The Gunslinger Alchemist (Fullmetal Alchemist Fanfiction)

The Lisberth-Athenry Express (Between Lisberth and West City)

May 7th, 1915

For the second day in a row, Carlyle and Hotchkiss sat in a crowded train headed east toward West City. Hotchkiss held a newspaper in his hands, which had a large title that read in big capital letters, SCHNEIDER RESIGNS. Carlyle silently muttered in annoyance while he stared at that headline. Of course, such a major shift in the structure of the country's government could not be kept a secret, but Carlyle would have preferred for it to not be front page news.

"Why doesn't the military control the newspapers?" Carlyle complained. "We're the only stable military junta in the world, yet we don't have any systems in place to censor articles that might harm national security."

Hotchkiss looked at his superior officer over the newspaper. He began folding the paper while he said, "Do you want my opinion on the matter, sir?"

"Sure, why not. It's not like we have anything better to do."

"It's the result of the national character of Amestris. We are a very rational people. If you ask our neighbors, we're too rational. All of our institutions and organizations exist in such a way because that is the most efficient way for them to exist. Censorship is inefficient, so we don't do it. On the other hand, the military is hyper-efficient, so we organize everything in military terms."

"Hmm," Carlyle grunted while he looked out the window. "I didn't know you were a philosopher."

"I find the time to read when I can."

Carlyle continued to stare out the window, and nearly a minute passed in silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of the train's wheels against the tracks. The two men sat in a private train car, so they could speak freely without the concern of being overheard. 

Eventually, Carlyle let out a long sigh and asked, "What do you think we should do about the investigation into Bradley's assassination?"

"Assassination? Are you convinced that it truly was an assassination?"

"Yeah," Carlyle said shortly. "There's no doubt in my mind. Somebody in Central killed the Fuhrer." He grit his teeth, and a wrathful look crossed over his face. "Yet no one cares! Our leader was killed, and Schneider was only interested in this unimportant antique alchemist named Father. The other officers don't care enough to launch their own investigations. If I could uncover enough evidence to confirm that Bradley didn't die in the train crash, they could have done the same. But no, they were more interested in their damn careers! Whatever happened to loyalty!? Whatever happened to a man's duty to his country!?"

"You know," Hotchkiss began to speak informally, but he stopped himself by clearing his throat, "uh, sir. If you brought the results of the investigation to the press, the populace would care. There would be Hell to pay, and all the military personnel obliquely involved would be fired and possibly executed. Mustang, the Armstrongs, and the Elrics would all be destroyed in that investigation's wake. Maybe it would be for the best if you revealed the truth."

"I can't," Carlyle said with clenched teeth. "Lieutenant General Schneider ordered me to keep my mouth shut. It's fine, though. I'll find and convince him to allow us to reveal the results of our investigation. It will all be fine when…"

Carlyle paused and tilted his head to the side as if listening for something. After a few seconds of completely still silence, he exploded into movement. He drew his revolver and frantically loaded six bullets into the cylinder. A moment later, he inserted two disks marked with transmutation circles into his gloves. As he worked frantically, he let out a low droning whistle. It was the signal that enemies had breached the perimeter.

Wordlessly, Hotchkiss drew his sword as quietly as possible, and Carlyle grabbed the hunting knife he held in his boot at all times. If he was ever forced to disarm, he figured they would be too focused on his revolver and gloves to check him thoroughly. This way, he would always have a sharp knife on hand.

The two soldiers crouched low, ready to pounce at any moment. In the silence, Hotchkiss could begin to hear several steps of footsteps coming from outside their room. For a moment, Hotchkiss wondered how Carlyle had heard the intruders before him, but he realized the truth after a few seconds. While he was speaking, Carlyle's ear was pressed against the train's wall. He must have felt the approaching drum beat of marching soldiers far before he heard it.

The footsteps stopped, and there was a deafening beat of silence. Like the eye of a hurricane, there was a moment of peace even though danger surrounded them in all directions. Then, this purgatory of unmoving silence was broken by the handle to the private room slowly beginning to turn.

Carlyle exploded into action. He took one heavy step forward and kicked the door with the whole weight of his body behind the kick. The door flew open, and the man on the other side of the door was thrown back violently.

On the other side of the door stood two men dressed in civilian clothing and armed with submachine guns. With the speed of a lunging snake, Hotchkiss's saber flew forward and speared through one of the gunman's wrists, immediately disabling his ability to fire his weapon.

Simultaneously, Carlyle attacked the man who was still reeling from being smacked in the face with a heavy wooden door. Using the flat of his hunting knife as a fulcrum, he threw the dazed gunman to the ground and viciously kicked the submachine gun to the side.

The prone man began to resist, but he was immediately greeted with the barrel of a loaded revolver pressed against his forehead. The second gunman looked around, desperately searching for his companion and saw Hotchkiss already in the process of handcuffing the other man's hands behind his back.

"The perimeter's secure," Carlyle said after scanning the train car for other gunmen.

"You, speak quickly," Carlyle said, looking down at the man he was holding in place with a knee on his chest. "Who do you work for?"

Before the second gunman could respond, Hotchkiss answered the Colonel's question by passing him a small metal pin that he had retrieved from the first gunman's pocket. The letters R.L.F. were written in bright silver lettering on the pin.

Every soldier stationed in the West Area knew that R.L.F. stood for the Riviere Liberation Front. It was a violent separatist organization that demanded for the "liberation" of land in the West and North that had been held by Amestris for three hundred years.