Fullmetal Alchemist 1. The Young Colonel

"I don't like young Colonels," the old man said.

Anders Stig did not change his expression. The general continued to regard him much as one regards a particularly untrustworthy sled dog; it could pull your team one minute, and lead you off of a cliff the next. It was best to put down such dogs, but depending on where you were, you might need to take the risk and keep it. Stig was such a dog. He was unorthodox by Drachman standards, and the Grand Army was uncomfortable with his rising career. He had sponsors, however. He was good, no doubt. And he was utterly amoral. That was useful, but intimidating. Even in the cold North, where men lived by a reality unknown to those of warmer climes, a man of Stig's compunction, or lack of it, was seen as…atypical.

"Young Colonels," Gen. Juda Larrson continued, "Have many ideas, untested ideas, and the dangerous power to implement them. They can cause a lot of trouble for the men above and below them. Financial trouble. Organizational trouble. Unwarranted trouble, to be frank."

"It is good, then, that I test my ideas before putting them into practice, sir," Stig countered.

"I did not give you leave to speak," Larrson replied, gently.

"I did not ask for leave, sir," Stig replied back, his tone diffident.

Larrson narrowed his eyes. "You are Gustav's dog. You are his 1st Commando's senior commander. Why does he send you to me?" Stig stood, opening his attache case, and removed several documents. He leaned over to place them on the desk in front of Larrson.

"The defeat at Briggs was costly," Stig noted, "And lost a valuable opportunity to try and make up for it with the swift transition of Fuehrer from Bradley to Grumman. The peace between us and Amestris will not last, but we are not in a good position to influence the direction of the war when it will occur."

"That is academic," Larrson grumbled. No arguments with that statement: the loss of the Expeditionary Force was a disaster, the failure to take any sort of initiative on the infighting in Central was worse, and it was clear that there _would_ be a war between Drachma and Amestris. Not if, but when. The counterattack from Amestris had never come, and a shaky non-aggression status had been renewed, but…

The General muttered. It wouldn't hold, and that was that. Amestris and Drachma were simply too committed to the fight, and neither had won what could be called a truly decisive victory. Until then, hostilities would come and go. They were coming again. The General continued, "But we can't do much without Briggs in our possession. The mountain passes are too narrow, and that route is the one clear throat into the rest of Amestris. The Drachman way of war demands a highway like that for our tanks and artillery."

"Of course it does," Stig agreed, "It is fortunate, then, that I can deliver Briggs into your hands."

"What?" The audacity of the statement made the elder officer sit upright. He scanned over the documents in front of him. "These are," Stig explained, "The current personnel and equipment numbers for the 1st, 2nd, and 4th Commando. 3rd is our training cadre, so they have not been included, and 5th is currently too understrength to be considered. As you can see, we can muster somewhere between 2500 to 3000 men. These are three independently mobile forces of hard men with intent."

"The special troops experiment, yes, I know," Larrson grumbled, this tired argument coming to bear again, "Gustav has been pushing that card ever since the defeat five years ago. What of it?"

"The Drachman way of war has been the same since the beginning of the Great Campaign," Stig continued, "Heavy cavalry supported by concentrated artillery and massed infantry. That requires maneuvering room, which Briggs does not give us. The wall is too big, too entrenched, and there are too many firing positions pointed north. Any mass formation we provide is simply an easy target."

"Again, what of it?"

"All the guns are pointed north."

Contrary to popular opinion among the average ranks, the Drachman military leadership was not _only_ composed of a hereditary upper class of idiot officers. There were generals who were quick, who could think. Larrson grasped the significance of that statement. "It would be a real coup to bring an army against the rear of Briggs. It is too bad that we cannot do so." His eyes bore into Stig, curious to see what his response was.

Stig pointed to one sheet, a map of the area surrounding Briggs. "To our knowledge, the Briggs troopers have many of these mountain passes tied up with small garrisons and patrol posts. The Northern Army of Amestris tends to recruit from their frontier more than their central regions, so many of these men know the passes intimately. A few such soldiers can hold up a larger army very well. It doesn't help that, even in the summer months, the passes are largely frozen over. It would limit any movement of ground forces into these areas.

