Be Thou For The People — A Fullmetal Alchemist AU Quest

[Cataphract]

It is New Year's Eve in the Republic of Amestris and the mood on this northbound train is one of wary happiness. All across the country, people are sitting around their dinner tables, exchanging gifts with friends and loved ones. The end of the old year and the beginning of a new one is a time to eat good food and make merry, to reflect on what's passed and to look forward to the future. Though this is no luxury train and thus no dining car, you see one of the conductors hand out small treats—caramels and lozenges and such—courtesy of the railway company.

And what a New Year's Eve it's supposed to be; you've heard rumors that for the first time in a few years, the Fuhrer's holiday ceasefire offers were accepted by Aerugo, Creta, and Drachma at the same time. If that's true—for as any Amestrian knows, no one loves to gossip more than an off-duty soldier—it means that for the next day or so, the entire country will be at something resembling peace.

Peace. The one thing you have naught right now.

You sit in one lonely corner at the back of the train car, content to let the other passengers spin the rumour mill amongst themselves with talks of peace. Soldiers slouch on the benches here and there, their blue uniforms frayed and their rucksacks full. These ones don't seem to know of you yet, thankfully, for the lack of attention they give you.

These soldiers talk too, but with more weariness. From your place behind them you can catch a few snatches of their conversation—according to them, the Drachman front wasn't the hellscape of the Aerugo and Creta, but it was close. As for you, you opt to distract yourself and allow yourself to relax. Then, for the first time in a while, you have an opportunity to catch up on some reading that isn't an alchemical treatise.

In your coat pocket, there is...

[ ] A tear-stained letter from your elder sister: You were born to a large, happy, and otherwise unremarkable mining family. Your mother taught you rudimentary alchemy, so after making a good first impression, you managed to gain an apprenticeship with a local alchemist. You learned much under your master, but they passed away some years ago before completing your apprenticeship. As their sole apprentice, you were left with their library, their equipment, and their personal research notes—eclectic by the standards of State Alchemist training but unique in an unreplicable way. Despite their many eccentricities, you miss your teacher fiercely.

And now, you miss your family, who you may never see again. (Background: The Apprentice; your character's surname will be Abrams)

[ ] A lengthy exhortation from your father: You are the firstborn son of a distinguished lineage that boasts a long heritage of official and unofficial service to the nation of Amestris since the days of the old monarchy, one founded even before the republic. Many of your relatives and ancestors have served the country in various functions. From commanders to politicians to scholars, your line is distinguished and the tradition continues to this day. In the halls of your venerable house, you were raised by an army of tutors and instructors, including a family friend who once served in the State Alchemist program, with the expectation… no, the duty that you may one day don your ancestral mantle of service to Amestris and her people.

A duty that you might have just failed. (Background: The Scion; your character's surname will be Lockheed)

[ ] Your old history textbook: You were left at the doorstep of one of Amestris' many state-run orphanages in the North. The others called you 'bookworm boy' whenever they thought your caretakers were out of earshot, but you always had the last laugh whenever report cards came in. While you didn't have many friends, your talent for alchemy and relentless drive for self-improvement was noticed early. After a State Alchemist nearly fell over themselves to meet you, you secured a full scholarship for a military academy with the requirement that after graduating, you would find a proper alchemy master and apply for a State Alchemist's license—or failing that, an officer's commission in the army.

A commission that you can't go back to. (Background: The Foundling; your character's surname will be Walker)

You sigh, putting aside your reading material as your hand brushes against your silver pocket watch. You should probably rid yourself of it but… it remains something special for you—a good luck charm or a mark of shame, you can't say which.

Is it proof of your accomplishments?

A reminder of your sins?

Such ruminations, you decide a moment later, are not worth your time right now.Merit is merit—for all its manifold sins, the Amestrian government was not stupid. Its standards were high and its examiners merciless; the State Alchemist Department only chose the best, for better or for worse. And as an alchemist you can still take solace from your art—the product of years of hard work and ceaseless dedication, the very reason you once served Amestris as a soldier. It is your…

[ ] Thunderclap Alchemy: A highly specialized form of combat alchemy that focuses on creating and directing bolts of electricity. Your focus has left you merely adequate in most other typical applications of alchemy, though you'd say the ability to wield a storm in your hands is a fair trade.

Your master was a strange one, a hermit who lived in a tower perched atop the northern mountain ranges that served as a bulwark between Amestris and Drachma. But he cared not for the rattling of machine guns nor the crash of artillery fire—he would ignore the entire world, save for the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning. "The lance of the Gods", or so he would describe it. Some say that he's an Auroran of Drachma, incorporating their astromantic tradition with the earthen focus of traditional alchemy. No matter what though, the old man tried his best to inspire such a fascination in you as well; there was such a singular focus in his studies that some might have called it manic. Indeed, manic would be what you called your teacher after he single-handedly vaporized a squad of Drachman mountain troops who, in their attempts to infiltrate Amestris, had dared interrupt his work. You have followed in his footsteps, and more of that single-minded desire has rubbed off on you than you'd be comfortable admitting.

The same monofocus that got you where you are.

[ ] The Third Estates' Alchemy: A particular specialization of alchemy that in of itself is not specialized. It is versatile, practical, and so broad as to be indistinguishable to the basics that all Alchemists learn. But then, that's part of the point, for the ideal of this path for an Alchemist to be all of the people, indistinguishable to the masses they were supposed to serve.

Amestrian folktales speak at length of the generosity of the alchemists, those seekers of truth who serve no one but the people of the nation. Your alchemy training involved a lot of 'practical experience' in living up to this ideal by addressing the hurts and worries of the people, no matter what form they took. At your master's behest, you spent a good part of that time simply hearing people out—some people visited you just to gossip about their neighbors! Furthermore, much of your alchemical knowledge is almost mundane in nature; you spent a lot of your time mending public property or healing injuries and minor illnesses. It was hard work, but it kept you honest and kept you thinking of the people you were meant to serve. Several years of such work endeared you to many in your hometown. While strangers would sometimes scoff and call you a glorified repairman, most would then be underestimating your hard-earned skills and the versatility it affords you. Some problems—or so you were taught—could only be resolved by a sound thrashing, with or without alchemy's aid.

It is an art that will help you blend in. For decades if need be.

[ ] Breathing Arsenalworks: Less of an alchemical technique than a martial art, albeit one that involves the spontaneous creation and use of a prodigious amount of weapons and armor. Your training has also included instruction in the use of various melee and ranged weapons and effective—if a little outdated—military tactics.

While the public contempt for "dogs of the military" seems as enduring as the institution itself, it cannot be denied that prior generations of alchemists had devoted their lives to devising better and better ways to apply transmutation to warfare. The establishment of the State Alchemist program led to the normalization—even the flourishing—of these destructive arts. Still, your master's particular brand of combat alchemy is allegedly as old as Amestris itself. As such, your education involved much more tactics and weapons training than that of the average alchemist. It also involved an inordinate amount of spontaneous sparring sessions, though you prefer the term ambushes to describe what your master put you through. Alchemists like you, or so your master would say, should be able to arm themselves and fight without a moment's hesitation.

And perhaps soon, kill as well.

[ ] Internal Alchemy: A highly unorthodox and nigh-heretical style of bio-alchemy that focuses on enhancing one's body through constant low-level work, molding your own body into a tool and weapon in equal measure. Due to its relations to both alkahestry and chimeric alchemy, it is considered obscene at best—if not a violation of the taboo on human transmutation to almost everyone else—but the benefits are not to be understated.

As the two of you created chimaeras from rats and pigeons—so as to grasp the finer points of bio-alchemy—your master would speak at length of Xing's alkahestry. It is a craft that developed in parallel to Amestrian alchemy, and one whose practitioners sought immortality rather than the Philosopher's Stone. While the two of you were very far from 'true' practitioners of the Eastern art—indeed, your teacher loved to talk about how alchemists and alkahestrists alike would weep at the bastardization that passed for a curriculum—you have spent your entire alchemical career by strengthening human flesh and alter its functions, mostly your own. It is only by the meanest technicality that your art evades the long-standing government ban on Human Transmutation, and even then your master was always quick to remind you of what happened to her own master back in the day, even before he was arrested.

And soon enough, you mayhaps meet him.

---

Hey hey folks. I've got a bad itch to write and I just finished my rewatch of FMA:B and I'm making both of those things your problem.

This is a narrative-driven quest where you'll direct the actions and ambitions of a former State Alchemist before and then during the events of the series. As a narrative quest, player choice and input will definitely be honored and valued.

