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The Riches of Xerxes

Summary:

The first official political overture the small desert nation of Xerxes makes towards Amestris in over fifty years happens a year after the end of the Ishvalan Civil War. Though it is expected to concern Ishval, and the border between Amestris and Xerxes, or perhaps Amestrian use of Alchemy in the war, is has nothing to do with the bloody conflict, or it's relation to Xerxes' rich history with alchemy.

It is a simple, polite appeal to the Amestrian Government – an invitation for an Amestrian automail mechanic to join the Xerxesian court.

Notes:

Unbetaed

Will probably eventually have semi graphic automail surgery and aftermath details.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first official political overture the small desert nation of Xerxes makes towards Amestris in over fifty years happens a year after the end of the Ishvalan Civil War. Though it is expected to concern Ishval, and the border between Amestris and Xerxes, or perhaps Amestrian use of Alchemy in the war, is has nothing to do with the bloody conflict, or it's relation to Xerxes' rich history with alchemy.

It is a simple, polite appeal to the Amestrian Government – an invitation for an Amestrian automail mechanic to join the Xerxesian court.

"Bit odd," Havoc mutters, after a copy of the letter has gone around the office a few times. "What do they need an automail mechanic for – isn't Xerxesian medical alchemy, like… world famous?"

"For given the value of famous, yes," Roy agrees, fingers crossed together and a thoughtful look on his face. "They say early Amestrian alchemists learned from Xerxesians. We still use a lot of their symbols in our alchemy – but if Xerxesian alchemists are world famous about anything these days, it's their reticence. No outsider has seen much about the way they go about things these days, if they even practice alchemy anymore."

Of course there are rumours, there are always rumours, and there's history – the great and wealthy kingdom of Xerxes, alchemically on top of the world and widely known for their wisdom and knowledge and the miracles they achieved… who reached too far, tried to achieve the power of gods, and got struck down by said gods for it. How accurate that is, no one knows, but it's known that some disaster hundreds of years ago devastated the kingdom, killed most of its people, and it never fully recovered. Now it's people can only barely scrape by, living in huts and caves and underground, and they don't treat with outsiders much beyond the absolutely necessary.

Beyond trade routes established to get Amestrian goods through Xerxes to Xing, there's never been much interest for Xerxes, except maybe for it's grand history and it's many ruins. It doesn't help that Xerxes, as far as anyone knows, has never really reached outside, keeping to its isolationist values – and since it has little to offer to other nations… no one reached back, either. As far as anyone knows, Xerxes hasn't advanced at all scientifically or technologically in the last hundred years.

Which makes the fact that they want specifically an automail mechanic, an craftsman of one of Amestris' most advanced technology, rather interesting, doesn't it?

"I hear they took a lot of Ishvalan refugees during the war," Fuery says – he's the one holding the letter, reading it through.

Roy hums grimly. There's that, though took in might be stretching it a bit. Xerxes didn't do much to protect its borders – there was no need, with a desert all around their kingdom. So, when Ishvalan refugees sought to escape the conflict and set out to the desert, there was nothing but the terrain itself to stop them. Who knows how many Ishvalans made it through the desert, on foot and probably hurt…

"Why'd they send this to our office?" Breda asks, casting a look at Roy.

"They sent it to Grumman who sent it to us," Roy sighs and leans back in his chair. "The Lieutenant General wants us to find a suitable mechanic and then escort them – along with the Fürher's greetings – to Xerxes. The mission isn't exactly time sensitive, but since we're in the East…"

There's probably many reasons it was thrown their way, really. Way to keep those uppity brats from East busy, easily justified with them being closest to the matter at hand. It also wasn't exactly vital as diplomatic missions go – but it was still a diplomatic mission to a foreign nation, which means that Roy would want to handle it himself instead of leaving it to any of his subordinates. Especially since it's to Xerxes – what Alchemist wouldn't give an arm and a leg for a glimpse at how Xerxesian alchemy is these days? So, it was expected that he'd go himself. Which would get him out of people's way for a while, and maybe open up a slot for someone else to be promoted to his place, depending how long it would take.

How annoying. Grumman can be one clever son of a bitch when he wants to be.

"Right," Roy says while his team exchanges looks. "I want a list of all automail mechanics of East on my desk by the end of the day – if you can figure out their feelings about Ishval and if they have any history with the Ishvalan Civil War, that'd be a plus. Get to work."

"Sir!" his team answers, and immediately get to it, Fuery and Fallman both heading out to probably check records, while Havoc fishes out a phone book and Breda gets the phone. Beside Roy, Hawkeye gives him a look.

"Should I start preparing for travel?" she asks mildly.

"If you please," Roy says, turning to his paperwork. "We'll take Breda with us."

"Understood."


Over the course of next two days, they list and investigate various automail shops in the east, Roy privately wincing at how many there are, and how many of them are less than a decade old. The Ishvalan Civil War had been a boon to the business, and a lot of mechanics from the south moved in to take advantage of the situation. Lots of new up and coming mechanics, cutting their teeth in on a lot of freshly traumatised soldiers.

It left a lot of them… unsuitable for a mission likely to involve Ishvalan refugees.

"Known for his Anti-Ishvalan sentiments," Breda says, crossing out another potential automail shop. "This one has a No Refugees sign on his shop front, which probably means the same thing. This one has a pretty high record of automail rejection syndrome. This one has had two patients die on the operation table…"

Roy rubs a hand over his forehead, already imagining having to reach for the Southern District to find someone sensible in Rush Valley, when Breda offers him a potential. "Rockbell Automail, in business for decades before the Ishvalan Conflict even began."

"Rockbell," Roy says, lifting his head. "Any relation to the two late Doctors Rockbell?"

"Yep. Son and daughter in law of Doctor Pinako Rockbell, the head mechanic of the shop," Breda says and lays the file on his desk. "Their daughter is currently an apprentice mechanic in the shop, too."

Roy grimaces at that, but accepts the file, leafing quickly through it. Old, well established shop, known for their skill and efficiency, with very high praise from a lot of former customers and no known record of either deaths on operation table, auto mail rejections, or any anti-Ishvalan sentiments. There is a slight issue of the head mechanic being an old woman and the only other mechanic being a young girl, but…

It's promising.

"Phone," Roy says, and Hawkeye quickly lifts it on his desk, turning it toward him so that he can dial easily.

"Rockbell Automail, Pinako Rockbell speaking," a woman's voice answers the phone promptly, her tone brisk.

"Doctor Rockbell, my name is Roy Mustang, I'm a Lieutenant Colonel from the East Area Headquarters – may I have a moment of your time?"

"Certainly," Doctor Rockbell answers, no noticeable change in her tone. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant Colonel? Aside from automail, presumably."

"I am currently looking for a skilled automail mechanic to take part in a diplomatic mission, likely to involve Ishvalan refugees," Roy says. "Your shop came up as highly recommended."

"Hrm. What kind of diplomatic mission? Don't the military have their own automail mechanics?"

"There are some, but none in the Eastern Headquarters," Roy admits – probably because the East has such a surplus of civilian mechanics these days. "And I'll be frank, the likely length of this mission makes it difficult to use any of our military mechanics. The mission is to Xerxes, and will likely take weeks, if not months."

"… Xerxes?" now the old woman's voice changes, growing a little incredulous.

"Yes, the Xerxes Royal Family sent the Amestrian government an appeal for a skilled automail mechanic to join their court, and I was tasked with the mission of finding one," Roy explains and leans back, turning to look out of the window while he talks. "You would be well compensated for your trouble, however long it would last."

"Is this… a permanent position? In Xerxes?" Still incredulous.

"We don't know as of yet, the treaties are yet to be drawn. You would naturally be part of the negotiations and your wishes and needs would be taken into account," Roy assures her. "I understand this is a bit much so suddenly, and I will hold it in no way against you if you refuse outright – though I am hoping that if that is the case, then perhaps you, as a well established mechanic, might be able to point me in the way of more suitable candidates…"

Honestly, with a shop as old and as well established as hers, Roy doubts very much she would take him up on the mission – she probably has a whole lot of regular clients and steady stream of income, and no need to move. But, it never hurts to ask.

The phone line is quiet for a moment as the old mechanic thinks. "I need to talk with my apprentice for a moment, can I call you back in, say, two hours?"

"Certainly," Roy agrees, and gives her his office number. "We'll be looking forward to your call."

"Right – one more thing. You said it's likely to involve Ishvalan refugees," Doctor Rockbell says. "How'd you mean?"

"We don't know for sure, the appeal didn't explain the need for a mechanic. But during the Ishvalan Civil War, many Ishvalan refugees fled to Xerxes. So we thought it safe to assume the two are connected."

"Ah," the mechanic says knowingly. "And they put a State Alchemist in charge of finding a solution."

Roy swallows. Ah. She knows about him. It's not entirely surprising, but… "They did indeed," is all he says. There's no real explanation he can give, no excuse. It is what it is."

"Hm," Doctor Rockbell answers, noncommittal. "I will call back in two hours."

And she does, accepting the mission with two conditions. The military would help her pack up her entire shop and all the materials and tools would be transported with them – which was understandable, even if it tripled the estimated convoy size. The other condition was that she was taking her eleven year old apprentice with her. Both conditions Roy readily agreed to, tasking Havoc and Fallman with her packing while the rest of the team arranged the convoy.

"Guess we're going to Xerxes then. We're going to need a lot of camels," Breda muses.

"Yes," Roy agrees and sighs. It would be a hard journey and probably a hard mission, and likely one for very little gain in the end. Still. Xerxes. His master would've killed for the opportunity. Might as well take full advantage of it, and learn whatever he can, even if it's only from broken murals on ancient ruins.


 

Meeting Pinako Rockbell and her apprentice and granddaughter Winry, Roy can quickly figure out why the old woman agreed to the mission, despite her age. Her granddaughter is severely depressed.

"It hasn't been the same since her parents died," Doctor Rockbell – please call me Pinako – explains as they watch the blond, downcast girl carry her luggage into the train. "She doesn't have any friends and I can only do so much to distract her or cheer her up – and right now, your usual work in an automail shop just reminds her of Yuriy – her father. So, a change of scenery is in order."