"However," he produced a wax pencil and began drawing arrows on the map, "There is a pass, here, that is wide enough for a larger contingent of troops. We've dubbed it the Throat. There is, in accordance, a larger garrison here, but a well-trained and superior force could defeat, or even bypass, that garrison and be down in the northern hinterlands where they can begin to maneuver."

"And come at Briggs from the rear. That is something we have considered, but we lack the ability to do it."

"Lacked."

Larrson blinked. "Lacked? What has Gustav cooked up?"

"The rest of the plan, sir, if you please," Stig continued, determined to hold that little piece of information until the end. "If you look at the fortress of Briggs, it is flanked on the east and west by two large rock formations. They count on those being insurmountable, but here, here, and here…those are points where mortar positions could easily be placed. The Briggs troops have seen it, as well, and posted troops in accordance. Again, a well-trained force can seize those positions, and what's more, use them as rally points to stage more troops."

"How…how could they bypass the rock formations and assault Briggs?" Larrson said, sensing the layout of the plan.

"One step at a time, sir," Stig reasoned. "First, our assault force at the Throat cuts through and begins rapid maneuvering here, to the plains on the south end of Briggs. The trails prevent the movement of large pieces of ordinance, but not infantry, and a large force of line troops can begin movement from here to the plains. We cannot hope to assault the fort with such a force, but we can isolate it. The assault on Briggs would be left up to these two forces…let's call them Commando East and Commando West. It is possible for them to infiltrate through smaller trails located," Stig made small marks near the two formations, "At these points, while attention is focused on the breakout at the Throat. We can't move the same number of troops on those trails as we can at the Throat, but we can place rally sizable forces at these spots.

"Using mortars to clear the topside of the fortress and smoke to mask our movements, we can deploy troops via ropes down the cliff face to seize the roof. From there, we can begin to assault downward through the fortress. This is ideal, sir. Any building can be taken from the ground up, but taking it from the roof down is twice as effective, and preferable."

Larrson leaned back. "Gustav has been keeping secrets," he said with a smile.

"The Commando that he set out to create can deliver Briggs to you. We can move through those passes with ease, push down into the hinterlands, and raise havoc in Amestris. We can open up opportunities for more traditional infantry forces to seal in Briggs, and make any counterattack hesitate until the fortress is seized. We can move, dig in, kill, and move again. It is not the Drachman way of standing and fighting, but this will win us the Southern frontier," Stig said.

The general nodded. He looked over the manifests again; there were odd pieces of equipment here and there. Skies, uniform requirements he did not recognize…there was a serial designation on the rifles that marked them as prototypes. "Why are you presenting this, and not Gustav?"

"This was my plan, as drafted by me and my staff," Stig explained, "Gen. Gustav therefore directed me to present my plan to you."

"Because the High Command would otherwise not hear it," Larrson added. "I will need an inspection of the Commando, before you receive my endorsement. I know that you have been secretive about it, but I need to see what it is you and your…wolf pups have been cooking up." The General leaned back, his eyes closed. "Can you truly do this? Take the rear of the fortress with so few men and hold off the might of the Amestris army in that time?"

"Is the General's schedule free in three days time?"

"Of course it is," Larrson said, a cold gleam in his eye. It was a question, but Larrson knew that Stig had just made a statement. The young Colonel had _known_ the General's schedule to be free. Gustav's intelligence network was very good…or was it Stig's? He felt a sudden thrill of satisfaction at that. He hated to be shown up, but there was an undeniable art to the subtlety of Gustav and his subordinates. Larrson fully accepted he could not begin to fathom it or replicate it; he was too much the Old Guard. But he could certainly respect it.

"We have, in our plans, an inspection and demonstration for the General, to convince him of our capability in carrying out his designs," Stig said. Larrson nodded.

"Very well. Inform your commander that, in three days time, I shall meet you at your facility in Osk."


