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Edward Elric. Very well known fullmetal alchemist, 'The Hero of the people'. Some called him foolish; arrogant, ignorant, childish.
(The raw irony of that word sickens him. He is a child. A young child just barely getting by, can't you see?)
Some called him a mere worthless pawn, nothing but a dog of the military. Sent out to work for the people. To make them think the military was to be trusted. To manipulate them. Just the thought of being held on such a short leash made Ed seethe.
(He had his own free will. For now at least.)
It wasn't like the people had a choice. Only the lowest of low fools would fight or even stand up against the wrath of alchemists. It disgusted him just how much hierarchies were built on power and fear tactics.
Others thought him for nothing more than what he is. A child. A young child kidnapped from his humble home of Resembool and forced to work for the military. With eyes tainted with much more than a regular 13 year old’s youth should.
He should be at home, going to school worrying about exams, romance, sneaking into abandoned homesteads. With the youthful chub that still clung to his cheeks, the raw bitten nail beds, tangled strings of gold that ran down his back.
(Edward would never say it aloud, but he dearly missed roaming the vast lands of Resembool, the quiet seas of green that flowed in the wind. Accompanied by the peaceful bison and sheep that followed him. Letting them feast from his hands and lay in his lap was a dearly held secret. )
Yet here he sat, above, next to military personnel. They quarreled on and on about meaningless prophets and exchanges. Everything that doesn't matter. Why was he here, he didn't know. Well. Supposedly he had no choice. He was a military major. A very talented Alchemist.
(Unfortunately, unfortunate enough to make him wish he could peel his skin off, remove all of his memories, and knowledge of all alchemy. The abyss of white emptiness and fullness that writhed under his very being. Maybe. . .just maybe, he wouldn't be here.)
A young child standing amongst middle aged men with nothing more to live for then alcohol, sex, and money. Those whose veins only ran full of greed and lust. On some accounts Edward ridiculed them the same way they did him. He stood proud because what more could he do?
(It terrified him, he hides the rattling of his automail, the tremble in his hands as he reaches to shake the hands of all the fake. Fake. FAKE. Smiles. They haunt him, laughing, watching, he cannot escape their gaze.)
Any sign of vulnerability would be spotted in seconds. Just one breathe out of line, and he would be ripped to shreds, guts, gore and all. A snake ripped from the confines of the large grass blades. He lay riddled with nothing more than guilt, the guilt of losing his father, not being good enough for his mother, killing his own little brother, leaving his dear family to right his wrongs.
The metal that clings to his limbs weighs much more than pounds. They weigh with his sins he's marked them. The pain. He lives with it everyday. He lies in his bed still as stone just to relieve his brother of the same pain that taints him. Anything near guilt he didn't want associated with his brother. He had enough burden. No. Edward could not compare to his little brother's suffering. He was disgusted at himself for even insinuating an idea like that.
(It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It tugs his skin, peeling it apart. Ripping and tearing the muscle and skin off his bones. It tugs. He regrets finishing in a year. It aches all the time. He wishes he could disappear. Hide and sob into his mother's brown hair. And be held together by her gentle hands. He wants it back.)
Alphonse didn't deserve a brother like Ed. He deserved happiness and smiles. A full loving family. Maybe if Edward hadn't been born they could've been a happy trio. Dad wouldn't have left. Edward wouldn't be here forced to fight conflicts and be Al's adult. Missing his child years. He didn't deserve Alphonse.
"Fu- tal"
Edward blinked. He knew that voice. Roy Mustang. Otherwise known as "The hero of Ishival". Some load of bullshit Ed declared. All of this was bullshit. Alchemist praised for massacring helpless people. They couldn't even fight back. The alchemists were just weapons, tools, as the people declared.
(He was one of them now. His mother would hate him. She already does. How couldn't she?)
