Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction / Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Gotta Knock a Little Harder ❯ All Along the Watchtower ( Chapter 18 )

All Along the Watchtower

 

There must be some kind of way out of here; Said the joker to the thief; There's too much confusion; I can't get no relief; -- Jimi Hendrix (Electric Ladyland)

 

It was market day in the sleepy village of Risembul. Farmers who lived outside of town came in once a week to sell their wares in the open air. It was also an opportunity for neighbors who might live miles away from each other to meet, and gossip. And there was always gossip. The stories on everyone's lips that day was the ship that fell from the sky and the arrival of more military.

 

Most of the people of Risembul were somewhat used to the idea of a small military presence in the area. Especially since one of the Elric boys became a State Alchemist. But there were a lot more than normal, now. And everyone was convinced that it had something to do with that ship.

 

The village and the outlaying farms were fairly isolated. The local gossip rarely spread beyond the area. But on occasion… if it was really juicy… it took on a life of its own, and thrived in the most interesting of places.

 

Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer sat in his Central City office and listened silently on the phone, then calmly set it back in the cradle. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. A slow smile crept across his face.

 

He picked the phone back up a few minutes later, and made a short call.

 

“Meet me at the docks in half an hour. Bring ten of your most trusted men.”

 

[1.1.1.1]

 

Spike slowly opened his eyes, and groaned. He'd passed out and spent most of the night sitting on the deck in the bridge, leaning against one of the ports. He wasn't quite sure what hurt worse, his head or his hand. He looked down at it, and had to work to focus. When he was finally able to, he understood why it hurt so badly. It was swollen to about three times its normal size, and black from the bruising.

 

“Damn, I hope the other guy looks worse,” he mumbled low. Even that was too loud, and he groaned again.

 

He heard soft steps behind him. To him, it sounded more like someone was stomping in hollow, metal boots. He didn't turn to see who it was. He knew it would be a Very Bad Idea. “Please,” he whispered. “Walk more softly.”

 

Whoever it was stopped, then hesitantly tiptoed the rest of the way in. As the body drew nearer, the scent of fresh-cooked food wafted his way. His stomach immediately protested the intrusion.

 

Spike groaned again, and rested his head between his knees. “Get that food away from me.”

 

“Sorry,” a light voice whispered. Then he heard whoever it was retreat. Blessedly, the smell of food retreated with her. It took a moment, but Spike processed the sound. Must be Winrey, he thought.

 

It wasn't long before he heard her return, sans food. She knelt next to him, and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. Even that much movement hurt.

 

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

 

“I will be,” he said. “After I get a Prairie Oyster in me.”

 

“A what?”

 

Then she gasped, and said, “You need to have Granny take care of that.”

 

She gently took his hand and looked at it. Spike grit his teeth, but he was in no condition to argue with her at the moment. “Looks like it's mostly dislocated.” She laid the hand back down, and that little bit of movement made him see dark red spots. Another groan escaped.

 

She laid his good arm over her shoulder, and helped him to his feet. “Come on. We can't let you just sit here.”

 

Spike didn't fight her.

 

About halfway back to Pinako's, he extricated himself from the soft form of Winrey, stumbled to the rock wall lining the road, and heaved over it. When his stomach finally stopped spasming, he laid his aching head against the cool stone, and thought he might want to stay there.

 

No such luck, as Winrey took his good arm, and led him off again. “We're almost there, Spike,” she said. “Tell me about this Prairie Oyster. Maybe we can make one up for you.”

 

“Egg yolk, a dash of hot pepper sauce, ketchup, white vinegar and salt and pepper,” he said.

 

“Ketchup?”

 

“Uh…” He thought a moment. “It's a tomato based sauce. I guess you don't have that here. Most people dump it all over fried potatoes.”

 

“Oh,” she said. “We have something like that here.”

 

Spike winced at the brightness of her voice. “Just make sure that you swirl a little olive oil in the glass first, and dump that. It lubricates it. Makes it easier to slide down.”