I'm sticking with the manga/Brotherhood canon for the canonical basis of this quest, but there will be AU elements, especially personal liberties taken with the setting to flesh the rest of the world out, and maybe adaptations of 2003-only characters if I think they will do well in this story. With all that said and done, I'll try my best to serve up something fun.

A big shoutout goes to @Vocalend who has done a lot of work in forming the AU elements as well as helping me write this intro post!

As a last note, please consider your choices during these first few phases of character generation carefully—they will affect the way characters will receive the protagonist and the opportunities available to him.

 

[Cataphract]

The backstory of Fullmetal Alchemist involves a systematic genocide perpetuated by an authoritarian military junta. While the ultimate mastermind and reasons for this crime are fantastical in the extreme, the actors and the deed itself isn't. Furthermore, the narratives and characterizations of several key characters—including the protagonist—hinge upon the prosecution and aftermath of this act of genocide. As such war crimes and adjacent/thematically similar topics (violence, dictatorial oppression, racism, death, etc.) will be discussed and portrayed to differing extents in this quest. However, I just want to make it clear that I won't tolerate any sort of genocide apologia or similar rhetoric being endorsed here. That shit was nasty to say the least, the story is written such that it is clearly abhorrent to both the narrative and its characters, and Bob's your uncle.

 

[Cataphract]

Major Solomon Abrams, the All Trades Alchemist

Biography: You were born to a large, happy, and otherwise unremarkable mining family in one of the milder parts of Amestris' North District. Your mother taught you rudimentary alchemy, so after making a good first impression, you managed to gain an apprenticeship with a local alchemist, Aleksandr Nilovich Burdenko. You learned much under your master, but he passed away before you could complete your apprenticeship. After continuing your studies, you applied to the State Alchemist program and passed with flying colors. When the Ishvalan Civil War reached its crescendo you were assigned to a second-line unit responsible for securing 'pacified territory', and earned a number of certifications for 'valorous conduct in the field of battle'. After coming home you have spent your time working in the North

Traits:

• Cretan Blood: While you are an Amestrian citizen by birth, your purple eyes betray your heritage. Some may be more sympathetic to you because of your origins, and others may distrust you for it.
• Child of the North: You were born in Vectora City, in the southwestern corner of the North District. As such, you speak enough Drachman to get around, and you're familiar with many of the customs from this part of the world. You are also quite tolerant of the cold.
• Man of the People: Your common birth, when combined with the humanistic philosophy of the Third Estates' Alchemy, has cultivated a deep well of understanding of and empathy for the working class of the country. While you might find it difficult to rub elbows with high society, you are perfectly at home among the working class of Amestris.
• State Alchemist (Disavowed): You've earned a state certification through years of hard work and study. In exchange for military service, you had access to resources and knowledge no civilian alchemist could ever hope to have. In light of recent events, however, you are considered an outlaw of the highest order and are now hunted for your 'crimes'.
  • Modifier: News of your treason has not yet been disseminated widely by the Military Police: you may still leverage your reputation, especially to civilians and low-ranking members of the military for a little while—though the risk of discovery is always there.
• Veteran of Ishval: Like many other alchemists, you were called up to bring a bloody end to the already brutal Ishvalan Civil War. While you were not assigned to a frontline unit, you still saw your share of brutal combat throughout your tour of duty. Some call you a hero and many others call you a butcher, but no one can dispute your experience and the hard-earned lessons from that campaign.
• Third Estates' Alchemy: A particular specialization of alchemy that in itself is not specialized. As a style, it is versatile, practical, and so broad as to be indistinguishable from the basics that all Amestrian alchemists learn. In combat, practitioners emphasize simplicity in order to maximize speed and effectiveness, as well as less-lethal attacks as a reflection of the humanist philosophy of the tradition.
• Cane-dueling: You have been trained to fight like a 'vigorous Amestrian gentleman' ought to. Despite its name, cane-dueling is a hybrid discipline that integrates a wide variety of other martial arts into its own style. It is versatile and aggressive, placing the most emphasis on stick fighting at the striking range, and on wrestling in the grappling range. Practitioners of cane-dueling are also taught to distract or disorient opponents with whatever is on hand (notable implements include overcoats, snuff boxes, hats, and handkerchiefs) in order to secure an advantage.

Assets:

• Alchemist's Cane: A fashionable walking stick of alchemically treated oak with its handle and heel fashioned from steel. Upon its surface is an alchemical array that allows it to be used as a medium for transmutation. It is a versatile tool and weapon in your hands, as it was for your master and his master before him.
• Silver Pocket Watch: The unmistakable symbol of the State Alchemist. The mere sight of it can put the fear of the government in many low-ranking soldiers and bureaucrats. As a wanted man with a revoked certification, you may find it less useful these days.

Allies:

• TBA

 

[Cataphract]

Spoiler: QM Note

Here's part 2 of character creation! I hope it lets you get a feel for our protagonist and his backstory a little bit more. Again, thanks to @Vocalend for helping me with this update.

---

"Excuse me. Could I please see your ticket, sir?"

You're drawn from your halfhearted nap by someone's voice. It takes you a moment to pull your hat from your face and to sit up to see whoever's woken you. A man is standing before you with an apologetic, and maybe a little tired, expression on his craggy face. He's wearing the night-blue jacket and flat-topped cap of the conductors of the Amestrian National Rail Company. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, its lenses large and round like saucers, make him look like a very large and very meek owl.

"Oh, yeah, of course." It takes you an embarrassingly long time to reach into your jacket pocket and you proffer the half-crumpled ticket to the conductor.

"You've nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should be saying sorry to you, sir! I woke you up, after all." The man nods with an almost comically serious look on his face.

You're about to crack a small joke to lighten the mood when you notice that his eyes have become deadened, somehow. He barely takes a moment to glance at your ticket—before his left hand expertly draws a revolver, just about ready to point at you.

You don't even look at the hammer's position, as your own left hand flicks in and out of your coat pocket. Whatever it was that he expected from you, it's not the feeling of fabric whipping at his face. Just like your master always did in your spars; a handkerchief thrown perfectly into his face.

He grunts as he brushes your handkerchief aside, pointing the gun at you—

But by then, you've already stood up. In one hand you carry your oaken walking cane, and as you pray that your aim is true as you whip the cane up and towards your attacker's arm, the steel cap on the handle glinting, whipping the revolver away from the other passengers.

There is a flash of thunder, followed by a deafening crack. The gunshot is deafeningly loud in the close confines of the train car, but you can feel the cacophony through your skin as your aim strikes true and the bullet does not. As your hearing returns seconds later with that all-too-familiar ringing in your ears, you hear the screams of your fellow passengers — as parents shield their children with their bodies, a young man barely twenty is shoved to the ground by his grandfather, a veteran of the Mournings. Quiet down, he says as he hunkers behind the bench. They won't hurt us. — as their sense of normalcy is upended. The wind leaks from the hole in the ceiling, bringing with it the northern chill that you've grown up with.

But this isn't time for nostalgia. You had recovered quickly but the 'conductor' had been nearly as quick. As you swing your cane down on his shoulder, you merely clip his jacket as he takes a step back, raising the revolver up once again.

He didn't expect your shoulder tackle, though, as you loop your hands around his, ensuring the gun keeps pointing up and away from the crowd as you yell, slamming his back at the carriage window. You feel something crack as air is forcibly expelled from his lungs, crushed between your body and the steel frame. He wheezes for air—and you give him no quarter as you ram your forehead onto his nose.

Something definitely cracked there, as blood begins to spill out of his nose—

—And as the carriage door opens to reveal a man built like a bear, holding within his meaty hands a brutal-looking shotgun. At the sight of your form and his probable companion, he merely wrenched your hands from the fellow assassin, freeing him and driving you to the ground.

Leaving you to stare down the two barrels of his sawed-off shotgun.

And here, the world slows down. For here, you will need to take a decision that should never be done lightly.

In front of you are two assassins, sent to murder you.

Behind you are innocent bystanders, a car full of simple people who were chatting happily about the armistice and the peace of a nation only seconds before.

And so your decision is made.

You do not hesitate as the finger of the second assassin brings his weapon to bear. You slide your fingers just so on the cane as you tilt it up, and the almost invisible grooves carved into the end of the oak wood light up with the unmistakable crackle of golden light.

Just as the assassin squeezes the trigger, the steel cap of your cane flies off with a wreath of crackling light and slams against the twin barrels of his weapon.

However, unlike your previous attacks, the metal does not knock the man's aim off. Instead, it splashes against the twin barrels of his weapon, smearing itself on the weapon as if you'd thrown a clump of mud and not a knot of steel. It lodges itself in the twin muzzles just as the transmutation reaction ends, turning what were the two open barrels of a shotgun into a solid metal plug.

