Ficspam pt.2
TITLE: Too Much of a Good Thing
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Gen, some implied past pairings between OC's.
WARNINGS: Some Adult themes -- and a great big HONKING STU!!!!
SPOILERS: Mild ones for manga chapter 58 (or so)
CROSSOVER ELEMENTS: The Claire Bible has been ripped off from the Slayers fandom.
WORD COUNT: 6400
A/N written for a "Believeable Sue's Contest." So of course, I put in the biggest Stu I could possibly write -- let's go down the stu-ways of his stu-eyness: The OC is beautiful, talented, "special," has a twagic past, is an 8th humunculus, needs to be rescued by a canon character, and is named after my friend Ambre. So with all of this, is the fic just dreck? Or does it have any redeemable value to it? I'll let you be the judge.
I will say that at the time I wrote it, I was really pretty proud of the job I did -- but it failed in the contest really badly. Out of 5 entries this came in 3rd or 4th. And thus did reality check my ego mightily.
Colonel Mustang Sir:
Raid of Alchemic factory successful. Three dead - including the Alchemist. Thirteen in custody. No friendly casualties. Seized: a variety of raw materials (inventory attached) 28 scrolls with arrays (destroyed at scene, per article 38A) 180,346 cenz.
Your assistance is requested interpreting an unusual array. Please come to the Backwater Jail ASAP.
2nd Lt. Danube.
Mustang tucked the letter back into his pocket and looked around the muddy roaded town of Backwater. He'd been here just under an hour and already his opinion of the place had fallen quite a bit. Rain came down, not so much as drops, but as a pervasive mist which swept under the inadequate station roof leaving him feeling clammy. The place smelled -- mostly of pine and pond scum, but also, when the wind blew right, Mustang could make out the raw, yeasty odor of a paper mill.
He looked his watch again. Surely Lt. Danube didn't mean to leave him just standing out here. Just as he thought that, he heard the crunching sound of a horse's hooves against the gravel. A covered coach pulled up to the minimal station and a man in uniform jumped off.
"Colonel, Sir!" said the pasty looking Second Lieutenant. "I'm sorry for the delay, sir, we had a bit of a hitch."
Mustang said nothing, letting the depth of his silence frighten the inferior officer. Then taking mercy, he broke eye contact, reaching down and grabbing his suitcase. "You were awfully vague in your letter about the nature of the array."
"Yes, sir… well… We - I -- We were nervous that anything we wrote down might get intercepted." Belatedly the Lieutenant tried to take his bag, but Mustang held on tightly, hoisting it up and into the carriage. He then climbed up himself ignoring the man's attempt to assist. He was not in a good mood.
"This better be important."
"I think it is, sir." Danube grabbed the reigns and started them down one of the narrow roads. "We really aren't sure what to do with… uh… the item. Or even if it's in our jurisdiction."
Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Tell me about this item."
Danube's mouth opened and then he turned a rather alarming shade of red. "Sir, I think it's better you just see for yourself. I don't think I can, uh, do it justice."
Mustang folded his arms across his chest and sincerely hoped that this wouldn't be a long trip to the jail. Two things that annoyed him more than anything else was coyness and incompetence. He had better things to be doing than identifying some array that wasn't listed in the military issued Catalogue of Alchemic Circles.
In fact, ten to one odds, this array was listed in that catalogue, and the lieutenant and his men had simply skipped passed it when flipping through the book. Truly original arrays were very rare and only a very small number of alchemists had the kind of imagination and intelligence to produce them. From the reports, this alchemist was little more than a tricked out thug.
"What about the other arrays," asked Mustang at last. "The ones you destroyed. Were you able to identify them?"
"Oh yeah, they were common ones - lead to gold mostly. Minters."
Mustang nodded. Both types of array were extremely illegal, but not particularly uncommon. Minters were used to make exact duplicates of real coins using whatever substance was handy. The array-created gold coins turned back into lead after only a few hours. The scam was to buy a small inexpensive item from an unsuspecting person and then ask for change for the "gold" coin. Often they'd "tip" the mark for their trouble, to help encourage him to agree. Once the thief was safely away, the gold coin would turn back to worthless lead. It was in it's own way self-limiting as merchants in the area soon learned not to accept gold coins.
"I hear there are only five of you stationed here. Tell me, how was it that you managed to take down 16 men without any injuries to your own men."
"It really wasn't difficult," said the Lieutenant, casually. "They were all very cowardly. As soon as they heard us coming they disarmed themselves and lay down on the floor."
Mustang quirked up a brow. That didn't seem right.
"And the three who were killed?"
"Well," said the Lieutenant. "They changed their minds and went for their weapons -- we were forced to shoot."
The coach stopped in front of a dark one-story brick building. The bars on the small windows made it clear this was the jail. Mustang followed the Lieutenant inside. He made quick note the familiar trappings of a field office - the obligatory green eagle banner, the bronze crest collecting dust on the wall, the half dozen age-battered desks crammed into the small office/lobby.
"Hey, Cappa," Danube called out. "Bring him out." A burly looking sergeant stood up from one of the desks and disappeared down a hall. To Mustang the Lieutenant said, "You'll see why I was so reticent in a moment. It's a hell of thing."
Mustang sat down at someone's desk and waited. Less than a minute later Cappa returned pushing a prisoner in front of him. The orange suited figure shuffled slowly in, legs secured with manacles. Mustang casually glanced at the prisoner's face. He did a double take and felt his mouth slowly slide open.
The prisoner was perhaps the most achingly beautiful person Mustang had ever seen. Long black hair curled to frame a heart shaped face. Every feature, from the curve of the chin to the arch of the brows was simply perfect. Large dewy eyes gazed calmly into his. There was no sign of flaw, or scar or blemish. It was a face any woman would dream to have.
Unfortunately, it was on a man. A willowy, feminine looking man, but most definitely a man.
That poor bastard, thought Mustang. God only knew the amount of teasing and harassment he must have faced growing up looking like that.
The prisoner regarded Mustang with a quick mixture of expressions -- annoyance, then interest, then worry, and finally a dull resentfulness.
"We sent the others on to the real prison, but we kept him back. As far as we've been able to determine, he was more of a captive than a conspirator. According to a couple of the other prisoners, he was …" Danube suddenly coughed into his hand. "Er, purchased off the black market." The lieutenant flushed deeply again as though he'd never heard of sexual slavery before. "Anyway, we found him chained naked in a backroom - so we brought him here."
And promptly chained him up in your backroom, what an vast improvement. The prisoner ignored Mustang's sympathetic look, his face finally settling on an expression of bored resignation.
"Well, fascinating, but not why I'm here," said Mustang tearing his eyes from the prisoner's face. "Where's the array?"
"Eh," grunted Sergeant Cappa to the prisoner, who gave him a killing look, then shrugged. He began pulling off his orange shirt.
Oh don't tell me… thought Mustang. The prisoner (quite definitely male) dropped his shirt to the ground and shuffled to turn his back on the Colonel. Sure enough, there was a large and extremely elaborate design covering the entirety of his back.
Mustang forgot all about the prisoner's disconcerting androgyny and stood up check out the array. It was dense with symbols and writing. Mustang drew a light finger over the lines, piecing together the parts, but while he knew a few of the symbols - most of them were completely novel. After five minutes Mustang came to the sickening conclusion that he actually didn't know what the array did - but most likely it was something powerful and dangerous.
