Unfinished Dreams - prologue fic
Title: Unfinished Dreams
Rating: R [language, violence]
Warnings: violence
Notes: This is the beginning of the storyline for superman_dead to return to Amestris and find his brother.
Unfinished Dreams
soundtrack: Savatage - Believe
September 1, 1917
The train lurched on the tracks as it rumbled around a curve, and Alphonse Elric woke up with a startled gasp as his foot slid off his knee to the floor. The car was dark; only moonlight filtered in from high on the western side of the car and it took a moment for him to place where he was.
Brother!
He closed his eyes and shivered, his shirt and hair sweat-soaked, his stomach churning.
Humans are such fragile creatures.
Al released a shaky breath, gritting his teeth.
Brother! My brother can't die. It doesn't make sense! My brother...
Even through his gloves, his short nails bit into his palms.
This is reality.
He barely restrained himself from punching out the window in desire to hit something. Fuck your reality.
Everything was vividly, crystal clear even now. Especially now, perhaps. It had been the first thing he remembered.
Still the most common dream.
My brother isn't dead yet. See? He's still warm.
A ragged breath hissed in past clenched teeth, and he harnessed it, locking up all the fear, all the rage, all the desperate, heartsick loneliness, everything that always sneaked out whenever he slept, and shoved it back down.
Click.
It was soft, softer than the clack of the wheels on the tracks, softer than the wind rushing past outside, softer than the distant chugging of the engine. But it wasn't one of those sounds. It wasn't a common sound. It was also a sound right near behind him.
Al jumped to his feet and spun around to an empty car, and stared at the nearby door before rushing to it, opening it and looking out. The night air was bitterly cold in the wind, and out there, the sound of the train wasn't as muffled.
There wasn't anyone.
But there had been.
Al's eyes narrowed as he smiled. So. He was still being followed. Sooner or later, he'd find out why. But there were still a few more hours left to the night, and in the meantime, he could rest before the train pulled in to Central.
So after all these one night stands,
You've ended up with heart in hand.
A child alone,
On your own,
Retreating.
"All right, I understand. Thanks, Lieutenant Havoc," Al said, glancing over his shoulder as he leaned against the side of the public phone booth. "Bye."
With that, he hung up.
Still no word, no sign, no trace of any of them. Winry. Sheska. The Tringham brothers. Lieutenant Hawkeye.
His brother.
It wasn't making any sense either; none of the disappearances, if they could be labeled as such, seemed to occur in similar regions. The Lieutenant was out East on vacation, and that was the last anyone heard of her. Al had searched Sheska's house from top to bottom and under every book pile, and even through all the libraries, and couldn't find her. All anyone knew was that she didn't show up for work one day. Winry had been en route to Central to help look for her, and never arrived. Halfway into her journey, there were reports of her getting off a train to switch to another leg of her trip, and never got on the next one. The Tringham brothers were the most uncertain, but Al thought he should have run into someone who'd at least have recognized a picture of them and seen them in recent months.
And then there was the last place anyone had seen his brother alive.
Al pushed away from the phone booth and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets as he kicked a small rock along the street. Dead end after dead end. With that many people vanishing, in all this time, he should have found out something, should have gotten a little closer to finding them. Should have picked up on even a fragile hint of a lead toward recovering his brother.
That was a lie - he had. But he wasn't willing to sacrifice hundreds upon who knew how many hundreds of lives to build a Philosopher's Stone.
Yet.
He kicked the rock harder and shoved the thought back into the deep, dark place where he kept it hidden. No. It wasn't acceptable. Mom wouldn't understand. Master wouldn't understand. Winry and Grandma Pinako wouldn't understand.
Brother would understand... but he wouldn't like it.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Equivalent exchange? What was equal about that? About any of it? They'd been the good guys, hadn't they? At least, compared to Dante and the homunculi. The Colonel - the Corporal now - he'd been aiming for the top not for personal gain or power but to bring a stop to the warmongering. He and Brother, they'd brought down someone who should never have had as much power as she did, someone who hurt people, destroyed entire cities for her own gain.
By the core definition, equal exchange was supposed to be fair. This for that. Or maybe it was fair. They did what they had to do -- the array was drawn. They paid equal exchange -- themselves for their goals.
It still wasn't very fair at all. And it didn't account for the others disappearing.
His feet always led him back to the same place every time he let them pick the way. They followed his heart, followed him, and it all led back to the beginning of the end. He made his way through the ruins, the route was memorized by now, and with a flashlight in hand, carefully descended the stairs into another world. Another city long dead.
Purgatory, where the dead await judgment.
He stopped and looked up. They'd both sinned -- isn't that what she called them? Why she named them what she did? They'd both done it. They were both judged. And wherever Brother was, he was the one cast away paying for them both. He paid twice over, in fact.
It was hell there too, without him. It wasn't safe, it wasn't sane, it wasn't right. It was a world that ceased making sense.
He hated it up there.