Naturally, the explosive force of the two shotgun shells has no place to go, save for the sole place where the energy can escape—back towards the breech of the poor bastard's weapon.

For what it's worth, the men die instantly; your little trick turns the gun into so many shards of metal and wood that go flying towards, and through, them. They rip up flesh, puncture organs, and shatter bone, and turn two men into ghosts.

(A part of your mind, that quavery little voice that you first heard since after that night raid in Ishval several years ago, can't help but note how neatly the blowback was funneled away from you—while the back end of the train car is now tattered with holes and smeared with gore, not a single piece of debris has gone near you or any of the civilians that you decided to protect.)

You take a single moment to glance down at the men you've just killed, reach up your free hand to dust yourself off… and are interrupted by another set of firearms clicking.

"Freeze!" You turn around and see the three soldiers who had previously been riding in the car with you. They're pointing handguns—two-shot derringers and a snub-nosed revolver; civilian weapons that even an enlisted soldier can buy any moderately-sized general store, the sort of good-luck charm soldiers might keep around for a little peace of mind on the long and dangerous trip to the North District—pointed at you. As their leader, a handsome blue-eyed Amestrian man who might as well have stepped off a recruitment poster, takes a good look at your handiwork his steely-eyed expression curdles a little bit with uncertainty and maybe a little disgust. Still, he has the wherewithal to keep the mettle in his voice. "Drop the weapon, and start explaining yourself right now!"

Your cane drops to the floor with a clatter as you raise your hands above your head.

"I'm Major Solomon Abrams—a State Alchemist. I was just taking the train to Semoy City, same as you." Even as a 'dog of the military' you were never much for pulling rank, but it's easy enough to take on that confident and authoritative tone you've heard so many times before. Beyond that, you're technically not lying; while the Prefecture of the Fuhrer has already rescinded your access to state assets, you're certain that you've left before the Military Police can begin to post wanted posters. "Those two," You jerk your head to the shredded corpses lying on the floor. "Attacked me without provocation."

You give a little mental sigh of relief when the man's eyes widen—not in anger or shock but with the realization of a ground-pounder standing before a commissioned officer. He schools his expression a second later, but he seems the tiniest bit less hostile. To their credit, the soldiers don't take you at your word, though their expressions defrost a little bit.

Maybe you're not so unlucky after all.

"If you reach into the left pocket on my jacket, you'll find my pocket watch and my identity card." Again, you're thankful that you had decided against buying a new identity from your 'friends' when you'd heard the bad news; there was still a little time before you couldn't pull rank like this anymore.

Their leader—a captain, from the looks of his epaulets—doesn't take his eyes off you, nor does the barrel of his gun waver.

"Hammond, check it out. Laney and I will cover you."

The member of the trio who stood closest to you—a dusky-skinned man with cornrows—steps forward after tucking his derringer away beneath his military-issue overcoat. The cold air continues to whip around the train car, driving the smell of blood and gunsmoke away. It's enough to send your overcoat a-fluttering, which certainly doesn't make the task of verifying your identity any easier for the man.

As instructed, Hammond reaches into your front pocket with all the delicacy of a florist pruning a prize rose bush. He takes a moment to examine your pocket watch, then turns back to his comrades.

"Unless this guy's a top-class forger, it's the real thing, Captain." The soldier holds up the watch for his comrades to see. The Amestrian Dragon, ensconced within its alchemical polygram, glints beneath the yellow lights of the train car. After a moment's hesitation on his part, the captain nods. "Card checks out, too."

"He is an alchemist…" A mousy-looking woman who can only be Laney shrugs her shoulders. "Top-class forgery isn't exactly outside their remit, sir."

"He'd have to be able to forge military-issue identification as well as the State Alchemist's pocket watch—but if he could, he'd certainly be out of our league anyway. Stand down." As the captain lowers his weapon, Laney follows suit without complaint. For his part, Hammond takes a respectful step back. "Still, I thought I'd have to wait until we joined the garrison at Fort Briggs before I'd see combat again." It's clear that the man has a million questions for you, but he instead snaps off a salute—one that his subordinates repeat a few seconds later. "Captain Foster, sir. These are Lieutenants Laney and Hammond. I must apologize for our conduct."

"None needed, Captain. I'd have done the same if I were you; these are dangerous times we live in." With that settled, you reach down and pick up your cane. Thankfully, it hadn't rolled into the quickly-growing pool of blood at your feet, but after what you just did, you feel like you'll have to clean it nonetheless. "The train needs to be secured. The first one came from the front of the train, and his friend there came from behind us. There may be more of them."

You're only a little surprised when Foster disagrees.

"If they wanted you dead, sir, they would've come at us already." His eyes flicker about as if he's trying to soak in every grisly detail of the scene before him. "A State Alchemist's not a soft target, especially if you've lost the advantage of surprise."

"You're right." It's been a little while since you've had to tell soldiers what to do, and you're realizing how much you still dislike doing it. But as the old saying went: when needs must, the devil drives… "Nevertheless, we can't rest until we know the people on board are safe. Go and secure the other cars, and check on the passengers there. I'll head to the front of the train and see what happened to the other conductors—you'd think they would've heard this racket. Meet me back here in ten minutes."

"Sir." The captain gives you a salute with his free hand, then gestures for his subordinates to follow him. You'd commend him for being quick on the uptake, if only as an apology. You certainly don't envy the mess that he'll be in when the dust settles.

When the soldiers leave, you reach up and pull your suitcase out from its place above your bench. All of the other passengers are still too busy cowering to give you so much as a second glance, and you can't help but feel a little dissatisfied with how you're leaving them. If the old man were here, he would've cuffed you about the ear and told you to say something to these people. You can almost hear his voice, see his heavy brow furrowed with concern—Solly my boy, this is your mess and you dragged these poor people into it. The least you can do is tell them that everything will be alright.

Perhaps he would've conjured up a silly trick to get a smile or two or even turn some juice into wine to fortify the nerves.

You yourself could use some liquid courage right now, but you don't have the luxury of time. You've already gone and made things that much worse for you by giving Captain Foster your identity. It's pretty obvious that your pursuers will get your name from him or one of his subordinates when the train pulls into Semoy City. With a soft sigh, you walk forwards through the baggage train and to the train's engine. You might not be returning to debrief the good captain, but you'll at least check up on the engineers.

Thankfully, it seems that whoever these men were, they didn't bother with too much collateral damage. They'd gone and waved their guns a little, and taken the uniform of one unfortunate conductor, but as soon as you informed the crew that they wouldn't be coming back they reassured you that they'd get the train and its passengers to Semoy City, safe and sound—after slowing down the train for a few minutes, of course. Luckily for you, they had been too thankful for your rescue to really question why you needed them to do that.

With that all said and done, you make your way to the end of one of the baggage cars and tap the handle of your staff against the railing. Again the golden lightning crackles to life as you transmute wood and steel into an oversized sled that rests on a ramp that will, as soon as you give it a good push, let you disembark from the train in a hopefully safe manner.

After securing your suitcase at the bottom of the sled, you take a moment to stand atop it as you stare out at the landscape before you. You see stretches of evergreen trees heavily blanketed by snow—the wide expanses of the North. While you were born in a mining town some ways south of here, the landscape is a little nostalgic. As you gaze out onto the horizon, you catch a glance of a crossing—If the train driver was right, that crossing would take you to your destination after a good day's walk... barring any inclement weather, of course.

And so, as the train slows down at your command, you sit on the sled and give a nice strong push. From an outsider's perspective, it is like something out of a film—an alchemist hurling himself from a moving train atop a comically oversized sled. However, unlike the movies, there are no comedic misunderstandings nor star-crossed romances, just two more corpses and a man evading the long arm of the State.

One clumsy landing later, you stand up and shake off the pain from your impromptu disembarkment. While you didn't fall off the sled, it was a close thing indeed. Such was your 'ride' that you have to take a moment to check that, yes, the road was still there and you hadn't doomed yourself to wandering the hinterlands until your pursuers found you.

You take a glance at your sled, your noble steed for all of thirty seconds, and then tap the bottom of your cane against it. In a flash of golden light, the sled is reduced to kindling and scrap metal in a second; another transmutation buries it beneath several meters of permafrost. It would've been easier to wait for the train to pull in at Semoy City and find a truck, or failing that a cart, that would take you to the village of Morozov.

