Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Gomorrah ❯ Apostle ( Chapter 2 )

Gomorrah

by Insomniac Owl

Chapter 2: Apostle

Munich, Germany. Year: December 14, 1939

“They’ve made a decision about the Soviet Union, did you hear? Look, here in the paper. They’ve kicked them out of the League of Nations. What do you think is wrong with them, to make them invade Finland like they did? And Poland too - didn’t they know they’d be kicked out?”

“Don’t ask me about stuff like that; I don’t know. A lot of the world’s gone crazy these past few months, and all I do is read the papers.” The two talking look up, waving at the two men walking by.

“Edward! Alphonse!” one of them calls, raising his paper in greeting.

Ed grins, waving back, but shakes his head at their invitation to join them. “No thanks guys!” he calls. “We have business to take care of!” They walk on, and he glances toward Al, the cheerfulness fading from his eyes. “I don’t like what’s going on Al,” he murmurs grimly. “All these threats… The Nazi party started killing off the sick and elderly in November, so what’s next? Are they going to start killing all the Jews too?”

“I don’t know Brother,” Al replies, looking up worriedly. “But I don’t like it either. I’ve been hearing things from Hughes, and it worries me… There’s talk of invasions, and all sorts of things.”

“Yeah …” Ed sighs, looking up into the cloud-strewn sky. Things have been happening, and the Nazis seem to be at the center of it all. There are good things about the party, granted - they promote nationalism and patriotism, but everything revolves around the military and their dictator, Adolph Hitler. They’re trying to set up a totalitarian government of sorts, and Ed’s not sure he likes that idea. But everyone supports them, so what can he do? He’s not going to start a campaign against them, hand out pamphlets, or make public speeches, that’s for sure - he’d probably get killed for it anyway. He figures the only thing to do is wait and see what develops. And yet, they can’t do that forever…

“I don’t know Al,” he says softly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know.” o  

Central, Amestris. Year: December 17, 1933

Dirt is caked beneath his fingernails, digging into the tender skin painfully. Roy pauses for a moment, sweeping hair from his eyes with a few dirt-streaked fingers, then applying himself once more to the task at hand.

It’s foggy out - dense and thick and cloaking - and he’s glad of it. He’s glad of it as he at last runs a hand over wood, and when he drags her body from its prison, hefting her over his shoulder and bearing her home.

He chose his living room floor to perform the transmutation in, and cleared the floor to allow it. He can see the furniture crowding his kitchen through the doorway as he lays Riza on the floor against one wall, out of the way where his chalk will not need to touch. And he takes the small white stick and sets it against the wooden floor, and for the next fifteen minutes all that can be heard is the gentle sound of dragging chalk.

When he is finished, he sits back on his knees and looks it over, eyes flicking over every symbol, every line and circle, checking to make sure that everything is perfect. It has been a while since he’s done something this elaborate, quite some time… but checking it against the pattern he’s memorized, he finds it flawless. He lifts Riza from the floor and lays her in the center of the circle, then without ceremony takes a small knife from his belt and nicks his wrist, allowing the blood to spill freely.

“Life,” he murmurs beneath his breath, stepping to the edge of the circle and kneeling. Then behind him, from the front of the house, he hears someone tapping on the front door, light and unobtrusive. He pauses, then shakes his head, deciding against answering it. He can’t afford distractions, and if they see what he’s doing here…

His gaze falls on Riza, lying peacefully five feet before him, her head turned toward him and lips slightly parted in death. And after a moment, all but oblivious to the small creak of the front door, he presses his hands to the wood and chalk beneath him.

Immediately white-blue light flares up, enveloping the circle and Riza’s body within it, the subtle noise of it filling his ears. His heart soars, and he smiles. It’s working. It’s working and soon she’ll be here with him again, alive…

But he sees the change an instant before it happens. Red light replaces the blue-white, enveloping everything including himself, and casting strange shadows on the walls. They dance like demons on the paneled walls - though the furniture is removed they manage to find forms to mimic, twisting and changing, transmuting themselves on the walls. They writhe as if in pain, creeping… and he can’t take his eyes off her body.

