Fic: "Five Minutes To Midnight" 1/?
Title: "Five Minutes To Midnight" 1/?
Author: theothardus
Character(s)/pairings: Ed, Winry, EdWin children!
Rating: T+... for language, I suppose?
Summary: Two decades after the Promised Day, and another war in the north is emerging.
Disclaimer: I do not own.
A/N: I've been wanting to do a chapter fic for the next FullMetal generation for the LONGEST time. I already have all the lives mapped out for each of their children. :3 Now that it's summer, I have /some/ time to do this. /Some/ time. I'll still be pretty busy in the next few months, so I'll try to update this fic as much as I can.
edit: yeah, I changed up the name. xD Trust me, I have some plot behind this.
~xxx~
Bullet shells and blood splatter. Smoke and sopping wet trenches. These are the things a soldier is to expect when war is waged; this is his presumed grave.
That is exactly what Mr. Elric was told at boot camp. He would never forget the Lieutenant Colonel, with his rigid, scarred face and his bushy eyebrows, always pointed into a stubborn scowl. He often smelt of tobacco; his decaying teeth were proof of such habits. His hands were larger than a man’s face and neck combined, each plump finger lined with grime and wrinkles. His chin launched out further than his roman nose. The crow’s feet and stipe of gray touching his features revealed his age. The stars and badges on his uniform revealed his history.
To him, at the time, the Lieutenant Colonel was the most intimidating man he’s ever met. He felt constantly looked down on.
So when the older man said those exact words-that he’d be heading to his “presumed grave”-what other emotion could he feel but fear?
And his superior was right. Every last detail.
As he climbed onto the battlefield, it was like swimming through an ocean of dead bodies, almost hoping he’d drown before he made it to the other side. Machine gun fire never ceased, and the occasional grenades made his ears ring if it landed too close. He couldn’t be sure if it was overcast that day, or if the gray in the sky was simply product of tanks and other artillery. The odor was foul; like each body was already beginning to decay. He could have sworn he saw a raven pecking at a dead man’s open wound.
His amber eyes narrowed at his opponents-the Drachmans-on the other side of the mountain of limbs. His irises were suddenly fierce, like a lion feasting on its prey. They were wild. A brilliant gold. The Xerxes blood definitely outshined his Amestrian traits.
How could fear just suddenly fly out the window? Maybe it was due to the fact that he saw his buddy blown to pieces only minutes ago. Rage was his gasoline.
His feet set off unconsciously. As he swiftly darted through the oceanic battlefield, he leaped behind other bodies, using them as shields against a downpour of bullets. Each and every time, though, he silently prayed for them and their families.
When he was so close to the front that he could barely touch it, something knocked him to the ground. It was another soldier, hollering as he ran head-first into the onslaught of Drachman soldiers. Mr. Elric was so stunned that he hadn’t a chance to find out what happened to the doomed man.
As he hit the ground, moreover, his hard helmet slammed against his temple, soon after flying about a foot away. His musket was nowhere to be found, either. Grunting and groaning, he gripped the handgun in his pocket. He then scooted out of sight, trying to crawl behind the brush without being spotted.
Just when he thought he was safe, the eighteen-year-old slowly stood up and slipped behind a tree trunk. His stomach was uneasy, and his tense facial expression was evidence of that. Bringing the gun up to his chest, he took it off of safe and positioned his finger on the trigger. He refused to use alchemy. Not this time. Still, he wanted to be ready.
Instead of a surprise attack, he sat and watched his breath float from his mouth, taking the appearance of an apparition. Damn, it was cold. It must’ve been below freezing. He was much too tense to shiver, but his balls took no time in disappearing into his body.
Daydreaming was his one mistake. He began to think back, back to his mother, and the way she used to graciously churn the sugar in a large bowl of dough. The way she did everything-so graciously. Those war eyes he had gained since he joined the military transitioned into a soft gaze. So graciously.
But that was his worst mistake of all. Before he knew it, a man in black uniform jumped from the bushes, catching him off guard. Apparently, the soldier had no weapons, because he began to wrestle him for his handgun. The Amestrian clenched his teeth and attempted to point the gun (that rightfully belonged to him) at his Drachman enemy, but no avail. The two wrestled to the dirt, giving each other a few good punches in the face, as well as a sucker punch added to the mix. They rolled and rolled, grunting and seething; the gun had even gone off a few times, but no one was hurt.