He hated Roy for a long while, flinching when he got too close, snapped his fingers and mercilessly burned criminals riddled too vile to stay and learn the prison walls like the back of their hand. Ed had. . .Grown to understand the guy on some levels. He'd rather die than admit it aloud but Roy had goals that he respected. And quite frankly, he'd like to stick around to see the end of it.
(Maybe just maybe seeing someone with guilt heavier to bear than his own; recover and rebuild his life and others. . .Would make Ed hope, just maybe start to believe he had another shot to make things right.)
But he couldn't deny, the colonel was a pain in the ass. Constantly giving missions, his terrible flirting tactics with Miss Riza, his concerning gaze that lingered for far too long on rainy days-
"Edward." He flinched at the hand, suddenly grabbing his left shoulder.
(When was the last time he was touched so casually? It burned. The touch burned, pricks under his skin. He wanted it off.)
Ed scoffed, regaining his composure, "Whaddya' want bastard?" He cocked his head, aggressively shoving the hand off.
(Please don't leave, please don't. He could do better. He'll be better. He doesn't want to be this way, promise.)
"Well we were debriefing about your next mission to capture a rogue alchemist but clearly, your attention span is just as short as you are." That stupid smirk wriggled its way under his skin.
He growled, "Who the fuck're you calling so short he has to jump to see over a puddle?" It lacked his usual bite. Neither commented on it though, probably for the better Ed declared.
He raked a hand through his bangs, letting out a dragged sigh. The trickling sensation on his downcast eyes pissed him off. There was one thing worse than milk. And that was a pity.
(Empathy. He hated the idea of someone knowing everything. His weaknesses, his hatred if they understood him he couldn't hide. That alone was enough to scare him.)
"What are you lookin' at weirdo." He stood up and snatched the mission report from Mustang's gloved hands. He sighed, stepping around the desk and walking to the door. "Just get the job done Ed. Try to keep your head on straight for once would you?" Mustang paused. He could feel the eyes on him again. He didn't like it.
"Bring Al." Ed glanced up in confusion. It's Al. He shrugged. It's Al . Nothing bad could come from Al's mentioning.
"I'd never forget Al." He followed behind Mustang. "Never." Something unspoken was in those words. Ed himself didn't know exactly what.
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There was an accident. It all happened much to fast for Ed's liking. Yes, fast was his cup of tea. He was fast, he was agile, a quick thinker. He reacted fast, that was the point. Al held much pride in his brother for this fact. Never missing a beat at a chance to compliment or embrace his qualities.
People didn't like to see past the short temper. Past the muttered curses, disrespecting insults, and fierce gold eyes.
Nearly every breath he took something rattled. He supposed Winry missed a screw or two. Nothing to worry about.
Except it was. Automail was a very specified practice. Down to every screw, wire, and plating that made it up. Every shred and detail that gave Ed his mobility, his life back. That's why he trusted Winry so much with her craft.
(There was still a gaping wound in his chest. Nothing could fill it at this point he figured.)
His ribs creaked under the weight. What had happened? He didn't know. His head pounded painfully, echoing on the insides of his skull. His groggy eyes blinked in utter confusion at his surroundings. Getting his bearings, he readied himself to stand.
A choked scream sounded. Was it from him? He couldn't tell. His ears began to ring painfully. He found himself digging his bloody fingers into his palms, blood dripping onto the ruined concrete. There was something wrong. There was something.
(It was nothing compared to automail surgery. He knew pain very well. Like an old friend he hadn't seen since he was young and time was old. And father left to foreign seas.)
He was wedged between two slabs of concrete, a metal rebar impaled in his right leg. His right thigh. Not the left. Of course not the automail. Because that was his luck. Of course his real, flesh limb was the one impaled.
The burning pain sent shivers down his spine at every movement. He was in an open area. He just needed to get help. He could do that much. He was the Fullmetal alchemist.
. . .
Why wasn't he moving? His breath raggedly left his mouth, eyes clenched painfully shut. He was fighting for every breath. His ribs were most definitely broken, he assessed.
