Chapter Text
Roy Mustang had seen a lot in his life. The secrets of flame alchemy. The horrors of war. More of Havoc than he'd ever admit sober.
None of that life experience gave him a single fucking clue how to process the scene at the Elrics' house.
It was roughly a week ago when Resembool happened to fall into one of the groups of towns that'd been selected for random door-to-door searching. Colonel Mustang did not know about this. It didn't fall in his department, and while it was no secret, there was no reason to inform the entirety of the Eastern military. If he tried to find out, Mustang didn't even know who he'd ask.
The searches were grunt work. They almost never found anyone. Most of the time, soldiers who served in Ishval were sent to do it, especially if they'd gotten on a commander's bad side. Especially if they were low-ranking.
The job was easiest when Ishvalans already register as subhuman. Young soldiers struggled to kill civilians. But if someone had already lost the ability to see someone as a civilian…
You can't get through doing things like that if you see your enemy as equal to you. When red was synonymous with guilt and shame and horror and disgust and blood and grief, pulling the trigger became base instinct.
That was actually why they called Ishvalans rats during the war. Sure, part of it was just a sick joke that Ishvalans were pests on Armestrian soil. When you have a rat infestation, you hire an exterminator— and that was how so many soldiers saw themselves.
Part was because it seemed no matter how much they killed, there were always more Ishvalan soldiers to fight. Or civilians. As long as someone was fighting back, or even seemed capable of it, the distinction didn't matter. In the army, they'd joke it was like trying to catch every rat in a pantry: Always another one hiding somewhere.
But the actual reason, the one nobody acknowledged… The gears of war turned smoother if what they crushed was subhuman. If soldiers could see Ishvalans as literal vermin. If what you're fighting isn't human, then you can go home and look your family in the eyes.
In short: When you call Ishvalans rats, they're easier to shoot.
Roy had learned that lesson. He'd had to unlearn it, too.
New recruits just couldn't do it. Nor should they be able to. They could hate Ishvalans, they could want to follow orders, but nothing short war zones could reliably convince people to break into a scared kid's home, look them in the eyes, and shoot without hesitation.
Searches were one of the many, many things that Mustang couldn't do much about— not until he became Fuhrer. So he ignored them. Out of sight, out of mind.
What he did make it onto Mustang's radar was rumors of some promising young alchemist in the East. Allegedly he was just a kid, but already studying hard. It'd look good for Mustang if he found the next genius prodigy.
There had been no reason for Mustang to be aware that the alchemist was Ishvalan. Let alone recently searched for. That he'd been injured. That his brother had been killed.
All Roy knew was that he was staring at a human transmutation circle— or something similar— and part of it had been washed away. From the stains and the stench…
Shit. That was blood.
He didn't just recognize it. His stomach lurched, his brain screamed. Images of Ishval played in his head. The scent and sight of blood was stored in the marrow of Mustang's bones, whether he liked it or not.
At least there wasn't fire.
He inched into the room. Hawkeye's presence was a comforting constant behind him. There were… were those bullet holes in the floor? The chalk dust made the smears of blood more directional. Mustang could see it clearly: Someone had fallen. He'd crawled away and then laid there, and—
Right in the center, where the puddle had been, there was fabric dried to the floor. The sight of it tasted like bile.
"I don't think he's here."
"That appears correct," Hawkeye commented.
"We need to investigate this."
"Agreed."
Fuck.
It had only taken one bullet to completely shattered Ed's kneecap. The other had only cracked his fibula— which was bad, but could have been fixable, if not for the nerve damage. It wasn't hard for a shard of bone, loose in his kneecap, to slice through even more of Ed's leg. His arm was just gone. Everything from the shoulder down. According to Pinako, it'd be possible to save his leg, but it'd take intense surgery to fully reassemble his kneecap and possibly his femur.
Oh, and he'd likely never be able to walk normally again anyway. His knee would always be weak, if it even could heal. Most likely, he'd need some sort of replacement or implants, and he might need to take immunosuppressants to keep his body from rejecting whatever the doctors had to do for his knee to support his weight. Even if they fixed the knee (which was unlikely), the nerves couldn't be repaired.
