puffs of smoke behind a rushing train, and he was left with only a sense of being cold and unable to escape.
Al, what the hell happened? Are you okay? Edward probed at Al's presence in their shared head-none too gently, either.
How should I know what happened? I was asleep!
No, you weren't. Ed's tone was certain, and laced with the angry growl that meant he'd just had a bad scare. One minute you were talking to the librarian, the next you-it was like you were suddenly far away. We nearly hit the floor-I told the librarian we were recovering from a long illness and got the hell out of there. My soul-seal's been burning like the bastard Colonel set it on fire and yours is cold, so something's gone to shit and we need to figure out what it is!
Al reached up to touch the back of his neck, and shivered involuntarily. The lines of the array etched in his skin felt like ridges of solid ice embedded in the skin just under his shirt collar. The other forbidden array, the one that held Ed's soul inside their mutual body, throbbed like it had been just burned in by a hot brand. “I don't know,” he said aloud to the narrow alley his brother had chosen as a place to hide. “I think there might have been something important, but it's gone now.”
We've got to find it again, then. Ed was calming down, now that he was sure the seals had held. Let's see-you were talking to the librarian about third-century translations of Olin's Discourses. We were gonna see if the stuff about the lions at the gate was in the part about fluids or solids.
“I remember.” Al got to his feet and dusted off his hands, then his pants. “The librarian said the six extant copies of the original material showed it had been rearranged sometime before the third century.”
Yeah. So what happened next that made you just about hit the floor?
I'm not sure. Al searched his memory, aware of his brother's presence anxiously “looking over his shoulder”. I think...it was like something important was happening somewhere close by, and I needed to pay attention to that. Then you were yelling at me to wake up. I'm sorry, I don't remember anything else.
Ed could tell for himself that it was true-but he wasn't happy about it. It's happening more often now. He didn't say it, but Al knew what his brother was thinking anyway.
We knew we probably wouldn't have long to figure out how to fix ourselves, he told his brother. This doesn't change anything. We still have to learn the secret of making the Stone so we can restore our bodies.
Neither of them cared to voice it, but the words hung there inside their shared skull anyway. Before the seals fail.
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 3:24 PM
Hughes pulled into his driveway and parked the car. “Time travel.” He shook his head and looked at the child beside him. “I don't know how I'm going to put time travel into an official report, but I guess I have to try. Stay here while I check things out, okay? Stay here.” He locked the car with Roy inside it, and took his gun from the shoulder holster under his jacket. Nothing stirred. The house and its small yard seemed just like the others on the quiet residential street. Profoundly aware of the possibility that Mrs. Traynor was probably at her window watching him poke the rhododendrons with a loaded gun, Hughes swept the yard quickly, then unlocked the back door to the house and was about to enter when a crash and a scream from the front brought his heart into his throat. He rounded the side of the house at a run, in time to see FullMetal yank open the door of the car and grab a shrieking Roy by the ankle.
“FullMetal!” Hughes yelled and fired at the same time. The alchemist whirled on him, and the slug from Hughes' gun rang off of metal. Whether it was the car or the State Alchemist's automail, Hughes wasn't sure. He took a breath and aimed for FullMetal's close-shaven head.
“Don't push your luck, Hughes,” FullMetal growled. He yanked, and Roy came slithering out of the car, gripped by a darkly-gleaming metal arm. “You might hit the brat.”
“Let him go.” Hughes advanced a step, trying to force himself to remember his training. Somehow, though, he couldn't recall anything in the official handbook on how to drive off insane alchemists bent on kidnapping ten-year-old witnesses.
“He's mine now.” FullMetal's smile wasn't pleasant. He flipped Roy into a chokehold using his right arm, then let the boy struggle while he took a thick wad of folded paper from one back pocket. He tossed the papers toward Hughes' feet. “This kid's got no documented parents or legal guardians, which means he's a ward of the State. Those papers say I'm his guardian-it's all settled. So fuck off.”
Hughes felt his insides icing over. He stepped over the paper wad, advancing with the gun steadied in both hands. “You're hurting him.”
“Only because he's still putting up a fight.” The State Alchemist pressed his left palm to the steel right one for a moment, let the alchemical energy surge up his body, and extended his left hand toward Hughes. “Pain's a good teacher. The more it hurts, the less likely you are to do something stupid twice.” The alchemical lightning lanced out, set Hughes' hair on end, then arched and dove into his car. The vehicle groaned, then broke out in rusty spots and sank to its decaying rims as all four tires sighed through cracks in abruptly-rotted rubber.
Where are you? Hughes shouted in a desperate sort of prayer to Roy's uncle or any other helpful forces that might be listening. He wouldn't have minded the entire Central City Police Force. “What do you want him for? He's only a boy. You must have other things to do than raise a child.”
“None of your fuckin' business.” FullMetal's golden eyes narrowed, and in a move too fast to be entirely human, he grabbed the barrel of Hughes' gun and twisted it free of Hughes' grip. The alchemist pistol-whipped Roy with the butt of the loaded gun, then tossed the limp boy over the car's hood, grinned at Hughes, and threw the gun through Hughes' living room window with the strength of automail behind it. “Now, you wanna piss me off some more by trying to take me hand to hand, or do you want to keep your head from getting stuffed up your ass?”