"Change of scenery to another country," Roy muses. "Can't go much farther than that, I guess. But you realise your work is likely to be much the same in Xerxes."

Pinako agrees with a snort, and takes out a slender pipe and a packet of tobacco. "I expect so," she agrees, pinching a bit of tobacco into her pipe. "And that's good. Winry is an automail mechanic, through and through, and she's going to be great one day – she's lost her passion right now, and serving the veterans of Ishval isn't helping, but I don't want this to be the end of her career. A new set of clients, people in need, that's what she needs."

And the fact that they're Ishvalan refugees, just the sort of people her parents died to help…

Roy hums and then holds up a hand. "Would you like a light?"

Pinako gives him a look and then nods in agreement – she doesn't even flinch at his snap, or the little flash of flame unnaturally curling into her pipe. "Well, that's handy," she muses and drags a smoky inhale. "So, what's your goal on this mission? Not much in Xerxes for the military, from what I hear."

"No, not much at all," Roy agrees. Small poor nation with no technology, no army, and probably no science either… "Xerxes is the birthplace of Amestrian alchemy – I suppose I'm hoping there's something there still left to learn."

Pinako peers up at him, her expression unreadable behind her round glasses, and then looks down. "Alchemy and Ishvalan refugees in need of new limbs," she muses and exhales a small cloud of smoke, watching as Hawkeye shows Winry into the train. "So. How long do you think the Ishvalan Civil War will affect our lives, going forward?"

Rest of their lives. Rest of his life, at least. "A little while longer, at least," Roy says.

"Hm," Pinako agrees. "I don't have an opinion about the military one way or the other. Most of my clients are military, and inside their uniforms they're people the same as everyone else. Their amputations are just as messy as civilian ones. Just as messy as Ishvalan ones, I expect," she muses. "The war was what it was, nothing I can do about any of it. Can't help but wonder, though, about you State Alchemists. Was there something you could've done."

It's not a question. Of course it isn't. State Alchemists had done something about the war – they'd ended it, abruptly and horribly and without mercy. Roy looks down, squeezing his hand into a fist and then relaxing it. He says nothing – there's nothing to say.

"Well, it's not my place to question these things," Pinako muses after a long moment of quiet.

Roy offers her a smile that feels stiff and awkward even to him. "May I carry your bags onto the train, Doctor?"

"It's Pinako," the old mechanic says and takes a final puff of smoke before upturning her pipe into the metal ashtray on the side of the ticket booth. "And you may indeed."


 

They take train to Youswell, where Breda waits for them with three carts, six horses and pair of mules, which would be their ride to the edge of the desert, where they and all their luggage would be moved onto thirteen camels, which would hopefully be enough to carry the Rockbell's belongings. Though they hadn't brought much in the way of clothing or personal effects, just enough to fill two bags each, the materials and tools from their shop took two of their three carts, and almost spilled over to the third.

"It's not just tools and automail parts, is it?" Hawkeye asks Winry, trying to tempt the girl into talking. "You brought the necessary tools to make automail from scratch."

"Furnaces, grinders, sanders, casts, things to make new casts with, raw materials…" Winry agrees, hauling the lighter crates and boxes to the cart while Breda, Hawkeye and Roy help her and Pinako with heavier things. "Granny figured we would need to make everything from bolts to wires and all the plates, so… we have everything we need to do that."

"We have all the necessary stuff to make about twenty automail limbs – twenty five, if it's only arms," Pinako agrees. "After that, we'll run out of metal."

"Rubber will run out too if we need to do more tricky wiring," Winry agrees.

"Automail sure is complicated," Breda muses.

"Can you use your tools if it turns out that there's no electricity?" Roy asks – he'd asked Pinako to prepare for the eventuality that Xerxes didn't have an electrical grid, but a lot of the equipment still looks electrical.

"It used to be that all this had to be done by hand, so I had all the necessary hand tools as well as electrical ones. We brought a small generator too, just in case," Pinako agrees. "I'm a bit more worried about fuelling the furnaces, though. Harder to get the right temperatures if it turns out we can't get the necessary fuels."

"I might be able to help there with alchemy," Roy offers, thinking about what kind of array could be used for a furnace. It would need to be activated by an alchemist, of course, but overall it wouldn't be too hard to write an array to convert lesser fuels into something more concentrated and useful…

"Guess we'll see when we get there," Pinako agrees.

Eventually, all their things are loaded up on the carts and they're ready to get on their way – though not before the local military official gets his word in. After dealing with Lieutenant Yoki and assuring the man that, no, they didn't have the time to join the man in a dinner and to hear about the woes of Youswell, Roy takes the reins of the carriage Pinako and Winry are riding on, while Hawkeye and Breda take the two others. With Breda taking the lead and Hawkeye holding the rear, they set course for the desert.

Pinako and Roy keep an amiable conversation as they go, talking about Pinako's history as an automail mechanic, where she learned, where she'd worked. It's interesting enough to hear about the very different life she'd lead, how she'd advanced the field of automail with small contributions to joint and plate design, how she's been the first to use certain types of hollow screws and plates. Apparently originally, automail was one solid, heavy piece from bone to end – it was about five years into Pinako's career that mechanics began utilising automail mounts instead of bolting full metal limps into people's flesh.

"A lot of painful operations back then," Pinako remembers, shaking her head, pipe in hand. "Things are a bit better now. Socket operations are still long and arduous and carry their own risks, of course, but they're much easier on the body than what we did back in the early days."

"I suppose everything advances over time," Roy muses. 

"Good thing too," Pinako agrees. "Better material, better techniques, better tools, and we have a better grasp of anatomy and medicine too – and I can't even tell you how much it helps, having electrical lighting as opposed to gas light, too. I once did automail operation in candle light – now that was a dark time."

Roy snorts appreciatively at her pun, and then realises something. "There's no knowing what kind of light conditions you might have to operate in Xerxes," he says then, frowning. "They might not have even gas lighting."

Pinako sighs. "I can whip up lanterns if I have to," she mutters around her pipe. "And at least there won't be any shortage of sunlight."

Young Winry, sitting behind them in the back of the carriage, looks up. "Do they have anything in Xerxes?" the girl asks, frowning.

"We don't know much about them, if I'm honest," Roy admits. "They're not very outgoing people, and prefer to keep to themselves."

"They don't have electricity, they don't have gas," Winry says, shaking her head. "How can they deal with automail if they don't have anything? Do they even have wrenches in their country? Do they know what a wrench is?"

"Guess that's for us to find out," Roy says with a smile.

"Sounds like a waste of time to me."

"Winry," Pinako says admonishingly. "Whether they have our modern comforts or not, they obviously have a need, else they wouldn't have called for an automail mechanic. Someone in their country is hurt – that's all we need to know."

"I mean… sure," the girl mutters, pulling her knees up and hugging them. "I guess."

Pinako hums and takes another inhale of smoke. "It's going to be a challenge, for sure, but it's one we're equipped to handle," she says firmly. "And it will definitely be a change of pace."

Winry doesn't answer, sighing and looking away and returning to her sullen, sad silence.

Roy glances backwards at the girl and then at Pinako, silently asking permission. Pinako shrugs and blows out another small cloud of smoke, and Roy looks backwards at Winry. "You know, it's pretty impressive, such a young girl being already an apprentice and all. I suppose it runs in the family, but still. Most girls your age are still in school."

Winry makes a face. "Granny did put me in school, when it was really busy during the war. It was..." she thinks about it and then settles on, "boring."

"A girl raised on automail mechanics doesn't have much to learn from a small village teacher," Pinako admits ruefully. "Aside from history, physical education and maybe a bit of physics and geography, Winry is years ahead of her peers."

"And none of that other stuff is going to help me with being a better automail mechanic," Winry shrugs. "Except maybe physics but they only taught the basics."

"Ah. A veritable young genius, then," Roy muses, suitably impressed. "Ever thought about a career in the military? We could use a few genius automail mechanics."

The glare Winry gives him speaks volumes. "I hate the military," she says coolly and then very firmly turns her back to them, staring at the cart trailing after theirs, driven by Hawkeye.

Roy looks at her over his shoulder and then turns his eyes ahead. Beside him, Pinako rests her pipe against her knee and says nothing.

It's a while before they resume their conversation.


 

It's nearly nightfall by the time they reach the next milestone, a small pond just at the edge of the border. Breda's contact in the desert – a Xingese man named Han – is waiting there with their camels.

"It is three days from here to Atossa," Han explains while they try to figure out how to load the Rockbell's belongings on the camels. "We will travel in the morning and in the evening. At noon, we will rest and at night we will sleep."

"Too hot to travel around noon?" Roy asks, considering one of the furnaces.

"Best to rest, rather than risk being struck down by the sun," Mr. Han agrees. "Though we can, if we must, but it is a strain – especially for the elderly."

"Watch who are you calling old," Pinako says, waving her pipe at the man warningly. "You're no spring chicken yourself, sir!"

Mr. Han laughs. "Apologies," he says. "But the desert is hard if you're not used to it. It drains you, drinks away at your sweat, and it gives nothing back. Now how do I pack this thing?" he motions at a bench drill. "It will not fit into the saddle bags like this."

"Let me," Winry says, stepping forward. "We can take it apart and store it in pieces."

They pack that evening and spend the night in Mr. Han's tents, plotting their route through the desert. Not that there's that much to plan, really. It's pretty much straight cut across to the capital city of Xerxes – if the word even applies to it. It is the highest populated town in Xerxes and where the royal family reside – but from what Roy knows, it's little more than a slum, really. Huts and hovels and caves.

"Anything you can tell us about the place would be appreciated," Roy says, unhappy with how little he really knows.

"Not much to say," Mr. Han admits. "The people are kind enough and they buy our goods occasionally, but they keep to themselves."

