Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Collage ❯ Collage ( Chapter 1 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

Collage

A Fullmetal Alchemist fanfic

by Squeakyinuears

Completed - 12/27/04

Originally published/posted at FFN - 12/29/04

Newest Revision - 12/29/04

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi/"Hagaren" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa and whatever company(s) that produced the anime. Characters and the Hagaren world are used entirely without permission.

Warning: Spoilers for episode 25 of the anime and chapters 15-16 of the manga. This one-shot also deviates from the anime ending, so don't expect some of the situations to be exactly the same. I am basing most of this on the manga canon, such as it is, and continuing on from there.

Some general inspiration (and some specifics) comes from two of WhiteCat's fics, "Shades Behind" and "Dogtags", as well as Rogue Pryde's Inuyasha fic, "Home Is Where the Hurt Is". Idea for a one of the lines in here is borrowed from "Blood and Chocolate" by Annette Curtis Klause, a book which I also do not own. (Specifications will be made at the end of this one-shot.)

My thanks go to my beta Kat Morning - for the time and work she put into this - as well as to Vitani FyreWolf, both for dragging me into this amazing series, and for her helpful comments as I was writing this one-shot.

There is an assignment given at school: Write an autobiographical sketch (3-5 pages) detailing a single person or event that has greatly affected your life and has made you into the person that you are today. Due in one week.

Somewhat hesitantly, Elicia Hughes chooses her father.

She doesn't remember Papa very well. His role as a father was cut drastically short, and she cannot say what he was like. Her recollections are half-formed and few, and his memory unravels - frays - slips like tiny pieces of paper between her fingers whenever she tries to hold on to her past. Learning who Maes Hughes was, is something she cannot do alone.

She decides to ask others, and carries a small notebook in her pocket.

Uncle Roy grins, though his eyes are hard, and leans back in his chair. He has set time out of his busy schedule to meet with her, glad for a break from the reports and files that Major General Hawkeye keeps bringing him. He turns to the window, and says Papa was the best friend a man could ever have. Loyal, supportive, dependable. "Better than me," he says, his hands playing with a pen. The medals of his uniform dangle; there are many now.

Alphonse-brother cannot smile. His metal features do not allow for such bends and twists, yet it never feels like she is speaking with a suit of armor. He is a person, and always manages to convey his emotions, regardless. Elicia sometimes wonders what he will look like when he regains his body. This form is the only version of him she has ever known. To her, it is who he is. When he and Edward-brother reach their goal (and she has to believe that they will, because it is all that she can do for them), she knows his new appearance will take some getting use to.

Alphonse-brother cannot smile, but his voice, hollow and echoing, is warm. "Brigadier General Hughes was a good man. He always watched out for Elder Brother and I. He was very kind."

Ms. Scieska smiles and pushes up her glasses. "Lieutenant Colonel - I mean - Brigadier General Hughes was very demanding." Her eyes widen and she waves her hands in panic. "But demanding in a good way! He gave me a job when I really needed one (because I had to send money back home to my sick mother) - of course, Mr. Edward recommended me - and he never gave me more work than I could handle. Much." She stops abruptly, and gives a small, sheepish laugh.

Edward-brother smiles distractedly. That's how he is; he is still so focused and intent on regaining his and Alphonse-brother's original bodies. Now, more so than ever, as time ticks away and each year passes by with no change, no answers. Some have begun to call him fanatical. Others try to dissuade him, saying he has researched long enough. Even Alphonse-brother, who needs a body just as much - if not more - has left it up to him to decide. But Edward-brother ignores their whispers and implorations, and keeps searching. She doesn't think he can stop.

She is lucky that he and Alphonse-brother are in town when the assignment is given.

It takes him a moment before he registers her voice, and sets his book down. "That Hughes always stuck his nose into other people's business. But," he continues, and his eyes stare off and lose a bit of their desperate, concentrated madness, "he cared. He visited me everyday while I was in the hospital, even though he said he was busy with work. He cared about people."

Winry-sister smiles sweetly, though Elicia can see traces of sadness in the corners of her mouth. Her hair is cut short now; she says it makes it easier for her when she's working. Her shop in Central, while small and crammed with automail parts, is cozy. There is a strong scent of oil and metal, but Elicia doesn't mind.

Winry-sister tucks a blonde lock behind her ear as she speaks. "Mr. Hughes was always so nice to me. He invited me over when I had no place to stay, and he was a wonderful listener." She looks down and away, before turning back. "He gave me some important insight about people I care for. Something that has helped me a lot, over the years."

And Mama - who probably knows Papa best and should be the ideal person to talk to - Mama, Elicia cannot ask. They are the polar opposites of one another in this; she, who remembers too much, and Elicia, not enough. Mama, who is pained by memories, and she, pained by their absence. No, Elicia cannot ask her.