After surgery, if there were no complications, Ed would only be able to walk for short periods without his reconstructed leg possibly giving out of him. He'd be risking further muscle damage or a repeat breakage from even a single fall. It would take intense physical therapy to relearn how to walk.
In short: he'd never have full functionality of his leg back. Both amputation and an attempt at realigning the bones would be incredibly intensive, and there was no guarantee that the results of either would give Ed a half-decent result.
Ed still wasn't completely sure he wanted to amputate. He'd put up a brave face to Pinako to keep her from protesting, but both options terrified him, no matter how much he denied it.
Amputation would be easier, at least. Pinako could do it. Ed didn't want to recover in a hospital, surrounded by more people who might hate him. What if the surgeon decided he hated Ishvalans? What if a nurse slipped something in his IV?
Too risky.
Fixing his leg would force him to relearn how to walk. Pinako was trained in physical therapy, but specialized in prosthetics and automail. He hated the idea of some stranger being the one he was forced to trust in a time of need. Frankly, Ed hated the idea of going to all that effort at all.
And if they refused to treat him? What then? What if soldiers found him in the city? What if the doctor had taken part in Ishval?
And. If he hadn't been sure before, Pinako spotting early signs of infection made it a hell of a lot easier.
What did it matter either way? His life was over. His brother, gone. How would he do alchemy with only one hand? What would have been taken if he tried to bring his mother back? Ed wasn't dumb enough to think he could heal Al's body. Not after the cost of tethering his soul.
An arm from his right. A leg from his left. Wasn't it ironic? Two forces: God and the military. Two crimes, two systems, same punishment. His first crime was the ultimate taboo. The latter was being born.
It was a miracle that he'd been able to save any part of Al. Ed couldn't even be properly mad at Truth, much less demand more. The punishment was ironic. It was cruel.
The alternative was a world without his brother.
In any reality, Ed knew what choice he'd make.
He ran his left hand over his right leg. Under the bandages of his left one was a purple and red mass of bruising and blood. Pinako had done her best to stop the bleeding, but there was only so much she could do. Even with the bandages, Ed couldn't entirely convince himself there was a leg under there. Not when he couldn't move it. Not when the only thing he was getting from it was pure pain, radiating outward in waves that left him nauseous and sweating and feverish.
It wasn't acid. Wasn't fire. Wasn't poison. Just his own fucking body.
There wasn't a time when Pinako didn't hate the military, but she could point to the moment that it jumped from a simmer to a boil. Even more easily, she could identify when it boiled over: when Ed showed up at her door, carried by a suit of armor, having passed out from blood loss.
She hated the military when she'd met Hohenheim. She hated them when her son had joined and hated them when he defected with his wife. When that dreaded letter came, through all her guilt, she knew who to blame: The military, and everything they'd ever stood for.
Those cowards left her son's body in Ishval. Rotting under the sun.
Once upon a time she'd been sure that she could never hate them more than when they stole her baby boy from her. She was wrong. When they attempted to kill Ed and Al, she was just as pissed. Everything came back to her, doubled, like a hammer to the head.
Two kids that Winry was best friends with. Because her granddaughter couldn't catch a break.
Two kids that Pinako had helped raise. The kids of Hohenheim, her long-time friend.
It should've been impossible to prove her wrong a third time. But the world is cruel, and so while she was trying to keep Ed calm in the days leading up to his surgery, a state alchemist decided to show up.
The panic in Ed's eyes…
"Get out," Pinako had hissed as she blocked the doorway. The alchemist just pushed her out of the way. He strode in, a blonde woman on his heels. Winry ran at the soldier, body-slamming his legs. He didn't leave, just hesitated, puzzled.
Winry was so tiny next to him.
"I won't let you hurt them!" Winry yelled. The man turned his head towards the woman. Winry she saw her opportunity and took it. With a grunt, she shoved her body at the blonde woman's legs.
"Winry!"