"Do you know anything about the royal family?" Roy asks hopefully. "I know the king has two kids, but – "

"Emperor," Mr. Han says and chuckles. "I've seen him twice on the streets – he's a bit of a strange one, really, doesn't look much like an Emperor, but then Xerxes isn't much of an empire, is it? I haven't ever met his sons, I don't think I've ever even seen them, but I think they're around the young Miss' age," he nods towards Winry.

"Emperor," Roy repeats slowly, arching his brows.

Mr. Han shrugs. "That's what they call him. The Immortal Emperor. Holdover title from days of yore, I suppose."

Roy folds his arms, humming. What a mighty title for such a small and withered nation. "I don't suppose you have any idea why the, uh, Immortal Emperor needs an automail mechanic?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Mr. Han says with a shake of his head. "Might be because of all those new Ishvalan citizens. Who knows." He stands up. "I'll go check up on the camels and then I think it's best we turn in for the night. Sleep well and drink plenty of water," Mr. Han adds. "More than you think you need. You will need all of it."

Roy nods and looks at Pinako and then at Hawkeye and Breda. Neither of them seem to know what to think about this new development either. The only title they'd ever heard used for the Xerxesian royal ruler was king and even that wasn't particularly well respected, all things considered. But if Xerxesians themselves call their ruler Emperor, and none of them in Amestris even knew about it, then…

They really have no accurate information about Xerxes at all, do they?

"Young princes, huh," Pinako muses and hands a bottle of water to Winry. "And they're your age, too. Since it was their father who asked us to join his court, maybe we'll meet the princes. Wouldn't that be nice, Winry?"

Winry makes a face and accepts the bottle. "I guess it could be interesting. I didn't even know there were princes left in the world. Isn't that a bit archaic?"

Roy hums. "Xing has dozens of princes and princesses, more if you count the families of previous generations of princes and princesses," he muses, and smiles. "So I think they statistically might actually outnumber other sorts of government officials."

"There's about as many monarchies as there are republics," Hawkeye says and looks at Winry. "I bet they're curious about what kids from other nations are like, with how isolationist their country is. I bet they'd like to meet you, more than us dull adults anyway."

Winry hums and looks away. "Yeah, I kind of doubt we'd have anything in common," she says. "What does a bunch of desert royalty care about automail, anyway?"

That is the question, isn't it?


 

Though crossing the desert is in no way easy, it's not as hard as Roy had feared, either. Mr. Han is an old hand at desert travel and knows just how to make the travel as comfortable as possible, going as far as to occasionally impose a drinking break when he thought they weren't doing well enough with water.

They ride from the chill hours of the early morning before sunrise to an hour or so before noon, by which time Mr. Han has them stop and pitch up lean-to's for shade. They have a two to four hour break in that shade, eating lunch and resting, and even when the worst of the heat has passed they resume riding until it gets too dark to keep going.

"It is a habit of Xerxes, the midday rest," Mr. Han explains to them, during one of their noon breaks. "Too hot to work, not worth the energy and the water you lose, they say. Better to nap and replenish."

"What a sensible way to go about things," Roy sighs, fanning himself with his journal. "If I ever get the chance, I'll constitute similar rules in Amestris."

"You have ambitions of rulership, then?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

Aside from that, travel is mostly dull and monotonous. They talk, some, Mr. Han telling them of his home land, Pinako telling them about her youth, the soldiers offering anecdotes here and there, where appropriate. Mostly it's Breda and Hawkeye, talking about their training in the Military Academy.

"What about you?" Pinako asks Roy. "What shenanigans did you get up to?"

"Ah, I didn't go to the academy," Roy admits, offering her a smile. "State Alchemist – I was given the rank of Major when I passed the examination."

"And got sent straight to the east?"

Roy chuckles, mirthless. "Not immediately, but… soon enough."

"They just gave you a rank?" Winry asks. "Without even any training? Isn't that a little unfair?"

"Lieutenant Colonel more than earned his rank," Hawkeye says with a slightest frown. "Then and now. Not many State Alchemists rise above the rank of Major – the Lieutenant Colonel did it in record time."

"Ah," Roy says, both pleased and a little embarrassed. "I did my best. But you're right, Winry, it might seem a little unfair – but State Alchemists usually aren't soldiers, we're scientists and researchers. The rank is mostly just for show – and for pay. The military's way of acknowledging the level of training and education that goes to bring an Alchemist in the first place."

Winry frowns thoughtfully. "How long does it take to learn to become an Alchemist?"

"From years to decades – usually the latter," Roy says and chuckles. "I'd been training for more than eight years when I took the State Alchemist exam."

"Passing the exam is considered equivalent to university education," Hawkeye explains.

"Huh," Winry hums.

"I didn't know that," Pinako muses. "But I suppose not many outside the right circles do. Guess that explains why it's such a big deal."

"Wonder what automail mechanic training equates to," Winry wonders and then casts them a glare. "Not that I'd ever want to join! I'm just wondering."

They laugh and then spend the rest of the ride until evening wondering about the equivalencies of various education's – Roy privately wondering what education in Xerxes might be like.

And so the days pass, thankfully any incidents at all and on the evening of the third day, they reach Atossa.

Notes:

Well here we go again. I'm having some Nostalgic Feels here.

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Atossa is, while not quite as small as Roy had imagined, still somehow even less grand than he'd expected. In their journey through the desert, they'd passed by a handful of ancient Xerxesian ruins, remains of temples and palaces and the like, and you can see some of that in Atossa too – but the ancient ruins have almost completely been built over by much more humble structures. Domed huts and stucco covered square houses sit among random bits of ancient walls, all the same sandy colour with little in the way of embellishments, with no grand statues, pillars or arches of the sort Roy had been imagining all his life thanks to history books painting Xerxes as a nation of grand monuments.

Really, the grandest thing they see is an open square with a fountain, where water flows clean and cool and perfectly fit to drink. And even then it's not exactly the most impressive fountain Roy had ever seen – just a round pool of water, not a statue in sight.

"I… don't suppose there's a palace, or town hall you could point us to? Something… official?" Roy asks Me. Han a little helplessly, looking around. None of the buildings around them stand out as anything special – they all look like they're part of the same sprawling slum, really. He can't even tell if they're all simple houses or if there's stores or any other sort of establishments among them, there's nothing to differentiate any of them from all the rest.

"I couldn't say, really," Mr. Han admits apologetically, leading camels to drink from the fountain. "You will have to ask around, I think – speak to someone with a sash across their chest, like this," he draws this hand down from one shoulder to opposite hip. "It is a sign of some rank, though what it refers to, exactly, I don't know. Still, they might help you. Or not."

"I see," Roy says thoughtfully. Sashes – like what some of the Ishvalans wear? Hmm… "Breda."

"I'm on it," Breda agrees, handing the reins of his camel to Hawkeye.

The rest of them look around curiously, trying to get their bearings. There's not a lot of people out and about, and most of them seem to be quietly retreating into the shadows of their humble houses. The few they see are all light haired and fair skinned, wearing simple linen robes and baggy trousers, some with sashes, most without, some wearing simple woven sandals for footwear, others none at all. All in all, the people look as humble as their city.

It… neither looks nor feels like the capital city of a nation.

There are no Ishvalans in sight, Roy notes to himself, not sure what to think about it. There hadn't been any tents so far, either, Ishvalan or otherwise. What was the estimated number of Ishvalan refugees in Xerxes, fourteen, fifteen thousand, maybe more? When thinking about the refugee camps in Amestris, how quickly they were already turning into semi permanent slums… It's strange. You'd think a group of people that big would leave an impact. Maybe they hadn't come to Atossa?

"Should we unpack?" Winry asks, sliding down from her camel's back with a little oof .

Roy hums and looks back at their party. "If Mr. Han doesn't mind, it might be best we don't, just yet," he says and shakes his head. "We need to figure out where we'll be staying first. No point unpacking here, only to have to pack again to transport everything forward."

"I don't mind," Mr. Han answers, while wrangling one of the more obstinate camels from the fountain to give others room. "So as long as they all get a chance to drink their fill here."

"Good," Pinako nods, taking out her pipe. "I'd like to unpack directly to our new automail shop. Lessen the chances of getting sand into everything. Assuming, of course, that we'll get a proper area to work in…"

"I… have no doubt they will have something arranged," Roy says, though looking at this place… he does have some slight doubts, maybe. Well. "Hopefully Breda will find some local official to get things rolling. In the meanwhile, let's stretch our legs and take a breather – it has been a long ride, after all. How's everyone feeling?"

"Sore," Winry groans, rubbing at her back. "And hot. Can't we find some shade, please?"

"Might be better not. These people seem nervous – best not to wander from the square," Hawkeye says, looking around with a slightly worried look on her face – and no wonder. The area around them has all but been evaluated now.

"Right," Roy murmurs. "We'll just wait… here for now."

And that's what they do, hanging by the fountain, out in the open, sharing canteens while the camels drink. Roy and Hawkeye both keep a wary eye on their surroundings, and Roy can tell he's not the only one a little unnerved by the silence they find themselves surrounded by. Though sparsely populated from get go, suddenly Atossa seems rather like a ghost town, quiet and almost completely empty, except for them.

"It's a little… oppressive," Hawkeye murmurs, glancing around. "It's not just that everyone's left. We're being watched."

"Mm," Roy agrees and looks away. He can't see anyone anywhere, no watchful men or women in the shadows – but he can feel the eyes on them too. Xerxes really isn't too friendly towards outsiders, huh. "Better make no sudden moves then."

While Pinako smokes and Winry does a few stretches, Roy takes out his journal, jotting down his observations and questions he has about Atossa so far, wondering. This weird welcome aside, there's a lot of… discrepancies about the place. So far, he hasn't seen much in the way of farms or gardens and though the capital city of Atossa was historically supported by a great river, Cyrys, there's no sign of that he's been able to spot. The fountain has running, clear water, which indicates an underground water reservoir of some sort, maybe the river had gone underground, maybe there's even plumbing… but there's no evidence about that, either. No cart tracks in the streets, no trees or green plants…

How are these people living here? What do they eat, how do they survive? The city is surrounded at all sides by dry, dead desert. There seems to be no animals here either, aside from the camels – and yet, the few people they'd seen all seemed healthy and well fed. No one looked starving or sickly. Maybe they'd just missed the farms and the river and they were on the other side of the city, but somehow Roy doubts it. Things like that tend to be pretty visible, with how much space they take, in general. Of course it could be that Atossa has the foodstuff it needs delivered from afar – but if that's so, then… how? As far as he knows, the main transport in Xerxes is by camel and horse and those are nowhere near quick enough for a proper transportation network of perishable goods. How do you support a city of any size without modern rail or trucks?

