The Price of a Life - Chapter 13
Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance of modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13
A/N: I, as someone who's beaten their trich, personally don't consider some of the elements in a later scene of this chapter triggering or self-harm oriented, but I know a few may find it that way, so I am giving the warning to anyone sensitive to such topics.
It took a little while for reality to set in, the farmhouse shrinking in the distance behind us as the car rumbled forward. I felt out of place, the dried mud that caked my shoes and legs flaking onto the carpeted floor of the otherwise pristine military vehicle. The forest that separated the farmlands from the city limits faded as we crossed back into the slums, the late morning sun beating down on the ramshackle camps.
"Stop!" I shouted, the realization of my agreement to leave this new home set in. The driver braked, Havoc, following me as I tripped over my own feet to exit the car.
"Where are you going?" He asked, following slowly with his hands on his pockets. I limped away as fast as I could.
"I almost forgot my stuff," I said, walking a few camps down the narrow side road before coming upon a familiar embankment.
I sat down on the edge and slid down, not caring for the new dirt added to my clothes. I was as filthy as I ever was on a workday, a little more dirt wasn't going to make a difference. I waddled to the first shack, peeking inside. An older child, Marcus, held a stone in his hand, arm raised and ready to launch the projectile at a hostile intruder.
"Just me buddy," I said, grabbing the handles of my bag and lifting it to my shoulder.
"What are you doing back here so early? Did something happen?" He asked, red eyes searching the light behind me for any sign of danger. I chuckled a little, I'm not really sure why.
"I've gotta go back to the city for a while, don't know when I'll be back,"
"Why are you leaving? Did you get in trouble?" I heard the shift of gravel behind me as presumably Havoc made his way down the embankment, more careful than I about sullying his uniform.
"Just some grown-up stuff, don't worry. Take good care of yourselves 'til I get back," I rushed, my hushed whisper forcing a smile as I turned to Havoc, who stood a little too close for comfort. "Come on pretty boy, we don't want the boy's back at Central to think you've run away with me,"
"There are kids in there?" Havoc asked quietly, staring down the makeshift tent with a furrowed brow and troubled eyes. I sighed and started climbing the hill to the pathway.
"Come on, it's getting late," I said, listening as he trudged behind me. Anxiety clawed at my throat. Would the Ishvalans here be reported? Killed? The thoughts made me sick to the stomach, the idea that I might be responsible for more carnage yet.
The car was still running, as we hadn't been gone for more than a few minutes. I crawled back into the back seat, my bag on my lap like an uncomfortable pillow. The driver, a younger soldier, kept his mouth shut, not asking a single question as Havoc got back into the car, eyes distant and a newly lit cigarette between his lips.
The car rumbled forward once more, and I rested my head on the window. I could hardly restrain the yawn that escaped my lips, the exhaustion of the past few days overcame me all at once. I closed my eyes, the hum of the car's engine a mechanical lullaby.
I awoke to find the sun still high in the sky, shining down on the quiet noontime streets of Central. I flinched as Jean knocked on the window, bright eyes ringed with anxiety peering down at me. Something felt off.
I rubbed my eyes and yawned, stretching before I limped slowly away from the vehicle. It was impossible to restrain the grimace that befell my features at the sight of the infamous and familiar building before me. I really hated Central Command.
It was such an ugly building. Sure, it was aesthetically pleasing as far as symmetry and sound architecture were concerned, but it lacked character. Plain grey facade, plain grey stairs, plain grey walls, and floors. It was kind of depressing.
Everything ached, and climbing the stairs to the front door wasn't an easy feat. Jean's impatience wasn't helping of course.
"We're in a bit of a hurry, Mac," He reminded me, nearly to the top of the stairs while I struggled past the fourth and fifth steps. I glared up at him, reminding myself he had at least carried my bag for me.
"Every time you call me Mac, the slower I walk. Learn some patience Pretty Boy," I mumbled the half-hearted threat, my legs shaking with effort as I began to catch up to him. Something was definitely bothering the guy.