Easier, however, does not necessarily mean better; if the government is already sending gunmen after you, a trek through the wilderness is worth the chance you'll shake off any pursuers who still have your scent. Being this far north meant that there was still enough resentment among the native Drachman population—those not enough trouble to expel and too stubborn to leave—that any investigation would have a great deal of trouble simply getting the locals to speak with 'those Amestrian dogs'.

You stretch your legs and examine the trail before you. Luckily it looks like it hasn't snowed in a couple of days, and the sky was clear. If you kept up a good pace, you'll make it to your rendezvous before the deadline. Most people would balk at traveling nearly twenty kilometers in some of the most dangerous terrain in all of Amestris, but most people weren't alchemists like you. The cold and dark was trivial for a man who could fashion himself a shelter in a matter of seconds. Hunger and thirst were easy to resolve by that same virtue, though you really hoped you wouldn't have to dig up hibernating animals for some kind of hunter's stew. No, the only thing you'll worry about is how badly your feet will ache by the time you arrive.

For a moment you stare up at the sky, at the stars slowly emerging from the gloom as twilight wanes on. Again, you are reminded of your childhood—those happy nights when the sky was clear and you and your master would sit on his roof and pick out constellations with the help of his telescope. If you look carefully, you're sure you can see them; the Wise Man, the Maiden, the Great Whale...

That was more than a decade ago, now.

"I've really gone and messed up now, huh? I wonder what advice you'd have for me right now, master." You can almost see him now—see him as you strive to remember him; a huge barrel of a man with a smile as wide as anything standing in the middle of your family home, entertaining your mother and father and all your siblings with stories of far-off Xing or some alchemist's fable passed down from his own master and his master's master before them. "You'd probably tell me to sit down and make a cup of tea before anything else. Maybe bake some scones while I was at it."

You laugh at that. Tea and scones would be really nice right about now. With that thought in mind, you take your suitcase in one hand and start walking. As you disappear into the quickly darkening countryside, your mind begins to wander. It was almost funny how your entire life could be overturned so quickly, how you could go from State Alchemist to outlaw in what felt like the blink of an eye.

Your mind drifts back to that fateful day:

[] The Manchini Request. It had started with an Aerugonian mobster with a cache of machine pistols...
[] The Violet Tome. It had started with what seems to be a fatal knife attack by Cretans on an Amestrian professor...
[] The Bogatyr's Fence. It had started with a call from a Drachman bank robber...

 

[Cataphract]

Spoiler: QM Note

Sorry for the delay! Life's been a tad hectic!

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As the crackling tendrils of alchemic lightning die away into nothing, you put your glove back on and take a step back to admire your handiwork. Where once there was a crumbling hovel and a pile of salvaged building materials now stands a sturdy home. Much like the others in the hamlet, it is a Northern-style hut of wooden walls and steeply-angled roofs, perfectly adapted for the frigid weather that so often blankets this part of the country.

However, unlike most traditional homes that you've seen, this one is barely large enough to house one person, let alone a young family. Though the thought of making it larger cannot leave your mind you simply remain quiet. Its owners are straightforward in their obstinacy, and had told you that it 'wasn't proper' to ask anything more of you, especially when their neighbors had all forgone such an improvement to their homes.

In all honesty you aren't too impressed with your results. It would keep the cold out and the heat in, but that's about it. To make things worse it would have been trivial to make it all the larger—the scars of the Thawing War stretched across much of the Northern District, but provided much in the way of raw materials. It was the cycle of creation and destruction at play, or so your master would have said. Indeed you did use salvaged rubble in these homes, but only to a certain degree; it would have been trivial to turn every one of these homes into something more respectable, and more importantly, comfortable.

However your dissatisfaction only lasts as long as it takes for you to see the looks on the faces of the young couple who stood some ways away—the original owners of the home you've just transmuted. Their expressions are awed, just like any other normal person who witnessed your alchemy tend to be, but you're acutely aware that this isn't some impersonal boon you've done for the hamlet; this is something just for them.

"Please, go ahead. I'm finished."

When the man standing beside you gives a nod of his head, the two of them start carrying in their belongings—what little they had, at least. The husband is too busy lugging in a wood-burning oven to give you anything more than a grateful look, but his wife spares a moment to thank you as she hefts a battered steamer trunk into the home. Some ways away, their daughter watches everything with the equitable ignorance of a child, her hand grasped by a wizened old woman who is probably her grandmother.

It would be quite the pastoral scene—a new home being readied for a young family—if it were not for the feeling that you could be doing a lot more for these people. You shake away those ill thoughts and glance towards the man standing beside you.

"That's the last of them."

Dmitry Yevgenyevich Tupolev is the 'headman' appointed by the people of this hamlet, a position once held by his father and grandfather before him, in those long-gone days where the Drachman Empire still ruled these lands and when this hamlet provided lumber and animal furs as part of its feudal tithe. Those days are long gone; today its inhabitants work in the nearby factories and workshops in North City's industrial district, while the headman's family runs a general store that barely deserves the name.

Strictly speaking this place, whose name you've never learned, is too poor to warrant any real recognition by the government and too small to be anything but an eyesore; it is so inconsequential that it was, according to your briefing, folded up into one of the satellite villages surrounding the district capital of North City. However, the people of this hamlet listened to this tired-looking factory worker whenever he spoke, especially when he allowed half a dozen men and women sent by the Prefecture of the Interior to poke around in their homes—and for the State Alchemist that led them to transmute the homes, their only shelter from the cold, in the hopes that he would 'improve' them.

It was only natural to defer to his judgement as you went about your business. While the annexation of what were once provinces of the Drachman Empire had done away with the old ways—which were nothing but a "yoke that strangled the proud peoples of the North"' according to an oft-quoted speech by some wizened warhawk in the Amestrian Parliament—many in Northern Amestris still clung to the supposedly barbaric traditions of a bygone age.

Despite the fact that an uncharitable MP could walk in right now and accuse the entire hamlet of some flavor of dissidence or treason—and have the charges stick—it's not surprising that these people would seek refuge in the systems they knew. Life up here was often brutal and short, and the Amestrian conquest had done little to change that.

The headman takes his shovel and raps it against the wall of alchemically reconstituted wood, just as he did with every single hovel you've transmuted. And just as before, he grunts in what you've learned to be satisfaction before he turns to look you in the eyes.

"I know little of alchemy, but even I can see that this is spectacularly done; you truly deserve the title of State Alchemist. Now, Major, as a small gesture of our thanks…" Dmitry Yevgenyevich reaches into his coat, and hands you a worn envelope. "This is for you."

You take it, and leaf through its contents. You notice two things about the wad of crumpled ten thousand cenz bills inside. First, this isn't even a tenth of your monthly salary as a Major in the Amestrian army, and that's not even taking the research grants and discretionary funds allotted to a State Alchemist like yourself. Second, it's obvious that this is a bribe of some sort… or more delicately put, 'payment' for your services.

Without a moment's hesitation you return the envelope with a wordless smile. It's not like you need the money, and for the people of this hamlet it is enough money that they certainly can't afford to be squandering right now. You then realize that while it is no trifling sum, it is one that they would deem was spent well.

In a few hours you've done work that would've taken them months, and on top of that you used your alchemy to take some half-demolished rubble and remade their hovels into homes, proper homes, ones that were better suited to survive the oncoming winter. You are painfully aware that it is something they couldn't have done with their expertise and resources—there were carpenters and laborers among the people of this nameless hamlet, but they could not afford proper building materials. It's depressing to consider that there's a good chance that you'll be saving lives this year, which makes it no surprise that they'd pay you what for them would be a princely sum.

"It is just a small token of our appreciation." A touch of desperation enters his tone as he proffers it to you once more.

"I can't possibly accept this from you, Dmitry Yevgenyevich." It makes you all the more certain that you can't take their money.

"I… we can't let this go unpaid. It's just not done." The creases on the headman's face only deepen as he inclines his head as if in shame. "Please, Major."

You're about to end the matter with a kind but insistent word, but you suddenly remember something your master, who was Drachman by extraction, once told you. A Drachman will never suffer a debt while he can return it, for there was nothing that the gods despised more than a good deed that went unpaid. And judging by the scrimshaw amulet hanging from Dmitry Yevgenyevich's neck—a bit of deer antler carved into a figure of a woman of some sort, you were not much for religion beyond the weekly services as a child—you could say that he was a man that held his gods in high regard indeed.

It then dawns on you that there is something that this little hamlet can do for you and your investigation team, such as they are.