“No…” he whispers hoarsely, trying for something more, something to express his despair, but nothing comes. “No…”

The light reaches for him with grasping claws, taking hold of him and dragging him toward its center, taking him into itself mercilessly. Something latches hold of his arm as he goes, and in a light-induced vertigo, he half imagines that it’s Riza reaching up from the floor, though he can see that her arms lie stationary, her lips still slightly open. As the world disappears into that awful red light, his mind is blank, filled only with a vast eternity calling to him that he failed.

Her face is swallowed by light, and then there is darkness. o

Looking back, I know I was doing something stupid. I knew it wouldn’t work, I knew it would fail…but I had to try. I was desperate you see, so desperate to have her back again, in my arms and beautiful. I was driven by something even I didn’t know, and as I chalked in the lines that would create my miracle, all I could see was her face…

And in my mind, she was telling me thank you. o

He feels the ground beneath his hands, the edges of a strange cobblestone street and bits of dirt and gravel. He can feel wood against his back, the wind against his face, but he can see none of it. He knows his eyes are open, but there is only darkness.

And he can’t find it in himself to care.

“What the hell?” a voice murmurs, and then there are whispers. Roy sighs, hearing the breath with strange clarity, and tilts his head back, feeling the rough surface of whatever wood he’s backed up against.

“Hey, you, what are you doing?”

The words are spoken in a voice he does not know, and he pauses, his mind still a whirl of uncertainty. “I’m not sure,” he answers, letting the words come at their own pace.

He doesn’t see it but he can feel the man - for it was a man, the timbre of the voice matched - come close, and he picks up footsteps to his right as well. Careful. Cautious.

“Are you okay?”

He turns his head and feels the man withdraw, the air drawn back in passing as his head moves away, and he feels a grin stretch across his face. He’s smiling, laughing. And then fingers jerk something from his pocket (leather against his skin - a wallet, was he carrying a wallet?) and he moves on reflex, thrusting his hand forward with fingers poised.

The material of his spark-gloves rubs against his skin, against the other man’s skin.

But only for a moment.

He expected the other man to freeze, but he did not. Instead a fist crashes into his face and he stumbles back, taking only an instant to calculate before snapping his fingers in one sharp movement.

There is no fire, no explosion. Only another fist. o

Munich, Germany. Year: December 17, 1939

Maes Hughes loves his job. He loves the excitement (though granted, that happens rarely) and the feeling he gets when he helps people. It’s a wonderful sense of fulfillment; knowing he made someone’s life a little better, a little brighter. It’s why he chose to join the police force to begin with - to help people.

When he told his wife Gracia that, she smiled and leaned up to kiss him, laughing gently, her nose tickling his ear as she said, “That’s just like you Maes.”

And it is.

He likes to (wants to) help people. So when he sees a man lying in the street, up against a wooden box marked for delivery to a nearby café, he stops, shakes him, asks if he’s alright. What with the bruises on his face, the swelling cheek, scrapes on his arms that bleed red through a white dress shirt, it’s not surprising that he doesn’t answer. His face - despite the injuries - is fine-featured and sharp, few wrinkles on a face that can’t be any older than Maes himself.

Carefully lifting the man off the ground and into his arms, Maes bears the stranger down the street and toward the hospital, his steps quick and sharp. If he sees the peculiar design on the back of the man’s gloves as he lifts him, he doesn’t give it a second thought.

At the hospital, the nurses tell him with an apologetic smile that the wards are full and they cannot take him. They tell him with apologies in their eyes and fingers that are already scribbling out the names of the next patient, that it doesn’t really matter anyway - the wounds certainly aren’t life-threatening, and can he please move aside so that those who need help can get through? Thank you.

Feeling distinctly angry, Maes carries the man to his own home, where he knows Gracia would be happy to care for the bruises and scratches (with a skill far superior to those nurses because, of course, she’d been bandaging the cuts and scrapes of their ten-year old daughter for just as long). And she does, with a meticulous care and neatness that leave the man dotted with white bandages over the worst of the wounds, and disinfectant over those that aren’t quite as bad.

His heart is tugging at his mind, telling him that he must be there when the man wakes up, though he isn’t sure what he can offer besides an explanation. Nonetheless, even after Gracia leaves, he stays, watching that slender ribcage rise and fall with each breath.

Every so often there is a hitch in the breathing, the eyelids flutter, and a small noise issues from those lips. The head turns restlessly; caught in dreams.