"It wasn't in the book," said Danube, stating the blatantly obvious.
"I can tell that," snapped Mustang. "Do you have any idea what it does?"
"No, sir," said the Lieutenant. "Aren't you supposed to tell us that?"
Mustang felt an embarrassed flush rise to his cheeks. Damn it, he was not going to let some hick officer four ranks lower than himself put him on the defensive. But, as hard as it was, he had to swallow some of his contempt and admit Danube had done the right thing in calling him in. This array was… special.
"I don't know everything," said Mustang, responding at last to the Lieutenant's smugly expectant look. "This is extremely elaborate."
"Well," said the Lieutenant, "One of men we arrested did say what he thought it was about."
Mustang promptly retracted his grudging respect for the officer. In fact, it was only great effort that kept Mustang from punching the Lieutenant lights out. "Well that would be helpful information," said Mustang, biting back his words. He could feel an ulcer growing. "When were you planning on telling me?"
"We - I thought it would be better not to taint your opinion," said the Lieutenant. "It seemed prudent -" Mustang's stare-of-death finally seemed to penetrate the Lieutenant's thick scull and he wisely shut up.
"How about from now on you simply tell me what I ask, and not make assumptions," Mustang growled. "What did your informant say about this array?"
"He assured us it wasn't dangerous. He called it the 'Claire Bible.' But we have absolutely no idea what that means."
"Bible, hmmm. In this context, I'd guess it would mean some sort of informative array," but Mustang was doubtful. He looked at the inscription again. What he could make out of the array had nothing to do with information at all - but rather alarmingly concerned altering the shape and substance of space itself. Then suddenly the parts clicked together. The array was not the Claire Bible - it was a storage container. The "bible" was pocketed off in its own universe.
Mustang had heard of extra-spatial dimensions. Gluttony contained one, where all the things he ate were deposited. Mustang knew that Father had experimented with these dimensions in hopes of forging his own Gate. But never in all of Mustang's research and experience had he seen the actual array that could produce stable useable space. If the symbol by itself was this rare and powerful, the object held within must be something truly astonishing.
Which meant that this pretty-boy was merely a port of access. Mustang cringed. He felt suddenly a lot sorrier for the man. It was too easy to objectify the prisoner based on his incredible looks alone; turning him into a powerful alchemic tool on top of that seemed particularly cruel. Mustang imagined that the man must have spent a lot of time being chained up in someone's backroom, waiting to be used one way or another.
Still as tragically unfair as his circumstances were, it was irrelevant to what Mustang needed to do next. As much as he disliked using people as objects, it was Mustang's job to check out the Bible. Perhaps if he saw it, there would be some way of removing it from the poor man's back, and giving him some hope of a normal life. In any case, there was no way Mustang could let the prisoner walk out of there without at least understanding what he was holding.
Now let's just hope this thing works the way I think it does , Mustang through to himself. He placed his bare palm flat against the center of the array and willed it to life. The design absorbed his energy, briefly glowing before turning back to black. It wasn't that the array had effected something he couldn't see, the thing hadn't activated. It had bled off the energy harmlessly.
The prisoner snickered slightly.
"How does one access the Bible?" asked Mustang the prisoner. He ran his fingers up the lines, noting the slightly raised texture. Maybe somewhere in here was a lock - a smaller circle that needed to be activated first ….
"One doesn't," spoke the prisoner for the first time. His voice was absolutely musical. Mustang found himself wincing at its quality. Was there nothing ordinary about the man? "If you are done poking my back," the prisoner continued, "I'd like to go back to my cell."
Mustang yanked his hand away. Maybe the array was a dud - just a scam to get a better price for the boy--.
"We know the prisoner can activate it," said Cappa. "We've seen him do it a lot since we brought him in -"
Mustang gave the sergeant his most withering gaze.
"It's not like it does anything," the Lieutenant defended. "We watched him! He just sits there with his eyes closed, his array lit up, for hours. We tried to get him to stop it at first, but there didn't seem to be any way. And anyway, nothing happens when it's lit up. We checked."
How much information were these two planning on withholding? Was it possible that they were so supremely ignorant and incompetent that they didn't know what Mustang needed to hear?
They were incompetent, Mustang suddenly realized. That was why the two had been stationed in this tiny useless berg to begin with. They'd been put here where they'd cause the least amount of harm with their obtuseness and snotty attitude. Until this alchemic factory had sprung up they'd probably not had much to do. Mustang should consider himself lucky that they had managed to not only take down the factory by themselves, but also had enough brain cells to write for his help.
"Is there anything else you care to tell me?" Mustang asked, acidly.
The two looked at each other. "No, sir, " they chorused.
"Then how about you leave me alone with the prisoner for a bit."
The two stared at him and hesitated far too long.
"You can interpret that as an order," Mustang clarified.
There was no place for them to go other than to the jail cells or out into the rain. After a bit of awkward hesitation, during which Mustang pulled a glove out of his pocket, the two walked down the hall.
Mustang turned back to the prisoner. "You can turn around. Care for a seat?" Mustang casually walked around a desk and planted himself more or less comfortably in a swivel chair. He put on his gloves with a casual proficiency, then looked up to see the prisoner, seated across from him, watching him warily.
Mustang turned his hand over, showing off the array stitched into the back. "Recognize this."
The prisoner smiled. "Of course, Colonel. I'm surprised you waited this long to take them out." The man's smirk somehow didn't detract from his beauty. "So... Are you planning on burning the information out of me?"
Mustang smiled ruefully back. Well, so much for using intimidation. Shy of him actually using the gloves it didn't look like the prisoner took them as much of a threat.
Mustang tried a different approach. "Now, why would I resort to such crude tactics? These are in case you think you can overpower me and leave just because I sent the others out of the room." Mustang ignored the prisoner's laugh and continued, "There's no reason for you to withhold information from me. The sooner I understand the situation, the sooner you can go free."
The last word must have touched a nerve, because for just a second, a look of painful longing graced the man's face. Mustang suppressed a completely inappropriate urge to give him a hug. Thankfully for Mustang's professional composure, the expression quickly reverted back to bitterness. Resentful, angry, bitter people he could handle.
"If I told you what you want to know, " said the prisoner dryly, "You'd never set me free."
"Well I suppose it depends on the information." Mustang sat back in his seat and relaxed. "Are you a murderer? A willing partner in crime?"
"Hardly," said the prisoner.
"Well then you have nothing to fear." Mustang wasn't sure he believed that himself.
The prisoner seemed hopeful for a second but then shook his head. "I have no reason to think you'd react differently than all my other masters, once they realized what I was. You're a smart man, and you've already guessed my use. How can you say you'd throw me away if I told you how to activate the array?"
"You are talking about yourself as though you are an object," said Mustang.
The prisoner cocked an eyebrow. "I am an object. I'm the Claire Bible, like your Lieutenant just told you. I was created to be a useful tool in a pretty package."
"You are a human being -- " Mustang insisted, then stopped as the words sank in. "You were created? You weren't born? Are you a homunculus then?" Suddenly the prisoner's extreme beauty made sense. Humunculi could be made to look like anything.
The prisoner's guard was back up. Whatever tentative inroads towards trust Mustang had forged, were now gone. Back was the knowing smirk. "I'm surprised you even know the term," the prisoner said.