Down here was home now, not that he'd admit it to anyone. It was the last place where Brother was, so therefore the closest place to him. And by Al's logic, that was the only place that was home. Purgatory. A dark, dead city. And it was more comforting than a place where life kept insisting on going forward as if nothing had changed. Even before, it was okay, because Brother had been there too.
He pushed open the doors to the opera house, and shone the flashlight around, just to assure himself he was alone. There was still a dark brown stain on the floor. That stain and the array always helped him orient himself, to know where to look to where the Gate had been. He checked it, never admitting that he hoped he'd somehow find his brother there again, that he'd been able to come back, pushing his way back in through the Gate like he had once before. Or maybe at least some sign that his brother had been there.
It was a whisper of a thought that he never acknowledged, a fear that he'd never find him, never be able to bring him back, simply because he wasn't Edward Elric. He wasn't him. He was Alphonse, despite how he looked, how he dressed. And it was Brother -- it had always been Brother -- who was the one who had been able to fix things, to make things right for everybody where they went.
He sank to his knees and shut off the flashlight, watching as the room glowed golden again in his mind, the past replaying, looking again for anything that they might have done differently somehow. It was dark there, a degree of blackness so deep that his gaze slid right off it into nothingness, where sometimes, he would swear he could just start to make out the Gate.
The frantic screams of "Brother!" echoing in the great hall was the only thing not limited just to memory.
But when you had to add them up,
You found that they were not enough
To get you in;
Pay for sins
Repeated.
September 2, 1917
"Young Master Elric!"
The call repeated several times before Al realized the desk clerk at the hotel was addressing him. He paused on his way to the stairs and looked back, hands still in his pockets. "Yeah?"
The clerk waved a yellow telegram. "This came for you shortly after you departed."
Al frowned in thought and stepped over to the desk, reaching for it. "Thanks." It was a mystery as to how anyone knew he'd be there. He deliberately picked a different hotel than his usual, and had come and gone from the back way when he'd first arrived. Someone had been following him for the last two months, and like hell he would make it easy on them. He hadn't told Lieutenant Havoc where he was staying; in fact, he'd deliberately called from a pay phone rather than the room phone to throw off any wiretaps.
He got three steps from the desk before he got it open and froze.
It was addressed to his brother.
SEPT 2 1917
FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST BANBURN HOTEL
HAVE INFO ON WHEREABOUTS OF ROCKBELL GIRL STOP MEET AT
SHANIN TEMPLE RUINS SEPT 5 7PM STOP DONT BE LATE
Shanin. That was even further east than the Eastern Headquarters, on the fringes toward where the Ishbalites had lived, further north, somewhere between Youswell and Liore. Al smiled grimly. It was highly unlikely anyone there had any information on Winry.
"Is everything all right?" the desk clerk asked.
"Everything's fine, just stupid people doing stupid things again," Al said. He hesitated, then walked back over. "Do you have a current train schedule, by any chance?"
"Sure do, sonny." The clerk handed over a document. The next train going east to New Optain was due to leave at five-eighteen in the morning. From there, he could go to Youswell, and get off at the station just before that, and trek the rest of the way on foot to Shanin.
"Thanks," Al said, handing it back. "Could I trouble you for a wake-up call at four? I need to catch a train in the morning and there's some things I need to do first."
"Certainly." He made a note of it in the ledger. "Happy to be of service, young master."
And for all the roads you followed,
And for all you did not find,
And for all the things you had to leave behind.
September 4, 1917
He got to Shanin a day early after taking precautions to shake his tail, his easily-recognizable coat stowed in his bag. He made himself unobtrusive as possible, not easy to do in a small town far off from any rail service. Unobtrusive meant slinking in the shadows and listening at tavern windows.
"You really think he'll come?"
"Worth a shot. The brat's been looking for that Rockbell girl -- she's probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now. But Worley said he left Central, and got to New Optain yesterday. He hasn't seen him around, but he's coming."
"I got dibs on slitting him open like a--"
"Nobody's slittin' nobody. We take him back to Central for the boss to deal with, you know that."
I was already in Central, numbskulls, Al groused. You had to drag me all the way out here just to drag me back there? You didn't score too high in the competent efficiency class at lackey school, did you?
"Yeah, well, your boss is there, and dragging the alchemist brat around's just asking for trouble."
"Fucking useless red-eyed bastard, if you wanna play the game your way, get the hell out and go play. But if you try causing us problems, I got no issue with slitting you open. Got that?"
Red-eyed bastard? So there's at least one Ishbalite involved in this. I wonder who the others are. Al craned his neck, trying to look through the tavern window without being spotted. Oops. No good. They were sitting right by the window, from what Al could tell. Close enough that he would be spotted.
"I have more of a right to revenge than you do!"
"Maybe on the State Alchemists, but Fullmetal's ours. His meddling is what destroyed Liore."
Al sighed. Not that again.
"But most of you survived."
"Which means we're superior."
"Why, you slimy, arrogant, sonuva--"
"Knock it off, you two!" Al heard something crashing. "Now, if you gentlemen wouldn't mind, we have plans to return to."