Pinako grabbed Winry's arm as she tried to ignore the sinking in her stomach and the ice in her veins. That little girl was brave, and kind, and so fierce about what she believed in.
It was going to get her killed someday.
Winry tugged at Pinako. "Let me go!"
"Get out of my house," Pinako said, staring directly at the blonde soldier. The man clearly didn't care, but maybe…
The soldier took a small step back. Unlike the alchemist, she didn't cross the boundary. She just stood there, her head slightly bowed to Pinako in recognition.
The alchemist had stopped only a few steps into the room. His face was rigid, staring at something—
Fuck.
Of course Ed hadn't managed to hide. He was injured and still adjusting to his two missing limbs. Al couldn't help him, not when the clanking of metal would only be more conspicuous.
"Take another step towards him," Pinako threatened, her voice wavering. "See what happens."
His gaze tried to settle on Ed's, but he couldn't commit. Not with how he was obviously dizzy. "How could you break the taboo—"
"Brother never broke the taboo," Al interrupted. "Your soldiers got there first."
"There is a human transmutation circle on the floor of your home. It is covered in blood."
"My blood," Ed mumbled. The first words he'd spoken for himself.
"This is one of the most serious crimes an alchemist can commit—"
"He didn't commit it," Al corrected. "You can't arrest someone for thinking about a crime."
"You need to explain what happened." He looked at Al. "And frankly, I'd appreciate it if you could take the armor off."
If Pinako were Al, she wasn't sure she'd have the same restraint as him. He just stood there. Still defensive over Ed. As if there wasn't a word said about him at all.
"What happened?" Ed repeated, a dark laugh rising in his throat. "What happened? I was going to bring my mother back. She's the only family me and Al had, since Hohenheim left, that bastard. Your military— the one you obediently signed up for, and are working for right now— was going door to door for us rats, and they didn't— They didn't care what I was doing, or who I was, or that I'm from here. They just shot. You're right, kind of. I did break the taboo. Not the way you think, though. Your soldiers shot Al through the heart." He was hyperventilating, words pouring out of his mouth like smoke out of a fire. "I had to— had to bind his soul to armor as his body died. I lost my fucking arm. And now, I guess you're here to finish the job." His gaze met the soldier's, and for the first time in weeks, there was life in those eyes.
It was better if he was mad. Mad, anxious, spiteful… any of that was better than depressed or hopeless. Pinako knew if anyone could build something out of spite, it was Edward Elric.
"Who?"
"How would I know?"
"Those soldiers have broken every policy, which means—"
"Policy doesn't matter if the witnesses are dead. Your courts can't fix my leg, can they? Can they bring back my arm? Can they restart Al's fucking heart?"
The room had gone completely silent. This was the most Ed had talked since the attack— and not by a small margin.
The blonde woman's face was expressionless, but Pinako had done automail for soldier after soldier. Those were the eyes of someone stuck in the past. Winry looked like she'd been dunked in cold water, frozen with shock.
But the alchemist? There was a tiny smirk on his face.
The only reason Pinako didn't smack it off of him? She was too smart, and she knew better by now than to fuck with the military.
"The courts can't," the alchemist finally said. "But maybe you can."
"What, even more human transmutation? I'm not paying another price."
"Who said you have to do human transmutation? You have his soul, don't you?"
"What are you suggesting?" Al asked, his voice tense.
"If there's a way out of this mess, you'll need state alchemist resources to find it. There's endless piles of research out there that you would get access to, including bioalchemy and alkahestry" His eyes met Ed's, as if his sincerity made his suggestion less deranged. "You have real talent, kid. Don't waste it. And don't give up on your brother when you have a choice."
"You want me to enlist," Ed echoed.
"I want you to consider it. Picture all the doors it'll open—"
"You think the military would even take me?" Ed interrupted. "No, scratch that. You think I could work for that scum after what they did to my brother?"
"I think you could do anything to bring him back."
"Get out of my house," Ed spat. The alchemist hesitated, but after Al began approaching, he was quickly convinced.
"If you consider it, ask for Roy Mustang."
"Go to hell."