She has noticed, though, that everyone smiles, in one form or another, when they mention Papa. Even Mama, though behind her smile is something sad and fierce and solemn. Everyone tells Elicia how much Papa loved her, how he never stopped talking about her and showing off her pictures.

Oddly enough, she doesn't remember that. They still live in the same brick house, and there are photographs everywhere; they fill the shelves and tables, hang on the walls, and clutter the mantel above the fireplace. Most of her pictures were shot before she was three. The ones after are fewer, and far between. It seems Papa was the photo fanatic of the household.

Looking at them, she can see that the photographs were taken by someone with little camera skill and much love. Some are blurry, some are grainy. Some are too dark, and others too bright. Elicia's green eyes flash red in several, and one picture developed with an enlarged finger covering half of it. Many are lopsided.

The photos of Papa are much better. Plainly taken by a professional or a friend with some talent, these pictures are straight and organized, usually with the subject placed at the center instead of at the far corners. There are formal photographs, family portraits, and candid snapshots. There are pictures from Papa's younger days with Uncle Roy, and romantic ones when he courted Mama. He is grinning, laughing, in each one.

He looks like he was a happy man. People tell her he was.

But she doesn't remember that. Her memories are different than those of his friends and co-workers. Seen through a three-year-old's eyes and recalled from a three-year-old's memory, they are hazy and incomplete. Random.

She remembers his beard, the rough prickliness of it against her cheek when he hugged her. She remembers he was tall, because whenever he placed her on his shoulders, she felt like she was high on a mountain, and just as safe. She remembers his blue uniform. It seemed like he was always wearing it, because he was always working, always busy, always moving.

He used to bring people home to have dinner with them. Strangers and friends, colleagues and comrades - there was an endless parade of faces, old and new. He let her play with his glasses, and didn't even get angry when she accidentally broke them, once. She felt bad enough that time for the both of them.

She can describe exactly what he looked like, from his long nose and strong chin, to his dark hair and pale eyes - but she doesn't know if this is because she truly remembers his face, or if it is only from the many photos she sees when she walks through the house.

She takes out her notebook, and reads through her loopy cursive.

Brigadier General Hughes was a true, loyal friend. He was supportive, dependable, and kind - a good man. He was demanding, a busybody, and a person who cared. He was a great listener, nice, and insightful. He was a man who loved his family very, very much, and had the pictures to prove it.

This is all that she knows of Papa, these bits of scattered remembrance mixed with the thoughts and feelings of people who knew him.

She knows all this, but does she know him? Is it enough?

Colonel Armstrong says that a person is his or her heritage, by family name and narration. He doesn't scare her anymore, the way he used to when she was little. "It is the history that makes up a person," he says as he flexes, "and the past that enables one to move towards the future."

If this is true, then who is she? Half of her is a mystery. How does she step forward when she does not even know where to begin? Who is she, if part of her is lost? Blank?

Memories, like pictures, fade with time, and sometimes people are glorified in death, and their flaws lessened and forgotten. But Elicia has nothing else to go by. So she takes these descriptions - these ingredients - and tries to mold and shape and transmute them into a person, into the man who was Maes Hughes . . . but she cannot. No matter how hard she tries, they're just opinions and memories belonging to other people.

Something is missing among these components - there's not enough of something. In the end, they're just words, and Papa is just a face smiling from a square piece of paper.

Suddenly, 3-5 pages are at once too much, and too little for her to write.

A/N: Huh. My first piece for this fandom, and it's about a minor character (Elicia/Elysia/Alicia - until I can find an official spelling of her name, I'm sticking with the first). Go figure. Everyone had me pegged to write a Roy/Riza fic. I've certainly read enough of them.

And now that I am able, allow me to specify that the idea for the line about a face on a square of paper is from Annette Curtis Klause's book, "Blood and Chocolate".

General inspiration, as well as the coining of the term, "Alphonse-brother" or "Edward-brother" comes from two of WhiteCat's fics, "Shades Behind" and "Dogtags". WhiteCat's fiction can be found at her website (http :// whitecat . hanashika . com). Normally, I would just stick to the Japanese suffixes, but . . . well, the FMA universe just seems less of a "Japanese" one. Most of the names are foreign, as are the places and ways of life. I personally felt that using Japanese in this one-shot, specifically, would hinder more than help.

And, while I can't say Rogue Pryde's Inuyasha fic, "Home Is Where the Hurt Is" was the direct source of inspiration for the write-about-yourself bit, I'm sure the idea was in my subconscious due it her story.

To readers of TYRTM (in case there are any) - don't worry, it hasn't been forgotten. Chapter 1 (::winces:: yeah, I know) has been coming along, just slowly. Very slowly. A three-toed sloth probably goes faster - a living one, that is - but rest assured that I am working on it.

Thanks for reading!