After Borneo: The Black Steel Alchemist.

[Guest]

⊗A. BRIGHTON: WILD MAN OF BORNEO⊗
"Remember every little lie and every last goodbye…"

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[xxNOV03] (three weeks before reassignment to West)

'Brigadier General Harvenheit'. I'd been staring at the nameplate on the door, locked in Parade Rest for about two hours now. Hell, I could tell you exactly how many imperfections there were in the wood, or how much rust was beginning to collect around the screws. I'd tell you if the hinges needed oil if I believed that this door actually opened and this wasn't some shitty practical joke the brass were playing on the newbie – me. As if my life weren't already a joke enough as it is. Thinking back, I'm starting to wonder why I joined the Military to begin with. But the answer is always presently clear. Shula. My sister. I need only think of her and I immediately know—this is worth any embarrassment, even what I'd just suffered mere weeks ago. Operation Borneo.

The goal was simple, really. There was a rumored trade-route beneath the desert. A team of twelve were sent in to secure it safely. That was the plan. What happened was something else altogether, and the sole reason I'm stuck outside this ugly door in an uncomfortable position. Debriefing. All pomp and no circumstance really. They'd become a thing of tradition nowadays, as well-filed paperwork would typically suffice. Of course, there were always old-fashioned farts like this 'Harvenheit' who had to address his soldiers face-to-face. It was kind of irksome, really, especially after all I'd been through, but such annoyances came with the territory. As far as this Harvenheit…I'd never heard of him. Must've been assigned his post right after I left for Operation Borneo. Lotta stuff changed while I was gone. Hell, I hear we've even got a new fuhrer. I'd better stop learn to blinking, I might miss a civil war or two at this point.

"Brighton."

That's my name, by the way. Sergeant Major Aaron Brighton. Noob Alchemist, top grades of my class. Hopeless slacker who just got sent into a death-trap by his superiors' incompetence. Yep, that's me. And I was being cued to enter. The process was like clockwork for me; I actually paid attention to drill and ceremony during basic training. Snap to Attention, walk briskly and with purpose to the center of the room, square yourself two paces from your superiors' desk, quick snap back to attention, salute. Wait. Wait. Wait. Drop the salute when he drops his, back to attention. Could do it in my sleep if I wanted to.

"Sir, Sergeant Major Brighton, reporting as ordered." Feels almost like ventriloquism for the perfect marionette.

"At Ease, soldier."

Ah, there it was. I relaxed my shoulders a little and finally made eye-contact. Brigadier General Harvenheit was everything I expected him to be. Old, wrinkled, sporting a nifty handle-bar moustache that had likely prevented him from getting laid since the day he grew it; but what I was really expecting made itself predominately clear. He was Amestrian-born. And as sure as I realized this fact, I'm positive that the man sitting in front of me, his azure gaze reaching up into my dusky red eyes and upon my bronzed skin, could tell that I was Ishvallan—and immediately formed a negative opinion. Yeah, I know. It's utter bullshit. But it's the life I've lead up until now; I'm used to it.

For a minute or two, nothing was said. He thumbed through my report on Operation Borneo as if he hadn't already finished it twice by now, from cover to cover. Procedure again; Amestrians loved to make things long, drawn out, and overly complicated. It made me yearn for the blunt ways of my mother, how she could easily tell anyone yes or no without any hesitation. Shula is the same way. A little timid, maybe, but painfully honest. It's something I'd grown to love over the years. How ironic. Standing here, about to get my ass chewed for a botched mission, and I'm waxing poetically about my mom and sis. Pull it together, Brighton. The mustached old fart is about to ask you something. This should be good.

"So tell me, son…"

I'm not your fucking son, douchebag.

"…exactly what happened out there in the desert region?"

Are you kidding? Old as this guy is and he STILL hasn't learned to read? The report should have been clear enough. We were ambushed by insurgent forces we could neither predict nor identify. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and knew absolutely dick about the layout of the land. Why doesn't he just say what he's thinking? That I'm a fucking liar who fudged the report a detail or two to cover his CO's pretty little freckled ass? Oh, but no. He won't outright say I'm lying. He's going to try and psychoanalyze everything I say and get me to slip up, to accidentally admit more than what I've already put down on statement. Nice try, old guy. But Rose Connel and I made an agreement, not as soldiers, but as true comrades, that what happened there…in that sand-blasted hell-on-earth…remains buried there. Lest we come join it someday. That ain't happening any time soon.

"We were at a disadvantage, sir. As much as it pains me to say, we were unprepared and walking blindly into a trap. The communications officer was the first down; they hit us with a g'damned RPG. All I remember is Johannes's head spinning past me without the rest of his body…before being thrown several feet back, myself. When I came to, Maj. Connel was dragging me to safety by my bootstraps, sir."