"I've come across homunculi before. So what purpose did Father give you? What sin do you embody?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about," said the prisoner. Mustang felt a faint tingle of alchemy in the air, and at the same time the back of the prisoner's chair grew brighter with reflected light.
"And now I do," the prisoner continued, sounding alarmed. "Holy crud. I'm not any sin! I have nothing to do with Father. I was created by someone else entirely - an alchemist in a completely different country. Listen, Mustang, trust me, you don't want me falling into Father's hands. The man is too powerful as it is, he does not need the knowledge of the Claire Bible, too."
"I entirely agree," said Mustang.
"You have to let me go." The prisoner insisted with a desperation that bordered on panic. "If you take me back to military headquarters, you might as well just hand me over to Father. If that thing even gets a whiff of my existence -" his voice died out as he stared off past the walls. "No, you have to let me go."
"And who is to say you won't land in his hands even if I did let you go. You want freedom, you are going to have to let me know what it is I'm letting free." Mustang folded his arms across his chest. "I need to know what you are after and sort of threat you present to society, how do I know you won't just wreck havoc the moment you walk free?"
Suddenly the prisoner relaxed. He coyly batted his eyes. "Who me? I'm a total kitten! I can't hurt anything."
"You are homunculus. I've come across your type before and 'kittens" they weren't."
The prisoner openly sulked. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and hung his head, a perfect black curl fell in front of one of his eyes. "Well, there you go, all that talk about 'tell me who you are and I'll set you free' was just nonsense after all."
Mustang stared down the creatures attempt to vamp him. He was not going there.
"Oh come now," said Mustang losing patience. "You can't tell me how horrible it would be for Father to have you in one breath and then expect me to believe you are totally harmless in the next. Give me credit for having some intelligence."
"I'm sorry," said the homunculus, pulling his hair back and seeming contrite. "My last few owners have been a bit on the dull side. It's easy to forget what it's like to be with someone genuinely smart. You've seen right through me. Few people can do that."
"Don't think you can get anywhere with flattery," Mustang warned.
The prisoner sighed. "It's too bad you are just a Dog of the Military. With your alchemy, and my information, the two of us could really go places. Money, power, sheer knowing for the sake of knowing…."
"And I'm not going to be bribed, either."
"You owe me!" said the prisoner suddenly. "You think those bumbling idiots could bring down a criminal enterprise like that without help? They gave up without a struggle because I told them they'd die if they didn't. I told them there was no chance of winning, and if the military didn't see them in complete surrender they would slaughter every last man, and they believed me. Your soldiers would have been slaughtered if I hadn't paved the way for them."
That made a lot more sense than the Lieutenant's version. "I appreciate what you did," said Mustang. "But who is to say you aren't lying to me, the way you did to your last master."
"But I didn't lie --" The prisoner stopped himself and sighed. "Never mind."
Mustang stood up. "I think maybe what I need to do is transport you back to Central. There are a couple of Alchemists I know who might be able to make more sense of that array than I can. I'll muddle up the paperwork - no one but us need know what you contain--"
"What do you want, Mustang," interrupted the homunculus.
"I want you to stop trying to manipulate me, and tell me what I ask." Mustang sat down again. "Let's try this again. What is your name?"
"I already told you, the-"
"Not what you are, who you are."
"My creator used to call me Ambrose," he said after a long hesitation.
"Ambrose then," said Mustang. "That's a start. Who is your maker?"
"My maker was Anna Potenkin. She currently is fertilizer." For all the flippancy, Mustang sensed genuine hurt there. "She was the most amazing alchemist -- bright, beautiful, smart, loving. Unfortunately, even with all her talent and all my knowledge, she still couldn't tell a poisoned candy from a safe one." The prisoner looked down at his hands.
"I'm very sorry," said Mustang. "I take it you were close."
The homunculus shrugged. "Well, she did make me. I do at times wish she had more of a taste for manlier men, but otherwise I really can't complain. My years with her were the best. She treated me very well."
"And what happened to you after that."
"Oh, I was seized and sold off to another alchemist - not as bright, not as pretty, but a whole lot more ruthless." Ambrose looked off into the distance. "His tastes were pretty simple: he wanted money, lots of it, and he used me to get it. All was good for him for a couple of months until he let slip how he knew all the things he did. Not long after that he was dead, and I had myself a new master."
Ambrose waved a vague hand. "Do you want me to recount all my masters? The story gets a bit repetitive after a while."
Mustang rubbed his chin thought fully. "So you showed your last master how to fake gold coins?" he asked skeptically. "That's not very impressive."
"Oh no," said Ambrose, sniffing with insult. "No, no, no, no. That cretin? No. I told him nothing. In fact, my last half dozen masters had no more clue how to access the Bible than you do. After a couple of months of trying, each of them gave up and sold me off to someone else. It's all gotten quite tedious."
"Why didn't you tell them how to access your information? Surely they must have pressured you."
"Oh yeah. They punished me." Ambrose shrugged. "But I'm a lot tougher than I look. It might have been easier for me in the short run if I just told them, but so long as they didn't know how to use me, at least they survived the experience of owning me - that is until the last one, but that was his own stupidity, and not my fault.
"So you see," continued Ambrose, "It's really for your own good that you don't know."
Mustang waved that thought away. "Why don't you just run away? Why did you let yourself be traded about?"
Ambrose smiled disarmingly. "Well, that would be because my beautiful, remarkable, talented and wonderful creator feared that I would turn into a monster - so as a safeguard she rendered it impossible for me to act violently.
"Hey, I'm the first to admit that I'm a piss-poor excuse for a man. You can't get more pansy-assed than me. I've come to terms with that - I've got other talents. I'm an excellent cook, and no one beats me when it comes to cleaning." Ambrose shrugged. "You see, she did have her priorities."
I'm sure you made her an excellent wife thought Mustang wryly. He tried to rack his memory for what he knew of Anna Potenkin. It was his job, after all, to know at least something about all the major alchemists, including the bigger talents from other countries. No minor talent could have created Ambrose. The best he could come up with was to remember a rather dry book on the origins and nature of Alchemy.
Ambrose's face took on a wry look. "Too bad discretion wasn't one of her priorities, eh? I mean I'm sure if she hadn't been doling out the info right left and center to whoever had a sorry enough story, she'd still be alive and I'd be making her crepes after a long morning tumble in the sheets."
Ok, thought Mustang. I really didn't need that image in my mind right now. Mustang had no idea what Potenkin looked like, but his imagination was quite willing to substitute a few body types he was familiar and fond of into the equation. It was time to switch the subject.
"How did Potenkin create you in the first place?"
"My creator stole and sacrificed a powerful national treasure to the Gate. Something called a Philosopher's stone. She wanted information about the fundamental source of alchemy - about how the universe was shaped - about the structure of reality itself. The Bible already existed somewhere else. The gate taught her how to summon it, and fashion me to house it.
"The Claire Bible," Mustang began. "It's more than just an ordinary alchemy book, I take it," said Mustang.
"It's not a book at all. It's much bigger than that -- It's a depository of all knowledge. It holds every array, every blueprint, every text of every book in existence and more. If someone somewhere has thought it, it is recorded in the bible. And if it exists physically somewhere, the Claire Bible has a description of it."
Mustang felt his heart speed up. "It must be enormous!"