Yes, get back to your plans. Plans are good. Tell me what you're doing.
"The Fullmetal brat shows up in the temple ruins, we get him surrounded."
Al raised an eyebrow. Nice to see you're so obliging and well-trained. Do you roll over and play dead too?
"No guns. Melee weapons only. There's twenty of us, that should be more than enough to bring one kid to his knees and haul his ass back to Central for the boss to decide what 'equivalent exchange' is."
The resulting laughter made Al roll his eyes and silently mouth back their own words mockingly. He listened in a bit longer, and once it became apparent the conversation had moved on to ale and whores for the night, he cheerfully bid them farewell from the shadows with a certain sort of salute, and retreated back to the gully a half-mile away where he'd found a cozy little recess just right for him to nap out the heat of the upcoming day.
Your childhood eyes were so intense
While bartering your innocence
For bits of string,
Grown-up wings
You needed.
September 5, 1917
Seven o'clock in the evening on the dot. Al made his way into the temple ruins, not bothering to conceal his presence. It was all he could do keep from yelling that there he was, and to come and get him.
He was ready.
"Fullmetal?" a voice asked, and Al looked around, seeing a man's figure leaning back against a ruined wall. Now how should he answer that?
"I'm the one you sent the telegram to," Al said. That much was true. It was addressed to Fullmetal, but it wasn't his fault that they thought he was his brother.
Well, not entirely, anyway.
"You said you had some information for me?" he continued.
"I suppose I did, didn't I?" He chuckled. "What can I say? I lied."
"Is your boss hurting for cash?"
"What?"
"Obviously, he can only rent cheap quality lackeys. You don't even come with your own original dialogue."
That seemed to make the man not too happy. "You think you're cute. We'll see how cute you are on your knees."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I like the ladies," Al said, glancing around quickly with his eyes as he heard movement behind him.
"If you play nice," the leader said, "we'll go easy on you."
"Call me crazy, but I have this funny little quirk about not trusting proven, admitted liars," Al said, keeping his tone sweet as others moved into position, encircling him. He grinned, lowering his head a bit to glance around out of the corners of his eyes, taking a count.
"Aw, you hurt my feelings, little boy."
"Stick around and the rest of you will match." He finished his head count and sighed. "You people have utterly no concept of a fair fight, do you? C'mon. Only twelve of you? If you'd caught up with me on a good day, I might have been inclined to take it easier on you. Sorry to say you haven't." His grin deepened as he pressed his hands together in a mockery of prayer.
"Don't move!" the leader ordered, "get him!"
The others had just barely started to step toward him when Al hit the deck, pressing the embroidered arrays on the palms of his gloves to the ground. In an instant, there was a deep rumble and a thunderous crack as spiked pillars erupted in a hail of pebble and dust around him.
Make that pebble, dust, and blood.
Not bad, Al thought, glancing around to check out his handiwork. At least nine of the twelve were impaled on the spikes. Another transmutation created a rapidly-rising pillar as the others advanced toward him, and Al moved to his knees as the pillar hoisted him through the long-collapsed ceiling.
He could hear the shouted orders as the men scattered and regrouped. The leader had been taken out in Al's initial attack, and according to the reports he'd heard the night before, there had been twenty of them. He'd taken down nine, which meant he still had eleven to worry about. Hopefully he'd be able to bring it to a standstill before everyone was dead. It was a bit difficult to beat information out of dead men, after all, and he wanted to know where the rest of them were before they caused any real trouble.
Al jumped off the raised platform onto the stone walls, pressing his gloved palms to the rock to create handholds allowing him to swing over to the other side of the wall and evade a thrown lasso. Briefly situated at an angle shielding him from any further attacks, Al stuck his fingers inside his shirt sleeve and tapped the array at the inner wrist of the steel bracer he wore on his right forearm.
With a flash, the transmutation began, moving the majority of the metal out from under his sleeve and over the back of his hand, leaving just a cuff-width bit around his wrist. He curled his fingers around the bar that formed over his palm, and the rest of the metal shaped to form a sharp blade.
Havoc had teased him about it, but the blade had less to do with emulating his big brother and more to do with realizing the practicality of it. When not in use, it gave him a protected arm he could take hits on, and it was invaluable as a cleverly concealed weapon.
Ready for battle, he leapt over the stone wall and down into the building's shadow.
The blade was lethal, and Al had no qualms about using it as the rebels surged around him. Sand and dust flew amid a flurry of kicks and punches that would have made Master proud.
As he struck out, steel meeting flesh, someone grabbed his arm. Undeterred, Al simply shifted his weight and used the taller man for leverage as he kicked out with both feet, twisting his body to slam against another's chest. At the same time, he used his blade-arm, and punched the man holding him in the throat.
Of course, there was the little matter of a sharp shaft of metal extending a good foot and a half beyond his hand.
Something heavy and hard impacted against his back as Al started to untangle himself from the body, and he went sprawling. A hand to the ground, a twist of his knee, and the momentum was harnessed to work for him instead of against and he rolled with the blow, stopping in a half-crouch.