	2. Chores

Winry was in the kitchen when she heard the clap, the silence, and the grumbling. She smiled, pouring coffee for herself and Ed. He had been busy for three days trying to finish the playpen for Van. Trying and failing. He could swing a hammer, but the fine art of craftsmanship was lost on him.

Clap. Silence. Cursing.

"You're lucky Van is at Pinako's," she called, picking up the mugs. "You keep that up, and he'll start showing you how fast he can learn." Van was coming close to his first birthday, but he had shown a feverish energy and an eagerness to converse with anyone and everything in his private, infant language. It wouldn't surprise her if his first words would end up being something less than savory, and she intended to prevent that from happening at all costs.

Clap. Silence. "I need Al."

"Alphonse is busy, you can do it yourself." Winry walked into the den, where most of the playpen was still scattered. Ed was going to be a spoiling-kind of father, she thought wearily. He had purchased this very nice playpen on one of his study trips, though she had noticed that Van could be pleased as punch with dirt, much less a full playpen. Winry did appreciate the gesture, of course; watching Van while in the shop was a pain at times, when Ed had to be away. When he was home, he had full time daddy duty, but when he was gone…juggling a small business and a child could be a challenge.

She leaned over Ed and the pieces of the playpen. He looked miserable. "This is stupid. I'm looking at all the materials I need, but there's no logical way of putting them together."

"You don't need alchemy for this," Winry said soothingly, putting the mug next to her husband.

"This is _exactly_ what I need alchemy for!" Ed snapped. "Look at this…I need to put this screw into this…_slot_ with this washer. There are _no_ washers! None! And what is this?" He held up a block of wood, the form and function a mystery in the greater purpose of the playpen. "I don't know where this goes! It's not even in the instructions."

"If you used alchemy, our son would be playing in a pen with horns and teeth. Even if you could still clap that thing together, I wouldn't let you."

"I need washers!" He yelled, throwing the wood into the next room. Den barked, rushing after it. He knew this game, and loved to play it.

"You are so whiny. I have washers at the shop." She picked up the instructions, and plopped down in a chair, legs hanging over the arm. "I bet you a month's chores I could put this thing together in thirty minutes."

"This is the sort of thing the _husband_ does," Ed snapped churlishly, as Den rushed back into the room with the retrieved block. Ed snatched the instructions out of Winry's hands, fumbling through them.

"Ed, you have no idea what sort of things a husband is supposed to do," she teased.

"I'm making it up as I go," he replied dismissively, "And I say, I got the playpen, I'll build the stupid playpen."

Winry let the silence linger, sipping her coffee. "Or you'll wait until Al will."

"That useless idiot!" Ed raged. Winry sighed. Ed was not the most needy of siblings, and he, for the most part, accepted his loss of alchemy with maturity and grace. Except, of course, when presented with a task that he found difficult. Like the playpen, or fixing the roof, or mending the fence. Simple tasks, but so simple he had dismissed them with his natural talents. So, his chores and tasks were punctuated with his tantrums. They were adorable, of course, and Winry had told him so to his face multiple times. Still, she did feel bad about it. What would it be like to suddenly no longer work on automail? Probably like losing your sight, or your sense of taste. Winry suppressed a small shudder.

"When does Al return from the east?" she asked, changing the subject.

Ed stood up, stiff on his left side. He needed a tune-up soon. "Whenever he feels like it, really. He's not a State Alchemist, so he's not beholden to anyone in staying there. I know Roy appreciates the help, though. His last letter said there had been an outbreak of pox in one of the refugee camps. They have a lot of Ishvalans coming home, but nowhere for them to go yet, so those camps get crowded. You see an outbreak of cholera or pox or some such thing every couple of months, if not weeks."

"I would think that would be something Dr. Marcoh would be working on," she thought out loud.

"Marcoh stays away from alchemy, these days," Ed said, a sad smile on his face. "He thinks it's too impersonal. Oh, he'll pop out what's left of the Stone every now and then…for the bad cases. For the most part," he made a level gesture with his hand, "It's old fashioned, tried and true doctoring."