It hurt. It really hurt. He felt pathetic as another whine wrenched its way from his throat. Tears burned behind his eyes. Why wasn't he moving?
Ed breathed deeply as the steady pool of red grew around him. Red had always been his favorite color. It was almost fascinating to see how fast it all left his body. Mom loved red. Maybe if she were here she'd tell her lovely lullaby on berries and rabbits of red. A small childish side of him cried.
(A small whispering side of him almost wished he would die here. Because then a reality where Al would be fine. Taken care of without the unhelpful influence of Edward. Roy would become fuhur and fix Amestris for the better.)
Suddenly moving feels like all the more impossible now. His right automail arm is gone, the fuzzy nothingness in his port made him want to gag. He was nothing without automail. He felt unbalanced, even here lying down.
(He was always unbalanced. Fighting urges and standing strong. For Al. For Al. For Al. That repeated mantra was the only real reason he was here.)
He'd told Al to stay outside, thinking his pursuit would be quick. That had been before the building came toppling down, and Ed's right arm went limp against his side. Winry missed a screw. He couldn't even find the energy to be resentful. Such is life.
He hacks, speckles of blood shooting across the floor he lay on. All he needed to do was move. Get to Al. He'll help.
Move.
He can't- why can't he move. A distressed sob leaves his mouth as he moves slightly.
"Move. Fucki- move!" His voice cracks at the scold.
(He didn't want to. His body cursed him. Bones, flesh, blood and all. His heart. More than him wanted to lie here. To just. . . Stop fighting. He's so tired. He can't admit it. He needs to. . .he's he's so tired.)
Will he die here? The thought stands, hovering on the plank before it embarks deep into his core. To his acceptance of that fact. What if. What if he did die here?
He couldn't find it in him to care.
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Fullmetal alchemist. Edward Elric. The 12 year old Mustang hired for the military. Where was he? He'd been assigned to apprehend a lowly alchemist, one who'd been transmuting porn sculptures in the side of buildings for fun. Vandalism. That's all it was.
So could someone please explain to him, why said alchemist was arrested and in the back of a police car. While his alchemist was in the embodiment of trouble.
The air was full of flames, dust, debris shattered everywhere across the yard. He couldn't trust the kid to keep the property damage to a minimum either huh?
(A small whispering voice shattered his mind's serenity. Screeching and wailing and all. Where was his kid?)
"Colonel Mustang, sir. Some reports state Edward never came out." His heart dropped. His kid. His kid was in there, possibly bleeding out alone, crying thinking he'd never see the light of day or Al's smile again.
"Alright. Let's move in."
Havoc took his right, Hawkeye on the left as they made their way to the core building. Another chunk of concrete slab fell to the floor as they passed. "We should have about 15 minutes before this thing collapses. " Plenty of time he figured, to find Fullmetal and get him out.
His arm encased his face, squinting through the smoke. Looking for any signs at all for that red cloak and golden hair. "Sir! Over here" Riza's voice sounded farther ahead. He found himself tactfully sprinting to her.
He found Riza crouched low near a figure, and a. . . Concerningly large puddle of blood. The figure itself had his eyes clenched shut, heaving as if fighting for every breath. He probably was, seeing the massive slab of concrete on his lower half.
"Ed! Edward, can you hear me!?" His hands hovered near his shoulder. "We need to get this stone offa him. Chief you in there?" Havoc readied himself near the slab. He only got a hacking cough in return. His stomach twisted.
After much adjusting, they slowly began to lift the concrete slab. Mustang felt like he'd been shot as a dragged out, suffering whine left Fullmetal's throat. He writhed under the pain. He should know better. Mustang couldn't find it in him to get angry. Ed was a kid. A young small child saved with loneliness and death. He was allowed to cry.