"You're lucky the boss wants you alive."
"This boss have a name?" Al asked as he kept an eye on the remaining opponents, taking note of their various weapons.
The lasso was his primary problem, followed by the two bolas whirring as their wielders spun them in a blurred circle. The rest had heavy pipes and other blunt instruments which he could easily disable.
"He can tell you himself if he wants to."
Damn, no information there. Al caught a glimpse of a blurred rope a split second too late to do more than raise his arm. The lasso tightened around him, and with a twist of his wrist, he sliced through the tough fibers as he pushed at it and ducked out from its grip. A handful of sand flung at the man's face hindered any recovery he might have had for the ruined lasso, and Al ripped it from his grip and snapped it out to tangle it in one of the spinning bolas.
He heard a heavy footstep behind him, and dove just in time to avoid a narrow miss with a steel pipe, giving his attacker a boot to the kneecap for his troubles. Another clap, another flash of transmutation, and several whirlwinds of sand erupted from the ground, blinding several of them. But that was still something the nine remaining out of twenty could recover from, and although he'd certainly lowered the odds, the fight was far from over.
Al had no problem with playing for keeps. They had no information that was useful to him, and they meant to do something that would hinder his efforts to find his brother. That wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. A second transmutation caught three of the attackers, impaling them on glassy spikes. Nine? Make that six.
Then something glinted in the dying sunlight, and he reflexively raised his arm to block the thrown metal pipe. It struck the blade with a tremendous force, and he bit back a curse as he felt something in his wrist give way on impact. The dust devils were dissipating, and as the roar of sand faded, he heard the distinct humming of not one, but two bolas at the ready. So they either had spares, or the one he'd disabled had been untangled.
Al transmuted the blade away, needing the metal around his wrist to brace it, and dove to avoid another swing. A clap of his hands armed him with a stone spear, and he ignored the burning sensation of his wrist as he parried three of them at once. Their sudden movements as they backed away warned him, but not in time. He caught the rope on the spear, but not far away enough to avoid the heavy bolas.
His vision blacked momentarily as stars exploded, and a hand grabbed his right arm. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision as he reached across to transmutate the bracer again, but his free wrist was seized by another hand. Almost in the same instant, he lost the ability to breathe when a foot connected hard against his side, and his arms were twisted behind him with enough force that his shoulders felt like they were on the verge of dislocating.
Struggling didn't get him anywhere; the blows to his head and side left him too dizzy to think. Hands and feet were bound, and he felt some rip his gloves off. His ears were ringing still, their shouts and orders tunneled from a long way off as he was hauled to his feet.
Someone gripped his ponytail, and as his head was pulled back, Al focused his eyes on the rebel in front of him. Or rather, the middle one, as his vision decided to try and convince him they'd suddenly tripled in number.
"So this is the great Fullmetal Alchemist," he sneered. "You weren't so tough after all."
"Bullshit," Al said, and coughed, biting back a wince. "Have fun explaining to your boss why twenty were sent and only, what, five or so of you came back." The man's response was a solid punch to the solar plexus, and Al doubled over, heaving and gasping as his lungs seemed to briefly quit working.
"Throw him in the truck! The sooner we get back to Central, the sooner we can get rid of him."
A retort started to stir in a far corner of his mind, but he couldn't clear his thoughts enough to bring it into attention, never mind the fact that he didn't feel like he could breathe well enough to speak. A black cloth was tugged over his head and tied around his neck before he was dragged, the pressure of his weight making his shoulders protest loudly, and then breathing took all of his remaining attention as he was unceremoniously thrown up and onto something hard.
With a grim acknowledgement that there wasn't much he could do in the current moment in his condition, Al let himself succumb to unconsciousness. Just a bit of rest, and then they'd have hell to reckon with later.
So I plot and I plan,
Hope, and I scheme,
To the lure of a night
Filled with unfinished dreams.
And I'm holding on tight
To a world gone astray
As they charge me for years
I can't pay.
September 9, 1917
"Good morning, Lieutenant General."
"Good morning, Captain." The old warhorse smiled as he took the offered cup of tea. "What's on the day's agenda?"
It was the same, day in and day out, with seldom any variation. Lieutenant General Graman could almost recite along with his adjutant everything being reported. He nodded his head, only half-listening, and inserted the appropriate conversational noises as the man spoke.
As his gaze drifted over the desk, a word on the upside-down newspaper leapt out at him. "Hold on a moment," he said, gesturing to the captain to stop talking. He pointed to the paper. "May I?"
"Of course, General."
He picked up the East City newspaper, intent on the headline which caught his eye.
Liore Revolutionists Demand Fullmetal Alchemist.
Leaders hold decoy hostage, Fullmetal has 10 days before decoy is executed, they say.
Oh, dear. What has that boy gotten himself into now? He frowned as he folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "Captain, find out which outpost Corporal Roy Mustang is stationed at, and deliver an order that he is to call me as soon as possible. I'll be in my office."