"Not like Al. I'm surprised the Ishvalans are okay with him performing alchemy and alkhestry on that scale."

"You can thank Scar for part of that," Ed explained, "But honestly, can you think of anybody asking Al _not_ to do something?"

Winry could understand that. Al was the younger brother, and always sweet to everyone he met. It made Ed positively abrasive in comparison, but there was good reasons for that: Ed had been the head of the Elric household for a long time, the responsibility thrust on him at a young age. That abrasiveness was part and parcel of an overprotective nature that, as a new father, bordered on pathological (dare she say it, _homicidal_) levels when he wasn't watching himself.

Her train of thought was derailed when Den began barking and rushed to the front door. "Hmm?" she mumbled, hopping up. "Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," Ed said, rolling to his feet and leaving the mess he had made. He followed his wife to the door, which Den had begun sniffing and pawing at.

"Stop it," Winry hissed, nudging the dog away. His automail limb was hell on walls and furniture, but he was just a dog. Dogs did what dogs did, and if that meant clawing at a door, he would claw at a door. No mind that his nails were made of steel and could dig through wood. She opened the door, and was surprised to see a uniform.

_Two_ uniforms. It took a moment for the faces attached to the Amestrian blue to register, so complete was Winry's surprise. She heard her husband come up behind her. "Roy! Riza! I mean…" he blinked, remembering that he was, _technically_, still a State Alchemist. "General and Colonel! Good to see the both of you."

Roy's expression was sardonic. "Ed, Winry. How's the Elric household?" Riza smiled demurely at his elbow.

"Better, now that we have guests," Winry laughed. "Please, come in! We were just talking about you?"

"You see, Colonel?" he said over his shoulder, "I told you my ears were burning." She rolled her eyes. She had never doubted that Mustang's talent for intrigue and his hyper-awareness bordered on the supernatural, almost an alchemy in itself. Ever since he had jumped in rank, however, he had become a bit more smug in pointing it out. She followed her General into the house, removing her cap as she did so.

"The house looks good," Riza noted, "But I bet you miss ."

"It was just easier to live here until Van gets older," Ed said, "Pinako doesn't want to leave, and Winry needs help with the monkey when I'm gone."

"How goes the research?" Roy asked, entering the den and noticing the barely assembled playpen.

"I'll have a book completed for publication within the next three months," Ed said, smiling. "Then it's back to the memoirs. I need to talk to you about those, by the way."

"Not a lot of men your age write memoirs," Roy noted. "You're so young."

"Not a lot of men your age hold the rank of General," Ed pointed out. "We had a busy period there, between you and me."

"Have you thought of a title?" Riza asked.

"For which book?" Ed asked.

"Both."

"The alchemical book is about the nature of mass transfusion on a minor scale without the use of a circle. I've been analyzing what it was about passing through the Gates of Truth that gave Ed, Roy, Izumi, and myself that ability. It's just a treatise, so it'll probably have some dry title like…I don't know…_Mass Transfusion in the Lack of a Transmuting Circle_, I don't know."

"I tell him it's catchy," Winry said, cheerfully.

"The memoirs are being called _Fullmetal_." Ed beamed at Roy, daring him to say something.

"Just _Fullmetal_?"

"Just _Fullmetal_."

Riza nodded, picking up one of the bars of the playpen. "I like it. Bold and to the point. I think it'll get some attention." Ed shrugged, and glanced at the playpen. Then at Roy. Then back to the playpen.

"Speaking of transmuting," he began.

"I see where you're going with this, and the answer is no. My abilities are not to be used for such trivial purposes," Roy sniffed. Ed crossed his arms, and stared at him with a flat gesture.

"Can't do it, can you?" he said, a sad note in his voice.

"You're not going to goad me," he said.

"Bravo," Winry cheered, "Don't encourage him." Ed continued to stare at Roy, and Roy stared back.

Scoffing, Roy clapped his hands and slapped the floor near the collected pieces. A flash of light filled the room, and when it vanished, a brand new, finished, shining playpen stood in the center.

