Slaughter. Absolute slaughter.
Before an alchemist, human life was like grass in a furnace—gone in a breath, leaving only ash. Allen strolled down the street; with every step, the buildings to either side seemed to be lanced through by tall, stone spires rising in an instant. Those not killed outright hung on the spikes, wailing in misery, blood threading down the conical stone, slicking it until scraps of flesh and viscera slid free. Scenes like that stretched behind Allen for dozens of yards—a man-made hell.
The thud of his army boots was a death knell, stripping away Ishvalan lives without pause. Allen felt no sympathy, no pity. This was a battlefield, not a charity hall. There was only killing, and more killing.
When the last few houses at the end of the street were pierced by a final step, Allen was first into Sector A5. Behind him, the forest of stone spires made skin crawl. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, clamped it between his lips, lit up, tilted his face to the dim, ruddy sky, sighed, then turned toward Mustang's position. He could already feel Mustang's mercy spilling over.
As a State Alchemist and a major, Mustang was a qualified officer—but by no means a qualified soldier. He could give an order to annihilate, but he could not personally wade into wholesale slaughter. Perhaps Mustang wasn't suited to be a soldier at all, nor to climb the ranks on the back of war.
When Mustang saw the terrified girl curled up in a corner, shaking, he couldn't do it. He was a thoroughgoing age-and-gender chauvinist in this regard: he could cut down a strong man, but faced with women or children, his hand would not fall. To him, that would be a sin.
His gaze lingered on the girl for a few seconds. Then, as if he hadn't seen her, he walked past with a sigh—perhaps from war's cruelty, perhaps from war's numbing pall, and perhaps from the girl's eyes: full of fear, but with a sliver of curiosity.
After witnessing Mustang's… gentler approach, the Ishvalans dropped their weapons and ran toward A5. They knew that if their hands were empty, if they posed no threat to the man who made fire—and if they could run faster than him—life might not drain out between their fingers.
"You went soft—facing the enemy, you went soft."
As Mustang passed a crossroads, Allen spoke from where he leaned against a wall, the blue smoke from half a cigarette trailing lazily into the air.
Mustang halted, turned his head, looked at Allen's impassive face, frowned, and said nothing.
From the alley beside Allen, Armstrong strode out. He was a minute later than Allen—and had been forced to promise that, once they got back, he'd treat Allen to food and drink for a year and put him up at his sprawling estate for a year as well, before Allen would finally let him go.
Armstrong's look at Mustang held surprise too. He was a true iron-blooded soldier. In his eyes there was no such thing as "life"—only things that could be destroyed, and things that could not. Seeing Mustang's hesitation left him faintly vexed. A soldier should sweep aside anything that blocks the nation with ruthless means. That was a real soldier—like Allen: hard, and merciless.
Mustang opened his mouth to explain, but faced with Allen's indifference and Armstrong's clothes spattered here and there with dried blood, his words felt pale to the point of useless. He shook his head. Perhaps their creeds were simply different. With a wry smile, he returned to his task—clearing the last resistance in Sector A4—and began a steady walk toward A5.
Allen's mouth ticked up. Imitating Mustang, he snapped his fingers. Far ahead, in the knot of Ishvalans sprinting for their lives, an explosion cracked; a sheet of flame swallowed the crowd in an instant.
Within the blaze, bodies twisted and collapsed, too scorched even to scream. A few who slipped the net ran on, mad with fire climbing their backs.
Mustang's eyes shifted from shock to fury. He glared at Allen. Allen only smiled. "You've disappointed me, Major Mustang. This is the first city we need to take. If Second Lieutenant Armstrong and I didn't know you for a defender of the nation, I might think you were an Ishvalan spy. Perhaps I should file a report—on Major Mustang's performance in this operation."
Allen said it calmly; Mustang's face went through several changes. If Allen really sent a memo to the Intelligence Bureau and the military, Mustang's career would end at major. Even if he weren't expelled, promotion would be gone for good. The army won't keep a commander who can't bring himself to kill the enemy. They want officers of cold reason. Clearly, Mustang didn't qualify.
Ignoring Mustang's man-eating glare, Allen flicked ash, walked past him, and stopped before a house. He shoved the half-closed door, and pale light spilled into the dim room. The girl must have seen and heard their exchange—she screamed, curled tighter, sweat soaking her clothes as if she'd been caught in rain.
Allen took a few steps, pinched her chin, and lifted her face. In her eyes he saw hatred, fear, and despair. Beyond that, she was beautiful. Bronze skin gave her a savage grace; autumn-water eyes glared at him with resentment, still somehow carrying a trace of allure. Her fine figure, wrapped in sweat-wet cloth, looked even more tempting.
He crouched, and whispered at her ear: "Remember me. My name is Allen. If you ever get the chance to take revenge—come kill me." He straightened at once and stepped out. As Mustang wondered that Allen had "spared" the girl, the little house behind him was suddenly pricked into a sieve by a surge of stone spires. At that density, even Mustang wouldn't dare claim he could live through it.
Allen smiled, unforced. "Human vitality is stubborn. Don't underestimate the species." With that, he headed alone toward Sector A5. Mustang and Armstrong traded a baffled wide-eyed look, unable to grasp what Allen meant.
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