"Yes, sir."
...to be continued.
Rating: R [language, violence]
Warnings: violence
Notes: This is the beginning of the storyline for superman_dead to return to Amestris and find his brother.
Unfinished Dreams
soundtrack: Savatage - Believe
September 1, 1917
The train lurched on the tracks as it rumbled around a curve, and Alphonse Elric woke up with a startled gasp as his foot slid off his knee to the floor. The car was dark; only moonlight filtered in from high on the western side of the car and it took a moment for him to place where he was.
Brother!
He closed his eyes and shivered, his shirt and hair sweat-soaked, his stomach churning.
Humans are such fragile creatures.
Al released a shaky breath, gritting his teeth.
Brother! My brother can't die. It doesn't make sense! My brother...
Even through his gloves, his short nails bit into his palms.
This is reality.
He barely restrained himself from punching out the window in desire to hit something. Fuck your reality.
Everything was vividly, crystal clear even now. Especially now, perhaps. It had been the first thing he remembered.
Still the most common dream.
My brother isn't dead yet. See? He's still warm.
A ragged breath hissed in past clenched teeth, and he harnessed it, locking up all the fear, all the rage, all the desperate, heartsick loneliness, everything that always sneaked out whenever he slept, and shoved it back down.
Click.
It was soft, softer than the clack of the wheels on the tracks, softer than the wind rushing past outside, softer than the distant chugging of the engine. But it wasn't one of those sounds. It wasn't a common sound. It was also a sound right near behind him.
Al jumped to his feet and spun around to an empty car, and stared at the nearby door before rushing to it, opening it and looking out. The night air was bitterly cold in the wind, and out there, the sound of the train wasn't as muffled.
There wasn't anyone.
But there had been.
Al's eyes narrowed as he smiled. So. He was still being followed. Sooner or later, he'd find out why. But there were still a few more hours left to the night, and in the meantime, he could rest before the train pulled in to Central.
So after all these one night stands,
You've ended up with heart in hand.
A child alone,
On your own,
Retreating.
"All right, I understand. Thanks, Lieutenant Havoc," Al said, glancing over his shoulder as he leaned against the side of the public phone booth. "Bye."
With that, he hung up.
Still no word, no sign, no trace of any of them. Winry. Sheska. The Tringham brothers. Lieutenant Hawkeye.
His brother.
It wasn't making any sense either; none of the disappearances, if they could be labeled as such, seemed to occur in similar regions. The Lieutenant was out East on vacation, and that was the last anyone heard of her. Al had searched Sheska's house from top to bottom and under every book pile, and even through all the libraries, and couldn't find her. All anyone knew was that she didn't show up for work one day. Winry had been en route to Central to help look for her, and never arrived. Halfway into her journey, there were reports of her getting off a train to switch to another leg of her trip, and never got on the next one. The Tringham brothers were the most uncertain, but Al thought he should have run into someone who'd at least have recognized a picture of them and seen them in recent months.
And then there was the last place anyone had seen his brother alive.
Al pushed away from the phone booth and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets as he kicked a small rock along the street. Dead end after dead end. With that many people vanishing, in all this time, he should have found out something, should have gotten a little closer to finding them. Should have picked up on even a fragile hint of a lead toward recovering his brother.
That was a lie - he had. But he wasn't willing to sacrifice hundreds upon who knew how many hundreds of lives to build a Philosopher's Stone.
Yet.
He kicked the rock harder and shoved the thought back into the deep, dark place where he kept it hidden. No. It wasn't acceptable. Mom wouldn't understand. Master wouldn't understand. Winry and Grandma Pinako wouldn't understand.
Brother would understand... but he wouldn't like it.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Equivalent exchange? What was equal about that? About any of it? They'd been the good guys, hadn't they? At least, compared to Dante and the homunculi. The Colonel - the Corporal now - he'd been aiming for the top not for personal gain or power but to bring a stop to the warmongering. He and Brother, they'd brought down someone who should never have had as much power as she did, someone who hurt people, destroyed entire cities for her own gain.
By the core definition, equal exchange was supposed to be fair. This for that. Or maybe it was fair. They did what they had to do -- the array was drawn. They paid equal exchange -- themselves for their goals.
It still wasn't very fair at all. And it didn't account for the others disappearing.
His feet always led him back to the same place every time he let them pick the way. They followed his heart, followed him, and it all led back to the beginning of the end. He made his way through the ruins, the route was memorized by now, and with a flashlight in hand, carefully descended the stairs into another world. Another city long dead.
Purgatory, where the dead await judgment.
He stopped and looked up. They'd both sinned -- isn't that what she called them? Why she named them what she did? They'd both done it. They were both judged. And wherever Brother was, he was the one cast away paying for them both. He paid twice over, in fact.
It was hell there too, without him. It wasn't safe, it wasn't sane, it wasn't right. It was a world that ceased making sense.
He hated it up there.