Ambrose nodded. "It's so large it can't be accessed physically. There isn't a surface in the universe large enough to contain all the words and diagrams needed. And even if there were, a layman could wade for lifetimes before gleaning even a nugget of the information he wanted. It's so huge it needs a thinking interface in order to make it useful. It needs a caretaker, a guide, a librarian. Me." Ambrose sighed. "There I have told you. And now you will never let me go."
Mustang's mouth had gone dry. Everything? The information to defeat Father? The information for bringing Al back? And beyond that, who knew where Mustang's ambition could take him. With all the universe's knowledge at his fingertips, could anyone truly oppose him?
"I can guess what you are thinking," Ambrose went on. "Or at least what you should be. You should be wondering how it was that, even with access to the Claire Bible, Anna never really made a name for herself."
Good question.
"You see, there is a hitch to this," said Ambrose. "I can give a person the information she wants- but I can't help her understand it. That was the irony. Anna created me so that she could learn to control the structure of reality. She had every intention of being the greatest Alchemist ever, recreating the world as a better place. But when I showed her the truth, she simply couldn't comprehend most of it. And what little she could grasp just frightened her. She could see a thousand ways to make the world worse, but not even one major way she could improve on it. Every dream dead-ended in sickening consequences. In the end, she turned away from the great alchemical mysteries, and used the Claire Bible to find missing children and lost sentimental items. Important things for those who came to her, but nothing profound enough to make her famous."
Ambrose smiled. "Even more ironically, I think she was happier once she gave up on her ambitions and contented herself with ordinary obscurity. Too bad her kind deeds got her killed."
Mustang felt the presence of alchemy again, and once more the back of Ambrose chair lit up. The prisoner's expression grew grimmer.
"In the end, Colonel Mustang, I'm no more useful than a book that you could find in a library. You have to ask yourself if it's really raw knowledge that you need, or if it's the wisdom to follow up on what you already know? Ask me about transmutation arrays to bring back your friend, and I can give you them - but I can't help you skirt equivalent exchange. I can tell you who Father is and what he plans, but I can't tell you how to bring him down." Ambrose sighed. "You'll just have to use your own strength, resources and savvy to do that."
"I see," said Mustang.
"You are watched, you know," said the prisoner. "Closely. Almost constantly. Every move you do is analyzed and pondered. Do you really think you can keep me with you and not have people wonder why? Do you really think you could stop Father from taking me the moment he realizes what I contain?"
'"It's a risk," admitted Mustang. "But I'm not ready to rule it out."
"My information is only as useful as the cleverness as the person using it, and Father is a very, very clever being. I may not be what you need - but I'm exactly what he's missing. If I were in his hands, he would use me to track down and destroy anyone who could oppose him. He'd find the final pillars for his experiment - and then --" he went silent.
Mustang said nothing for a long moment. He thought he could understand Anna's frustration - to be so close to your dreams, and yet not able to pass that final barrier. To be stopped not by the world, but by your own limitations. "Show me the Clair Bible." He said at last.
"But -" protested Ambrose.
"I need more than your word," said Mustang. "I need to see. I need to know that you aren't just feeding me the same bullshit you did your last alchemist."
Ambrose nodded. "Very well - but you know, all my masters who have seen the Claire Bible have died - without exception. If ever there were cursed knowledge - this is it. Do you still want to know?"
"Yes," said Mustang firmly.
Ambrose seemed to relax. "Very well. The trick is to leave the back alone. The keyhole is here." Ambrose pointed to his right hand.
Mustang leaned forward and saw a black spot on the back of his hand, off to one side, near the webbing of his thumb. It had been in plain sight the entire time they'd been speaking, but Mustang's mind had simply glossed it over as a mole. In retrospect, he realized he should have been suspicious of any flaw on Ambrose's body.
"What do you want to know," asked Ambrose.
"I want to know if you are telling the truth. If the Claire Bible contains everything, it should contain your story as well."
Ambrose smiled. "Yes it does. Hold that question in your mind and go ahead and take my hand." He reached out as if to shake.
Mustang stood up and walked around the desk, feeling strangely nervous. It was harder to touch the man with him watching his every move - there was something more personal and intimate about it. He met Ambroses large eyes and saw resignation and despair.
"Will this hurt you?" Mustang asked.
"Not a bit," replied Ambrose.
Mustang hesitated - he did not believe in curses. He had faith in his own skill and determination. He could face whatever this lead to. Still he hesitated for a second. Ambrose opened his mouth to say something and Mustang pushed himself into action, before the inevitable words came out.
He clasped the man's hand. It felt warm and dry squeezing his with a reassuring pressure. His thumb slid over the black spot, and he could feel something there. He tentatively concentrated and activated it the way he would have the array stitched to his glove.
Darkness rushed up and over him like a wave. He hung, alone, weightless and unanchored in an unfathomably huge space. Before him was a glowing blue orb made up of thousands - millions of strings that seemed to fade in and out of existence. One spot along the orbs surface suddenly changed and spun out like a thin line towards him.
Mustang reached out with an arm he couldn’t see and he felt the string touch him. In that moment he saw Ambroses life.
He saw Anna Potemkin, sweaty and drained from alchemy clapping the chalk dust from her palms. He saw her later wrapped in a sheet, a contented look on her face, and later still, pale and dead on the floor her hand gripping her throat. He saw other masters, other days, other events. They didn't so much play out in as they were suddenly just there - as though they'd been there all along and Mustang had only now thought back on them. It was both stirring, and frightening in its intimacy. People should not know this much about each other. And yet he couldn't turn away either. He concentrated on the last few minutes - the ones spent talking to himself, and felt Ambrose's fear and hope and acceptance.
Mustang drew his hand back to his own chest and realized he was standing in the jail office again.
There was information there in that blue sphere that could help him, Mustang knew. All he needed was the right questions and it would be there, as clear in his mind as the events of Ambrose's life. He longed to know more, about Alphonse Elric and the Gate and Father and the Humunculi. About the wars he'd fought in, and the wars Mustang knew were coming. About Alchemy and its purpose, and the very fabric of reality. And with all that knowledge was power, the ability to reshape the universe, to unravel it and recreate it in his image.
It was so tempting.
But Mustang could feel Anna's ghost as well, and the harsh lesson she learned was not lost on him. Mustang didn't get to be a Colonel by giving into temptation. He was seasoned and disciplined, and was so power hungry that he would not heed warnings when they made his skin crawl.
Anything Mustang could hope to accomplish with the Claire Bible, Father could also. Father already had the power of the philosophers stone and the might of the entire military to back him up. With the Bible his last few vulnerabilities would be shored up and no one could oppose him.
I need information. But I also need time, and imagination and large dose of good luck.
Ambrose was staring at him, waiting without hoping, for some sort of response.
"Lieutenant!" Mustang called back. "Sergeant!"
The two couldn't have been that far down the hall because they immediately returned to the room. "I'm taking this man to Central." Ambrose sucked in a breath, but Mustang ignored him. "I'm classifying his existence as top secret. I want you to forget you ever had him. In fact, if I even hear of the 'Claire Bible' floating around as a rumor, I will throw the two of you so deep into prison, you'll never see the sun again. The Claire Bible does not exist. Do you understand?"
The two stiffened up and saluted. "Yes, sir!" they chorused.
"If I'm right there should be another train passing through in a few hours. We will be heading to the station immediately. I have no urge to stay any longer than I have to in this godforsaken place. Unlock the chains on his feet."