Hmm. Could Breda go digging to figure it out without causing suspicion or alarm? Xerxesians are almost all of them blond, his brown hair might stand out. Maybe Roy should've brought Havoc after all…

"Sir," Hawkeye says behind him and Roy looks up from his journal to see Breda returning, with an elderly Xerxesian woman trailing after him, her pale blond, almost white hair done up in a bun and her dark red robes contrasted sharply by the pale sash slanted over them. Her eyes are deep, Xerxesian gold.

"Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, this is Master Mather," Breda says. "She says she can get us in touch with the Emperor."

"Ma'am," Roy says, offering a slight bow and snaps his journal shut. "It's an honour – my name is Roy Mustang, I'm Lieutenant Colonel with the Amestris' state military. Your Emperor sent a message to our government requesting the services of an Amestrian Automail Mechanic. On behalf of my government, it's my pleasure to present to you Doctor Pinako Rockbell and her apprentice, Winry Rockbell."

Master Mather looks at them, her expression inscrutable, and then bows her head slightly. "Lieutenant Colonel, doctor Rockbell. It is my honour to welcome you to Atossa, and to take your message to the Immortal Emperor."

Roy hesitates. The words are spoken amiably enough, but… they're curt. And his message? "That would be… very helpful, thank you," he says. "If you would, please, pass on our greetings and tell the Emperor that we've arrived with the automail mechanic he requested and would be honoured to meet with him to discuss where we go from here," he offers a little awkwardly – though he has a whole litany of prewritten pleasantries ready, he'd thought he'd be saying them to the Emperor, not to… whoever Master Mather is.

"Also I need a proper place to work," Pinako says, putting her pipe away. "Somewhere away from the sand and hopefully sterile, if there's need for automail surgeries."

It's not the most tactful either, but Roy supposes she has the right to make her demands, after the journey they'd taken.

Master Mather nods her head slowly, her face still unreadable. "Very well. I will pass on your message," she says. "Will you wait here?"

"Unless there's a more suitable place available," Roy says, rather hopefully – after three days in the sun, he's more than ready to get out of it. "It has been a long journey and I think I speak for all of us when I say, a chance to freshen up would be appreciated."

Master Mather hums, looking over their group and nodding again, just as slow. "I will see if something can be done about that," she says, bows, and then she turns to leave, her bit done, apparently.

Roy blinks after her and then turns to look at Hawkeye, Breda and Pinako. "I... guess that's that, then," he says, a little at a loss. "I suppose we're waiting then."

"I guess the local brand of diplomacy is short and sweet," Pinako harrumphs and stows her pipe away. "I can appreciate that."

Roy chuckles, a little feebly, and looks at Breda. "Did you learn anything?"

"Not much," Breda admits, shaking his head and making a rueful face. "Everyone sort of avoided me and it took effort to just catch someone to ask a question. The architecture is interesting, though," he says, rather pointedly, before adding under his breath. "A lot of holes in the streets. A lot of hidden stairs leading underground."

"Hm," Roy answers, careful not to let the realisation show on his face. A hidden underground…? That explains the unseen watchers, he supposes. "Keep an eye on them," he says quietly. "Who knows, we might need to know where they lead, eventually."

"Will do, sir."


 

There's another wait, little over half an hour long, during which Winry finds an automail manual to fan herself with and Pinako dibs a rag in the fountain to wipe her face with. Roy is thinking of doing the same, when Hawkeye clears her throat and nods her head in warning. Not that she really needs to. They can hear the newcomer coming more than a block away. A resounding metallic clank-clank, utterly out of place in these sandy ruins, and yet unmistakable as the footsteps of a man in full body armour.

Or no, not body armour, not exactly. Rather it's a full suit of plate mail, straight from a historical picture book or a museum. It's almost solid metal from head to toe, with broad plates and spikes on the shoulder, a cloth sash and a loin cloth and small trailing crest on the helmet. The person wearing it must be as tall as Major Armstrong. And probably about as strong, with that much metal on them.

"I didn't know Xerxians did armour like that," Breda murmurs.

"I'm starting to get a feeling we don't really know much about them," Roy murmurs back and steps forward. "Uh, hello?"

"Hello," comes the reply in a surprisingly young, almost boyish voice. "You are the Amestrians? I mean, of course you are, who else would you be – hi," the armoured man – boy? – says brightly and waves one hand. "You must be eager to get out of the sun – please, come this way. We've arranged a place for you to stay in."

"Uh – that would be nice, yes  – but," Roy hesitates. "What about our camels – our things?"

"Oh, bring them with you," the armoured Xerxesian says. "There should be space for everything you brought, and if there isn't then we'll arrange something else for you. There's a place for the camels, too."

Well then.

It's a bit of a scramble to get the camels back up and moving again, Mr. Han ends up having to bring out a switch in the end, arranging the camels into a queue. With Breda and Hawkeye taking watchful guard positions at each side, Roy turns to their guide, Pinako and Winry sticking a bit more nervously close to him.

"May I ask if you know what it is that is being expected of us?" Roy asks, moving to follow the taller man. "The message we got from the Immortal Emperor was rather short, all told, and all we really know is that he has a need of an automail mechanic – can you tell us anything about that?"

The Xerxesian hums. "Hm, I'm not sure I should say, just yet," he says, folding his arms. "There's stuff that needs to be figured out first, and it's not… my place, really."

"Ah, of course," Roy says. A foot soldier wouldn't be the one to arrange diplomatic affairs. And, oh boy, it's a little worrisome that Xerxes has apparently fully armoured soldiers like this… "I won't press you on it, then," Roy says to hide his slight unease. "But if there's anything at all you can tell us, we would very much appreciate it. We really have no idea what to expect."

"Hmm," the armoured Xerxian hums. "Well, I doubt anything will happen today, so you should take the opportunity to rest. Um – I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names…?"

"Ah, apologies. Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, with the Amestrian state military," Roy answers quickly. "I was tasked with delivering the automail mechanic requested by the Immortal Emperor here – this is her here, Doctor Pinako Rockbell with her apprentice, Winry Rockbell. And these are my men, Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, and Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda – and of course, our guide, Mr. Han. And you, sir, you are…?"

"I'm Alphonse," the armoured Xerxesian says. "It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"Likewise," Roy answers, the others echoing him and smiling despite how confusing all of this is. The Xerxesian's voice is so childlike and nice, it's impossible not to like him 

Alphonse turns his helmet downward, facing Pinako and Winry. "So you're automail mechanics? That's incredible. Thank you so much for coming."

"Why is it incredible?" Winry asks suspiciously, in the tone of a girl who's had to defend her own intelligence before.

"Automail is amazing! I mean, at least I think it is," Alphonse says hesitantly. "I don't actually know much about it, but from what I've read – is it true that Automail attaches directly to the nervous system, and the wielder can control it just as well as their original flesh and blood?"

Pinako hums. "Not directly – we use automail sockets these days. But yes – sometimes better," she adds a little smugly. "With automail you aren't limited to just regular old human digits – you can have anything you'd like in their place that the mechanic can make."

"Ooh, like what?"

"Like a vice," Pinako says, chuckling. "Or other tools. Knew a man once with a chainsaw for an arm."

"One of our clients in Resembool had hook attachments in his fingers," Winry adds. "He likes to go mountain climbing."

"That's so interesting," Alphonse says enthusiastically. "What about legs? Can you do anything special with automail legs?"

While they talk, Alphonse leads them through a couple of streets, away from what Roy assumes was the city centre and eventually into what could maybe be called the yard of a house. It's not much of one, though. There's stone walls surrounding the yard, a gate, a simple pavilion and trough of water and even hay for the camels, but the house itself is… small. From outside it looks barely the size of a one room, if that. And then there's gaps in the yard, rather like empty wells – one of them the length of a truck. Maybe someone had tried to make pools, but lacked the water?

It does not look like a place you could house even one person comfortably, never mind half a dozen.

"Here we are," Alphonse says, motioning to the humble little stone house with it's nondescript wooden door. "Would you like for me to show you around?"

"… That would be nice," Roy says while Pinako and Winry share confused looks. "Right after you, Alphonse."

And then they're shown into an underground mansion .

The little house on top is only the entrance into a stairwell – the house itself covers the entire area under the yard, with the gaps in the ground above serving as ceiling windows for the rooms below. The stairwell leads into the largest of the room, a some sort of central lounge area, and not a humble one at that. There's stone pillars holding up the ceiling and water running in the hall in a little waterway that circulates around the room, diverting out through the eight doorways and into other rooms of the underground house. The ceiling windows offer a surprisingly decent amount of illumination and the air is pleasantly cool, and not quite as cuttingly dry as it is outside.

After the humble city above ground, it's almost a shock, how nice the place is. It's sparsely decorated, maybe, with bare stone floors and walls and only a handful of basic furniture... but it's still a veritable palace compared to the hovel Roy had been somewhat dreading. Better yet, it has a private bedroom for all of them, including Mr. Han – each with it's own bathroom and toilet and running water.

"Well, this is more like it," Pinako says, covering her shocked gaping admirably.

"I hope it's to your liking," Alphonse says brightly. "I wasn't sure what sorts of things you might need, so I figured I'd just cover the basics – place to sleep, place to relieve yourselves, place to clean yourselves. And there's a kitchen as well, through there, though you will have to wait a bit for food stuff and ingredients – this was all a bit sudden, you see. Someone should be by before nightfall, and if there's something you need, please feel free to say so, and we'll do our best to provide."