Hughes roared and swung for FullMetal's face.
“Fourth Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
December 3, 1915, 11:38 PM
Cold. It's so cold, and dim, and his chest aches from trying to breathe the dry dusty air. His clothes are too thin for this miserable dungeon. His captor and torturer hasn't seen fit to even try to explain what he wants. Or if he has said anything about what he's looking for, the prisoner hasn't understood a word of it. All he knows is that the man is deranged.
Now the door of his cell is heaved open. He knows better than to try and escape. Even if there were no chain around his neck, beyond the cell there are only dimly-lit corridors and locked doors. The one time he tried, he won only the chain around his neck and a set of bruises that still haven't healed. But worse than the beating was the madman's face in his, raving in a language he doesn't understand. The madman wants something from him, and flies into a rage every time he tries and fails to extract it from him.
A small form is shoved through the door and falls bonelessly to the floor. At first, he thinks it's dead. Then it moves, and makes a small sound. His eyes refocus, and he realizes he's been given a cellmate. A boy with frightened dark eyes, a big lump on his head, and small hands and feet tightly tied with tough cord.
There is nothing else to do, so he reaches for the boy and starts picking at the knots holding his hands. The boy puts his head down on the cold stone floor and cries, and the prisoner talks to him, saying nothing in particular, knowing from the child's babbling that neither of them understands a word the other has to say. But he pries and works, and finally frees the child. The two of them huddle together for warmth, and the prisoner does his best to suppress a coughing fit. The air is like a knife in his painfully dry lungs--
Alphonse Elric woke up gasping. He lay there panting for a long moment, too disoriented for a moment to even answer his brother's frantic yelling in his head.
Al! Alphonse, little brother, can you hear me? Don't do this shit, come on, come back! Edward was giving them both a pounding headache.
“I'm here, Brother. It was another of those...whatever...wasn't it? I remember it this time.”
What? WHAT, tell me what happened!
Even after Al recounted it, though, it didn't explain anything.
“First Mirror”
Central City, Amestris
November 5, 1924, 11:06 AM
There was nothing more to be done. The array was complete, laid out and etched into the wide boards of the living room floor. They'd even tested the first two rings of it, as much as they dared. It was a complicated circle, and controlling it made even the legendary Elric Brothers break a sweat. But they controlled it, and they had finally, reluctantly, allowed Mustang to argue them around to his point of view.
Roy was starting to wish he hadn't been so persuasive. Or that he could realistically play dead. But the Elrics would come after him, if something went wrong. They were, to his knowledge, the most experienced living men when it came to surviving the Gate. Al was scratching the scar of his soul-seal even now.
He and Ed had never quite explained that to Mustang-or anyone else that he knew of. Al's body had returned from the other side of the Gate skeletally thin and too weak to stand, which made sense if one accepted the theory that Edward's body had been supporting Al's by feeding its strength through a soul-tie that crossed the Gate. That was just within the realm of possibility, for an Elric. But the soul-seal and the flamel on Al's shoulder didn't fit the logic. Ed swore he hadn't redrawn the seal on his brother, he'd only used it to make sure Al's soul was firmly anchored where it belonged. The flamel served no purpose at all. It was a minor sort of detail, and not one that had ever really bothered the Flame Alchemist. Now, however--
“Are you gonna stand there all day?” The tension in Edward's voice all but crackled.
“Give him a minute, Brother. This isn't the kind of thing anyone does lightly.” Al surveyed the array again, and stretched his shoulders. “We're ready anytime you are, General.”
“Let's do it before I come up with a good enough reason not to,” Mustang muttered. He took a careful step into the array, avoiding treading on the dragons despite the fact that until activated, they were only cut grooves in wood. Those runes were going to make sure the Gate didn't yank him in and rip him limb from limb as it had so many others.
Including Ed, who scowled at Mustang as the General took his place in the center of the third and smallest circle. “Remember, nothing fancy. Just have a look around and make sure you're where-when-you're supposed to be.”
“I'm older than you, but I'm not senile, Ed. I'm not about to go wandering off yesterday.” Mustang closed his eye. “Go.”
Ed's voice steadied a little. “Okay, Al. One.”
Al answered from across the circle. “Two.”
Mustang didn't hear “three”.
“Second Mirror”
Central City, Amestris,
November 14, 1916, 6:41 PM
Maes Hughes was pretty sure he was alive. Being dead couldn't possibly hurt so much.
“Detective? Maes Hughes? Can you hear me?” The voice was unfamiliar.
“Uh?” On the other hand, his grunt sounded like a sound that should come out of a dead man.
“Detective Hughes, I need you to open your eyes if you understand me.” Female. Middle-aged, most likely. Now his brain was finally working. Too late, far too late, he could actually think. Sort of. He pried open his eyes, found only one of them would even try to focus. The other, his damnably acute nerves told him, was all but swollen shut. There was a blurred figure bending over him. A woman-brunette, he noticed. He untangled his tongue.