It's a textbook response. Don't place blame, don't incriminate yourself, just make the badguys look like what they are—bad fucking guys. To be honest, Johannes didn't get blown up, and his head didn't come off until much later. But Ol' Harvey here doesn't need to know what me and Rose did to poor Johnny. Nobody does. I could tell my response didn't impress him. His mustard-colored eyebrows were pushing together, which made it even more difficult to take him seriously. It looked like someone had taken a banana-yellow shit on both his forehead and upper lip. And it just kept wiggling. My military bearing had never been tested this far in my life.

"Major Rose Connel, was it? She's got quite the track record." He said this while perusing her file.

Didn't matter, really. Everyone knew Rose's reputation. She was as hardened as a rock and as pissy as a rattlesnake beneath your boot. You didn't fuck with her on a good day, let alone a bad one. Her call-sign was 'Iron Thorn' and it was fitting. The girl had a longer pole than mine, I wager….er…metaphorically. It'd be weird to be crushing on a dick-chick, not that I wouldn't experiment. I mean, hey…I'm in the military. We ain't the choosiest of people when it comes to sexual deviance. His eyes darkened a little as he fixed me with another of his predatory glares.

"So what would you say about Major Connel's leadership capabilities? Must be quit dissatisfying to have your first mission end in near-infamous failure. Surely, you must fault your commanding officer. It's okay, m'boy. You can speak frankly here, everything is off the record."

Yeah, I bet it is. Off-the-record in a easily-sentencing-the-dumb-Ishvallan-to-prison kind of way. I'm not fucking stupid, dude. Your MOUSTACHE. Now THAT is stupid.

"I have no opinion whatsoever, sir. It's hard to say what decisions I, myself, would have made…given the circumstances. I merely find myself fortunate that the Major and I returned home outside of a body-bag…

Again, I leave poor Harvey absolutely nothing to work with. He's getting frustrated, I can see it. I can almost taste it. And as much as it pains me to admit, I enjoy every second of pushing banana-face's buttons. While he's looking for any excuse to push legal mitigation onto me, I'm just standing here, boldly mocking him with a perfect poker-face. He knows it. I know it. But something bothers me. As straightforward as I am, there shouldn't be anything left for him to say. He should dismiss me, but he doesn't. Instead, he thumbs through the paperwork again, somehow managing to lick his lips through that god-awful moustache that's threatening to eat half his face.

"Our team sent in to retrieve information brought back some interesting findings, Brighton. Says here, that the members of your team…or rather, their remains…were found bleached bare to the bones. Abrasive markings on the skeletal remains would indicate that they were skinned alive by a crude blade. As I recall, your commanding officer is the only one to carry such blades on her person, as the rest of the unit were alchemists who could manifest their own, if necessary."

Clever fucker. But not clever enough. Rose drew her blades only once, and not to carve flesh. I know this because I was the one who…

"…oh, what do they call you again? The Black Steel Alchemist? Why is that, again? Something about your capability to produce a certain kind of metal from the earth?"

Shit. This isn't good. I have to give a straight answer, because my alchemic abilities are common knowledge. It's like that when you become A Dog of the Military. Everything from your pants size to your favorite color is kept on personnel file. They call me Black Steel for a simple reason; I can produce damascened ore from the earth, by applying enough pressure to the ore I find, I can compress it into a condensed solid state, kind like how years of pressure can turn a speck of dirt and sediment into a pearl inside an oyster. I just cut out the middle man and shave off a few hundred years. I tell him just that, the same metaphorical references my grandfather used to teach me. Harvenheit seemed just as perplexed as I was back then. He's not an alchemist. Of course he doesn't understand the concepts beyond what the picture-books can teach him. Fucking bozo. Time to pull magic out of my black ass.

"A-actually, sir…" I feign the inflection in my voice, hoping to sound every bit as nervous about what I'm saying as what I want old Harvey to believe. I just pray that my acting skills are legit. "It's still something of a work in progress. I've only managed to apply it once during training and even then, it's far from perfected." I'm not lying, really. Before Operation Borneo, I could barely use my namesake alchemy. Of course, now…let's just say that I've put in work. Rose Connel is one hell of a trainer. Freaking closet-dominatrix, really. I watch carefully as Brigadier General Harvenheit's facial features run a smooth gauntlet of his limited emotional range. Confusion. Speculation. Confusion again. Finally, solemn resignation.