The sergeant complied. Ambrose merely looked confused. Mustang barked out a few more orders, and soon the homunculus was dressed in civilian clothes that fit his frame close enough.
"Colonel?" Ambrose asked, touching the brown collar of his shirt doubtfully.
"Be quiet. I have made up my mind."
The silence was thick as Lieutenant Danube drove them back to the station. It wasn't until Mustang stepped off the coach and onto the graveled road that he spoke up. "I appreciate your not including the prisoner in your report. That kind of discretion will take you far." Mustang tried not to smirk at the irony of his words.
The Lieutenant beamed at the praise. "Thank you very much, sir."
"Make sure any notes that mention this man are destroyed and I will put in a good word for you at your next review."
Mustang felt a wave of relief when the Lieutenant bit eagerly at the bait. He felt a bit sorry for whatever station Danube would be sent to next - they surely didn't deserve him. But for this to work, he needed the man to be silent.
As the carriage pulled away from the station, Mustang reached into his pocket and felt for his wallet.
"He will find out," said Ambrose. "No matter how hard you keep quiet about it, it will come out. Father will wonder how it is you know all the things you do. He will search until he finds the source."
Mustang pulled out several large bills and pushed them into Ambrose's limp hand. "I suggest you get on the train with me to Central. From there you can take another to any place in the country. Find yourself a small town. Become a cook. Clean houses. Find lost pets and children, but be quiet about it."
Ambrose looked at the bills, then up at him again, realization starting to dawn.
"I will do what it takes to stop Father," Mustang continued. "Even if it means giving up the Claire Bible. However, if you ever think of any information you know I could use - "
"I know your number," assured Ambrose.
"Yes, you do."
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Gen, some implied past pairings between OC's.
WARNINGS: Some Adult themes -- and a great big HONKING STU!!!!
SPOILERS: Mild ones for manga chapter 58 (or so)
CROSSOVER ELEMENTS: The Claire Bible has been ripped off from the Slayers fandom.
WORD COUNT: 6400
A/N written for a "Believeable Sue's Contest." So of course, I put in the biggest Stu I could possibly write -- let's go down the stu-ways of his stu-eyness: The OC is beautiful, talented, "special," has a twagic past, is an 8th humunculus, needs to be rescued by a canon character, and is named after my friend Ambre. So with all of this, is the fic just dreck? Or does it have any redeemable value to it? I'll let you be the judge.
I will say that at the time I wrote it, I was really pretty proud of the job I did -- but it failed in the contest really badly. Out of 5 entries this came in 3rd or 4th. And thus did reality check my ego mightily.
Colonel Mustang Sir:
Raid of Alchemic factory successful. Three dead - including the Alchemist. Thirteen in custody. No friendly casualties. Seized: a variety of raw materials (inventory attached) 28 scrolls with arrays (destroyed at scene, per article 38A) 180,346 cenz.
Your assistance is requested interpreting an unusual array. Please come to the Backwater Jail ASAP.
2nd Lt. Danube.
Mustang tucked the letter back into his pocket and looked around the muddy roaded town of Backwater. He'd been here just under an hour and already his opinion of the place had fallen quite a bit. Rain came down, not so much as drops, but as a pervasive mist which swept under the inadequate station roof leaving him feeling clammy. The place smelled -- mostly of pine and pond scum, but also, when the wind blew right, Mustang could make out the raw, yeasty odor of a paper mill.
He looked his watch again. Surely Lt. Danube didn't mean to leave him just standing out here. Just as he thought that, he heard the crunching sound of a horse's hooves against the gravel. A covered coach pulled up to the minimal station and a man in uniform jumped off.
"Colonel, Sir!" said the pasty looking Second Lieutenant. "I'm sorry for the delay, sir, we had a bit of a hitch."
Mustang said nothing, letting the depth of his silence frighten the inferior officer. Then taking mercy, he broke eye contact, reaching down and grabbing his suitcase. "You were awfully vague in your letter about the nature of the array."
"Yes, sir… well… We - I -- We were nervous that anything we wrote down might get intercepted." Belatedly the Lieutenant tried to take his bag, but Mustang held on tightly, hoisting it up and into the carriage. He then climbed up himself ignoring the man's attempt to assist. He was not in a good mood.
"This better be important."
"I think it is, sir." Danube grabbed the reigns and started them down one of the narrow roads. "We really aren't sure what to do with… uh… the item. Or even if it's in our jurisdiction."
Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Tell me about this item."
Danube's mouth opened and then he turned a rather alarming shade of red. "Sir, I think it's better you just see for yourself. I don't think I can, uh, do it justice."
Mustang folded his arms across his chest and sincerely hoped that this wouldn't be a long trip to the jail. Two things that annoyed him more than anything else was coyness and incompetence. He had better things to be doing than identifying some array that wasn't listed in the military issued Catalogue of Alchemic Circles.
In fact, ten to one odds, this array was listed in that catalogue, and the lieutenant and his men had simply skipped passed it when flipping through the book. Truly original arrays were very rare and only a very small number of alchemists had the kind of imagination and intelligence to produce them. From the reports, this alchemist was little more than a tricked out thug.
"What about the other arrays," asked Mustang at last. "The ones you destroyed. Were you able to identify them?"
"Oh yeah, they were common ones - lead to gold mostly. Minters."
Mustang nodded. Both types of array were extremely illegal, but not particularly uncommon. Minters were used to make exact duplicates of real coins using whatever substance was handy. The array-created gold coins turned back into lead after only a few hours. The scam was to buy a small inexpensive item from an unsuspecting person and then ask for change for the "gold" coin. Often they'd "tip" the mark for their trouble, to help encourage him to agree. Once the thief was safely away, the gold coin would turn back to worthless lead. It was in it's own way self-limiting as merchants in the area soon learned not to accept gold coins.
"I hear there are only five of you stationed here. Tell me, how was it that you managed to take down 16 men without any injuries to your own men."
"It really wasn't difficult," said the Lieutenant, casually. "They were all very cowardly. As soon as they heard us coming they disarmed themselves and lay down on the floor."
Mustang quirked up a brow. That didn't seem right.
"And the three who were killed?"
"Well," said the Lieutenant. "They changed their minds and went for their weapons -- we were forced to shoot."
The coach stopped in front of a dark one-story brick building. The bars on the small windows made it clear this was the jail. Mustang followed the Lieutenant inside. He made quick note the familiar trappings of a field office - the obligatory green eagle banner, the bronze crest collecting dust on the wall, the half dozen age-battered desks crammed into the small office/lobby.
"Hey, Cappa," Danube called out. "Bring him out." A burly looking sergeant stood up from one of the desks and disappeared down a hall. To Mustang the Lieutenant said, "You'll see why I was so reticent in a moment. It's a hell of thing."
Mustang sat down at someone's desk and waited. Less than a minute later Cappa returned pushing a prisoner in front of him. The orange suited figure shuffled slowly in, legs secured with manacles. Mustang casually glanced at the prisoner's face. He did a double take and felt his mouth slowly slide open.
The prisoner was perhaps the most achingly beautiful person Mustang had ever seen. Long black hair curled to frame a heart shaped face. Every feature, from the curve of the chin to the arch of the brows was simply perfect. Large dewy eyes gazed calmly into his. There was no sign of flaw, or scar or blemish. It was a face any woman would dream to have.
Unfortunately, it was on a man. A willowy, feminine looking man, but most definitely a man.