"It's been rather cold today, Dmitry Yevgenyevich. My men and I hope you can spare a seat or two at your table, and spare us a cup or two of tea to bring back the feeling in our fingers." As handy as your cane was as a transmutation array, you had to make direct skin contact with the wood in order to transmute anything, or else wear gloves so thin that they provided no warmth at all. And those soldiers seconded to your command from the Prefecture of the Interior were… Well, you're pretty sure that none of them were from the North like you were. They'd surely relish the thought. "We are all from the south, in varying distances from North City, and so what you may call a refreshing day may be colder than anything some of my men have experienced."

It takes the headman a moment to realize you're serious.

"Of course. Of course. My home is open to you. It would be my honor." He lowers his head again as he finally tucks the envelope of money back into his overcoat. "But I must apologize, Major. It may take a little while before I can welcome you to my home—we haven't had guests in a very long time."

You almost want to tell him to stop bowing and scraping like you're a doyen inspecting his estate… but perhaps for a man of Dmitry Yevgenyevich's age, he might've seen his grandfather or even his own father acting in a very similar way to the landed nobility of the old empire, or else their tax collectors. Perhaps one of his ancestors did indeed literally scrape his nose against the snow to soothe the pride of a doyen looking to collect his yearly tithe.

It's not exactly a pleasant thought, so you try to comfort yourself with the fact that he and the people of his hamlet have not been serfs for years, decades even; they're now Amestrian citizens with all the rights and opportunities that such a thing would entail. While it was outside your remit as a State Alchemist to spend your time refurbishing their homes, you're sure that your counterparts in service to the Imperial Throne would not waste their 'talents' with something so beneath them. You, at least, could wave away a lot of military protocol by simply waving your silver pocket watch at anyone who got in your way.

"If you'll excuse me, tell my men the good news." Before the headman you can reply, you give him another smile. "And please, there's no need to call me Major."

"Of course…" He takes a moment to reply, almost certainly recalling the name you gave him when you arrived in his hamlet; your first name and patronym, after the style favored by many in this part of the world. "Solomon Egonovich. I shall meet you outside my home."

With that being sorted, you begin to look for the second-in-command of your little 'detachment'. You had long since stopped complaining to your superiors—other than General Fessler, who wouldn't have given you the time of day in any case. It was unwise, or so they had said, for a State Alchemist to go gallivanting about the hinterlands without so much as a bodyguard, even if said alchemist was a veteran of the Ishval campaign. The Bogatyri were not the only problem facing Northern Command; Drachman infiltration teams constantly tested the men at Fort Briggs and in their minds it was only a matter of time before they would succeed.

You find your duly-assigned subordinate in what Dmitry Yevgenyevich generously named as the town square, beneath the eaves of the town's post office. He's leafing through a field manual—if you had to guess, it would be the primer on Drachman language and culture. You've certainly been struggling with the halfway-competent pigdin you grew up with. When he sees you approaching he puts the pamphlet away, steps forward, and gives you a passable if lazy salute.

"How are you, Lieutenant?"

"Cold, boss." Second Lieutenant Anton Macchi seems to fold into himself in an attempt to wrap his overcoat even tighter around his body. He's a broad tawny-skinned man from Southern stock, and thus looks so terribly out of place in this land of pale peaks and paler people—and to hear him talk about it, he often feels as lost as he looks. Out of all the people who accompanied you to the hamlet today, you've known him the longest. Perhaps you could even call him a friend. "Cold and lonely. Half-wondering why I didn't decide to call in sick today so I could have lunch with that cute waitress."

"Oh, her?" You remember her from that restaurant the two of you visited the other week. She had introduced herself as Lucina; Macchi had clearly been taken by her, but you didn't get the feeling that she reciprocated his interest."So the number she gave you was real after all..."

"Of course it was real, boss. Been talking with her whenever I can manage—since Command's been riding our asses so hard, I haven't been able to do much more than that." Macchi frowns with a look of mock betrayal on his face. "Don't tell me you thought she was just being nice!"

You put on your own expression of faux remorse.

"I meant nothing by it, Macchi, I had just forgotten about her, that's all… and you're in luck." You smile as the lieutenant gives you a somewhat skeptical look. "If we're quick, you'll be able to have dinner with her tonight."

"You've found something, then?" His tone turns serious for a moment. You raise one hand to forestall any conclusions he's about to make.

"Quite the opposite, actually. There are no bank robbers here, just a few dozen people who are anxious to stay warm when Old Man Winter comes down from the mountains. If they're helping the Bogatyri, I couldn't find any evidence for it."

You don't even have to lie to him; you've turned over what seemed like tons of dirt and permafrost in the process of refurbishing the hamlet's homes and their foundations. In the process, not a single one of the supposed 'arms caches' that those at North Command always claimed were beneath the homes of 'dissidents' appeared.

"So what was with the whole lightshow?"

"When General Fessler can deign to turn his attention from the Briggs Mountains, he looks at these hungry people looking to survive and sees Drachman dissidents and turncoats who will rise up at the slightest provocation." In your mind's eye you can see him, that bloated windbag of a general, still riding high off his commendations from the butchery at Ishval. He wouldn't be happy to hear that his accusations, as usual, had no merit, but it wasn't like he could do anything to a State Alchemist like you… though you still weren't looking forward to another one of his 'lectures'. "I couldn't just return to base without doing what I could."

"Watch out, sir." Macchi smirks. "If people hear what you're saying, some might be inclined to turn you in to the military police, silver pocket watch or no." He snorts when you give a noncommittal shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Anyways, you still haven't answered my question, unless… what, you somehow managed to transmute a bunch of Drachman peasants into model Amestrian citizens."

"You read too many novels… If our alchemy were capable of such a thing, Amestris would be ruling the continent right now."

The two of you chuckle at that, though you're much less enthusiastic about it, even as a joke. While you don't regret joining the military, you've met a lot of officers who seem oblivious to the idea that alchemy was meant to help people, not kill them.

"Even if I could do something like that, that wouldn't be necessary here." You tuck your hands into your overcoat's pockets as you gaze out at the people coming and going around the newly refurbished houses. If you listen carefully, you think you can hear them singing a song—one of those working-songs about a farmer falling for a mountain spirit. "These people are barely making ends meet—they're too hungry to think about becoming partisans."

"Was thinking the exact opposite, boss." Macchi scratches that beard he's so proud of—the one that's just a few centimeters longer than regulations allow. "You'd think hungry people would have more reasons to start robbing banks and fighting the military police."

"I've spoken to them, Macchi, and unless they're lying to me I've learned this much: they don't have the time to think of such high-minded things. But to answer your question, when I found no bank robbers in their root cellars, I took some of the rubble from the nearby ruins and gave them homes that won't simply collapse the next time a snowstorm comes rolling in. And before you ask, it was trivial. All I needed to do was to keep their requests in mind, whenever they made any to begin with."

You frown, again wondering if you should've simply ignored their attempts at being polite, and had given them homes that befitted the name.

"If you really want to think of it from a perspective of state security, you can say that I gave them one less reason to rebel, and one more reason to remain loyal to Fuhrer Bradley's government." You pause for a moment, before you let your tone, and the conversation, turn lighter. "As thanks, the headman invited all of us for tea at his house."

"Huh. I did see them hauling carts full of rubble into town, but I didn't really think about it. Alchemy really is something, isn't it?" The lieutenant puts his hands up to his face to try and warm up his fingers with his breath. "In any case, the men will be glad to get out of the cold for a while. Let me get them before they all freeze to death." But before Macchi can leave, you give him a bit of an embarrassed look.

"Another thing, lieutenant. Could you please fetch me one of the emergency rations from the halftrack's survival kit?" Your second-in-command raises one eyebrow, so you explain your intentions. "In these parts, it's rude to visit someone's home without a little gift, but I didn't have the foresight to prepare anything in case something like this happened."

"You say gift, but..." For his part, Macchi looks skeptical again. "These are our winter rations we're talking about, sir. I wouldn't care if King Bradley himself wrapped it up and gave it to me on a silver platter. I'd sooner head back into the trenches."

"Too true, too true." From what you know of Macchi's history, you're sure he's fairly serious about that. "Thankfully for all of us, I can use my alchemy to turn the rations into something a little more palatable." Some of your first alchemy lessons took place in the kitchen. In fact, one of your first successful transmutations was rescuing a poorly-baked loaf of bread by turning it into scones. As disgusting as they were, the variety of preserved foods in each ration pack—dried meat, hardtack, and powdered tea—meant you had far more ingredients to work with.

"I know that I just said that alchemy's pretty amazing, but I'll believe it when I see it." Macchi chuckles as he gives you another lazy salute. "No offense meant, Major."

"None taken, Lieutenant." If you were in his shoes, you'd probably say the exact same thing.