"That's certainly very accommodating, thank you," Roy says, shaking his own disuse a surprise quickly. Looks like they'll be staying in comfort after all – and here he'd been fearing they'd might have to live in tents the whole time. Thank god. "I have no doubt this will suit us nicely."

"It's so cool," Winry says, looking around, her eyes wide as she looks at the water running around the room. "It's like – like underground temple! But – what do you mean, you covered just the basics?" she asks, looking up at Alphonse. "You make it sound like this place was…"

Alphonse lifts a hand to the back of his helmet and lets out a little laugh. "Well, it was a bit last minute," he admits and then hums. "Actually maybe I should've held back and actually asked you what sort of houses Amestrians live in. Um. I can still change it, if you don't like it?"

"No, no, it's nice, it's really nice – but, did you… make this?" Winry asks, her eyes wide.

"I mean. Yes?" Alphonse says, looking down at her and then turning his helmet towards wide eyed Roy, who's now noticing the angular flake pattern on the pillars and the ceiling, and how everything smells a bit like ozone. The armoured man clears his throat awkwardly, sounding very much like an embarrassed, nervous child. "I hope you don't mind? We didn't have an empty house, you see, so…"

So he'd… made one. In half an hour. With alchemy.

"I think it's… fine, it looks very nice, Alphonse," Roy assures a little faintly. "We couldn't ask for better."

"Well that's a relief," Alphonse says, relaxing.

Pinako clears her throat and looks up to the armoured Xerxesian. "What about the automail workroom? I assume we're here to perform surgery," she says. "Should we set up here, or –?"

"Hmm. Might be better you wait until tomorrow," Alphonse says, lifting a hand to stroke the chin of his helmet in thought. "They might want to have the operation theatre in the palace. I will have to ask – is it alright if you wait a bit? We still have some things to set up, you see. We weren't expecting you this soon."

"That's… perfectly alright, I suppose," Pinako says faintly.

"Good," Alphonse says and claps his hands together. "If that is all, I should leave you it, let you get settled and cleaned up and all of that – I need to arrange food to be brought to you, too… so I will see you in the morning, alright?"

With their assurances that they would be fine for the night, Alphonse heads off, heavy clank-clank-clank up the stone steps, and then across the yard – their ceiling – and out of the premises. It's a long moment of quiet after, while they stare at their new – very new – house.

"I guess that answers the alchemy question," Hawkeye says finally and Roy lets out a sort of strangled chuckle.

"Could you do something like this?" Winry asks curiously, looking up at Roy. "You're an alchemist too, after all."

"Not in half an hour," Roy admits. "It would take me several hours, maybe days, to draw the circles for something like this. And to do it underground like this, hmm… I'm not sure where I'd even begin. Stone isn't really my element." But he can see how it might've been done. Maybe Alphonse had sigils inside his armour. Quite a number of alchemists used brass knuckles and gloves for convenience – given time, Major Armstrong could probably come up with a set of bracers designed exactly for the creation and duplication of places like this. It makes the whole thing seem a little more reasonable.

It's still pretty fantastical, though.

"Well, I don't know about you," Pinako says, harrumphing. "But I am going to go and have a shower and change into something that doesn't stink of a camel. Winry, come on, let's get our things from the camels. I suggest you guys do the same," she adds, giving Roy, Breda and Hawkeye a look. "We're all smelling a little ripe here."

And so the wonder of an instantly created house is set aside in favour of the more immediate needs of basic hygiene.


 

After Pinako, Winry and Mr. Han have all gone to bed, Roy, Hawkey and Breda meet in the lounge area. There's no chairs there, no benches or couches – just a carpet, a low table and a set of seat cushions, brought in by the servants who'd delivered their food.

"So. What do you think?" Roy asks, looking around in the room. It's gotten dark, almost too dark to see, and the few oil lanterns provided for them don't offer quite the illumination of electric light bulbs.

"It's too open. Anyone could get in through the top. Anyone could be listening," Hawkeye says. "Someone already probably is. We should take watches."

"We're not exactly expecting hostility here," Roy muses, peering upward. He can see the light of the rising moon, shining on the edge of the ceiling windows. "But I agree. Never hurts to be cautious. Breda, what's your take on things so far?"

"Hmm," the man hums, folding his arms. "It's obvious they're hiding a lot of stuff. I think most of the city is like this – underground. They got running water and they're pretty free with it, that means helluva lot of infrastructure. Our house is the only one with a proper chimney I've seen, so they don't usually use wood stoves. Can't tell if they got electricity or what, but they got something . Also the flour they brought us was properly milled and bleached – that's industry of some kind."

Roy folds his arms. Running water requires power. Alphonse's armour isn't something you can make without high temperature foundries. Flour could be ground by hand, but safely bleaching it would require a decent grasp of chemistry…

All these are things that could be done with alchemy. Including stoves that didn't require chimneys.

"And what about the two people we met, Master Mather and Alphonse?" Roy asks. He has his own observations – but Breda is the information gathering specialist here.

"Alphonse is higher rank than Master Mather," Breda answers. "In whatever system of authority they have. Judging by her hands, Master Mather is a craftsman, probably respected and skilled but not really involved in local politics. She needs to ask for authorisation – Alphonse's can just give it, at least to some extent."

Roy hums in agreement. "He sounds young, though," he muses, leaning his chin to his palm and sighing. "Really young. And that armour too. Alchemist that wears armour… What do you think, Lieutenant?"

She's quiet for a moment, looking up at the gaps in the ceiling above them. Then she looks down, frowning. "I'm not sure," she admits. "That armour, it's…"

"Yes?"

She looks up,  a little reluctant. Then she sighs. "I know it's probably impossible, but I think the armour is empty."

Roy lifts his head at that.

"You can hear it when Alphonse moves – the way every motion rings right through him. He sounds like a bell," Hawkeye says, shaking her head. "He's also too light. Heavy as a full set of plate mail armour is heavy – but not as heavy as it would be, if there was a man big enough to fill the armour inside it. All told, Alphonse weighs only forty kilogrammes at most."

The words land between them like a fake grenade, unreal and all too real all at once. Then both Hawkeye and Breda look at him expectantly.

Roy rubs two gloved fingers up and down his forehead, thinking. Hollow, empty armour, moving in it's own… "A golem?" he mutters. That's… that's a fairytale, though, pure fantasy – a myth of the early days of alchemy, when it was thought to be all but magic, capable of everything. Alphonse talked, though, he spoke and acted like a person….

"Could be remote controlled," Breda suggests after a while. "I heard Fuery talk about it, how they might be able to use radios to remote control machinery one day. Maybe Alphonse is a machine."

Roy lets out a wry laugh. "I'm not sure which is worse, an alchemy golem that can walk, talk and potentially transmute – or a machine that can do the same," he mutters. "Better keep this to ourselves for now. Whatever Alphonse is aside, he seems nice enough and I'm not too eager to find out what it might be like if we manage to piss him – or whoever made him – off. Let's not get to his bad side by pointing out any inconvenient truths."

"Yes sir."

"Agreed."

This place... is a bit more complicated than it first it seemed, huh?


 

The next morning, after a night spent in a nervous sort of luxury and a breakfast awkwardly put together from mostly foreign ingredients, Alphonse returns. By that time, they've had the time to clean, preen themselves into a more presentable state, and even wash most of their travel clothing, and Roy is feeling a bit more prepared for everything.

"Good morning, I hope you all slept well!" Alphonse says brightly. "And that everything here was to your liking."

"The house you made for us is excellent, thank you," Roy assures him, trying not to stare too openly. There's no gaps in the armour, where the plates don't cover it there's dark cloth, as though the person inside is wearing an undersuit – but maybe he can see the sunlight shine through Alphonse's neck there…?

"It's a bit insecure," Hawkeye comments, her face impassive, motioning to the windows. "Are all your houses like this? Aren't you worried about people breaking in?"

"Well. No? I suppose we can put in a grate in the windows if you'd like," Alphonse muses, looking up. "Why would anyone want to break in here, though?"

"I'm sure for no reason whatsoever," Roy says, wry – they're only the foreign dignitaries from a military state visiting their humble, pacifistic, and clearly alchemically advanced nation. "But grates of some sort on the windows would be appreciated, yes."

"I'll see to it," Alphonse promises, still sounding mostly confused. Then he shakes his head – or rather, his helmet. "It'll have to be later. If you're good to go, I'm supposed to take you to see the Emperor now."

"Oh, gosh," Winry murmurs and glances at her grandmother. "Should I change?" She's wearing a tank top and shorts.

"Hm. Is there anything we should know beforehand, any – customs or conventions we should be aware of?" Roy asks. "Formal style of clothing, maybe? We wouldn't want to offend."

"You're outsiders," Alphonse says reassuringly. "No one is going to expect you to behave like we do. So as long as you don't go out of your way to intentionally insult anyone, I'm sure you're fine. As is your clothing," he adds to Winry.

"If you say so," Winry says a little nervously. "Everyone here wears long dresses though, I don't look dumb."

"You don't look dumb at all! And you're an artisan, too," Alphonse says earnestly. "An automail mechanic. I promise, no one will care at all what you're wearing."

Does he not see her age? Hm. "In that case," Roy says and looks at Pinako. "I suppose we are good to go, then. Second Lieutenant, you're with us – Lieutenant, you hold the fort for us." 

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel," Hawkeye answers unhappily, while Breda gets up to fetch Roy's briefcase. There's no helping it, though – someone has to watch Pinako's and Winry's things and Roy would need Breda's read on whoever they'd end up meeting.

Atossa is a little better at ease that morning, and there are more people out now than they'd seen the evening before. What they're doing outside, though, Roy can't quite tell – aside from just being. No one is carrying anything or doing any work, and though few look like they're on their way somewhere, most just seem to be just milling about in the sun. You'd think that at least a few of them would be on their way to our from the market or something, but no.

Every single person they come across seems to recognize Alphonse - or at least they recognise the armour and whatever it represents. Roy doesn't need Breda's insight to tell that just the sight of it puts people at ease about their foreign guests.