As I reached the top of the stairs, out of breath, Jean abruptly grabbed my hand and began to lead me through the crowded building.
"Oi- Take it easy!" I squeaked, my bones felt as though they were being rattled about inside me like loose change in the bottom of a purse. For some reason, the cramped room felt more claustrophobic than on my prior visits to dear old Central. I, personally, loved to hide in small spaces as a child and preferred the comfort of the closet to the open yard, but the bustle of the room was overwhelming after days in near isolation from such confines.
Thankfully, the uncomfortable experience came to a swift end as we traveled down a side hall, only a few soldiers walking by quietly. I breathed a sigh of relief, but Jean's vice-like grip on my thin wrist was unrelenting. My skin, burnt from days unprotected from the sun, stung from his hold.
"Ow!" I exclaimed emphatically to grab his attention. He finally let go, eyes wide, as if first realizing he was holding my arm. I rubbed my wrist, searching his face for any indication of what could possibly be so anxiety enduring for someone as easy going as Jean Havoc.
Hands shaking, he fished a pack of cigarettes from his uniform pocket, shakily managing to light it before taking a deep inhalation of the nicotine-laced smoke. I looked down at my arm, a bruise already forming beneath the reddened skin.
I swallowed, my purpose for being here finally settling in its entirety on my shoulders. They must have Maria in custody. They only had loose circumstantial evidence as best planted by Envy. My testimony would likely decide if she walked free or was arrested for the "murder" of Maes Hughes.
Sighing, I released my own wrist and ran a hand through my matted hair, yanking out a few strands in frustration.
"Okay, that's better, lead the way soldier boy," I said with feigned enthusiasm. It probably seemed like I was taking this too well, I going to convict the person deemed responsible for the death of a friend that I was witness too. But, I was dehydrated and didn't really care, and neither did Jean apparently, as he led on without a word.
The room he led me to was small, and unlike the crime shows with blinking machines and recording devices, was almost entirely empty, with the exception of a few familiar soldiers.
"Hello, Miss. Irish, feeling better?"Douglas asked, his voice betraying no congeniality despite the small smile that played on his lips.
"Besides the crippling depression and midlife crisis? I'm fantastic!" I said with a smile, shooting finger guns his way. I chuckled awkwardly as no such amusement came from the soldiers. Guess millennial dark humor hasn't been invented yet here. I rubbed the back of my head, the faint memory of a bruise sobering my enthusiasm. "Nah, I'm okay. My leg's working decently at least. Yourself?"
"It depends on you, actually." He said curtly, Havoc closing the door to the small empty room. It was poorly lit, the red carpet plushy and pristine. The wall opposite of the door was a large pane of glass that faintly mirrored us. "We believe this woman is responsible for the disappearance, and murder, of Brigadier General Maes Hughes." Both he and Havoc turned to me, gauging my reaction as Douglas flipped a switch, turning off the already dim lamp overhead. The one-way mirror revealed the objective of this visit.
I drew a sharp breath, more out of my occasional forgetfulness to breathe than out of recognition of the woman on the other side of the glass. It was odd to see her wearing the simple grey blue jumpsuit of a prisoner instead of her uniform. Releasing the breath slowly, I took a step closer to the mirror, observing the occupants of the brightly lit room tentatively.
Maria, eyes tired but angry, glared back at the mirror, as though she could see us. Focker sat opposite of her, trying to refocus her attention on the pictures and bagged evidence laid out on the metal table. Another soldier sat at the end of the table, bespectacled eyes focused on the book before him. As they spoke, the man scribbled in his book, recording every word. Their voices didn't carry through the glass, but from the venom in Maria's expression and Fockers gentle but exasperated gaze, I could have guessed the topic of their conversation.
Behind me, Douglas picked up a strange device and fiddled with the buttons and lights for a moment before static was replaced by the voices of the interrogation room, with just a slight delay as I watched the two converse with one another.