"Roy, don't help him! If you do, he'll never learn!" Winry hollered, pleased that the project was finished, but irritated that her husband had wheedled someone into whisking it into existence with a little alchemical assistance.

"Winry just put some coffee on," Ed said, just plain pleased, and trying to change the subject before Winry dug into him. "Can I get a cup for you and Riza?"

"Thanks, that'd be fine. If we could take it in the kitchen, please," Roy said. Winry glanced from the General to Riza. The youthful Colonel gave her a knowing look, and Winry felt a sudden unease. She shouldn't be concerned that Ed and Roy were speaking alone, for they were friends, a former mentor and student even. Something about Ed dealing with the military gave her chills, however. Old fears.

Roy followed Ed into the kitchen, where the younger man retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. As he poured coffee from the kettle, he looked at Roy with mock scrutiny, and snickered. "So, it is true…you have a silly little mustache," Ed chided.

Roy looked positively hurt. "This is a very stylish mustache…"

"It's silly. It looks like you drew it on with pencil. I tell you what," Ed said fiendishly, "I'll pay you back all that I owe you right now if you take that thing off of your face. I won't even wait for you to be Fuhrer."

"No one else has complained about my mustache, so what difference is it to you?" Roy said loudly.

"Who else is willing to talk back to a General? The only one I can think of is Riza. Oh, I see…she likes it, doesn't she?"

"No, I don't," she said. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, where Ed handed her a full mug of coffee, "And I've told him it looks awful."

"Don't tell him that! I don't need the both of you ganging up on me!" Roy snapped, his face turning pink.

Riza sighed. "He becomes a General, and he won't listen to his poor subordinates anymore. It gave him a bit of an ego, and the General's never been one to be humble."

"Tell me about it. Anybody who tells me how insufferable I am, I just mention Roy Mustang, and I look like a saint in comparison," Ed said devilishly.

"I am…being ignored," Roy grumbled, settling into a chair by the table. Riza continued to smile, leaving the two of them alone and joining Winry in the living room.

Ed turned back to Roy. "So…you're a long way from Ishvala. This isn't a social call, obviously."

Roy sighed. "I wish it was, but there matters that need discussion."

"Sounds serious," Ed said, somewhat whimsically but with a hint of an edge. One didn't take the house-calls of Roy Mustang lightly.

"The fact of the matter is, Ed…I need a tutor," Roy stated.

"A…I'm sorry, did you say a _tutor_?" Ed blinked.

"For alchemy. I've been declining in my abilities as of late, and I need someone with skill and understanding to help me bring my form back up to an acceptable standard," Roy said earnestly.

Ed was flabbergasted. "So…wait…I'm trying to understand this. You want _me_…to teach _you_…alchemy?" Roy's expression was earnest, and Ed scoffed. "You're one of the most experienced alchemists in the country, and…as much as it pains me to say it…you were _much_ more accomplished than I was. Besides…" Ed smiled sadly, clapping his hands together and pressing the air. "See? Nothing. What sense is there in learning alchemy from someone who can't do it?"

"Because you know more about it now than anyone else living," Roy said. "You've been studying it nonstop, and what's more, I haven't been keeping up with it. Becoming a General tends to focus your attention a bit." Ed pondered that, unsure of what to say. A part of him remembered the old days, advising him that working with Roy and Riza would be good for the soul, a way to clear out the attic. A part of him just ached; that place that once made the world seem like so many building blocks that was just waiting for his attention. It was closed off to him, now. A spot where he was no longer allowed to look.

Roy sensed the indecision. He said, "I'm not asking for a decision now. Just know that I would greatly appreciate your help. As a colleague and…friend." He stood up, declaring, "We've taken advantage of your hospitality enough. The Colonel and myself will excuse ourselves. We're at the Tosh Inn near the station for the next two days. If you miss us, just send a wire to the Eastern Command Center. It'll get to me." He made a polite but hasty exit, Riza promising to keep in touch with Winry.

In the wake of the two officers, Winry turned to Ed and asked, "What was all that about?" But Ed found that, to his surprise, he didn't know how to answer.