"Alphonse, is there a market here we could visit later?" Roy asks thoughtfully as they walk. "I would like to buy souvenirs for friends back home." Market would be a good place for gathering information, too...

"Oh," Alphonse says, sounding actually uncertain for the first time. "There's the bazaar, sure, but – I will have to ask. We don't generally… outsiders don't usually visit. And I'm not sure how you would buy things."

"Amestrian coin isn't good here, is it?" Pinako asks knowingly.

"It depends on what it is made from," Alphonse muses thoughtfully. "If you have things to trade, that might be better. Or services. But that will have to wait until after – this way, please."

Outsiders don't usually visit probably means outsiders aren't usually welcome, Roy thinks. It must throw something of a wrench into the workings of Xerxes, having invited them in and now having to figure out how to cater to them, after a history of such inhospitality. Going by Alphonse's behaviour, they're at least trying to play nice, but  they're so unaccustomed to it that they have no idea how to do it right. And they sent a golem, too… So, no previously established boundaries about the liberties allotted to diplomatic guests, and no set way how to handle worrisome guests. It's rather interesting. A little depressing too, in a way.

Probably best Roy doesn't ask about their libraries or alchemists – or their golems – just yet.

Alphonse eventually leads them to a wide stone staircase flanked by crumbling pillars, the steps leading down deeper than their guest quarters are. The moment they're in the stairwell's shadow, the smell of ozone and the transmutation patterns on the walls give away the newness of this structure too. Wherever Alphonse is taking them, it might have been created just for this meeting – or at least it's been recently modified for it.

Roy has spent the majority of his life and the entirety of his military career surrounded by flashy displays of alchemy, and he's never seen something like this. Even in Ishval they didn't create structures wholesale, not beyond making walls to trap and pen the Ishvalans in, anyway. As far as alchemy goes, this is more practical than what Roy does, certainly, but at the same time...  there's something about it that affects him. An intelligent golem and purpose-built, transmuted houses...

It seems almost casual, for all is flashiness. If it was a State Alchemist who performed these sorts of tricks, they'd be bragging about it in great detail by now. Alphonse on other hand doesn't seem to think of something to even mention to them, as though creating entire underground structures is an everyday occurrence. Maybe it's because he is a golem and to him it doesn't register as anything special, but what if…

What if it is an everyday occurrence here?

Roy doesn't get to follow that worrisome thought to its even more worrisome conclusion, as the stairs even out into a short corridor leading into a great stone hall. It's as grand an audience chamber as anyone might ask for, as tall as a two storey building, with four windows in the ceiling above them, eight hefty stone pillars flanking the centre and water channels running along the sides. There's a stone dais across from the entrance, and on it a stone throne – and on the throne there's a blond, bearded man in white robes, resting his chin on his knuckles and tiredly gazing at nothing.

At the sound of Alphonse's hollow, clanking footsteps, the blond man sighs and looks up. "Was the throne really necessary, Alphonse?"

"Brother thought we should try to keep up appearances," Alphonse says cheerfully, stepping up to the dais and motioning to Roy, Pinako, Breda and Winry. "Father, let me introduce you to the Amestrians."

Oh.

Wait.

What?

Notes:

Alphonse is a ray of sunshine full of kittens, that's what.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Warning for semi detailed discussion of amputation.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Immortal Emperor doesn't look particularly kingly. He wears no crown, no jewellery, and aside from the sashes crossed over his chest, his robes are without any kind of insignia. The only vaguely kingly thing about him is the throne he'd sitting on, and it doesn't even look particularly comfortable or grand as thrones go – just a blocky piece of stone with no embellishments, no markings.

Alphonse doesn't look royal either. The armour is without decorations too, bar from a blood red symbol painted on the shoulder and the white sash that runs from one spiky metal shoulder to the opposite hip, and that's clearly not a sign of royalty.

Of course, they'd known, or rather they thought that Xerxes wasn't particularly wealthy. That was the common consensus everywhere, Xerxes was a ruin of a nation, thousand years past its prime, barely clinging to existence at all by the skin of it's teeth. As such Roy hadn't exactly expected a jewellery store's worth of riches here, especially in light of Mr. Han's estimation of the Immortal Emperor as a strange one. At most Roy had expected slightly grander robes and maybe some sort of make-do circlet, maybe some sort of sense of superiority and importance and misplaced arrogance at worst, but…

But that was before all of the casual alchemy. That was before hollow, independently moving and thinking hollow armour. Before all the hints of grand secrets hidden among the ruins and sands.

Now… now Roy Mustang has no idea what to expect.

Alphonse introduces them each in turn, and the Immortal Emperor of Xerxes looks at them like the very act of bearing witness to their existence is draining his mental resources.

"Welcome to Atossa," the Immortal Emperor says. "I hope your journey went well. I know crossing the desert isn't easy."

Roy clears his throat. "It was well worth it for the honour of meeting with the esteemed Immortal Emperor of this fine nation," he says as smoothly as he can, trying his best to hide your utterly thrown he feels here. Quickly, he sketches a bow. "Thank you for your welcome, my lord, and for the accommodations provided, they have been superb."

The Emperor shakes his head at him. "My lord," he mutters, and closes his eyes with a sigh. "Well, that's good. I… hope your stay will be a comfortable one."

"I'm sure it will," Roy says and bows again, just to be safe. My lord is not the right honorific to use. Okay. "If you permit it, your majesty, I would like to present you with a gift and message from the leader of our nation, Fürher King Bradley of Amestris?"

The Emperor opens his eyes and gives him a look that tells Roy very clearly the man would really rather decline the honour. "If you feel you must," the Emperor says nevertheless, lifting his head from his knuckles.

It's a bit much, Roy thinks wryly, to have come all the way here only to find their host treating them like a tiresome bother he's forced to play nice with. Roy's old hat at handling superiors who think he's nothing but an annoyance, it happens all the time, and so he brushes it aside with a smile and just opens the briefcase… but it's still a little grating.

The Fürher's gift to the Immortal Emperor of Xerxes is in a black velvet box the length of Roy's arm, sealed with the red wax embossed with the mark of the Fürher's office. Roy isn't privy to the contents. Although he could've easily opened it, looked inside and then fixed the seal with alchemy afterwards, leaving none the wiser to his snooping… he hadn't. Going by the heft and weight distribution of it, though, it was probably something hideously expensive, like a statuette or something, and likely not that important.

The sealed envelope the diplomatic gift came with, though… now that was much more tempting.

Roy passes the box and the envelope to Alphonse – Prince Alphonse? – who looks down at them and then turns to hand them over to the Emperor. The blond man accepts them somewhat reluctantly and then, slowly, sets the box down on the stone armrest in favour of opening the letter instead, cracking the wax seal with his thumbs and easing out the single sheet of paper and unfolding it.

He reads it without expression – and doesn't open the gift afterwards.

"Doctor Rockbell," the Emperor says after what feels like an unbearably long silence, slipping the letter under the velvet box.

"Yes?" Pinako asks, lifting her chin and hiding her own nerves much better than Roy feels he's doing. Winry standing behind her isn't quite as calm, though, standing near to her grandmother and looking like she isn't sure if she should look at the Emperor head on, or if she should lower her eyes.

Roy sympathises utterly – he has no idea either.

The Emperor, giving no indication either way, speaks. "Master Mather says you requested a workshop with some specifications."

Pinako hums. "Well, yes –"

Roy clears his throat, giving her an apologetic glance and then turning to the Emperor. "But before we get into the specifics of automail," he says, "Perhaps you might kindly illuminate us on some points, your Majesty? We still don't know what it is you require from Doctor Rockbell, exactly. Or what she might expect in compensation for her efforts."

The orders he had concerning this mission didn't really specify the need for any kind of exchange, actually. Pinako is already being compensated with an ambassador's salary by the Amestrian government, which is nothing to sneeze at. The implication was that whatever Xerxes wanted ultimately wasn't that important to Amestris, that they could just hand over one of the automail mechanics and even pay for the pleasure and it wasn't a big deal. Charity, Roy knows, can be a sort of weapon too, an indication of power and indifference. All in all, Amestris has no interest in forming any kind of official treaty with Xerxes, though.

Roy isn't about to just ignore an opportunity like this, though – especially since it's turning out that Xerxes is hiding some pretty impressive secrets in its runs.

The Immortal Emperor leans his chin on his knuckles again. "It will be an equivalent exchange," he says almost boredly, making Roy stands up slightly straighter. "Depending on the duration of your stay and the extent of your services, you will receive compensation equal to your efforts – on top of the accommodations, liberties and essentials already provided to you. Is that enough?"

Well. It's succinctly and clearly enough said, but leaves a lot of leeway as to what is considered equal compensation. It also doesn't leave much leeway to negotiations. "That sounds very… promising and most generous," Roy says slowly. "But I suspect Doctor Rockbell would rather know precisely what she's in for – and what she might –"

"I can speak for myself, Lieutenant Colonel, thank you," Pinako interrupts, slightly irritable and faces the Emperor of Xerxes without blinking. "I don't know about equal exchange or whatever – but I do know the going rate of automail in Amestris, and how much my services usually go for. There's variance with the type of automail of course, some setups are more pricey, but I'm good with starting price negotiations at the average going rate."

Roy winces and hears the sigh Breda doesn't let out. That's not how you negotiate with foreign power.

"Hmm," the Emperor hums. "We don't use Amestrians currency."

"Well what do you use, then?" Pinako asks, resting her hands at her hips, ignoring the nervous looks Winry sends at her.

Alphonse hums thoughtfully and looks at the Emperor. "Maybe noble metals would do? Or minerals?" he suggests, stroking the chin of his helmet. "Gold and silver have been used like currency in history, right? We start with the price of the surgery and the automail, convert it to the value of some usable material in Amestris, and pay in that."

The Emperor leans back on his throne. "That would make many things simpler, if nothing else."

And suddenly Roy realises not only that these guys don't use money at all but that they probably also don't consider things like the transmutation of precious metals and minerals as a crime. Good god.

"Uh, that… could work," Roy says faintly, glancing at Breda, whose expression has gone from awkward to fixed. "Precious metals. Right."

