(no subject)
Apr. 7th, 2004 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenFullmetal Alchemist ficbit before class. Bit of an odd one...History To Be Made.
He never held an official military rank, just the title of a National Alchemist named under the old regime, but that didn’t stop the line soldiers from snapping to attention and saluting when he arrived at the waiting car where the Fuhrer reclined in the seat by the open door, to stay out of the rain. The Fuhrer had insisted very mildly that they keep it open, that the man would come soon, and as predicted he did; five minutes later, running down the sidewalk with his suitcase over his shoulder and his mutterings loud and irritated, and in the language of the East, where it was said he had been born. He must have recently gotten off of a train, but he didn’t look at all tired, just rumpled. He stopped, examined stiff-backed young men in uniform—not like him at all in his travel clothes and a long faded red coat---and snorted.
“…the hell is this,” he said, in a comprehensible dialect this time, with an accent that was neither one from the country nor the city nor the Fuhrer’s pleasant timbre but rather a mix of all three. He stormed past the whole entourage, boots slapping the pavement, not bothering to skirt the puddles, shaking some of the rain out of his hair as he went. It was bound, and fell to the small of his back in a wet pony tail; he was a man somewhere in his thirties, but he was going grey, and the strains of silver just made his eyes more striking, narrowed and roving over each of the officers. Some of them had never seen him before, and they shifted in faint discomfort. He seemed to zero in on it, seemed to spare them a twitch of his lips, seemed to dare them to register surprise at the fact that his nose was level with their shoulders—
“Welcome back,” said the Fuhrer wryly, and he had man’s full attention. Though were it possible for that attention to have looked /less/ like one being addressed by a leader of the country it would have been managed. “How was your trip? I hear the weather in Leisenburgh is quite nice, this time of year…”
Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist of the old rule, and well known figure of the 1919 Green Lion Revolution in the new, set his hand against the top of the car, leaned over, and /gritted his teeth/. “You know,” he hissed. “I had to /jump/ for that train…”
The Fuhrer only shrugged. “I’m glad you made it.” He slid aside, gesturing with a flick of his gloved hand to the vacated seat. “The summit is in an hour. They’re not expecting you.” He smiled.
The younger man raised both eyebrows. He leaned back on his heels with a thoughtful expression and a posture reminiscent of a snake’s rearing head. He hefted his suitcase and stuck it through the door like a herald, ignoring the man behind him who’d been readying to take it.
“Hey, make room you old bastard. We want to get there on /time/ don’t we?”
It was clear, as the sleek black car drove away through the soaked streets of the cloudy Central City, that the Fuhrer was chuckling, and Edward Elric was throwing an arm over the back of his seat growling something about sitting /again/ after so many hours on the train and how damn boring the whole thing was bound to be. It was 1936, and there was history to be made-- but that was rather business as usual for the both of them.
“So make it interesting,” Fuhrer Mustang advised.
He never held an official military rank, just the title of a National Alchemist named under the old regime, but that didn’t stop the line soldiers from snapping to attention and saluting when he arrived at the waiting car where the Fuhrer reclined in the seat by the open door, to stay out of the rain. The Fuhrer had insisted very mildly that they keep it open, that the man would come soon, and as predicted he did; five minutes later, running down the sidewalk with his suitcase over his shoulder and his mutterings loud and irritated, and in the language of the East, where it was said he had been born. He must have recently gotten off of a train, but he didn’t look at all tired, just rumpled. He stopped, examined stiff-backed young men in uniform—not like him at all in his travel clothes and a long faded red coat---and snorted.
“…the hell is this,” he said, in a comprehensible dialect this time, with an accent that was neither one from the country nor the city nor the Fuhrer’s pleasant timbre but rather a mix of all three. He stormed past the whole entourage, boots slapping the pavement, not bothering to skirt the puddles, shaking some of the rain out of his hair as he went. It was bound, and fell to the small of his back in a wet pony tail; he was a man somewhere in his thirties, but he was going grey, and the strains of silver just made his eyes more striking, narrowed and roving over each of the officers. Some of them had never seen him before, and they shifted in faint discomfort. He seemed to zero in on it, seemed to spare them a twitch of his lips, seemed to dare them to register surprise at the fact that his nose was level with their shoulders—
“Welcome back,” said the Fuhrer wryly, and he had man’s full attention. Though were it possible for that attention to have looked /less/ like one being addressed by a leader of the country it would have been managed. “How was your trip? I hear the weather in Leisenburgh is quite nice, this time of year…”
Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist of the old rule, and well known figure of the 1919 Green Lion Revolution in the new, set his hand against the top of the car, leaned over, and /gritted his teeth/. “You know,” he hissed. “I had to /jump/ for that train…”
The Fuhrer only shrugged. “I’m glad you made it.” He slid aside, gesturing with a flick of his gloved hand to the vacated seat. “The summit is in an hour. They’re not expecting you.” He smiled.
The younger man raised both eyebrows. He leaned back on his heels with a thoughtful expression and a posture reminiscent of a snake’s rearing head. He hefted his suitcase and stuck it through the door like a herald, ignoring the man behind him who’d been readying to take it.
“Hey, make room you old bastard. We want to get there on /time/ don’t we?”
It was clear, as the sleek black car drove away through the soaked streets of the cloudy Central City, that the Fuhrer was chuckling, and Edward Elric was throwing an arm over the back of his seat growling something about sitting /again/ after so many hours on the train and how damn boring the whole thing was bound to be. It was 1936, and there was history to be made-- but that was rather business as usual for the both of them.
“So make it interesting,” Fuhrer Mustang advised.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-07 07:15 pm (UTC)Ed must be a terribly sexy old man. ;u;
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-07 07:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-15 09:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-08 11:33 am (UTC)I just love how *important* the fic seemed, adding a historical aspect to FMA that really goes along well with it. Great job.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-09 02:52 pm (UTC)stalkingchecking every other day. I'm not crazy. Promise.This piece was lovely, as usual. The delayed information and pacing was used very effectively here. I love how you know exactly what not to say. It gives the piece a tantalizing sense of depth. Anyhow, keep up the good work.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-10 09:03 pm (UTC)