---

At the center of the hamlet was the general store. It was the beating heart of this nameless settlement, though to imply that it was full of vitality would be a bit of an exaggeration. Even so, it and the post office were the only locations of note in this hamlet. With that, it only made sense that the headman lived there; he turned its second floor into an apartment for him and his extended family. Of all the homes you've seen today it was the only one that did not need much in the way of transmutation. You just needed to poke around the inside of the first floor to reinforce some wood and stone that you're pretty sure was already old in your grandfather's day.

It was a good, solid building, but for some reason you're sure that shamed Dmitry Yevgenyevich when he had pointed it out to you. In its own way it made you hold the man in higher esteem. He really did seem to hold the position of headman, as petty as it was, as a duty to live up to, rather than something to lord over his kin and neighbors.

There were certainly worse people to have a cup of tea with.

When you arrive, you see the half-dozen men who accompanied you to the hamlet. The lieutenant certainly worked quickly, but that was no surprise. Before he received his officer's commission, Macchi was a platoon sergeant fighting on the borders of the West District, against Cretan and Drachman forces alike; gathering a bunch of wayward 'investigators' would have been as easy as breathing to him.

Naturally, they all salute you, and you nod in return. However, you make no move to socialize further, and neither do they offer anything but the most cursory report on their actions. You stand to one side as Lieutenant Macchi jokes around with them about the work, or lack thereof, they'd managed to complete since their arrival. They were assigned to serve as your bodyguards, but it was easy to convince them to filter into the hamlet and ask the locals if they'd seen anything funny.

Of course, Macchi had been the one to make sure they didn't just bum around the halftrack while you went about your business. In a way, it stung. Sure, this wasn't Ishval and these weren't the assault troops following in your wake, or the garrisons occupying those fortifications you tossed up, but it had always been hard for you to socialize with the men who were ostensibly under your command. You didn't envy Macchi, but you knew that he could connect with and inspire the men in a way you couldn't; perhaps you could call it a personal failing. Some might have said it wasn't your responsibility to lead men but to use your alchemy in service to the state, but you would disagree—by taking up the silver pocket watch, it was your duty to lead your countrymen, and furthermore protect them with your alchemy.

Luckily you only have to wait a minute or so before Dmitry Yevgenyevich's wife, who he had introduced as Anya Nikolaevna when you met her earlier in the day, steps out to greet you. She is a broad woman in her late forties, wearing well-made, if plain, clothing in drab colors.

"My deepest apologies, gentlemen, for the wait. Please, come with me."

You begin to follow her into the building, with Macchi following suit. When he notices that the rest of the men are just shuffling about, he pokes his head out of the doorway.

"What are you waiting for? A red carpet?"

That breaks the spell instantly; the men begin to file in behind you, muttering appreciatively at the wall of warm air that hits them as soon as they enter the general store.

"Thank you."

"It's what I do, boss." Macchi shrugs at you. "You're the one who did all the heavy lifting."

You disagree quite strongly, but you leave it at that. Sure, both of you were combat veterans—hell, you're fairly certain that, save for the pimply Private Hansle who drove the halftrack, all of you were all veterans of one conflict or another—but there was a sort of no-nonsense charm that Macchi had. When combined with his battle-tested experience as a leader… you can at least take solace in the fact that they're led by a man who knows what he's doing.

You push those thoughts aside as Anya Nikoaevna steps behind the counter to open a door that leads up to the apartments. When you step behind the shelves of the general store and up a flight of stairs, you find a large and cozy-looking sitting room, wherein waits the Tupolev clan.

They consist of three generations of hardbitten peasants who look as humorless and as tough as their patriarch. Some stand when you enter the room, others remain seated, and you could swear one or two flinch when they see the dark blues of your army uniforms. (Not at all surprising, but always saddening to your eyes.) A young woman, close to your age, meets your eyes with an intensity you'd almost call defiance, but she looks away a second later.

"Welcome to my home, Solomon Egonovich." He bows stiffly as you and your men file into the already crowded room. At the same time, several of his daughters—or perhaps granddaughters— step forward and ask you and your men for your overcoats.

"It's my pleasure to be here, Dmitry Yegvenyevich. I thank you for hosting us on such short notice." You hold out a small parcel, encased in wax paper and tied together with a bit of brown string. Inside are several dozen tea cookies—it was surprising how dense the hardtack that came with your rations were. They are certainly no Central City pastries, but in your opinion they're pretty good, especially for something you had to transmute on the fly. "This is for you. I hope you and your family will enjoy this as a token of our thanks."

"Thank you. You're too kind." You could swear he actually means it. He turns from you to Lieutenant Macchi and the other soldiers who've accompanied you here today. "Come, come. There is hot water in our samovar, and my wife has made syrniki. There is enough for all of us. Let us sit a while, and chase away the cold with some tea."

He then leads you to an adjoining room, with a rather luxurious-looking table set in the middle. It is large enough for your entire party, which approaches nearly twenty people.

Even with those welcoming words, not everyone at Dmitry Yevgenyevich's table are entirely comfortable—their eyes never drifting far from the holsters at your sides, at the expressions on your faces as if they expect the muted smiles and awkward laughter to curdle into the contempt and anger they know all too well.

But when they look at you, at the stars on your shoulders and the ornate wooden cane sitting in your lap, there's something else. There is an uneasiness among some of Dmitry Yevgenyevich's family when they look at you and It is because of your...

[ ] Dark red eyes. One that marks you as one of the Ishvala. Ishvala. Not Ishvalan. One of the older men gives you a look caught halfway between fear and pity, but you easily ignore him.
[ ] Ashy hair with black tips. One that marks you as Drachman like them. You don't miss the look of disgust from one of the younger folks—to their eyes, you're a traitor in Amestrian blues.
[ ] Tawny skin. One that marks your descent as Aerugonian. Anya Nikolaevna passes you some food and then apologizes for what must be bland fair to a Southerner like yourself, and you don't have the heart to correct her.
[] Purple irises. One that marks you as a Cretan. It's hard for some of those sitting at the table to maintain eye contact with you, but that's something you grew up with.
[] Pale blonde hair. You're a true-blooded Amestrian, almost stereotypical in appearance. Yours is the face of their conquerors, and it makes conversation a little stilted whenever someone tries to talk to you.

As your men take your seats around the dining table, one of Dmitry Yevgenyevich's relatives—a child who can be no older than twelve—approaches a shelf on one end of the room. There sits a battered-looking radio, and it splutters to life as soon as the child flicks the switch.

Rather than music, you hear the crisp voice of a newsreader from North City Radio speaking about:

[ ] The August Retaliation, where an office building is assaulted by a band of revanchist Ishvalans wielding machetes and rifles. They massacred everyone within before being killed in a counterattack launched by the local MP. It has galvanized those few Ishvalans that remain in the country into fighting a war they have long since lost. 1909 is about to end, but the last stubborn embers of the Ishvalan War of Extermination have yet to be extinguished.
[ ] The Dameno Consular Assault, where a group of Aerugonian and Cretan rebels seized a consulate and held it for two weeks. After talks broke down, the local garrison sent in a company of assault troopers; few survived, and the commanding officer was court-martialed for incompetence. It was a bloody affair that has come to define the last few months of 1912; the Fourfold Insurrections are in full swing.

 

[Cataphract]

Hey folks! I just wanted to post this announcement that I'll keep the votes open until Thursday evening.

Furthermore, here's the first bit of side story content! My intention here is to shine the spotlight on places, people, and events that may or may not be immediately relevant to the main storyline.

---

November 13 1907. There has been a night raid. Ishvalan bastards have well and truly thrashed us. However, I can't blame our sentries for sleeping on the job; the raiders did not come from the canyons as everyone thought they would.

We have learned, at great cost, that a system of burrows exists beneath the town. They have been dug deep enough to hide a company of Ishvalan fighters, and a series of tunnels allowed them to deploy almost anywhere in town. It is only sheer luck that the alarm went up before they came to visit the buildings that our company took as our billet. When it happened I thought that I had died and gone to Hell. One moment I was sleeping and the next we were running out into the street because the building was on fire. At first I thought someone had kicked an oil lantern over, so I was looking for the well with the intention of starting a bucket-brigade. But then I heard gunfire and my sergeant told me to take my rifle and put one up the spout. And just like that, an Ishvalan fighter came sprinting around the corner with a satchel full of fire bottles. She would've thrown one at us but my rifle was at the ready.

I do not think I will forget the look she had for me as she died. She was glaring at me as if she could set me alight with her gaze. After a moment she went for her satchel so I shot her again, but that look did not leave her eyes.