Winry lets out a quiet sound of strangled incredulity and Pinako snorts. "Not if we're going to settle here and gold isn't worth anything locally," she mutters with a shake of her head – smart woman, she'd quickly realised what Roy had. "How do you usually trade for services around here? Assuming you do trade..."

"We trade materials, goods, knowledge, or favours," Alphonse explains. "Equal to the material, good, service, or knowledge being traded."

"That sounds… complicated," Pinako muses wryly. "Money might not be valuable as far as the materials that go into it go, but it's convenient. Wouldn't it be a lot simpler to have some sort of token of commonly accepted value to trade for services and goods and such instead of keeping track of favours owed?"

Alphonse shrugs with a wry chuckle. "I guess. But any token will just become worthless the moment someone puts up a duplication array and makes a thousand copies of the original."

Pinako blinks. "... Oh," she says and frowns while beside her Winry gapes quietly.

"And that's… legal?" Roy asks slowly. "Your people can just… counterfeit things."

The Emperor shakes his head. "Legal or illegal, copying is easy to do and hard to control," he says. "It's easier by far to not bother trying to control what won't be, and settle on what works."

Roy opens his mouth and then closes it, not sure how to argue with that. Naturally the original should be more valuable, it assumably went through a different process or production and was assigned a value during it, but if the copy is identical to the original, and with alchemy it would be… how would you tell the difference between the two? You could call it a crime and forbid the copying, the counterfeiting, but considering how simple arrays like that would be to duplicate… how would you control it, really?

Well. If nothing else, he is suddenly realising why alchemy isn't taught as part of standard education in Amestris, despite its thousands of benefits even at the lower levels. Roy had wondered about it on and off along the years, ever since he did his first transmission circle and fixed a broken cup as good as new. Why not teach it in schools, since even a very basic transmutation circle can be so convenient and handy for everyday life? Why is it so secret and elite and rare? 

Because it would destroy the economy within the year.

"We're not unwilling to pay for services rendered," Alphonse says, very sincerely. "In fact we're more than happy to. Automail as a concept is new to us, though, and we don't know it's value yet, or what would be equal compensation. And since it's hard to say what is valuable to you as people, it's… hmm. Difficult."

"Therefore," the Emperor says, sounding wearily amused now. "A promise of equivalent exchange. Your compensation will be equal to your efforts and your expenses – on top of the accommodations, necessities and comforts already provided for you. So. Is that enough?"

"An IOU, huh," Pinako muses. "Can I have that in writing or are contracts worthless around here, too?"

Roy winces and just barely keeps from running a hand over his face.

"On the contrary, they're most valued," The Emperor says with a slight smile and then looks at Alphonse. "Go get Edward."

"Right," Alphonse says and quickly offers the Amestrians a polite bow. "I will be right back." Then he turns to the wall behind the Emperor's throne, claps his hands – his empty gloves – together and slaps them against the wall.

In a sharp crack and flash bright blue of alchemical energy, the smooth wall is instantly transmuted, and a doorway grows into existence, with a frame and door with hinges and everything.

"Wha –?" Roy chokes, the hairs in the back of his neck all standing on end. Alphonse is already heading through the transmuted door, though, politely closing it behind him with a quiet, excuse me, and leaving them alone with the Immortal Emperor who's watching them, golden eyes weary and knowing. Roy clears his throat. "And Edward is…?" he asks rather helplessly.

"The one you will be drawing your contracts with," the Emperor says and pushes himself up to his feet. "Well then. Since we're already here and doing this, we might as well carry on. Step back, please."

Roy, Breda, Pinako and Winry all quickly back away. As they watch, the air around the Emperor crackles red with power and then lashes out towards the Amestrians, flickering violently over the stone floor. Roy curls his fingers, ready to snap if necessary – but the alchemical energy doesn't reach them. Instead, it sinks into the floor, and in answer, the surface begins to shift and forms rise from it – seven stone chairs, foreign in design and slightly more comfortable looking than the throne, all facing each other in a circle.

And once again, it was all done without a transmutation circle.

"Do we need a table?" the Emperor murmurs thoughtfully, stroking his beard as though he hadn't just performed the impossible. "I suppose we can add one later if necessary. Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Alphonse won't be long."

Roy hesitates, glancing at the others to check that they're all alright. They're all gaping slightly and Breda looks a little pale, but none worse for wear. Steeling himself against further surprises, Roy steps forward. "Thank you," he says, and sits down, slowly followed by Breda and Pinako and Winry, quietly mumbling their thanks.

The Emperor watches them impassively and then sits across from them, leaving two open seats each side of him, one for Alphonse and the other assumably for Edward. It's a show of equality Roy hadn't been expecting from someone titled the Immortal Emperor, and he isn't sure what to do with it.

"Would you tell me about automail?" The Emperor asks, resting his hands in his lap. "Is it true that automail attach directly to the nervous system?"

Pinako shifts on her stone seat and clears her throat awkwardly. "That's – that's right." She then launches into a somewhat limping explanation on how automail works and how it attaches to the body – and at the Emperor's urging, describes the surgery. It's rather gruesome despite her clinical description, and does nothing to alleviate the tense, nervous atmosphere that has descended upon the meeting.

"I see. Some material is lost, then," the Emperor says thoughtfully, mostly to himself. "The connection point has to be modified to attach the socket to flesh and bone, and it is wired into the body. That is… unfortunate."

"It's an unfortunate necessity, yes," Pinako says. "Automail surgery is a drastic alteration to the body, a permanent modification. There's no way around it."

The Emperor hums low in his throat. "Everything has a cost. It would be foolish to expect otherwise," he says grimly and then looks up and over his shoulder, as the sound of hollow clanking reaches them through the doorway Alphonse had made. He's back – and he's not alone.

In his hands, the armour is carrying a small blond boy swathed in dark red robe pinned in place by white sash, his face serious and his eyes intently forward. As they watch, Alphonse rounds the throne and then moves closer, and the boy looks at all of them, all but glaring at them, like he's trying to figure them out with will power alone trying.

"Edward," the Emperor says in a weary greeting.

"Old man," the boy says back through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing. Then he pats Alphonse's hollow arm with his left hand and says, his tone much nicer, "Set me down, Al, please."

"Yes, brother," the armour answers, and sets the little boy on the empty chair on the Emperor's right hand side. And as he does, it becomes apparent why the boy was being carried like that. The robes hid it, but facing forward now they can see that the right side of them is lacking a sleeve completely, and as he straightens up in the chair, he still sits unevenly.

Well… now they know why they're here.

Young Prince Edward is lacking right arm and left leg. And Prince Alphonse is lacking his body.

Roy… decides not to try and draw conclusions here.

Prince Edward looks at them – and his eyes land on Pinako. "So, you're the automail mechanic," he says and touches his right shoulder. "I'm missing everything from shoulder down – still got a functional clavicle and scapula, but that's it. Pectoralis major and the trapezius muscles are still there, along with most of the sinews, but I got no deltoid. Sinews are sorta okay. Think you can fix that?"

Pinako blinks and then rolls with it. "Shouldn't be a problem, though I need to take a closer look. And the leg?"

"Split in the middle of the thigh," Prince Edward says. "All the muscles are damaged, and I got no vastus lateralis or vastus medialis. The femur's cut clean in the middle."

"But you got some muscle tissue left?" Pinako asks thoughtfully. "Still functional?"

"Sort of," the young prince says and gives her an intense look. "Will automail still work for me?"

"I've worked with worse – I think it will do just fine," Pinako says. "But it's not an easy operation – even grown men have a hard time going through it."

"There's another thing, Edward," the Emperor says. "The surgery means you will lose more mass – the stumps will be cut open, and what's there will have to be modified to fit in the artificial metal sockets. You will lose even more than you already have. Doctor Pinako?"

Pinako hums in agreement, watching the royal family with a slight frown. "The automail needs to be wired pretty deep in order to work properly," she agrees slowly and looks at the blond kid. "You might lose as much as a kilo of flesh in the process. It's not something to be taken lightly."

"I'm prepared," the boy says, gritting his teeth again. "I can handle it."

"Do you understand what it means, though?" the Emperor asks, watching the boy and looking even more tired now, tired and sad. "If you do this, you will never be able to return to the way you were. The surgery will be permanent."

Edward grimaces and says nothing, while Alphonse lifts his helmet sharply. "Wait – does that mean, even if – brother will never be able to get his original body back?"

"If he goes with an automail, no. Even if you somehow get your original limbs back… they will never fit again," the Emperor says and looks away from his young son, looking at Pinako. "Especially for the shoulder – the damage the surgery will do will make reattaching the limbs borderline impossible. It will only be achievable with my power – or something equivalent."

"No," Edward says, glaring at the man and then looking away, his eyes set and determined. "No. I'm doing this, and I'm not going back from it. I'm ready – I'm prepared."

"But brother," Alphonse says, distraught. "Your limbs –"

"It's my price to pay, Al, I'm prepared to pay it," Edward says and lifts his chin, glaring somehow at all of them while meeting no one's eyes. "When the time comes, I'm walking out of here under my own power. I'm doing this."


 

Pacing the length of their sitting room, Roy tries to put his thoughts into order. There have been… a lot of new developments in a short time.

The power to perform alchemy without circles, without gestures, without any visible effort. Nation without a functional economy of money or credit due to the fact that alchemy is so commonplace that it turns currency useless. Royal family with a hollow armour for a son and another with severe physical disability. Emperor with power of an alchemist and seemingly none of the arrogance of one. City hidden in ruins, of which they'd so far only seen what the royal family deemed fitting to show them, and even that was only a front that likely hid the true complexity underneath…

All of it is startling, and yet Roy isn't sure what to do with it, if there even is anything he can do with it. The Emperor had made his interests clear – he and his family were only invested in what Pinako and Winry could do for Edward. They had no interest in trying for any sort of diplomatic relationship or treaty. And going by how the higher ups in Amestris had treated this mission, it had been expected.

"How do you think he lost his limbs?" Breda asks. "Some sort of alchemical thing?"