 

She giggled softly. “It sounds disgusting.”

 

Her warmth and friendliness was contagious, and Spike found himself feeling just a little less miserable.

 

They crested the hill, and he was walking a little straighter. He stopped at the sight of several more soldiers sitting around the porch than he remembered being there before. “Uh, what's with all the uniforms, Winrey?”

 

“Oh, that's just Colonel Mustang and his entourage. He's Ed's commanding officer.” She smiled up at him, as though there was nothing to worry about. But Spike was worried.

 

He wasn't about to let himself be seen by all those soldiers being practically carried by a girl into Pinako's. He dropped his arm from her shoulder and stood straighter.

 

The soldiers all fell silent as he and Winrey climbed the steps and went into the house. Spike noticed the dark-haired one, and remembered him from the day before. They hadn't said a single word to each other as of yet, but already the guy rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn't quite put a finger on why, though.

 

Once inside, he sagged into the first seat he came to.

 

Pinako came out from the back room and stopped dead in her tracks. “Good heavens,” she said. “You look like hell.”

 

He smirked and said, “At least I look better than I feel.”

 

He gingerly laid his battered and bruised hand on the table, and her brows shot up. “I think I broke it,” he said.

 

“So I see,” she said as she pulled a chair up to get a closer look.

 

She poked and prodded at the injured hand, not taking nearly the care to be gentle as Winrey did. Spike just set his teeth, and hissed.

 

“Well, it looks like it's mostly dislocated,” she said. “Except the middle finger. You broke that one nicely.”

 

She took his index finger, and said, “This is going to hurt.”

 

She popped each of the dislocated fingers back into place, and he managed to just groan with each one.

 

After the third finger, he said, “I swear you're enjoying this, you malicious munchkin.”

 

She chuckled at that, and said. “You seem to be the one who's hell bent on getting killed, here. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was your way of flirting with an old woman.”

 

The very idea was so incongruous that Spike couldn't help but laugh out loud. And the next instant, he was yelping in pain, as she set the broken middle finger. “Dammit!”

 

She smiled, and got up. “Keep that hand still for the moment, Spike.”

 

About that time, Ed came in and took a good look at Spike's hand. He grinned and held up his own automail hand. Wiggling his fingers for emphasis, he said, “You wouldn't have that problem if you had one of these.”

 

Spike smiled a little and with his good hand, gave Ed a one-fingered salute. The boy looked at him blankly, then glanced up.

 

Pinako returned with splints and tape, and chuckled at the exchange. “I think that's supposed to be an obscene gesture where he's from, Edward.”

 

He gave Spike an evil grin and said, “Oh really?” Then he copied it with his metal hand. “Heh. Even that looks more impressive with automail,” he said.

 

Spike snorted. “Pipsqueak.”

 

“Mad Bomber.”

 

Winrey came back, and set a glass on the table. It looked like a Prairie Oyster. Spike grabbed it with his good hand and sniffed at it. It smelled like one, too. He tipped the glass, and downed it in one quick gulp; then winced. Yep. That was a Prairie Oyster.

 

Ed watched in disgusted fascination. “You like that?”

 

“Hate `em. But they do the job.”

 

A shadow fell over the group, and Spike glanced up to see the dark-haired soldier in the doorway. Immediately his hackles rose. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Ed's were up, too. Interesting, he thought.

 

The man swept the scene in silence, then turned his attention back to Spike. “Mr. Spiegel, I'm Colonel Roy Mustang.” He didn't offer a hand in greeting, but just bowed his head a little.

 

“He doesn't have anything you want, Mustang,” Ed said. “So don't even try.”

 

Mustang glanced over at Ed, smiled a little. Spike noticed that it never reached his eyes, but it looked irritatingly patronizing. No wonder Ed's got his back up, he thought.

