[OOC Fic: Losing Side]
In the end, his concern had been for nothing. Whatever powers that had brought him to that zombie camp, they had at least shown him the courtesy of putting him back properly. If anything, it was unsettling to see the world so unchanged after such a long absence.
Not that Roy allowed himself much thought on the subject. It all faded behind the usual mask, and if anyone caught even the slightest misstep, that surely was no fault of his. He accepted his latest reassignment with barely an outward blink, even when said "promotion" led him straight back towards Lior and the remnants of the Ishvar War. Something about a potential rebellion, which clearly could not be allowed to spark into war, and surely the great Roy Mustang would know a thing or two about that?
For once, Roy was thankful that this "promotion" was truly empty. The most trouble he got was from the occasional detainee camp rabble-rouser, the ordinary, non-Scar folk who happened to remember the old war lines too clearly. Walking the detainee camp once a week had become a ritual of poignance and sharp-edged thought. And that gave him time to plan.
He always ended these walks on a hill just between the city and the camp, the place where the guards eyed both him and the detainees lazily but did little to stop either. Almost masochistically, Roy stared back towards the camp, watching the late evening movements of Ishvarite and soldier alike.
Something startled him. Nothing he could place his finger on, at first, until he frowned and peered closer at the torpid collection of people. There was a man there, tall and comfortably lanky, brown clothes, but without the usual signifiers in regards to religion, talking in low, charismatic tones. Whatever he had to say, the others were listening to him.
Roy did not realize he had been staring until the man suddenly snapped his head up and met his gaze. Both seemed to freeze for a moment, recognizing something that was not entirely there. The skin seemed three shades too dark, and the eyes an unsettling shade of red visible even from this distance --
"Mal!"
The Ishvarite turned back abruptly, looking vaguely disoriented. "Malachai!" said a woman, repeating the man's name. She too seemed vaguely familiar, her skin dark even for an Ishvarite's and her curled hair bound back into a loose knot. The two exchanged glances -- made a few nervous gestures -- and then both took a pointed interest in not looking Roy's direction. What followed after that was much quieter, and Roy could no longer track their conversation.
He took that as his cue to leave. He walked silently, deliberately, allowing it all to slip beneath his mask without so much as a ripple. As he approached the guard post for the city proper, one of the soldiers saluted. "How'd it go, sir?"
Roy kept his hands deep in his pockets, his coat not nearly warm enough for the desert chill that had suddenly settled in. "Nothing of note," he said, quietly. "Old war lines drawn in dust fade quickly." With a final nod, he proceeded past and into Lior proper, to consider the sort of man that could still cling to a losing side.
Not that Roy allowed himself much thought on the subject. It all faded behind the usual mask, and if anyone caught even the slightest misstep, that surely was no fault of his. He accepted his latest reassignment with barely an outward blink, even when said "promotion" led him straight back towards Lior and the remnants of the Ishvar War. Something about a potential rebellion, which clearly could not be allowed to spark into war, and surely the great Roy Mustang would know a thing or two about that?
For once, Roy was thankful that this "promotion" was truly empty. The most trouble he got was from the occasional detainee camp rabble-rouser, the ordinary, non-Scar folk who happened to remember the old war lines too clearly. Walking the detainee camp once a week had become a ritual of poignance and sharp-edged thought. And that gave him time to plan.
He always ended these walks on a hill just between the city and the camp, the place where the guards eyed both him and the detainees lazily but did little to stop either. Almost masochistically, Roy stared back towards the camp, watching the late evening movements of Ishvarite and soldier alike.
Something startled him. Nothing he could place his finger on, at first, until he frowned and peered closer at the torpid collection of people. There was a man there, tall and comfortably lanky, brown clothes, but without the usual signifiers in regards to religion, talking in low, charismatic tones. Whatever he had to say, the others were listening to him.
Roy did not realize he had been staring until the man suddenly snapped his head up and met his gaze. Both seemed to freeze for a moment, recognizing something that was not entirely there. The skin seemed three shades too dark, and the eyes an unsettling shade of red visible even from this distance --
"Mal!"
The Ishvarite turned back abruptly, looking vaguely disoriented. "Malachai!" said a woman, repeating the man's name. She too seemed vaguely familiar, her skin dark even for an Ishvarite's and her curled hair bound back into a loose knot. The two exchanged glances -- made a few nervous gestures -- and then both took a pointed interest in not looking Roy's direction. What followed after that was much quieter, and Roy could no longer track their conversation.
He took that as his cue to leave. He walked silently, deliberately, allowing it all to slip beneath his mask without so much as a ripple. As he approached the guard post for the city proper, one of the soldiers saluted. "How'd it go, sir?"
Roy kept his hands deep in his pockets, his coat not nearly warm enough for the desert chill that had suddenly settled in. "Nothing of note," he said, quietly. "Old war lines drawn in dust fade quickly." With a final nod, he proceeded past and into Lior proper, to consider the sort of man that could still cling to a losing side.