"...We found this bullet, lodged in the telephone booth frame, at a trajectory that would have gone through Brigadere General Hughes' head. It's a .45 caliber. The killer used only this one bullet. I'd say it was a good shot but it was at point blank range. Close enough that even a poor shot could have done it. Now tell me, what is the caliber of the gun that you carry,"
Focker spoke with a seriousness and aloofness that was uncharacteristic of him. I looked to Douglas, his eyes seemingly focused on the scene.
Ross spoke softly, no malice or rage in her voice, only a slight shiver of fear sneaking into her sentence.
"It's a...a .45, sir." Focker nodded, picking up a piece of paper from the table.
"Here we have a copy of your requisition form for additional ammunition," I could feel myself grinding my teeth, but I couldn't say anything. I could only hope everything played out as it was supposed to. "Does this look correct?"
Maria's eyes hardened to nice more, and she didn't respond.
"It says here you fired one shot, what was that round used for?" She looked down at the piece of paper. My breath was creating a small fog on the glass, my nose grazing the cold mirror.
"It lists the reason right there on the form," She explained, her fingers grazing the chain on her wrist. I felt my hand graze my own wrist where such a bracelet once resided. "I fired my weapon in defense of Edward Elric while in the Fifth Laboratory."
Focker tapped the bullet on the table, the piece of metal and obscure dot from our distance behind the mirror.
"But the Fifth Laboratory is no longer operational. It remains unmanned," Maria's impatience and desperation were beginning to show, at least in her voice which was now saturated by anxiety.
"It was definitely not unmanned,"
"Sure," Focker responded, not at all convinced, "According to your account."
I looked at Douglas, my breath shaking. The interrogation was more intense than what I had been previously subject to.
"Stop," I murmured, looking away. Truth, what if Mustang really did kill her? What if I had changed enough to convince him? I knew I told Envy to be convincing, but this was going to be too much. Mustang wasn't going to be happy until someone died. Hopefully, it wouldn't be Ross.
"Shall I send someone to search for this bullet you say you fired?" Douglas wouldn't look at me. Havoc stared blankly at the mirror.
"There was an unexplained explosion at the site. The Fifth Laboratoryoratory is now a pile of rubble." My chest tightened as drew a sharp breath. She was telling the truth, but she was also driving herself into a corner.
"So the place where you claim to have used your gun was unmanned, and if we looked for the bullet, all that we would be able to find was a pile of rubble. Is that what you're saying?"
The radio crackled, the static silence unnerving. I felt my cheeks flush as Focker mocked the suspicious nature of Ross' explanation.
"But Lieutenant, by witness testimony, you were spotted leaving the scene on the day of the murder at the same time as the shooting," Maria's eyes were now brimming with panic and disbelief. I swallowed, the lump in my throat refusing to shrink. I had told them I had seen her that night.
"That's impossible!" She said, leaning forward in her seat.
"Calm down Lieutenant," Focker commanded sternly, his glasses glinting the cold light of the room. "Fine then, so what were you doing at that time?" Maria took a breath, steadying herself.
"I had the day off," My heart was pounding in my chest, my lungs feeling constricted as I watched the scene unfold. "I was at my parent's house visiting. Please, check with them. They'll tell you." It wasn't a good alibi. I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks, their origin a mystery even to me. I was just so upset and I couldn't put my finger on why. Focker sat stoically, staring down the Second Luitenant with his hands folded in front of himself.
"All you can offer us is your family's testimony?" He asked, Maria's panicked eyes darting to the glass once more. She knew we were listening. "That is not admissible as an alibi." I could feel Maria's fear, her disbelief, her panic. She knew she didn't kill Hughes, and Denny could corroborate her story about the Fifth Laboratoryoratory. But they wouldn't take it. There was nothing in the world more frustrating than telling the truth and being called a liar.
"Stop it! Please!" I cried, my voice working on its own. My lungs sucked in air and forced it back out, but I still felt lightheaded and my hands were shaking as they grabbed handfuls of my hair, tugging it tightly. My breathing grew shaky, and I noticed Maria, Focker, and the other soldier in the room staring at the glass. They had heard me.