That poor bastard, thought Mustang. God only knew the amount of teasing and harassment he must have faced growing up looking like that.
The prisoner regarded Mustang with a quick mixture of expressions -- annoyance, then interest, then worry, and finally a dull resentfulness.
"We sent the others on to the real prison, but we kept him back. As far as we've been able to determine, he was more of a captive than a conspirator. According to a couple of the other prisoners, he was …" Danube suddenly coughed into his hand. "Er, purchased off the black market." The lieutenant flushed deeply again as though he'd never heard of sexual slavery before. "Anyway, we found him chained naked in a backroom - so we brought him here."
And promptly chained him up in your backroom, what an vast improvement. The prisoner ignored Mustang's sympathetic look, his face finally settling on an expression of bored resignation.
"Well, fascinating, but not why I'm here," said Mustang tearing his eyes from the prisoner's face. "Where's the array?"
"Eh," grunted Sergeant Cappa to the prisoner, who gave him a killing look, then shrugged. He began pulling off his orange shirt.
Oh don't tell me… thought Mustang. The prisoner (quite definitely male) dropped his shirt to the ground and shuffled to turn his back on the Colonel. Sure enough, there was a large and extremely elaborate design covering the entirety of his back.
Mustang forgot all about the prisoner's disconcerting androgyny and stood up check out the array. It was dense with symbols and writing. Mustang drew a light finger over the lines, piecing together the parts, but while he knew a few of the symbols - most of them were completely novel. After five minutes Mustang came to the sickening conclusion that he actually didn't know what the array did - but most likely it was something powerful and dangerous.
"It wasn't in the book," said Danube, stating the blatantly obvious.
"I can tell that," snapped Mustang. "Do you have any idea what it does?"
"No, sir," said the Lieutenant. "Aren't you supposed to tell us that?"
Mustang felt an embarrassed flush rise to his cheeks. Damn it, he was not going to let some hick officer four ranks lower than himself put him on the defensive. But, as hard as it was, he had to swallow some of his contempt and admit Danube had done the right thing in calling him in. This array was… special.
"I don't know everything," said Mustang, responding at last to the Lieutenant's smugly expectant look. "This is extremely elaborate."
"Well," said the Lieutenant, "One of men we arrested did say what he thought it was about."
Mustang promptly retracted his grudging respect for the officer. In fact, it was only great effort that kept Mustang from punching the Lieutenant lights out. "Well that would be helpful information," said Mustang, biting back his words. He could feel an ulcer growing. "When were you planning on telling me?"
"We - I thought it would be better not to taint your opinion," said the Lieutenant. "It seemed prudent -" Mustang's stare-of-death finally seemed to penetrate the Lieutenant's thick scull and he wisely shut up.
"How about from now on you simply tell me what I ask, and not make assumptions," Mustang growled. "What did your informant say about this array?"
"He assured us it wasn't dangerous. He called it the 'Claire Bible.' But we have absolutely no idea what that means."
"Bible, hmmm. In this context, I'd guess it would mean some sort of informative array," but Mustang was doubtful. He looked at the inscription again. What he could make out of the array had nothing to do with information at all - but rather alarmingly concerned altering the shape and substance of space itself. Then suddenly the parts clicked together. The array was not the Claire Bible - it was a storage container. The "bible" was pocketed off in its own universe.
Mustang had heard of extra-spatial dimensions. Gluttony contained one, where all the things he ate were deposited. Mustang knew that Father had experimented with these dimensions in hopes of forging his own Gate. But never in all of Mustang's research and experience had he seen the actual array that could produce stable useable space. If the symbol by itself was this rare and powerful, the object held within must be something truly astonishing.
Which meant that this pretty-boy was merely a port of access. Mustang cringed. He felt suddenly a lot sorrier for the man. It was too easy to objectify the prisoner based on his incredible looks alone; turning him into a powerful alchemic tool on top of that seemed particularly cruel. Mustang imagined that the man must have spent a lot of time being chained up in someone's backroom, waiting to be used one way or another.
Still as tragically unfair as his circumstances were, it was irrelevant to what Mustang needed to do next. As much as he disliked using people as objects, it was Mustang's job to check out the Bible. Perhaps if he saw it, there would be some way of removing it from the poor man's back, and giving him some hope of a normal life. In any case, there was no way Mustang could let the prisoner walk out of there without at least understanding what he was holding.
Now let's just hope this thing works the way I think it does , Mustang through to himself. He placed his bare palm flat against the center of the array and willed it to life. The design absorbed his energy, briefly glowing before turning back to black. It wasn't that the array had effected something he couldn't see, the thing hadn't activated. It had bled off the energy harmlessly.
The prisoner snickered slightly.
"How does one access the Bible?" asked Mustang the prisoner. He ran his fingers up the lines, noting the slightly raised texture. Maybe somewhere in here was a lock - a smaller circle that needed to be activated first ….
"One doesn't," spoke the prisoner for the first time. His voice was absolutely musical. Mustang found himself wincing at its quality. Was there nothing ordinary about the man? "If you are done poking my back," the prisoner continued, "I'd like to go back to my cell."
Mustang yanked his hand away. Maybe the array was a dud - just a scam to get a better price for the boy--.
"We know the prisoner can activate it," said Cappa. "We've seen him do it a lot since we brought him in -"
Mustang gave the sergeant his most withering gaze.
"It's not like it does anything," the Lieutenant defended. "We watched him! He just sits there with his eyes closed, his array lit up, for hours. We tried to get him to stop it at first, but there didn't seem to be any way. And anyway, nothing happens when it's lit up. We checked."
How much information were these two planning on withholding? Was it possible that they were so supremely ignorant and incompetent that they didn't know what Mustang needed to hear?
They were incompetent, Mustang suddenly realized. That was why the two had been stationed in this tiny useless berg to begin with. They'd been put here where they'd cause the least amount of harm with their obtuseness and snotty attitude. Until this alchemic factory had sprung up they'd probably not had much to do. Mustang should consider himself lucky that they had managed to not only take down the factory by themselves, but also had enough brain cells to write for his help.
"Is there anything else you care to tell me?" Mustang asked, acidly.
The two looked at each other. "No, sir, " they chorused.
"Then how about you leave me alone with the prisoner for a bit."
The two stared at him and hesitated far too long.
"You can interpret that as an order," Mustang clarified.
There was no place for them to go other than to the jail cells or out into the rain. After a bit of awkward hesitation, during which Mustang pulled a glove out of his pocket, the two walked down the hall.
Mustang turned back to the prisoner. "You can turn around. Care for a seat?" Mustang casually walked around a desk and planted himself more or less comfortably in a swivel chair. He put on his gloves with a casual proficiency, then looked up to see the prisoner, seated across from him, watching him warily.
Mustang turned his hand over, showing off the array stitched into the back. "Recognize this."
The prisoner smiled. "Of course, Colonel. I'm surprised you waited this long to take them out." The man's smirk somehow didn't detract from his beauty. "So... Are you planning on burning the information out of me?"
Mustang smiled ruefully back. Well, so much for using intimidation. Shy of him actually using the gloves it didn't look like the prisoner took them as much of a threat.
Mustang tried a different approach. "Now, why would I resort to such crude tactics? These are in case you think you can overpower me and leave just because I sent the others out of the room." Mustang ignored the prisoner's laugh and continued, "There's no reason for you to withhold information from me. The sooner I understand the situation, the sooner you can go free."