In beautiful nightmares. o

Dachau, Germany - 20 kilometers north of Munich. Year: December 17, 1939

There is a profile against the slightly damp window, the weak rays of a setting German sun streaming through the glass. A woman’s profile; blonde hair neatly done up and uniform spotless except for a small splattering of mud on the boots.

“Damned fog,” the woman mutters, dropping cerulean blue eyes to observe the land below the window. When they are not obscured by water droplets, neat, precise lines of uniformed troops can be seen performing drills on the square. They are carrying rifles on their right soldier, and on the left arm every man bears the swastika insignia of Hitler himself.

The sign is their identification mark, worn by every SS guard in employment here. They wear it proudly, and if they do not, if they show the sign disrespect, one of the instructors may decide they are better off in the camps they are training to guard. But no one here is fool enough to do something like that - not when surrounded by loyal Hilter advocates. It is as unthinkable as taking the rifle they carry and shoving the trigger against their own head (because that’s quite impossible - the fingers cannot reach the trigger no matter how they strain. The rifle is too long for that, and sometimes, she wonders if they made it that way intentionally), and none have tried it yet.

She’s proud of them in her way; her chest fills with it when she watches the precise perfection as they march perfectly in step like windup soldiers (though they’re not - no toy soldier could pull a trigger and blast a man’s head apart), and they follow orders just as well. And watching them now, marching with that precise perfection to the cadence of their drill sergeant, she allows herself a smile. Pride.

“Major?”

Her head turns slightly, enough to catch sight of the man standing at attention in the doorway, then away. He is small, raven hair and glasses, and one of her most loyal subordinates.

“What is it Havoc?” she asks, softly, as if afraid to break that perfect silence. And it nearly is perfect, only the muffled calls of the drill sergeant to break it.

“There are some papers that need your signature Ma’am,” he says respectfully, though his eyes rest on a spot just to her right, unwavering.

She gives a small sigh as she turns from the window, brushing a stray wisp of hair back into place and glancing up. “Have it sent to my office; I’ll take care of it there,” she replies, turning back to the window as he nods, salutes, and departs.

She fingers the gun at her hip for a moment before she turns, entertaining the thought of punching a few holes into the documents awaiting her. A tiny smile flicking across her face, her hand drops and she turns into the silence Havoc had broken.

Her footsteps almost echo. o

“Edward, Alphonse! What are you doing here?” Gracia’s smile welcomes them warmly, and she ushers them into the house, then the kitchen, pressing cups of hot chocolate into their gloved hands.

“We just wanted to say hi,” Al answers cheerfully, thanking her as he took his cup. His eyes lit up when he saw the marshmallows floating on the surface, and he happily slurped them up.

“Yeah, we’ve been gone a while; we thought it was about time for a visit,” Ed added with a grin, cradling the cup to his body. “Where’s Hughes?”

Her head tipped slightly toward the living room; a silent gesture, and her voice was quiet as well. “In the living room. He found a man on the streets today who was badly beaten. He took him to the hospital… but there wasn’t room. So he brought him home and I cared for him here. He’ll be fine, but he’s unconscious right now; Maes is with him.”

“Oh… that’s too bad,” Ed murmurs, looking into his hot chocolate. “Things like that have been happening too often lately… Things are getting out of hand, and that guy Hitler’s just…” he sighed, laying his cup aside and shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. His body settled against the wall, and he looked up at Gracia. Her eyes were soft, motherly. “I don’t like him.”

A small, wry smile settles on her lips for a moment, but only a moment, like butterfly wings. “You’d better not let anyone hear you say that Edward; people around here are very loyal. Even Maes…” Here her eyes flick toward the living room, full of an uncertain sadness, unsure of her emotions.

“What about you Mrs. Mughes?” Al asks, and her head comes up, a smile instantly coming onto her face, a small nervous laugh from between her painted lips.

“Oh I like him very much; he has the best interests of our country in mind, and I support that. He’s trying to expand you know, that’s what he’s doing in Poland - trying to expand - he wants to help us, and our country.”

“Really?” The word comes almost like an accusation.