Douglas turned off the radio, and the lights glowed a bit more brightly as I clenched my jaw. I looked at the ground, hands slowly falling away from my ears. Strands of bleached blonde hair, still entwined in my fingers, brushed my lips as I wiped away a few stray tears. Thankfully I had managed to work myself up enough for the tears in my eyes to seem convincing.
"As you can see, we only have circumstantial evidence and your eyewitness testimony," Douglas said, hands folded behind his back. "Could she have been the one who attacked you?"
I looked up slowly, thinking over the story I had told him when I first woke up in the hospital.
"No...but..." I murmured, screwing my eyes shut and rubbing my face with calloused hands. "She-she was definitely...there that night," I said between the hiccups as I calmed myself down.
"Leave us for a moment, Second Lieutenant," Douglas 'asked', the request a clear order from the Colonel. Havoc looked at me for a moment, and I could feel his eyes linger on my face for a second before he stiffly left the room.
"Miss. Irish," Douglas continued, his face set like stone and his eyes cold, despite the sympathy in his voice. "You know that this investigation needs...closure. For everyone involved. Blame must be placed, and punishment delivered without uncertainty. You were there, your testimony is the only truth about that night that we have. I need you, without any second thoughts or hesitation, to answer a simple question. Yes or no, was Maria Ross involved in the murder of Brigadier General Maes Hughes?"
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Eye contact would be preferable. He wanted unshakable conviction and certainty. I had to sell this perfectly, whether or not everything would happen as it was supposed to.
"Yes," I said, my voice tight but sure, "Maria Ross was involved in the murder of Mars Hughes." I met his eyes, fighting the urge to look away, to stare blankly at his face to mask my doubt and fear. But I held his gaze, refraining from searching his eyes for his reaction.
Douglas was the first to look away, closing his eyes as he mulled over the result of this meeting. I released the breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Thank you, Miss. Irish, you did the right thing." The Colonel said slowly, opening the door to the hallway where Havoc was waiting. "Go home, get some rest - I'm sure you'll sleep well tonight."
I nodded numbly, blindly following the vague outline of Havoc through the halls. Home.
The drive was almost silent. No playful banter, no jokes or gibes, just a quiet exhaustion. The sun was sinking in the late afternoon sky, bathing the buildings and streets along Main Street in a golden orange. The car stopped, and I looked up at a place I once called home.
Havoc followed me up the stairs of the familiar apartment complex, taking my bag from me on the second flight, noticing I was lagging behind.
"Jean?" I asked, my voice softened from my earlier crying. He stopped a few steps ahead of me. Havoc looked back slowly, his eyes tired and expression blank. I didn't know what to say, or ask, or why I even called out in the first place. Looking back, I think I just wanted someone to tell me I did the right thing. That I was doing great, and everything would work out in the end. "I...I don't," I choked on my words, feeling thousands of conflicting emotions and phrases surface in my mind.
"I don't have an answer for you," Havoc said with a sigh, responding to some unsaid question that I was searching for the words to. "I don't know what you told Douglas, and I don't know if what you told him was the truth." He looked down at the stairs, the worn carpet more of a pink than red. "But the investigation, Gracia, all of us - we need a truth to believe in. Maybe not the right truth, and maybe not the honest truth, but something believable, and something...familiar." He used his free hand to rub the back of his head. "I don't know," He murmured, turning back up the stairs, "I don't know what to believe any more than you do,"
I sighed, the answer neither satisfying nor disappointing, simply hard to hear. I followed Havoc up to the door of the apartment, where he set down my bag and began to head for the stairs.
"See you, Mac," I flinched, the old nickname Hughes gave me resurfacing, but this time, I couldn't bring myself to admonish the remark. I stood in front of the door for a few minutes longer, listening to the sounds of the apartment. Water was running in the next room over, and I could hear Jean descend the stairs below me. The Hughes apartment was quiet, the gentle hum of bustle in the kitchen the only indicator of life. I lifted my hand, and I knocked.
I couldn't tell if Gracia was happy to see me, or if she was happy that Elicia was happy to see me. There was hugging and a little laughing criticism of the dried mud I tracked through the apartment, but nothing overly enthusiastic. What unnerved me was that she didn't ask where I had been, not even Elicia asked. It was as though they had known where I was the entire time and they knew exactly what I had been doing.