The last word must have touched a nerve, because for just a second, a look of painful longing graced the man's face. Mustang suppressed a completely inappropriate urge to give him a hug. Thankfully for Mustang's professional composure, the expression quickly reverted back to bitterness. Resentful, angry, bitter people he could handle.
"If I told you what you want to know, " said the prisoner dryly, "You'd never set me free."
"Well I suppose it depends on the information." Mustang sat back in his seat and relaxed. "Are you a murderer? A willing partner in crime?"
"Hardly," said the prisoner.
"Well then you have nothing to fear." Mustang wasn't sure he believed that himself.
The prisoner seemed hopeful for a second but then shook his head. "I have no reason to think you'd react differently than all my other masters, once they realized what I was. You're a smart man, and you've already guessed my use. How can you say you'd throw me away if I told you how to activate the array?"
"You are talking about yourself as though you are an object," said Mustang.
The prisoner cocked an eyebrow. "I am an object. I'm the Claire Bible, like your Lieutenant just told you. I was created to be a useful tool in a pretty package."
"You are a human being -- " Mustang insisted, then stopped as the words sank in. "You were created? You weren't born? Are you a homunculus then?" Suddenly the prisoner's extreme beauty made sense. Humunculi could be made to look like anything.
The prisoner's guard was back up. Whatever tentative inroads towards trust Mustang had forged, were now gone. Back was the knowing smirk. "I'm surprised you even know the term," the prisoner said.
"I've come across homunculi before. So what purpose did Father give you? What sin do you embody?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about," said the prisoner. Mustang felt a faint tingle of alchemy in the air, and at the same time the back of the prisoner's chair grew brighter with reflected light.
"And now I do," the prisoner continued, sounding alarmed. "Holy crud. I'm not any sin! I have nothing to do with Father. I was created by someone else entirely - an alchemist in a completely different country. Listen, Mustang, trust me, you don't want me falling into Father's hands. The man is too powerful as it is, he does not need the knowledge of the Claire Bible, too."
"I entirely agree," said Mustang.
"You have to let me go." The prisoner insisted with a desperation that bordered on panic. "If you take me back to military headquarters, you might as well just hand me over to Father. If that thing even gets a whiff of my existence -" his voice died out as he stared off past the walls. "No, you have to let me go."
"And who is to say you won't land in his hands even if I did let you go. You want freedom, you are going to have to let me know what it is I'm letting free." Mustang folded his arms across his chest. "I need to know what you are after and sort of threat you present to society, how do I know you won't just wreck havoc the moment you walk free?"
Suddenly the prisoner relaxed. He coyly batted his eyes. "Who me? I'm a total kitten! I can't hurt anything."
"You are homunculus. I've come across your type before and 'kittens" they weren't."
The prisoner openly sulked. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and hung his head, a perfect black curl fell in front of one of his eyes. "Well, there you go, all that talk about 'tell me who you are and I'll set you free' was just nonsense after all."
Mustang stared down the creatures attempt to vamp him. He was not going there.
"Oh come now," said Mustang losing patience. "You can't tell me how horrible it would be for Father to have you in one breath and then expect me to believe you are totally harmless in the next. Give me credit for having some intelligence."
"I'm sorry," said the homunculus, pulling his hair back and seeming contrite. "My last few owners have been a bit on the dull side. It's easy to forget what it's like to be with someone genuinely smart. You've seen right through me. Few people can do that."
"Don't think you can get anywhere with flattery," Mustang warned.
The prisoner sighed. "It's too bad you are just a Dog of the Military. With your alchemy, and my information, the two of us could really go places. Money, power, sheer knowing for the sake of knowing…."
"And I'm not going to be bribed, either."
"You owe me!" said the prisoner suddenly. "You think those bumbling idiots could bring down a criminal enterprise like that without help? They gave up without a struggle because I told them they'd die if they didn't. I told them there was no chance of winning, and if the military didn't see them in complete surrender they would slaughter every last man, and they believed me. Your soldiers would have been slaughtered if I hadn't paved the way for them."
That made a lot more sense than the Lieutenant's version. "I appreciate what you did," said Mustang. "But who is to say you aren't lying to me, the way you did to your last master."
"But I didn't lie --" The prisoner stopped himself and sighed. "Never mind."
Mustang stood up. "I think maybe what I need to do is transport you back to Central. There are a couple of Alchemists I know who might be able to make more sense of that array than I can. I'll muddle up the paperwork - no one but us need know what you contain--"
"What do you want, Mustang," interrupted the homunculus.
"I want you to stop trying to manipulate me, and tell me what I ask." Mustang sat down again. "Let's try this again. What is your name?"
"I already told you, the-"
"Not what you are, who you are."
"My creator used to call me Ambrose," he said after a long hesitation.
"Ambrose then," said Mustang. "That's a start. Who is your maker?"
"My maker was Anna Potenkin. She currently is fertilizer." For all the flippancy, Mustang sensed genuine hurt there. "She was the most amazing alchemist -- bright, beautiful, smart, loving. Unfortunately, even with all her talent and all my knowledge, she still couldn't tell a poisoned candy from a safe one." The prisoner looked down at his hands.
"I'm very sorry," said Mustang. "I take it you were close."
The homunculus shrugged. "Well, she did make me. I do at times wish she had more of a taste for manlier men, but otherwise I really can't complain. My years with her were the best. She treated me very well."
"And what happened to you after that."
"Oh, I was seized and sold off to another alchemist - not as bright, not as pretty, but a whole lot more ruthless." Ambrose looked off into the distance. "His tastes were pretty simple: he wanted money, lots of it, and he used me to get it. All was good for him for a couple of months until he let slip how he knew all the things he did. Not long after that he was dead, and I had myself a new master."
Ambrose waved a vague hand. "Do you want me to recount all my masters? The story gets a bit repetitive after a while."
Mustang rubbed his chin thought fully. "So you showed your last master how to fake gold coins?" he asked skeptically. "That's not very impressive."
"Oh no," said Ambrose, sniffing with insult. "No, no, no, no. That cretin? No. I told him nothing. In fact, my last half dozen masters had no more clue how to access the Bible than you do. After a couple of months of trying, each of them gave up and sold me off to someone else. It's all gotten quite tedious."
"Why didn't you tell them how to access your information? Surely they must have pressured you."
"Oh yeah. They punished me." Ambrose shrugged. "But I'm a lot tougher than I look. It might have been easier for me in the short run if I just told them, but so long as they didn't know how to use me, at least they survived the experience of owning me - that is until the last one, but that was his own stupidity, and not my fault.
"So you see," continued Ambrose, "It's really for your own good that you don't know."
Mustang waved that thought away. "Why don't you just run away? Why did you let yourself be traded about?"
Ambrose smiled disarmingly. "Well, that would be because my beautiful, remarkable, talented and wonderful creator feared that I would turn into a monster - so as a safeguard she rendered it impossible for me to act violently.
"Hey, I'm the first to admit that I'm a piss-poor excuse for a man. You can't get more pansy-assed than me. I've come to terms with that - I've got other talents. I'm an excellent cook, and no one beats me when it comes to cleaning." Ambrose shrugged. "You see, she did have her priorities."