Down here was home now, not that he'd admit it to anyone. It was the last place where Brother was, so therefore the closest place to him. And by Al's logic, that was the only place that was home. Purgatory. A dark, dead city. And it was more comforting than a place where life kept insisting on going forward as if nothing had changed. Even before, it was okay, because Brother had been there too.
He pushed open the doors to the opera house, and shone the flashlight around, just to assure himself he was alone. There was still a dark brown stain on the floor. That stain and the array always helped him orient himself, to know where to look to where the Gate had been. He checked it, never admitting that he hoped he'd somehow find his brother there again, that he'd been able to come back, pushing his way back in through the Gate like he had once before. Or maybe at least some sign that his brother had been there.
It was a whisper of a thought that he never acknowledged, a fear that he'd never find him, never be able to bring him back, simply because he wasn't Edward Elric. He wasn't him. He was Alphonse, despite how he looked, how he dressed. And it was Brother -- it had always been Brother -- who was the one who had been able to fix things, to make things right for everybody where they went.
He sank to his knees and shut off the flashlight, watching as the room glowed golden again in his mind, the past replaying, looking again for anything that they might have done differently somehow. It was dark there, a degree of blackness so deep that his gaze slid right off it into nothingness, where sometimes, he would swear he could just start to make out the Gate.
The frantic screams of "Brother!" echoing in the great hall was the only thing not limited just to memory.
But when you had to add them up,
You found that they were not enough
To get you in;
Pay for sins
Repeated.
September 2, 1917
"Young Master Elric!"
The call repeated several times before Al realized the desk clerk at the hotel was addressing him. He paused on his way to the stairs and looked back, hands still in his pockets. "Yeah?"
The clerk waved a yellow telegram. "This came for you shortly after you departed."
Al frowned in thought and stepped over to the desk, reaching for it. "Thanks." It was a mystery as to how anyone knew he'd be there. He deliberately picked a different hotel than his usual, and had come and gone from the back way when he'd first arrived. Someone had been following him for the last two months, and like hell he would make it easy on them. He hadn't told Lieutenant Havoc where he was staying; in fact, he'd deliberately called from a pay phone rather than the room phone to throw off any wiretaps.
He got three steps from the desk before he got it open and froze.
It was addressed to his brother.
SEPT 2 1917
FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST BANBURN HOTEL
HAVE INFO ON WHEREABOUTS OF ROCKBELL GIRL STOP MEET AT
SHANIN TEMPLE RUINS SEPT 5 7PM STOP DONT BE LATE
Shanin. That was even further east than the Eastern Headquarters, on the fringes toward where the Ishbalites had lived, further north, somewhere between Youswell and Liore. Al smiled grimly. It was highly unlikely anyone there had any information on Winry.
"Is everything all right?" the desk clerk asked.
"Everything's fine, just stupid people doing stupid things again," Al said. He hesitated, then walked back over. "Do you have a current train schedule, by any chance?"
"Sure do, sonny." The clerk handed over a document. The next train going east to New Optain was due to leave at five-eighteen in the morning. From there, he could go to Youswell, and get off at the station just before that, and trek the rest of the way on foot to Shanin.
"Thanks," Al said, handing it back. "Could I trouble you for a wake-up call at four? I need to catch a train in the morning and there's some things I need to do first."
"Certainly." He made a note of it in the ledger. "Happy to be of service, young master."
And for all the roads you followed,
And for all you did not find,
And for all the things you had to leave behind.
September 4, 1917
He got to Shanin a day early after taking precautions to shake his tail, his easily-recognizable coat stowed in his bag. He made himself unobtrusive as possible, not easy to do in a small town far off from any rail service. Unobtrusive meant slinking in the shadows and listening at tavern windows.
"You really think he'll come?"
"Worth a shot. The brat's been looking for that Rockbell girl -- she's probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now. But Worley said he left Central, and got to New Optain yesterday. He hasn't seen him around, but he's coming."
"I got dibs on slitting him open like a--"
"Nobody's slittin' nobody. We take him back to Central for the boss to deal with, you know that."
I was already in Central, numbskulls, Al groused. You had to drag me all the way out here just to drag me back there? You didn't score too high in the competent efficiency class at lackey school, did you?
"Yeah, well, your boss is there, and dragging the alchemist brat around's just asking for trouble."
"Fucking useless red-eyed bastard, if you wanna play the game your way, get the hell out and go play. But if you try causing us problems, I got no issue with slitting you open. Got that?"
Red-eyed bastard? So there's at least one Ishbalite involved in this. I wonder who the others are. Al craned his neck, trying to look through the tavern window without being spotted. Oops. No good. They were sitting right by the window, from what Al could tell. Close enough that he would be spotted.
"I have more of a right to revenge than you do!"
"Maybe on the State Alchemists, but Fullmetal's ours. His meddling is what destroyed Liore."
Al sighed. Not that again.
"But most of you survived."
"Which means we're superior."
"Why, you slimy, arrogant, sonuva--"
"Knock it off, you two!" Al heard something crashing. "Now, if you gentlemen wouldn't mind, we have plans to return to."