“…Fuck! Get off of me, you bastard!” he howled, kneeing the Drachman to the groin. The guy flinched, murmuring a few foreign swear words, but his fingers wouldn’t let the weapon loose. At last, he jammed the heel of the gun against the Amestrian’s nose. He was bleeding, now, uncontrollably from his nostrils. Before he let his only defense free, however, he used his legs to knock the other man to the ground, buying himself some time.
He didn’t want to do it, he really didn’t, but his body was stronger than his mind. Out of outright fright, his fingers began to carve a circle into the moist dirt, as quickly as he could. He began to draw out symbols with shaking digits. Just as the other man came back to consciousness, he finished his transmutation circle.
The Drachman gasped and sat straight up, aiming the stolen gun at his enemy.
Unfortunately for him, he had no time to react when the Amestrian clapped and slammed his hands onto the ground, causing strikes of lightening to rise up from the Earth. In only a half-second, the Drachman soldier was fried from head to toe, the alchemical lightening pulling his heart to an immediate stop. With his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he collapsed to his death.
Finally, he was allowed to breathe. Mr. Elric let out and sucked in tremulous breaths, worn out from the hand-to-hand combat. His eyes were glued to the lifeless body that lied before him. His nose was stinging, his face aching. He probably looked like hell. Never had he experienced something like this.
He looked down to his hands. The tips of his digits were still tingling with sparks of lightening. He promised his teacher that he wouldn’t resort to his alchemy-that he’d be a true man-and now, he had failed his teacher.
All of a sudden, his eyes caught sight of a snowflake, dancing in the air. It reminded him of a swan in the ballet, moving gracefully with its petit wings and breathtaking crystals. It eventually made its landing on his flesh, particularly on the flickering golden spark. The snowflake so-graciously cooled the heat residing on his fingers, returning them to body temperature (which happened to be thirty degrees under). It was almost as if the little snowflake was trying to comfort him.
Soon to follow, one snowflake after another began to descend from the ominous sky. While some continued to melt on his fingers, most of them landed in one particular spot-where the dead man lied. If there was a God out there, this was definitely a sign.
He was breathless at how supernal it was; perfect white flakes, either piling onto the Drachman man’s form, or circling around him. As if the snowflakes were little angels, whisking his soul off to other worlds. Worlds without war.
His vision averted back to his palms. He could feel himself shaking, now. He insistently told himself it was just the cold… nothing more.
Nothing more.
Even the sound of footsteps failed to break his trance. He did flinch, however, when a heavy hand set on his shoulder. When he recognized the voice, he realized it was Captain Verlacher. How long had he been standing there?
“Amazing…” he deemed, just above a whisper. His voice revealed utter shock with a hint of praise and victory. “That’s fine, boy…”
The private remained staring at his paws, silent.
“Who knew we had an alchemist on our team? Ya shoulda told me, private! Now that we have talent on our hands…” His grip grew tighter on the boy’s shoulder. An astonished countenance transformed into a grinning, crooked one. “…I can put a good word in for you.”
The next thing that the Captain said did snap him into full consciousness this time. And when he said it, the boy couldn’t help but look up at the Captain with his jaw to the floor.
“…How would you like to become a state alchemist?”
~xxx~
That fateful day, the day after the exam, he was eagerly accepted into the state alchemist program. Even as he unfolded the paper, he held in fits of excitement, trying to maintain a complacent look.
“…The Thunder Alchemist, huh?”
The General, a man he’d known since his childhood, sat humbly behind his desk, grinning. For him, it was like re-living the past. A déjà vu, if you will.
“That’s right. Pretty simple, I’m sure you’ll remember it,” General Mustang stated.
The newly-promoted major frowned in protest. “…The hell… but my alchemy isn’t even thunder! If it was, it would just make loud noises. You’d think Fuhrer Grunman would know the difference...”
Mustang simply shrugged his shoulders. Only an Elric would complain about something as mundane as the difference between lightning and thunder. “Maybe he thought it was catchier.”
The eighteen-year-old made a “tch” at that, crossing his arms in a stubborn manner. Nonetheless, the General outstretched his arm anyway. “Congratulations, Thunder. You’ve certainly moved up in the ranks.”
The “Thunder” Alchemist stared at his arm for a minute, reluctant, then finally lit up with a smirk, meeting his hand in a firm handshake. The two smiled, boring into each other with strong, sure eyes. “Yeah. Thanks, sir.”
The General made a promise. He promised to become Fuhrer, he promised to fix the country, and he promised to never fall prey to his hatred again. He also promised a certain someone that he’d look after their son… and that was a promise he intended to keep.
“I wish you well on the battlefield, Theo Van Elric.”