They moved the slab upright, and turned to face the next problem. A large iron rebar impaled his right leg. Of course it couldn't have been his automail leg. "You're gonna be okay kid. We're gonna get you out of here." Roy's stomach twisted as the kids flesh arm tightened around Riza's seemingly entranced. Something absent lay in his eyes, he didn't like it.
"Your gonna have ta lift him up." Roy turned back to the rebar in complete resignation. "I know." He could feel Riza's gaze on his neck, goosebumps taking him over. He tried to keep moving as the kid squirmed under his touch. Putting his arms under his thighs and shoulders. "Ready kid?" He wasn't expecting a response.
All in one movement he heaved the small child off the floor. A choked cry left the kid's throat, Roy winced. "We need to get out of here or he'll bleed out, quickly." They made their way back through the debris, the kids hand clenched on Roy's jacket. His breathing still rattled. He was going to be fine.
____________________________________
His head pounded, shaking his very being. He slowly blinked his eyes awake. Everything hurt. His stumps, his head, his throat, his abdomen. He was in a room full of white. A hospital.
(White. White. White. So full and empty of White spread everywhere. A gate. A black gate and the embodiment of all and nothing sits before him. That sickening, guts wrenching smile stretched across its face. Terrible. Horrifying. He didn't want to be here he didn't want to be here he didn't mean to-)
He felt empty. Something was missing. His arm and leg were gone he could tell that much though the haze of supposed pain medication. He mustered all his strength to tilt his head to the side.
"Brother!" There he was. His warm, all encompassing embodiment of kindness and love and. How could he have been so lucky to have a brother like him? He tried to speak. To say anything, but all that left him was a raspy cough into the mask feeding him oxygen.
"You probably won't be able to speak for a while, the doctor said you inhaled too much smoke. You're lucky you still have functioning lungs! He said it was a close call." He wasn't saying anything. Ed couldn't hide the questioning squint of his eyes. Al flinched.
"Brother. . .I, I'm so sorry. You- your uh" Al looked to the near end of the bed. There were two gaps where his legs should be.
Wait. He sat up painfully, ignoring Al's desperate protests.
Two? He squinted as if he were missing something. Was he? He rubbed his eyes. Two. Where. Where'd his leg go?
"A-Al. Where, where is my leg. " A sudden title wave of horror crashed down on him. Where was his leg? He'd only lost his left one. It had gotten crushed and needed repairs. His arm went missing in the debris. Where was his other leg?
"They, uhm. They had to-to . . . Amputate it. The wound got infected, and you were low on blood as is. They couldn't save it brother. I'm sorry."
(It crashed into him a second time. He wanted to scream. Why couldn't he have just died there? He can't. He can't do this anymore. They took his leg. They took his leg.)
He stared at the gap for a long while. His leg. Is gone again. He probably looked like a real defective rat now huh? Missing 3 limbs. Scrawny. He. This was it wasn't it. He'd have to go back to Resembool. Go through the surgery again. Because he needed to get his brother's body back. No matter what. Regular prosthetics wouldn't be able to fight crime or run for his life when he needed it. He needed automail. He needed to go through the surgery again. A horrifying doom settled on his shoulders.
What's one more? It's just. It's just another leg. Just another leg. He found himself grasping his face with his singular flesh limb left, heaving choked sobs. He curled in on himself as much as he could. Al's metal arm burned on his back.
(It burned him. It burns. Please stop. He could never tell Al he didn't want his touch. Just sit through it. For Al.)
He didn't want to be seen. He was so pathetic. He was worthless, pathetic. Everything hurt. His stumps hurt. He ribs ached. His head pounded against his cries.
(He can't do this. But he has to.)
"Al- Al I'm sorry. I just. I just can't do it again I-" What was he talking about? He has to. He needs to get his brother's body back. What is he complaining for?
"Its going to be okay brother, we'll find another way." What was Al saying? He was too kind. He didn't understand.
Before Ed knew it he was sinking into Al's iron arms, sleep dragging him away. Maybe. This was all just a very, very bad dream.