Later, I asked my sergeant where the tunnels had come from, and he told me that if it was not some way the red-eyes worshipped their god, then it was the last desperate act of defiance by the town's defenders. Whatever their provenance, the tunnels hid a sizable force while the rest died above ground to convince us that we had chased the rest off—the few prisoners we took the other day did not tell us that their friends were waiting for us beneath the earth. I would have saluted their bravery if I were anyone else.

Unfortunately for us their bravery came at a high cost. The motor pool, communications post, and ammo depot were all destroyed before we repulsed the last of the fighters—these Ishvalans were as clever as they were smart. To think that we were bragging about our 'invincible' armored cars only a week ago! Perhaps our drivers can brag about how much smoke they make when they burn.

Colonel Aylward was found in pieces as soon as the dust settled, along with most of the command company. Command has therefore fallen to Captain Maxim Savilo from First Company. He and his unit were the ones to organize the defense so I think he is the best man for the job, but every so often I am reminded that he is fresh from the academy. At the very least he is listening to the veterans whenever they have something to say. In any case our situation is dire. Without our trucks and scout cars we cannot pull back in good order, and we do not have the supplies for a proper defense. And with the ammo depot gone we are not much better supplied than the Ishvalans themselves, an irony that is lost on nobody I've spoken to.

At least the captain is not indecisive. As soon as he was put in charge, he sent Harlow and Berkley out on fresh horses to tell division command the bad news. The badlands between us and the nearest secure settlement have not been secured, but I have never seen two men happier to ride out into enemy territory.

If our throats are not slit in our sleep tonight, then hopefully H&B will return with reinforcements and supplies. But before that happens, we have to secure the town and make sure the Ishvalans have left us no more gifts. To that end, the captain has sent men to secure the tunnels, and to collapse them afterwards. I do not envy them, even if our flamethrowers and their operators were not lost. I would sooner charge a machine gun by myself.

— Entry from the personal journal of Corporal Jansen Garwood, Third Company, 18th Motorized Infantry Regiment

 

[Cataphract]

Spoiler: QM Note

It's been a while, huh? A lot's happened but I don't wanna waste your time with any excuses, so here's the next update! You can thank my friend Sierra, whose enthusiasm for helping me with this AU's worldbuilding and her edits to this update helped me beat my writer's block. She's a wonderful person with wonderful art, so if you wanna thank her for helping me get this update out, why not check out her Twitter account?

As you and your men begin to filter into the dining room, some of Dmitry Yevgenyevich's family peel off from their protective huddle and begin to scurry about. Most of them are children no older than twelve, though you note how some of the older children or the young adults shepherd them with gestures and muttered castigations, like sergeants marshaling a platoon for a night attack.

Despite the tension behind the scene, it is hard for you not to smile at the sight. It reminds you of home, of the times you were ordered about—and then as you got older and as more and more children were born to your family, ordered others about. You see the headman sitting apart from the chaos, and watch his face for a moment as he in turn watches over his family preparing for the meal. You can read his thoughts as he scans their faces, remembering births, naming-days, and blessedly few funerals. It is not easy to keep so many children fed and healthy in these times, so to see them so healthy is a blessing from the gods.

The sight makes you smile a little more.

They move in a sort of practiced chaos. The children bicker and shout as a full Drachman tea service—a samovar flanked by plates of syrniki with gooseberry preserve, the tea cookies you salvaged from your emergency rations, and some other local delicacies—is dragged out from cabinets and out of the pantry. At the same time, they usher you and your men to your seats with that same manic energy. Most of you are too nonplussed to do anything but meekly follow their instructions. It had been a cold day today, one that they had spent wandering about the hamlet, so you can't blame them for how quickly they snatch up their cups of hot tea.

Your eye is drawn to a young girl fiddling with a side table in one corner of the room. It is dominated by a battered old radio, and as the girl steps away it begins to play a rollicking Amestrian dance number—rather fitting for your current situation. Some of the younger children are tempted away from their duties by the spirited beats and half-start to dance, but before the elders can scold them, the music ends and a triumphal horn chorus announces the arrival of breaking news. Some of your men perk up, glad to have something to focus on that isn't the awkward lack of mutual language.

"This is Josephus Reitman, speaking from our offices at Dameno City. Two days have passed since the hostage crisis at the Consulate-General of Suresne came to its bloody conclusion. While the order for martial law has been lifted, the city goes quiet after sundown and its cafes and saloons remain empty. It seems that the citizens of Dameno have not regained their appetite for merrymaking; indeed many, including this reporter, are struggling to comprehend the sheer barbarity that they have witnessed."

You are quietly thankful that most of the children—who have now begun to tuck into their own meals at another table—don't seem to understand the radio report or care at all for that matter.

It's just your luck that an already awkward meal is dampened with the news, but it's unavoidable. The front is one thing, sure, but Amestris has come to terms with its neighbors. These rebels are far closer to home, and thus more present in the mind of the people. With the Black Army in the North District and now the Volscian United Front bombing embassies down south… it's hard to escape the times.

Further complicating the matter is the way they look at you… or more precisely, the way they don't. You are not the only 'foreigner' present—Macchi is Aerugonian, and Corporal Liu was born in one of the Xingese enclaves that dotted the Eastern District—but there is something particularly striking, perhaps, about the fact that the State Alchemist was not a full-blooded Amestrian.

(It is an old sort of tired pain for people to see your bright eyes and the color of your skin and automatically consider you an 'outsider'. Alas, that is simply the way the world is… though it won't remain that way, or so you've sworn to yourself.)

You knew all too well how that flew in the face of the newsreels and propaganda posters loved to suggest, for all of the talk of Amestris being a country that thrived on the brotherhood between its peoples. For a moment you wonder if you should have simply taken the bribe money and left.

"Two more of the hostages and another soldier have succumbed to their wounds in the night, bringing the current death toll to seventy-five. Dozens more still remain in critical condition. Of note is Camille Vicquemarque, the Suresnean consul-general, who has yet to regain consciousness despite a team of surgeons and doctors working around the clock to save his life. Gladys Brewton, the chief physician at Dameno City General Hospital, has put in a request to South City Command for the aid of a State Alchemist to assist in the effort to save the lives of those people wounded in this terrible attack."

"The pursuit of justice is also underway. A source inside South City Command, who spoke to our reporters on conditions of anonymity, said that Captain Hiram Meade has been placed under house arrest in the district capital, pending his trial. Listeners may remember from our previous broadcasts regarding the crisis here in Dameno City that Captain Meade was the officer in charge of the military's response to this latest provocation of the Volscian United Front, and that he personally directed the assault on the consulate itself…"

"I knew Meade." You let the radio report fall into the background as Macchi begins to speak up. There's a sad little smile on his face. "Well, I knew of him. He used to command a company of stormtroopers attached to our regiment down South." He punctuates his words by dipping a sweet biscuit into his tea and taking a bite, crumbs scattering everywhere—his manners are terrible as always.

"He's the kind of guy who…" The conspiratorial look on his face fades away when he remembers that he's surrounded by uneasy civilians rather than bored soldiers looking to rustle up some gossip. "Well. You heard the news."

"Then it's good that they arrested him." Pimply Private Hansle speaks up for what feels like the first time since you've arrived. His voice is hoarse and quavery and if you hadn't verified his age yourself you would have pegged him as being not a day over sixteen.

"It should've happened years ago." Macchi leaves it at that, and a growing silence—save for the clink of utensils on plates and the newscaster on the radio—is left in his wake.

Before you can say something to lighten the mood, you feel someone tug on your sleeve. You turn your head to see the same little girl who had turned on the radio.

She stares up at you with the staid seriousness you would expect from someone her grandfather's age, then speaks to you in Drachman:

"My grandfather wants to talk to you. He's in his study."

You nod with that same seriousness on your face. Her genteel conduct must be rewarded with reciprocation as a matter of respect, or so you imagine your master saying.

When you stand up some of your men start to follow—with Hansle wincing quietly as he slams his shin into a table leg—but you wave a hand in their direction.

"There's no need for that. I'll be quick, gentlemen—please, enjoy yourselves."

---

Dmitry Yevgenyevich's study is small and sparsely furnished. Even so, you feel that there is a certain air to the place as you walk in. You can't help but feel a sort of cozy small-town respectability reflected in the simple but well-made furniture that takes up the room.

Then you notice the shrine to the Drachman gods in the corner. In line with the rest of the study, it is a simple affair; upon a low wooden table, you see several devotional statuettes carved from bone, a shallow brass bowl with a matching flask for sacral water, and a leatherbound prayer book.