* * *

In the car ride back to the Inn, Riza asked "Will he do it?"

"I don't know," Roy admitted, and Riza stared at him in surprise. To hear Roy Mustang utter 'I don't know' was tantamount to witnessing the sun exploding. It was That Which Did Not Happen. "He's happy here, and I think he's put a lot of traveling behind him for the moment. I'm reluctant to pull him away from his family, but…I'm a walking weapon that's getting rusty. His father is dead, his brother is busy with the refugees, and Izumi Curtis…just…_scares_ me. It's Ed that I need."

"In that case, he will," Riza said, "He's not one to turn away a request from a friend."

"I'm regret having made it," Roy admitted. "In hindsight, I should have just let him be."

Riza smiled. "We agreed when you became General that we wouldn't allow ourselves to continue living with regrets. I intend to remind you of that every time you drag yourself down."

"Of course, Colonel," Roy said. "That's why I keep you around, after all."

"And that's the only reason, General," she said through a grin. The rest of the ride was silent, save for one final exchange. "The mustache does have to go, though, General."

"Oh, fine!" Roy raged. "I'll shave it off as soon as we get back. Are you satisfied, Colonel?"

"Someday," Riza promised mysteriously.


	3. The Commando

They were not very _big_ men.

It was hard not to feel a little disappointed. The Drachman military was based on the principle of the cavalry and the artillery, personified today by mechanized troops, tanks, and long-range heavy cannon. The infantry had always been more of a shield and support, either to flood and deny ground that had been seized by fast moving dragoons and curassiers, or defend the cannon crews from counter attack. That did not mean, of course, that the infantry was without its traditions and ideals. The Grenadiers were always massive men, expected to lead the assault into cities with brute force and explosives. The same with the Pioneer Corps and the Life Guard.

Larrson couldn't help but note that these men were tiny in comparison, however. There were, here and there, some larger men, and the occasional maypole trooper, but for the most part, they were all short men. Stig practically towered over his subordinates as he led the general down the ranks, but it was clear that size did not deter these men from professionalism. Most of the Drachman military were conscripts, and these men had all been drawn from the militia, the ranks, the lots. But to be _here_, as a member of the Commando…they had to volunteer for that.

These men were dedicated, and it was a dedication that frightened Larrson. As he looked at each of the soldiers, he saw a passive, almost sleepy look. It was deceptive; he had seen the same look in the eyes of men he had determined to be unthinking killers. From what he understood, though, these were premeditative killers; men who made plans within plans.

The uniforms they wore were new to him. The Drachman military favored the greatcoat and the shapska, but these men wore uniforms with splotchy green, and ponchos of white. They had, all them, weapons he did not recognize. Some had submachine guns, but most had a sort of carbine that defied his knowledge of firearms. All in all, it looked very impressive.

"Soldier," he said, stopping in front of one Commando, "I would like to see that weapon."

"Sir!" he said, without hesitation. He unslung the weapon, locked opened the chamber, and presented the weapon to the general. Larrson took it, and commented to Stig, "All without the command for present arms."

"These are not unschooled conscripts," Stig said flatly. "They know a command despite its verbiage." Was that pride he detected? Larrson snorted.

He looked at the rifle, and said, "Colonel, please explain this weapon."

"If the General may?" Stig held out his hands. Larrson relinquished the weapon, and Stig began to point out features with almost loving intimacy. "This is based on a repeating model that we have stolen from Amestrian arsenals. We have made modifications based on our own shooting experience, and completely crafted it here at Osk. The barrel has been shortened to increase the ease of movement, both in aiming the weapon and maneuvering. We have added a pistol grip, which has increased the stability of the firing platform. We considered using a lighter round, but stayed with a full rifle round, to give it stopping power.

"The range is decreased by a hundred yards, due to the shortened barrel, but overall that is a sacrifice we are willing to make. Considering the amount of rounds we can put down range with these rifles, and our tactics, this is an ideal weapon for a mobile force." The Colonel handed back the rifle to the soldier, he popped the bolt shut. The officers continued their inspection, and Larrson noted with interest how some of the men in ranks had small skis hooked onto their ruck sacks.