 

Pinako continued wrapping the splints to Spike's hand as she said, “Just so you know in advance Colonel Mustang, there isn't a one of us here who will stand quietly by while you and the State deconstruct that ship.”

 

Then she gave him a stony look, and added, “Or those two men.”

 

Spike's head snapped to the woman, and his brows disappeared into his unruly bangs. She barely glanced at him, and nodded imperceptibly.

 

He returned his attention back to Mustang. The expression on the man's face wasn't exactly expected. It was a genuine smile. Not a big one, but genuine, nonetheless.

 

“On the contrary,” he said. “I intend to avoid anything of the sort.”

 

Ed's jaw dropped.

 

“I believe we have something that Mr. Spiegel and his partner want very badly, however.”

 

Both Ed and Spike said, “Huh?” at the same time.

 

“A way home,” Mustang said in a tone that said the answer should have been obvious.

 

Spike was suspicious, and he narrowed his eyes. “You people live `Equivalent Exchange' like a religion, Mustang. What's your price?”

 

“Oh, I want the technology. But if we can avoid taking that ship apart, I would prefer to do it that way. I'm sure that you have the information about it laying around that rust bucket, somewhere.”

 

Spike was barely noticing what Pinako was doing, as she raised his shirt, and then quickly ripped off the bandages on his side. He grimaced and hissed.

 

“I need to check that wound,” she said.

 

His focus never left Mustang.

 

The man's eyes flicked to the healing wound in Spike's side, then back to his face. “Our planet seems to have its own unique dangers,” he said. “And from what I understand, you didn't fare too well when you encountered some of them.”

 

Something in the way he said that made Spike think he wasn't talking about his physical injuries, and he shot a look at Pinako. She shook her head.

 

“I'm sure that any price to get off the planet is fair,” Mustang added.

 

Spike was silent. Waiting for Mustang to blink first. He didn't.

 

“It's not going to be enough to just get off the planet, Mustang,” Spike said. “We need to get back to our home system.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Spike smirked. “And the longer it takes, the lower that price goes.”

 

He actually elicited a response. A fine brow arched. “Logical. The longer you and your partner are here, the wider the contamination spreads. I want to contain that contamination, and control it.”

 

“I'll just bet you do,” Spike said. “Especially the `control' part.”

 

Mustang smirked. “I see we understand each other.”

 

[2.2.2.2]

 

Maes Hughes was sitting on the floor in the living room, playing with his daughter Elysia. He was still in his pajamas, and a cup of steaming coffee set on the end table nearby. This was the morning tradition. It was sacrosanct in the life of the Lieutenant Colonel, and woe to anyone who dared to interrupt it.

 

Of course he wouldn't so much burn the hapless soul's ears with a traditional scolding. The punishment was much worse. At least that was how the handful of people who had dared to make this mistake described it.

 

To Hughes, it was just another opportunity to brag about the light of his life, and to extol the virtues of married life and parenthood to anyone who was still single and within earshot. This had garnered him a reputation through the ranks of the military, and it wasn't unusual to see people suddenly remember they had something very urgent that needed attention when they saw him coming.

 

For the most part though, it was considered a minor, albeit irritating, quirk of a man that was warm and friendly. People genuinely liked Maes Hughes, and often found themselves willing to open up to him when they normally wouldn't.

 

Because of these particular traits, a lot of people didn't take him very seriously. That worked to his advantage, because it meant that no one noticed that the sharp green eyes behind those glasses were taking in a lot of information. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes was an investigator in the military. Gathering information was his stock and trade, and he took that duty very seriously.

 

He hadn't been up but about five minutes this morning, when he found out about a rather interesting buzz around Central. It was something making its way through the rumor mill that, under normal circumstances, would just slip on past him, and be barely noted in a conspiracy theory file. It was something that would be more appropriate in one of those scandal sheets that was sold at the corner news stand along with the real news. It was the kind of thing that made you look funny at anyone who really believed it, and worry about their sanity.