Yes, get back to your plans. Plans are good. Tell me what you're doing.
"The Fullmetal brat shows up in the temple ruins, we get him surrounded."
Al raised an eyebrow. Nice to see you're so obliging and well-trained. Do you roll over and play dead too?
"No guns. Melee weapons only. There's twenty of us, that should be more than enough to bring one kid to his knees and haul his ass back to Central for the boss to decide what 'equivalent exchange' is."
The resulting laughter made Al roll his eyes and silently mouth back their own words mockingly. He listened in a bit longer, and once it became apparent the conversation had moved on to ale and whores for the night, he cheerfully bid them farewell from the shadows with a certain sort of salute, and retreated back to the gully a half-mile away where he'd found a cozy little recess just right for him to nap out the heat of the upcoming day.
Your childhood eyes were so intense
While bartering your innocence
For bits of string,
Grown-up wings
You needed.
September 5, 1917
Seven o'clock in the evening on the dot. Al made his way into the temple ruins, not bothering to conceal his presence. It was all he could do keep from yelling that there he was, and to come and get him.
He was ready.
"Fullmetal?" a voice asked, and Al looked around, seeing a man's figure leaning back against a ruined wall. Now how should he answer that?
"I'm the one you sent the telegram to," Al said. That much was true. It was addressed to Fullmetal, but it wasn't his fault that they thought he was his brother.
Well, not entirely, anyway.
"You said you had some information for me?" he continued.
"I suppose I did, didn't I?" He chuckled. "What can I say? I lied."
"Is your boss hurting for cash?"
"What?"
"Obviously, he can only rent cheap quality lackeys. You don't even come with your own original dialogue."
That seemed to make the man not too happy. "You think you're cute. We'll see how cute you are on your knees."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I like the ladies," Al said, glancing around quickly with his eyes as he heard movement behind him.
"If you play nice," the leader said, "we'll go easy on you."
"Call me crazy, but I have this funny little quirk about not trusting proven, admitted liars," Al said, keeping his tone sweet as others moved into position, encircling him. He grinned, lowering his head a bit to glance around out of the corners of his eyes, taking a count.
"Aw, you hurt my feelings, little boy."
"Stick around and the rest of you will match." He finished his head count and sighed. "You people have utterly no concept of a fair fight, do you? C'mon. Only twelve of you? If you'd caught up with me on a good day, I might have been inclined to take it easier on you. Sorry to say you haven't." His grin deepened as he pressed his hands together in a mockery of prayer.
"Don't move!" the leader ordered, "get him!"
The others had just barely started to step toward him when Al hit the deck, pressing the embroidered arrays on the palms of his gloves to the ground. In an instant, there was a deep rumble and a thunderous crack as spiked pillars erupted in a hail of pebble and dust around him.
Make that pebble, dust, and blood.
Not bad, Al thought, glancing around to check out his handiwork. At least nine of the twelve were impaled on the spikes. Another transmutation created a rapidly-rising pillar as the others advanced toward him, and Al moved to his knees as the pillar hoisted him through the long-collapsed ceiling.
He could hear the shouted orders as the men scattered and regrouped. The leader had been taken out in Al's initial attack, and according to the reports he'd heard the night before, there had been twenty of them. He'd taken down nine, which meant he still had eleven to worry about. Hopefully he'd be able to bring it to a standstill before everyone was dead. It was a bit difficult to beat information out of dead men, after all, and he wanted to know where the rest of them were before they caused any real trouble.
Al jumped off the raised platform onto the stone walls, pressing his gloved palms to the rock to create handholds allowing him to swing over to the other side of the wall and evade a thrown lasso. Briefly situated at an angle shielding him from any further attacks, Al stuck his fingers inside his shirt sleeve and tapped the array at the inner wrist of the steel bracer he wore on his right forearm.
With a flash, the transmutation began, moving the majority of the metal out from under his sleeve and over the back of his hand, leaving just a cuff-width bit around his wrist. He curled his fingers around the bar that formed over his palm, and the rest of the metal shaped to form a sharp blade.
Havoc had teased him about it, but the blade had less to do with emulating his big brother and more to do with realizing the practicality of it. When not in use, it gave him a protected arm he could take hits on, and it was invaluable as a cleverly concealed weapon.
Ready for battle, he leapt over the stone wall and down into the building's shadow.
The blade was lethal, and Al had no qualms about using it as the rebels surged around him. Sand and dust flew amid a flurry of kicks and punches that would have made Master proud.
As he struck out, steel meeting flesh, someone grabbed his arm. Undeterred, Al simply shifted his weight and used the taller man for leverage as he kicked out with both feet, twisting his body to slam against another's chest. At the same time, he used his blade-arm, and punched the man holding him in the throat.
Of course, there was the little matter of a sharp shaft of metal extending a good foot and a half beyond his hand.
Something heavy and hard impacted against his back as Al started to untangle himself from the body, and he went sprawling. A hand to the ground, a twist of his knee, and the momentum was harnessed to work for him instead of against and he rolled with the blow, stopping in a half-crouch.