"Probably, judging by the way they talked about it," Roy agrees. "If there's some sort of chance of getting the lost limbs back, then it wasn't just a normal rebound, it was something else, something more… severe. Alphonse's body is probably involved, too."

"Do you know any alchemy that could do that?"

Roy shakes his head and sits down on the seat cushions in the centre of the room, sighing. "Something at the level of human transmutation, maybe," he says. "Which is… not a comfortable idea, nor something I've studied."

"They do that here too, huh?" Breda mutters, turning to his notebook. "Transmuting precious metals and gems, and humans. Delightful."

"Mmh," Roy agrees grimly and looks around. Pinako and Winry are off with Hawkeye and Mr. Han, setting up the automail shop in the very same place where the throne room was – or had been. It had been already transmuted, turned into an operation theatre. "A nation with widespread use of alchemy would be… different."

It's funny. He'd fantasised about things like that when he'd been younger, dumber. What a nation dedicated to alchemy would be like, what it might mean if everyone, and not just a select few, knew alchemy. He'd even argued it with his alchemy master, once or twice – about how the basics of alchemy should be taught in schools, like geography and chemistry and other science, if not more. Something so handy, so universally useful… Berthold had argued that it was too dangerous, that alchemy needed to be controlled, that it wasn't something to be used casually. Roy didn't agree until Ishval, and after that…

He still hadn't really reconciled his earlier ideals with the devastation they'd wrought in Ishval. Now, seeing Xerxes, glimpsing some of it… if the rest of the nation was like their royal family, and alchemy was as commonplace as any other form of craft or construction, then… How does the nation function? Aside from being a cashless society, apparently. Alchemy utopia was a thing of fairytales and fantasy stories, and Xerxes certainly isn't that. They live in a desert, for god's sake.

Or do they?

"I don't get it," Breda murmurs, scratching his cheek with his inkwell pen. "Or I do, but – I don't. If their alchemy is as good as we think, why don't they have any treaties with outsiders? Why aren't the alchemists of Amestris or – what are those guys in Xing called, the ones who do the other stuff? You'd think they'd be interested."

"Hmm," Roy hums in agreement. "I suppose Xerxesians aren't interested in dealing with outsiders," he mutters. "If they can alchemise everything they need, what would they need treaties for?"

"Technology, machinery, expertise?" Breda asks. "Xerxes is a big country. They could probably use a telephone network, if nothing else."

"Unless they have an alchemy based solution to communications," Roy sighs. "I've heard in Xing they can do long distance transmutation with double arrays."

Breda folds his arms. "And you only need cars and trucks if you have something to transport. If you can just make things on the spot, though… tch," he shakes his head. "I don't get it. Are they poor or rich? It feels like they're rich. But if they're rich, why aren't they… bigger?"

Indeed. On the outside Xerxes looks poor, but having seen their alchemy… it's not a wealth in terms of money, maybe, but they definitely got something going on for them. The implied level of education is a kind of wealth unto itself, and that usually comes with certain consequences. Like an increased standard of living. And population. Granted they probably haven't even begun to grasp the standard of living commonplace in Atossa, only seeing what was shown to them, but still…

"Alchemy can't produce edible food – even alchemists need to grow the base ingredients, same as everyone else," Roy muses. "Maybe they're limited by how much food they can grow."

"In that case, why haven't they, you know… attacked their neighbours for more fertile lands?" Breda asks. "They probably have the firepower for it."

That's the rob of it. If they have as many alchemists as Roy's beginning to think… they could make a serious bid for the lands around them. If they militarised their alchemists, like Amestris has done. Knowing that, it makes disinterest shown by the Fürher's office in this matter even more confusing. Shouldn't they see Xerxes as a potential threat? Ishval didn't even do alchemy and they had to be exterminated – Xerxes is a whole another nation, seemingly full of alchemists, and… nothing. The higher-ups didn't even seem to care that the Emperor had reached out to them. It had actually almost seemed like something of a joke, back in Amestris.

It could be an indication of the level of misinformation they're working with… or they know something about Xerxes Roy doesn't. Probably the latter.

How… frustrating.

"So, what do we do now?" Breda asks.

"Accommodate for the Rockbells and do what we can to… I don't even know," Roy admits with a sigh. His additions to the discussions before hadn't just been unnecessary, they'd been mostly unwelcome. The Emperor had no interest in talking with him, and Roy had nothing to offer. "We'll make the most of it, and observe, I suppose."

"Right," Breda says and jots something down to his notebook. "Well, a quiet assignment every now and then doesn't hurt. So, do you think they do alcohol around here?"


 

The automail shop is finished later that day and most of Pinako's tools and machinery are set up. Then the power question comes up.

"We don't have a power grid, no," Alphonse muses thoughtfully. "Electricity isn't something we've ever needed in high amounts. Hmm, what do you think, brother, would Seltja's Furnace do the trick? With a Faybell battery?"

"Maybe," the other Prince answers, watching with sharp eyes as Winry sorts out the various surgery tools. "They would probably have to be calibrated to the right wattage and amps. What's the current you Amestrians use? Also, you're going to sterilise those, right?"

"Wha – or course we're going to sterilise these!" Winry says, harrumphing, and then adds, belatedly, "your highness. What is a Seltja's Furnace?"

"Alchemical furnace originally created by Master Seltja," Prince Alphonse explains. "It converts and concentrates fuels and creates electrical currents in the process."

Roy sighs silently. They have things like that in Amestris too, of course, his master had had an alchemy furnace in his study – but they're not exactly common. Here, a ten year old child knows all about them. And so much for Xerxes not having electricity...

"Hm. Think we'll have to see it in action," Pinako muses, considering the bench drill she'd just finished putting together. "Let me find a manual for these things – and I should have a meter here somewhere… Do you think your furnace can do natural gas? We could use it for the furnace and the crucible."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Prince Edward agrees, leaning his chin to his palm. "Though you can get tanks of gas in the bazaar. You need oxygen too?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Pinako muses and sets the stack of manuals and a multimeter down. "Right, now. I think it's time we take a look at what we're working with."

Prince Edward blinks at her and then leans back, awkwardly shrugging his slanted, one-sleeved robe down to hang at his waist by the sash. Underneath it he has a shirt that's open at the front, also one-sleeved, which he tugs down over his bad shoulder. 

Though Roy had been expecting bandages, there aren't any – the shoulder is completely bare and healed. There's discolouration and the skin is a little misshapen where the shoulder cuts off, but the wound looks several years old.

"When did this happen?" Pinako asks, pulling up a stool to inspect the Prince's shoulder from.

"Does it matter?" Edward asks, looking away – his eyes landing on Roy.

"It might. I need to know how far along the healing process is," Pinako says, poking and prodding at the shoulder gently.

"Consider it fully healed, then," the Prince answers. "It doesn't hurt or anything. Leg's the same."

"I need to see it too – but let's finish with the shoulder first… Winry, what do you think?"

Roy watches, wondering with some morbid curiosity how it might've happened – and how little these people seem to care about their Princes' safety. Prince Edward is unarmed and pretty much helpless, but there's no guards about, no minders, no servants, no one but Prince Alphonse who's hovering over his brother watchfully. But then again, Alphonse can do alchemy with a clap, he probably doesn't need much in way of additional protection, and likely is more than enough to protect his brother as well… from normal threats, anyway.

Wonder what these people would think if they realised that Roy, too, is an alchemist…?

Prince Edward scoffs. "What are you looking at?" he demands, glaring at Roy.

Oh. Oops. "My apologies, Prince Edward, I mean no disrespect."

The boy's eyes narrow further, while Pinako and Windy examine his shoulder blade. "Tch. You're the empty-worded sweet talker, then," he says. "The Lieutenant Colonel, or whatever."

They're already talking about him. Nice to know he's made a lasting impact, even if it's as empty-worded sweet talker. "Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, at your service, your Highness."

"Are you really?" Edward asks, his eyes glinting with interest now.

"Brother, no," Alphonse says immediately.

"He said he's in my service, Al," Prince Edward says, a smirk coming to his face. "He can fetch me a cup of water, surely."

Roy arches a brow while Winry and Pinako share an uncertain look. Well then. Standing up, Roy heads to the fountain that someone had transmuted into the former throne room, where fresh water flows in a constant, steady stream. Edward watches him the whole way, eyes narrowed, until Roy steps in front of him.

"Anything else I can fetch for your Highness?" Roy asks with a smile.

Prince Edward has a worryingly calculating look on his face now. "Is that what you do in your army, you fetch and carry?" he asks, looking Roy up and down.

"I'm a veritable dog of the military, yes," Roy agrees, amused. "You don't have a military force in Xerxes, do you?"

"We don't need one," the Prince says, scowling at him. "Unlike some, we're not looking to paint our country's borders in blood."

Ouch. "A wise stance, I'm sure, until someone on the outside decides to do it for you," Roy comments.

"What, like Amestris?" Edward demands, his eyes sharp.

"Brother," Alphonse says before Roy can reply, shaking his helmet and then looking at Roy. "We aren't in a place to discuss politics, really."

"Of course," Roy agrees, bowing his head slightly. "My apologies."

"You keep throwing that word around and eventually it won't mean anything," Edward mutters, giving him another calculating look and then turning to Pinako. "Whatever – you want to see the leg now?"

Roy sits back to watch, wondering. It could be the bitterness over lost limbs and the helplessness of the weakened, likely is. The kid is obviously not in a good place. Still, there's a spark in his eyes, a hint of a furious fire that lives inside Prince Edward. After the Emperor's sheer… weariness, it feels like fresh air. The kid has opinions, bubbling just beneath the surface, like a kettle about to boil over.

Well. Roy had been wondering how to learn more about Xerxes. Prince Edward might be it...

"Hey, dog of the military," Prince Edward says, wiggling on his seat and pulling his robes up to reveal the missing leg. "Get me a cushion, will you?"

… especially if the kid gets it into his head to try to bully Roy. Heh.

Maybe it wouldn't be so boring, after all.

Notes:

Roy's "what a little shit" senses are tingling.