Apparently (sisters name) had just left the day before yesterday. And earlier today, the Elrics and Winry had visited. At the mention of this, a glassy fog covered Gracia's eyes, but she smiled and said she wished I had been there, and although unspoken, I could see she had needed someone there. The topic was quickly diverted by Elicia's enthusiastic welcome, and we sat for a relatively silent supper.
I sat in the bathroom after supper, the warm soup sitting heavy in my stomach. My dirt-caked clothes sat in a pile by the door, a fresh set of pajamas from my old closet folded on top of the toilet seat. The bath water had long gone cold, but I didn't care. The familiarity of the enclosed and curtained tub was welcome compared to the open showers I had been getting used to at the bathhouse. My hair, finally rid of a sheen of dust it had been carrying, was now back to its near pure white, and my skin, though calloused and burnt, shed a protective layer of dirt.
Shivering, I got out of the tub, the water a disgusting milky slew of the filth that the showers couldn't wash away. I wrapped myself in a fluffy, soft towel, and watched the water drain. Even the gentleness of the towel set my skin alight with pain, the sensitive burns now exposed to the biting air. Quickly, I threw on the nightgown, the billowing, lacey, white dress one I had worn before.
I stared at myself in the mirror, the once foggy glass since cooled. I gingerly ran my hand over the sunburnt skin, the slightest nick of my fingernail causing excruciating pain. Putting on my glasses, I leaned closer to the mirror, observing my eyelashes and eyebrows. Once thin and well groomed, my eyebrows were now a bushy tangle of white, and my eyelashes, long and delicate, seemed to overcrowd my face.
I opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, my hand touching the cold metal of the tweezers as I took them out. Just a little trim wouldn't hurt, I thought to myself, the familiar urge and compulsion from years before overcoming me as I leaned closer still to the mirror. Thankfully, I didn't get very far before, Elicia knocked on the bathroom door, startling me from the trance.
"J-just a sec," I muttered, all but throwing the tweezers back in the cabinet. I turned on the faucet, watching the hairs float briefly on the water before being sucked down the drain. It had been years since I had an episode, but thankfully this one wasn't too bad. Yes, my brows had thinned considerably and had been trimmed a little too far back, but I had stopped in time. They would grow back. I swallowed, turning off the water and gathering my dirty clothes. Thank Truth for Elicia's late night bathroom trips. It felt like only a few minutes, but I had spent two hours in the bathroom. Time flies when you're caught up in a mirror.
I sighed, throwing my filthy clothes into a laundry hamper in my room. Flopping down on the bed, I stared at the ceiling, unable to calm my mind. I cracked my knuckles nervously, the heavy fear of a relapse hanging over me. I couldn't go back after so much progress, I couldn't just snap like that and undo so much work and therapy after so many years of being free from my compulsions. I got up, pacing the floor of my room. It was a familiar action, my arms folded tightly against my chest.
This continued for a few hours until my feet and legs were too tired to carry me back and forth across the room. I laid down on the bed, hands firmly tucked beneath my pillow as I thought over my options, not only considering this recent breakdown but also the story.
I hoped my testimony was enough to convict Maria, but it seemed I was losing even my closest military connections because of it. And if Mustang didn't suspect something else, if he didn't fake her death...he might kill her for real.
I bit my lip, the thought of burning to death an unpleasant one. I knew there were holes in my story to Douglas, and he had to have noticed them, but he seemed absolutely adamant that I confess she was responsible. No...I didn't say she was responsible, I said she was involved. A lie that anyone unacquainted with the case would buy as guilt. The public would eat it up. It would satisfy the masses and calm those seeking a scapegoat.
Except for Mustang. He was probably watching this case very closely, had probably gotten his hands on a copy of my testimony. He would see the plot hole, that I said there were at least two different characters involved in the attack and murder. He would not be satisfied with just Maria, if he even accepted her as guilty. Logically speaking, he would do as he did in the show, and fake her death for her safety. Then, he would come after me.