"You're lucky the boss wants you alive."
"This boss have a name?" Al asked as he kept an eye on the remaining opponents, taking note of their various weapons.
The lasso was his primary problem, followed by the two bolas whirring as their wielders spun them in a blurred circle. The rest had heavy pipes and other blunt instruments which he could easily disable.
"He can tell you himself if he wants to."
Damn, no information there. Al caught a glimpse of a blurred rope a split second too late to do more than raise his arm. The lasso tightened around him, and with a twist of his wrist, he sliced through the tough fibers as he pushed at it and ducked out from its grip. A handful of sand flung at the man's face hindered any recovery he might have had for the ruined lasso, and Al ripped it from his grip and snapped it out to tangle it in one of the spinning bolas.
He heard a heavy footstep behind him, and dove just in time to avoid a narrow miss with a steel pipe, giving his attacker a boot to the kneecap for his troubles. Another clap, another flash of transmutation, and several whirlwinds of sand erupted from the ground, blinding several of them. But that was still something the nine remaining out of twenty could recover from, and although he'd certainly lowered the odds, the fight was far from over.
Al had no problem with playing for keeps. They had no information that was useful to him, and they meant to do something that would hinder his efforts to find his brother. That wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. A second transmutation caught three of the attackers, impaling them on glassy spikes. Nine? Make that six.
Then something glinted in the dying sunlight, and he reflexively raised his arm to block the thrown metal pipe. It struck the blade with a tremendous force, and he bit back a curse as he felt something in his wrist give way on impact. The dust devils were dissipating, and as the roar of sand faded, he heard the distinct humming of not one, but two bolas at the ready. So they either had spares, or the one he'd disabled had been untangled.
Al transmuted the blade away, needing the metal around his wrist to brace it, and dove to avoid another swing. A clap of his hands armed him with a stone spear, and he ignored the burning sensation of his wrist as he parried three of them at once. Their sudden movements as they backed away warned him, but not in time. He caught the rope on the spear, but not far away enough to avoid the heavy bolas.
His vision blacked momentarily as stars exploded, and a hand grabbed his right arm. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision as he reached across to transmutate the bracer again, but his free wrist was seized by another hand. Almost in the same instant, he lost the ability to breathe when a foot connected hard against his side, and his arms were twisted behind him with enough force that his shoulders felt like they were on the verge of dislocating.
Struggling didn't get him anywhere; the blows to his head and side left him too dizzy to think. Hands and feet were bound, and he felt some rip his gloves off. His ears were ringing still, their shouts and orders tunneled from a long way off as he was hauled to his feet.
Someone gripped his ponytail, and as his head was pulled back, Al focused his eyes on the rebel in front of him. Or rather, the middle one, as his vision decided to try and convince him they'd suddenly tripled in number.
"So this is the great Fullmetal Alchemist," he sneered. "You weren't so tough after all."
"Bullshit," Al said, and coughed, biting back a wince. "Have fun explaining to your boss why twenty were sent and only, what, five or so of you came back." The man's response was a solid punch to the solar plexus, and Al doubled over, heaving and gasping as his lungs seemed to briefly quit working.
"Throw him in the truck! The sooner we get back to Central, the sooner we can get rid of him."
A retort started to stir in a far corner of his mind, but he couldn't clear his thoughts enough to bring it into attention, never mind the fact that he didn't feel like he could breathe well enough to speak. A black cloth was tugged over his head and tied around his neck before he was dragged, the pressure of his weight making his shoulders protest loudly, and then breathing took all of his remaining attention as he was unceremoniously thrown up and onto something hard.
With a grim acknowledgement that there wasn't much he could do in the current moment in his condition, Al let himself succumb to unconsciousness. Just a bit of rest, and then they'd have hell to reckon with later.
So I plot and I plan,
Hope, and I scheme,
To the lure of a night
Filled with unfinished dreams.
And I'm holding on tight
To a world gone astray
As they charge me for years
I can't pay.
September 9, 1917
"Good morning, Lieutenant General."
"Good morning, Captain." The old warhorse smiled as he took the offered cup of tea. "What's on the day's agenda?"
It was the same, day in and day out, with seldom any variation. Lieutenant General Graman could almost recite along with his adjutant everything being reported. He nodded his head, only half-listening, and inserted the appropriate conversational noises as the man spoke.
As his gaze drifted over the desk, a word on the upside-down newspaper leapt out at him. "Hold on a moment," he said, gesturing to the captain to stop talking. He pointed to the paper. "May I?"
"Of course, General."
He picked up the East City newspaper, intent on the headline which caught his eye.
Liore Revolutionists Demand Fullmetal Alchemist.
Leaders hold decoy hostage, Fullmetal has 10 days before decoy is executed, they say.
Oh, dear. What has that boy gotten himself into now? He frowned as he folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "Captain, find out which outpost Corporal Roy Mustang is stationed at, and deliver an order that he is to call me as soon as possible. I'll be in my office."
"Yes, sir."
...to be continued.