He cleared his voice thoughtfully and then had a complete lapse of cognitive thought. The strange gesture said it all. I owned. Harvenheit couldn't get anything out of me. And considering what Rose and I did to the bodies, not even forensics could pull a shred of evidence leading back to Connel and I. At least, that's what we're both praying for. Otherwise, there's no doubt in my mind that we'd both be sharing a cell in the clink, pulling a long-term sentence. Of course, I've already sold my soul into eternal damnation—what else do I really have to worry about? But Rose; I could never betray her. A soldiers' unwavering loyalty to his commanding officer goes beyond any other. I'd never let her take the fall for doing what she had to do. Not without at least accompanying her, dancing and writhing all the way down into the flames of hell. Semper Fi.

"Very well, Sergeant Major. We're done here. You're dismissed."

You're damn right I am. I snap to attention crisply and sharp, salute, about-face, and begin for the door feeling more vindicated than ever. I should have known better. Life always gives you lemons and expects you to make fucking vodka.

"By the way, Brighton."

I freeze, more out of courtesy than fear from the darker tone rising in the old man's voice. It's obvious that he just can't let me off the hook so easily. The higher-ups hate Rose Connel, and with good reason. She's a general nuisance to the recent movements in politics and in the reshuffling of Central's chain of command. A thorn in their proverbial sides because she just refuses to hold her damned tongue. But what they don't understand is that she's my thorn, she's my nuisance. Rose Connel is my CO, now and forever. I won't let these pompous bastards lay a finger on her. Not without having first chopped it clean off their slimy little hands. Even if it means becoming a demon and forsaking my humanity, I will protect the ones dear to me.

"You really should say hello to your sister, sometime. She's here in Central, you know? One never knows when might be the last time you get to speak to one another…"

Wisdom stilled my fury. Otherwise, I would have left him choking on those words, which were all but an obvious threat. How could I have let it slip my mind? He knew everything about me, even about my little sister. Was this bait, offering my sister dangling on a rope in front of me to see if I'd bite? How dare he threaten Shula, the very reason I decided to live vicariously through Operation Borneo at any cost. My little sister was my everything, growing up. Even the decision to join the military was for her; Harvenheit, you son of a bitch. Way to grab me by the balls and squeeze. I can hear the fat bastard's wheezing laugh, mocking my stone-faced frustration as I glanced back over my shoulder. Hardball, is it? Good game. Let's play.

"Is that a threat, sir?" My voice is dead and cold, as raspy as gravel filtered through a blender. It is the voice of a murderer who took precious life away from those who begged and pleaded otherwise before the executioner's blade left them eternally silenced. It is the voice of a man who, as he turned to face his lion-hearted adversary, knew no fear or regret—only the desire to survive by any means necessary. I took one step, feeling the sand stored in the lining of my pants slipping down my thighs and out from beneath the leg of my uniform. It pooled onto the carpet, stirred by an unseen breeze, buffeted lightly by my alchemy invisibly at work.

"Are you seriously planning to use your alchemy here, Brighton. To attack a superior officer? Please, tell me that you've taken leave of your senses here, son."

My ability to think accurately seems to be slipping. Forming a non-threatening witty remark ends up being far too complicated. A grunt or groan before is almost Shakespearean. He's given me every reason to kill him now. Threatening Rose, I can live with. I can protect her with mere silence. Shula, however, this a condemnable sin worthy of any risk. She is my one guilty pleasure which I will never rescind. My little sister is my world, the little caged bird I intend to someday set free from her abusive owner. Everything I've done until this point…

"I've honestly no idea what you're insinuating here, General. Ishvallans are a terribly direct breed of people. We don't believe in making threats." I'm subconsciously careful, even in rage. He might have this entire conversation filmed or recorded somehow. I neglect to form my weapon from the sand, leaving it ambiguously deposited there, as though by accident. I am a man who has just returned from the desert—all of my uniforms are sandy. Nevertheless, I need resolution. "It would please me greatly to have an answer to my question, sir. Are you threatening a subordinate under your command through your position, General? That certainly must not be the case. That's a direct violation of the military code of conduct. But I doubt I need remind you of that…"

My glare makes it simple enough to understand. Do not fuck with my baby sister. I meant it and apparently Harvenheit understood it. He knew, now. I had absolutely nothing left to live for. If he took her from me, then I'd have positively no reason not to kill him on the spot and rot out the rest of my miserable years in military prison. I don't give a fuck.

"N-no threat at all, Brighton. There must have been some misunderstanding, m'boy."

I salute.

"Ahaha, my apologies, sir. Coming home from the field has left me a little tense. Please excuse my unpleasantness. I meant no disrespect. Sir. Was there anything else?"

He salutes.

"As I said, you're dismissed."

About-face. Dismissed.