"Ski troops."

"More than ski troops, sir. We have created our whole curriculum hand-in-hand with Lapki scouts and trackers. These men can march for days on little to no food and water, can fight even when exhausted, hungry or injured. We can operate together on the regimental level, or act in a capacity as individual as a single soldier. We are the most flexible force this continent has yet seen. Not even the State Alchemists of Amestris can do the things we can. All we need is a mission and direction."

Larrson chuckled. "So, if I said, kill all of the left-handed Ishvalans in Central…"

"We would ask, 'Clean or messy?'" Larrson studied the Colonel for any hint of amusement at the so-called joke. It unnerved him when he realized that Stig wasn't joking.

"If you'll come this way, a tea has been prepared with Gen. Gustav. He is returning presently, and wishes to speak with you," the Coloenl said.

* * *

Gustav was a remarkably jovial man for having created a pack of murderers. He was big and round and friendly looking, a deceptively simple man. "The idea came when studying traditional Lapki warfare," Gustav was explaining, "The Lapki tribesmen have based their entire culture around reindeer herding, migration, and the acquisition of more and better stock. Combined a mobile society with the desire to control a resource just as mobile, easily depleted, and highly valuable, you saw the development of raiding tactics, terror tactics, a whole slew of potential methods for combat yet to be exploited by any modern army."

"I'm not going to lie about being impressed, Gustav," Larrson admitted, sipping his tea. "The question is, what good is it? What can we use it for? Tell me as if you were telling the high command?"

Gustav nodded, and turned to Stig, who had been sitting in a corner of the room quietly. "What's the motto of our Commando, Stig?" Gustav asked.

"There is no Truth, and All is Permitted," Stig said flatly.

"Do you know where that comes from?" Gustav asked. "In the desert, there was a group of ascetics, had that as a saying. Actually, it was 'Nothing is true, and everything is permitted.' What they meant by that was that there was no fundamental truth beyond what you saw in front of you, thus 'do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.' Take my boys out there," Gustav jabbed a thumb towards the window.

"Stig," he asked, turning back to the Colonel. "What does that motto mean to you?"

"There is no creed or calling higher than the tasks we have, and there is no rule or prohibition against achieving our goals," Stig said. Gustav nodded, and looked back at Larrson.

"We have some eager killers here, Larrson," Gustav said, "Men of intent. Singular intent. And we have a war that will happen with Amestris. _That_ is a fact. These men will do more than simply break the bodies of our foes: they will broke their souls. Their will, their fighting spirit. They will hammer the anvil until it cracks, and melt down the shards. Now…" he leaned forward, "How will we put those killers out there to use?"

* * *

"That's our first ally," Gustav said, his uniform jacket on the table as he leaned over, his hands on his knees. Stig was across the room, a cigarette draped lazily in his fingers and his face in his hand. He had gone for three days without sleep, and was working his way through the last erg of the 'drone zone,' as the troops called it.

"Best one, too, I warrant," Stig said quietly, "But he's not the whole of the High Command. Those bastards will make a mess of this, mark my words."

"I don't doubt it," Gustav grimaced, "And what a group to be dropping the ball against. Grumman is the Fuhrer, we're brining the hammer down on Armstrong, and if they think Mustang won't became involved, then they have some wishful optimism I could use a bit of."

"The King Fisher, the Bear Woman, and the Flame Alchemist," Stig muttered. "Our cards being stacked away from us."

"All we need is speed and ruthlessness, and the numbers to exploit it. Are you prepared for that?" Gustav asked. Stig opened his eyes to regard his mentor and superior.

"Would you have made me a Colonel if I was not?" he asked.

"No, I wouldn't," Gustav said bluntly. He stood, retrieving his coat. "We will go to fight the Southern people, and very soon. Give our men victory, Stig, and you will have fame. Teach the Amestrians fear, and you will live forever."

Stig's mouth quirked at the idea, but he said nothing, and continued to puff at his cigarette.


End file.

Fullmetal Alchemist