“M'lasses.” It didn't sound close to right, but the woman, bless her, understood anyway.
“Your glasses were broken. Don't worry, you'll be all right. Do you think you could drink some water?”
Hughes knew better than to say no-he had to get out of the hospital to find Roy, and the fastest way to get out of a hospital was to agree to anything a doctor or nurse said.
A few interminable hours earlier, Hughes was sitting in his own kitchen with a corset of medical tape and bandaging keeping him from relaxing and potentially moving his cracked ribs. He held the last sheet of wadded paper FullMetal had thrown at him, and squinted through his spare glasses at the crabbed scrawl across the back of it. Pain is a good teacher. You won't be stupid enough to annoy me again.
“I had the D.A.'s office check. It's all legal. Only thing you can do is try and convince the judge that FullMetal's an unfit parent.” Chief Greenward himself sat across the table from Hughes, while two uniformed officers nailed plywood sheets up over the broken living room window and cleaned up the shards of glass.
“He's got nothing to worry about,” Hughes said bitterly, dropping the paper on top of the others on the table. “No judge is going to risk his neck for a stray Xingese kid. Not against both the FullMetal Alchemist and the Fuhrer.”
“You think he's going to kill the boy,” Greenward said heavily. He toyed with the cooling mug of coffee between his broad meaty hands.
“I'm not sure what he's going to do.” Hughes stared at the papers, trying to block out the ache of his abused body. The painkillers were wearing off-but Roy needed him, with his head clear. “I don't think he'd have gone to all the trouble to kidnap Roy if he just wanted to murder him. He could have just snapped his neck and left him.” Hughes licked his dry lips and fought his stomach down. “He's planning something, and he needs to keep Roy alive for at least a little while.”
“D.A. said you could get the boy removed if you could prove a high chance of imminent danger to the boy's life.”
“Putting him in FullMetal's hands created that chance!” Hughes slammed his fist to the table, and winced. “What kind of sick world is this that would grant a sociopath custody of a child?”
“Are you going to sit here and beat up the table or get on the horn to the DA?” Greenward snapped. “I can't do anything about the law, Detective. I agree it's completely nuts that it happened, but all we can do about it now is hope we can get the kid back before FullMetal turns him into FullMetal the Second.”
Hughes glared at the chief for a long moment, then eased his shoulders down and let out a sigh. “Yeah. I guess you're right. Do me a favor and tell the DA's office to get in touch with the Child Protection League. I'll sign whatever they can come up with. But for now, I'm going to bed.”
Greenward relaxed. “That's a good plan. I'll stay here and make sure no one wakes you up tonight.”
“No-go home, Chief. FullMetal's got what he wants. Besides, Mrs. Traynor will alert the whole city if a mouse crosses my lawn.” Hughes' nosy neighbor had not only summoned the police and an ambulance, she'd given everyone who would listen-including Hughes himself-a very detailed report of what she'd seen. Including a blow-by-blow account of Hughes' attempt to take on FullMetal with his bare hands.
“Well...I'll have a few extra patrols swing by, just to make sure everything's quiet.” Greenward got up. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Hughes. No ordinary man could have stopped him.”
“No.” Hughes accompanied the chief to the door, then let the young uniformed officers out and locked up after them. He climbed the steps to the second floor, went and flipped the light switch in his daughter's bedroom. The bed was made, the toys lined up on their shelves, the cheerful pictures on the walls smiling and bright as always. The only thing wrong with it was that it was empty. Hughes turned off the lights and went to the master bedroom. He went into the closet, stretched a little awkwardly, and fished a key from the back of the highest shelf. Carrying the key, he went to the bureau against the bedroom wall, crouched with a grimace, and took a locked wooden box a bit bigger than a shirt box from the bottom drawer. Setting the box on the bed, he fumbled with the key until it turned in the lock. He raised the lid, and lifted out a soft purple tunic with long, wide-cut sleeves. He rubbed the fabric between his finger and thumb for a moment, then turned to the things lying in the bottom of the box. He pulled a contraption of leather and steel onto his knee, pressed here and there, his bruised green eyes intent. Satisfied, he rolled up one sleeve, angled his left wrist into a loop, pulled a strap tight with his teeth, then adjusted a small steel spring. He got to his feet, faced himself in the full length mirror on the closet door, then flicked his wrist. A palm-sized blade jumped from the forearm sheath, and Hughes' fingers closed around the T-shaped handle just an instant before the weapon fell to the floor.
“Slow,” Hughes said to his reflection. “Slow could get you killed, Lieutenant.” He put the knife back in its sheath with some difficulty, his sore right arm protesting the movement even of fingers. FullMetal had toyed with him just enough to make it clear he could kill Hughes with his bare hands, then he'd kicked him in the side of the head and tied Roy hand and foot before carrying him off. Mrs. Traynor had seen the boy struggling a little.
Hughes felt his frown deepening, and put on the second forearm sheath. He donned the belt with its four spare throwing knives, noting with some chagrin that he couldn't buckle it on the same hole he once had, manuevered into the purple tunic, then threw his coat over it and ventured out into the not-so-safe streets of Central City.