 

Except Hughes had already heard the rumor two days before, when he spoke with two witnesses to the incident, and saw the damage as a result of it.

 

He'd been called down to the dock's warehouses after someone had reported a case of vandalism on the back wall of an empty warehouse. It seemed like a minor issue that the local police could take care of, and was not happy about being called in for this. That was until he actually saw the back wall in question.

 

The entire wall had been blown out, not in. It wasn't a case of someone trying to break into an empty warehouse, but of someone trying to break out. Burn marks on the ground right outside of it indicated that something generated a lot of heat. But the tracks in the soil went only so far, and then disappeared.

 

Of course, the story that the two warehouse guards told was impossible to believe. Flying machines, Hughes thought with a chuckle. Those two got a little too bored that night, and probably had a little too much to drink.

 

Hughes was willing to pass it off as just a bizarre incident that would make perfect sense once all the facts were in; until he was called a few blocks away to the old fifth lab. Someone had found spent rounds near there, along with evidence of fresh explosions in the lab, proper. Witnesses in the area reported hearing the explosions, as well. But it was the spent rounds that piqued his interest. They weren't from any caliber weapon he was familiar with.

 

Those rounds, and a putty-like substance found inside the building at the center of one of the explosions, were sealed up, and locked away. Hughes didn't want anyone getting their hands on any of this, until he knew more.

 

There was a certain amount of disinformation being spread throughout Central. There was a ring of truth to the rumors, but they'd been blown out of purportion to actual events. Hughes preferred it this way. It meant no one took the rumors too seriously. That also meant the rumor would soon die of natural causes.

 

Something about the information he had, however, got him thinking. It was something small; easily missed. But he went back to that warehouse to look again, just yesterday.

 

The floor of the warehouse was covered in dust and dirt. There were footprints all over the place. He knelt down, and took a closer look at one of the clearer ones. It was just a small piece of information, and it was a small footprint.

 

Maes Hughes smiled. He was certain he knew the owner of that footprint.

 

It came as no surprise to him this particular morning, when Glacier answered the phone, and it was Mustang on the other end. He had a feeling he'd be hearing from him fairly soon.

 

“Let me guess,” he said. “Your trip back to Central has been delayed, and you've made an unplanned stop in some tiny, backwater village for a little R and R?”

 

“How did you ever guess, Hughes?” Mustang said.

 

“I read it in your horoscope.”

 

“It frightens me no end to know that you follow that kind of thing.”

 

“Well, I'm an investigator. I get my information from wherever I can.”

 

There was a brief pause between the two of them, while they waited for any tell-tale clicks and hisses that would indicate the lines had been tapped. When none was forthcoming, Hughes got serious, and said, “Are those boys alright?”

 

“They're fine,” Mustang said. The tone of his voice told Hughes that if he had his way, they certainly wouldn't be. Especially Edward. “So I take it that you've heard?”

 

“I've heard a lot of things over the past couple of days, Roy. Mostly rumors, and gossip that's only fit for a scandal sheet.”

 

“Well, for a man who follows horoscopes, I would think you'd be more interested.”

 

Hughes chuckled. “Oh, I am. I just want to see how this plays out, first.”

 

“Yes, well,” Mustang said. “While you're following the rumor mill, I need you to do me a favor.”

 

“Anything, Roy. You know that.”

 

“Heh. You may change your mind after you hear what I want.”

 

Hughes listed a little longer. His face remained expressionless; but for anyone who knew him well, they would be able to see the gears turning behind his eyes.

 

“I'll get it out by courier on the next train, Colonel.”

 

“No,” Mustang said, and it caused Hughes to blink in surprise. “I'll call you tonight, and we'll make the arrangements then. Just get what I want, and wait.”

 

“Right,” Hughes said. “I'll talk to you tonight, then. And we can discuss finding you a wife.”

 

Hughes yanked the phone away from his ears, as very loud crash came through. He grinned, and shook his head. “He'd be a lot less moody if he had a good woman in his life.”