I buried my face in the pillow, trying to apply enough pressure to numb my burning skin. I drifted off at some point, thankfully with my hands securely away from my head and face. It was early when I woke up, the dreamless sleep a welcome phantom who too quickly left me.
It didn't seem like anyone else was awake, given the silence of the apartment, so I decided to find some bandages to keep myself from any other relapses. A first aid kit probably had some. I opened the mirror medicine cabinet slowly, ignoring the alluring glint of the tweezers. As soon as I saw the universal red cross stamped box, I grabbed it and closed the cabinet with a sigh of relief.
Opening it, I found it did not have the familiar Band-Aid brand bandages I was looking for, but the unmarked, white bandages would achieve the same result. With the help of some medical tape and a few foggy memories of the bandages I received when I burned my hands, I slowly worked on wrapping each finger with a thin layer of the bandages. Not enough to make my movements stiff or clumsy, but enough so that I would have no grip to pull out my hair or use the small pair of tweezers.
It is surprisingly relaxing work, the flickering low oil lamp of the bathroom and the cold tile of the floor soothing as I finished taping the last bandage. I tested my dexterity, gently putting away the first aid kit.
The whole hand bandaged was different than what I usually did, and it restricted my wrist movement a little bit but it was comfortable. And, if I'm being honest, it looked a little badass, like I punched people for a living.
Moving to the living room, I had forgotten the tranquility of the apartment at night. Sure, there were no stars, and the sounds of life throughout the building were amplified by the silence, but it was still oddly beautiful. It was familiar.
I sat on the couch, the gentle warmth of the early morning sunlight filtering through the blinds. Maybe I could go back to normal here. I could find a job nearby, make some money, get back into a routine with the remaining Hughes residence.
It was an unlikely fantasy, to live out the days until the Promised Day in peace with Gracia and Elicia, but it was a pleasant one.
Gracia woke up next, quietly shuffling into the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine. The apartment was soon filled with morning smells - hot bacon on the stove top, scrambled eggs sizzling nearby, and of course, coffee.
As expected, Elicia soon emerged from her bedroom, bed head curls turning gold in the bright morning light. We are once more in relative silence, a semblance of normalcy from the regular dining situation. Only this time Maes hadn't rushed out the door just before we settled down. I looked up from my meal, glancing at Gracia's tired eyes.
She didn't look upset, in fact, she looked rather contented, no wrinkle of worry marring her gentle features. Elicia seemed equally unperturbed.
Later, after I had gotten dressed, Gracia sled me to grab the newspaper from their mailbox in the lobby. It was strange, walking down to the bustling lobby after such a quiet morning in the apartment. It was peaceful, but the energy of the room seemed to flow, unlike the stagnant but comfortable slow morning of the apartment. A couple chatted with the receptionist, young men had gathered just outside the front door to smoke, and other lively characters made up the morning scene.
The cold metal of the lightweight key in my hand reminded me of my purpose in the animated room, and I quickly retrieved the mail from the Hughes' compartment. Mostly envelopes, likely bills and few straggling sympathy cards, and a rolled up newspaper weren't too much to carry upstairs by myself, though it was a bit of a cumbersome load at first.
Back in the apartment, I set the envelopes on the now cleared kitchen table, Gracia acknowledging my return with a satisfied hum. As she began to sort through the bills and cards, I unrolled the newspaper, a sour feeling settling in my chest at the sight of the front page news article.
"What is it dear?" Gracia asked, noticing my uncomfortable glance in her direction. My eyes replaced their disturbance with guilt as I let her take the article from me, regretting the action immediately. The woman read the headline and set the paper down with a shaking sigh before walking away. It was too early in the morning for her to be dealing with this. I glanced at Maria's picture, her eyes defiant in her pristine military uniform, taken months, maybe years earlier.
"Second Lieutenant Maria Ross charged with first-degree murder of Brigadier General Maes Hughes" it read. I should have been happy, everything was going according to plan, but that sinking pit in my chest made it impossible.