Gracia looks toward Ed, surprise painted across her face in wide, bold strokes, unafraid of detection. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t sound too sure; that’s all.” He meets her gaze squarely, and it is a glove on the drawbridge. A challenge she cannot meet.

“I’m sure,” she says softly, then - as if she’d forgotten - “would you two like some sandwiches, some lunch?”

“That’s okay Gracia, we’re fine,” Al said cheerfully, “you don’t need to bother.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” she insists, already moving toward the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. “I don’t mind; you boys are like family to us, you know that, I’d be happy to-”

“It’s fine,” Ed cuts in sharply. She stops, one hand resting on the handle of the refrigerator, and Ed winces, immediately regretting the harshness of his tone. “Sorry, it’s just… you really don’t need to. You shouldn’t waste…”

Silence. Gracia is still, her back toward them, and though Ed cannot see her face he can imagine the expression there - the slightly parted lips, the soft eyes filled with sadness and perhaps even hurt.

“Brother?” Al’s inquiry is soft, meant for Ed’s ears alone - though he knows perfectly well that Gracia can hear him from where she stands.

“Nothing,” he murmurs quietly, looking away from Alphonse’s questioning gaze. He looks out the window, shrouded with curtains that he reaches to pull back with his right hand. The metal beneath his glove bumps against the glass with a harsh clank, and his reflection winces again, as if in pain.

Gracia has gone.

“It’s just that,” he continues, shadowed eyes staring into themselves, realizing for the first time how very old he looks, “she shouldn’t waste her food on us. Things aren’t too good for people now, and, well, we get our share Al. We don’t deserve more than that.” There is a long, pregnant silence, then he finds more words slipping from his lips, slowly, painfully. “Remember Al, what I told you when you first got here? About doing our share, and working to help this place, because it’s our home?” He sees Al’s nod in the window, their eyes meeting in transparency. “Well, we can’t be taking more than we deserve. Maybe it’s a bit extreme, but… we’re not the only ones who are in need. we’ve got jobs now, but… later, who knows? Things are happening now - big things. They’re talking about war, about invasion and breaking treaties, and if Hitler suggests it Al, these people will go along with it. They’re not able to see that…”

He stops, shaking his head. His reflection does the same, hair drifting into the curtains and disappearing. “I read that book of his Al, Mein Kampf… he’s insane.”

“But why would all these people follow him if he’s insane?” Al asks softly, looking toward the living room. “He has so many people who like what he’s doing, who follow and respect him, even idolize him-”

“He’s a natural leader,” Ed cuts in tiredly, leaning his temple against the cool glass of the windowpane. “He’s a very charismatic man, and people like that. They’re willing to follow someone who has a dream, and is willing to fight to get it. They would fight to get it, and that’s what makes him a great leader; he can convince people, talk to them, convince them, and when they won’t agree,” he raises a hand, forefinger extended, thumb in the air, and jerks his hand upward, “bam, and there’s no one to disagree anymore.”

“He’s killed people?”

“What do you think they’re doing to all the sick and disabled Al!” Ed cries suddenly, temper roused. “Don’t you get it? He’s a god damn murderer! An insane one!”

His breath comes quickly, angrily, and he turns and places his forehead roughly against the glass once more, trying to ignore his brother, and those words that came tumbling from his lips so innocently, as if he hadn’t though it true. But as he closes his eyes, breath forming a small foggy patch on the glass, Al speaks apologetically.

“I’m sorry Brother, it’s just that I don’t see how so many people could follow him if he’s insane. I want to know what he’s doing and why he’s doing it before I make up my mind.”

“That’s just like you Al, generous to a fault.” Ed sighs, dropping his head and turning with a small smile. There are voices coming from the living room now, newly sprung, and he turns inquisitively toward the doorway. He takes a step toward it, but Al puts a hand on his arm.

“Brother, you shouldn’t intrude,” he admonishes. “It doesn’t sound like they want to be interrupted.” And indeed, the voices are soft, hushed, even secretive. But Ed brushes Al’s hand away, stepping around the doorframe with the intent of simply peeking in to see what’s going on.

As looks however, he freezes, his mind suddenly blank. He can’t believe it, but the evidence is there. And in one pained rasp his vocal cords force out a name, long unused and nearly forgotten amid the dust of old memories.

“Mustang?”

End Chapter 2