You remember seeing a similar but far more ornate display in your master's home, in the main sitting room. It had belonged to his parents who were far more religious than he ever was. Your master had kept it for sentimental purposes, though he always claimed that he would sell it off to some collector, citing the name of some long-dead goldsmith or jeweler who had made the rather luxurious set and thus gave it a high value among certain circles. He'd always forget about it, only to have you contact some friend in the antique business whenever he remembered its existence.

This shrine looked absolutely domestic and well-used in comparison; this was the inner sanctum of a true believer.

The shrine's owner is standing by the window, gazing out upon the hamlet and its people as they busy themselves with their recently renovated homes. The headman turns to you with a thin but genuine smile on his face.

"Would you like a drink, Solomon Egonovich?" He gestures at a tray on the table. On it is a battered-looking bottle flanked on either end by two small glasses. Bringing up the rear was a small plate of zakuski, finger food, to go with the drinks: pickled mushrooms, goat's cheese, and a stack of freshly fried pirozhki.

"My Vanya gave it to me as a gift to celebrate his wife's pregnancy—he is a hotheaded fool and a gambler, gods have mercy on him, but a dutiful grandson." He speaks with naked affection for the man even as he shakes his head. "The food is my wife's—if you were anybody else, perhaps I would be a little jealous of the hospitality she's showing you."

You laugh at his little joke, but it is still a little bitter; you remember how miserable the shacks were even after you had worked on them.

"I would, thank you."

"Good, good." Dmitry Yevgenyevich begins to fuss with the tray but glances up at you again. "Do you have a wife of your own? Any children?"

You choke back a reflexive guffaw as you think back to your most recent ex-girlfriend—Valeria Cline. Honestly, the less you think about her (and the mess she left as she exited your life) the better. The same goes for any potential children you might have running around. The mere thought mortifies and amuses you in equal measure and thus you try your best to school your expression into something polite and bring your mind back down to earth.

"No, not yet. My work keeps me far too busy, I'm afraid."

"Of course, of course. How sad it is that the young have so little time for themselves these days. But worry not; your time will come, surely as spring sweeps winter away…" Dmitry Yevgenyevich's gaze turns wistful, but he remembers himself a moment later. "Bah, listen to me prattle on. Forgive me, young man—let us drink." With your assent, he takes up the bottle and fills up both glasses. "To your health, Solomon Egonovich."

"And to yours, Dmitry Yevgenyevich."

With that, the two of you tip back your glasses.

The liquor sears your throat as it goes down, and when you cough you instantly regret it, but you have the good sense not to hack and wheeze all over your host's table.

It's as if you're fifteen again and you're taking pulls from flasks one of your friends would smuggle out of his father's study—those had been the days! You feel a sudden flash of comfortable nostalgia, a lazy warmth not unlike the alcohol that had nestled itself in your belly. If you had the time you'd thank Vanya, and by extension Dmitry Yevgenyevich, for bringing your boyhood memories back to life even for a moment.

Dmitry Yevgenyevich does not say anything but instead gestures to the plate. You nod and take one of the pirozhkis. When you bite down you realize it has been stuffed with Victory Meat, that 'potted luncheon loaf' made from pure-strain bovid chimera out of the Tucker ateliers.

Others might have been insulted by being served something like this, but you understand. That he would serve this food to a guest isn't that surprising, considering how the richest man in this hamlet would be considered a hair's breadth from poverty by most peoples' standards. In any case, you'd say that the dumplings are very good if just a bit too salty (all that canned stuff always is) but that's just what you need right now. In contrast, the headman does not eat anything, and simply smacks his lips appreciatively as he sets his own glass down.

"I have not been entirely honest to you, Solomon Egonovich." His expression grows serious as he pauses for a moment—gathering his resolve, you suddenly realize. "I understand you came to our hamlet in search of those who are aiding the Bogatyri."

"I have," you reply.

"I of course know nothing of such things," he says, in a roundabout way that reminds you of how your parents spoke of certain things they wanted you to know and the MP who followed you home not to. "I am a simple hetman, but I have eyes. Ears. Sometimes…sometimes someone comes through town and hears things, and he tells me these things. Sometimes I hear things that are more interesting than other times. Nothing dangerous, of course. Nothing against the Amestrian state, of course."

The way he says of course reminds you of a prayer, a plea. That's not at all surprising, you think. Even your parents were known to do a little haggling under the table, swapping cigarette rations for a new pair of shoes or more canned meat to keep you and your siblings fed when things were tough. This might have been a few shades worse than that, but it's far from the 'hotbeds of dissidence and anti-Amestrian treason' that General Fessler wouldn't shut up about. Still, black market business (for information was as vital to these people as casks of moonshine or crates of rifles were) was beneath a State Alchemist's remit, unless of course, they had been smuggling weapons or people or state secrets, but you highly doubt that's the case here.

"Of course," you repeat his refrain.

"Now," Dmitry rolls the empty vodka glass around in his gnarled fingers. "Recently, I have heard something I think you would find of great interest, Solomon Egonovich. Something I will tell you because I believe you to be an honorable man. A man of integrity. A man with a kind heart and a sense of justice, All-Trades Alchemist."

Again you nod. That was your title given by Fuhrer Bradley himself, and a matter of public record due to your work in the region. Officially, those titles were a codename meant to protect a State Alchemist's identity but in practice, they were the first taste of glory for the alchemist—and inspirational fodder for the state media and the propaganda corps.

"I heard a military airship has crashed in a forest not too far from here. One of yours."

Now that takes you by surprise. Amestris is not Aerugo: unlike your southern neighbor with its fleets of ironclads, the Aeronautics Corps is stingy with its comparatively small fleet. If one of the few Amestrian airships in service had crashed in your neck of the woods surely it would be known by now, perhaps only within certain military circles to save face.

You rack your brain for any news of an airship crashing, or of medics rushing headlong into the snow—medics heading out for an excursion into the wilderness was always a telltale sign that some clandestine operation was underway—but… no, today was a slow day, nothing of note beyond the usual soldier's gossip that bubbles up from time to time...

"Do you know where this crash is?"

"No."

"Can I ask someone to show me where? Who found it?"

Dmitry clears his throat, and you suspect that, while your reputation may be good, it's not good enough for him to give up his source. Sometimes the blue uniform was as little help with an investigation as a set of bloodied fangs and claws. It's frustrating, but the thought of a Bogatyri team picking over a crashed airship was disturbing at best. The Bogatyri were brash and bold (which was why you were after them, to begin with); to hear that these bandits were so spooked that they (albeit on the side) informed a State Alchemist did not bode well.

"Tell me what you do know," you say, and you see his brow unknit with relief.

The next few minutes are spent with Dmitry Yevgenyevich answering your rapid-fire questions to the best of his ability. Where did it go down, how old is the crash, how many men did they lose, and so on and so forth. Ignoring the realization that a simple fence has been told quite a bit about this little incident, you learn more than you feared but less than you'd hoped, and that only increases your unease.

At the end, the old man sighs, rolling his glass in one hand.

"One last thing, Solomon Egonovich… I was told by a friend to tell you that… that you may do as you will with the information—that he expects nothing in return. He is, or so he says, simply being… a good neighbor." The words are spoken with as much bitterness as hesitation.

A friend, eh? An olive branch from Besarionis Geladze himself?

You're not sure how you're supposed to feel about that.

"Thank you, Dmitry Yevgenyevich, for this information. I shall take your words to heart." It is hard to sound genuine but you try your best—even if the man trusted you, it would be a trivial effort to have this man and his entire family arrested by the Military Police. You know many people who would have had the hamlet cart away more people for less in some fit of national zeal. No matter if said man had passed on vital intelligence, and no matter if said man had a family to care for. That fact hangs heavy over your head right now and somehow that makes you bitter.

"No thanks are needed, Solomon Egonovich. You have already done so much for this village, and we can scarcely begin to pay the debt." He grits his teeth. "I… I wish you luck. May the gods bless you and keep you."

You pause long enough to return Dmitry Yevgenyevich's words with as much sincerity as you can muster; afterward, you turn down the offer for one last drink and step out of the office, urgency driving your steps.

As you come down the hallway, you see Macchi stepping out of the bathroom, and the half-smile he greets you with fades as he sees the look on your face.

It doesn't take long to get him up to speed, so after that, you then decide to…

[ ] Head to the crash site with your men right now. This is technically against orders, and there's a lot about this situation that you still don't know, but there isn't any time to waste. Something bad is happening and you need to get involved now.
[ ] Get in contact with North City Command through a secure line. There is no love lost between you and General Fessler, and it will take you a while to get to the nearest military outpost, but whatever's going on is bigger than either of your egos.
[ ] Write-in?