I'm sure you made her an excellent wife thought Mustang wryly. He tried to rack his memory for what he knew of Anna Potenkin. It was his job, after all, to know at least something about all the major alchemists, including the bigger talents from other countries. No minor talent could have created Ambrose. The best he could come up with was to remember a rather dry book on the origins and nature of Alchemy.
Ambrose's face took on a wry look. "Too bad discretion wasn't one of her priorities, eh? I mean I'm sure if she hadn't been doling out the info right left and center to whoever had a sorry enough story, she'd still be alive and I'd be making her crepes after a long morning tumble in the sheets."
Ok, thought Mustang. I really didn't need that image in my mind right now. Mustang had no idea what Potenkin looked like, but his imagination was quite willing to substitute a few body types he was familiar and fond of into the equation. It was time to switch the subject.
"How did Potenkin create you in the first place?"
"My creator stole and sacrificed a powerful national treasure to the Gate. Something called a Philosopher's stone. She wanted information about the fundamental source of alchemy - about how the universe was shaped - about the structure of reality itself. The Bible already existed somewhere else. The gate taught her how to summon it, and fashion me to house it.
"The Claire Bible," Mustang began. "It's more than just an ordinary alchemy book, I take it," said Mustang.
"It's not a book at all. It's much bigger than that -- It's a depository of all knowledge. It holds every array, every blueprint, every text of every book in existence and more. If someone somewhere has thought it, it is recorded in the bible. And if it exists physically somewhere, the Claire Bible has a description of it."
Mustang felt his heart speed up. "It must be enormous!"
Ambrose nodded. "It's so large it can't be accessed physically. There isn't a surface in the universe large enough to contain all the words and diagrams needed. And even if there were, a layman could wade for lifetimes before gleaning even a nugget of the information he wanted. It's so huge it needs a thinking interface in order to make it useful. It needs a caretaker, a guide, a librarian. Me." Ambrose sighed. "There I have told you. And now you will never let me go."
Mustang's mouth had gone dry. Everything? The information to defeat Father? The information for bringing Al back? And beyond that, who knew where Mustang's ambition could take him. With all the universe's knowledge at his fingertips, could anyone truly oppose him?
"I can guess what you are thinking," Ambrose went on. "Or at least what you should be. You should be wondering how it was that, even with access to the Claire Bible, Anna never really made a name for herself."
Good question.
"You see, there is a hitch to this," said Ambrose. "I can give a person the information she wants- but I can't help her understand it. That was the irony. Anna created me so that she could learn to control the structure of reality. She had every intention of being the greatest Alchemist ever, recreating the world as a better place. But when I showed her the truth, she simply couldn't comprehend most of it. And what little she could grasp just frightened her. She could see a thousand ways to make the world worse, but not even one major way she could improve on it. Every dream dead-ended in sickening consequences. In the end, she turned away from the great alchemical mysteries, and used the Claire Bible to find missing children and lost sentimental items. Important things for those who came to her, but nothing profound enough to make her famous."
Ambrose smiled. "Even more ironically, I think she was happier once she gave up on her ambitions and contented herself with ordinary obscurity. Too bad her kind deeds got her killed."
Mustang felt the presence of alchemy again, and once more the back of Ambrose chair lit up. The prisoner's expression grew grimmer.
"In the end, Colonel Mustang, I'm no more useful than a book that you could find in a library. You have to ask yourself if it's really raw knowledge that you need, or if it's the wisdom to follow up on what you already know? Ask me about transmutation arrays to bring back your friend, and I can give you them - but I can't help you skirt equivalent exchange. I can tell you who Father is and what he plans, but I can't tell you how to bring him down." Ambrose sighed. "You'll just have to use your own strength, resources and savvy to do that."
"I see," said Mustang.
"You are watched, you know," said the prisoner. "Closely. Almost constantly. Every move you do is analyzed and pondered. Do you really think you can keep me with you and not have people wonder why? Do you really think you could stop Father from taking me the moment he realizes what I contain?"
'"It's a risk," admitted Mustang. "But I'm not ready to rule it out."
"My information is only as useful as the cleverness as the person using it, and Father is a very, very clever being. I may not be what you need - but I'm exactly what he's missing. If I were in his hands, he would use me to track down and destroy anyone who could oppose him. He'd find the final pillars for his experiment - and then --" he went silent.
Mustang said nothing for a long moment. He thought he could understand Anna's frustration - to be so close to your dreams, and yet not able to pass that final barrier. To be stopped not by the world, but by your own limitations. "Show me the Clair Bible." He said at last.
"But -" protested Ambrose.
"I need more than your word," said Mustang. "I need to see. I need to know that you aren't just feeding me the same bullshit you did your last alchemist."
Ambrose nodded. "Very well - but you know, all my masters who have seen the Claire Bible have died - without exception. If ever there were cursed knowledge - this is it. Do you still want to know?"
"Yes," said Mustang firmly.
Ambrose seemed to relax. "Very well. The trick is to leave the back alone. The keyhole is here." Ambrose pointed to his right hand.
Mustang leaned forward and saw a black spot on the back of his hand, off to one side, near the webbing of his thumb. It had been in plain sight the entire time they'd been speaking, but Mustang's mind had simply glossed it over as a mole. In retrospect, he realized he should have been suspicious of any flaw on Ambrose's body.
"What do you want to know," asked Ambrose.
"I want to know if you are telling the truth. If the Claire Bible contains everything, it should contain your story as well."
Ambrose smiled. "Yes it does. Hold that question in your mind and go ahead and take my hand." He reached out as if to shake.
Mustang stood up and walked around the desk, feeling strangely nervous. It was harder to touch the man with him watching his every move - there was something more personal and intimate about it. He met Ambroses large eyes and saw resignation and despair.
"Will this hurt you?" Mustang asked.
"Not a bit," replied Ambrose.
Mustang hesitated - he did not believe in curses. He had faith in his own skill and determination. He could face whatever this lead to. Still he hesitated for a second. Ambrose opened his mouth to say something and Mustang pushed himself into action, before the inevitable words came out.
He clasped the man's hand. It felt warm and dry squeezing his with a reassuring pressure. His thumb slid over the black spot, and he could feel something there. He tentatively concentrated and activated it the way he would have the array stitched to his glove.
Darkness rushed up and over him like a wave. He hung, alone, weightless and unanchored in an unfathomably huge space. Before him was a glowing blue orb made up of thousands - millions of strings that seemed to fade in and out of existence. One spot along the orbs surface suddenly changed and spun out like a thin line towards him.
Mustang reached out with an arm he couldn’t see and he felt the string touch him. In that moment he saw Ambroses life.
He saw Anna Potemkin, sweaty and drained from alchemy clapping the chalk dust from her palms. He saw her later wrapped in a sheet, a contented look on her face, and later still, pale and dead on the floor her hand gripping her throat. He saw other masters, other days, other events. They didn't so much play out in as they were suddenly just there - as though they'd been there all along and Mustang had only now thought back on them. It was both stirring, and frightening in its intimacy. People should not know this much about each other. And yet he couldn't turn away either. He concentrated on the last few minutes - the ones spent talking to himself, and felt Ambrose's fear and hope and acceptance.
Mustang drew his hand back to his own chest and realized he was standing in the jail office again.
There was information there in that blue sphere that could help him, Mustang knew. All he needed was the right questions and it would be there, as clear in his mind as the events of Ambrose's life. He longed to know more, about Alphonse Elric and the Gate and Father and the Humunculi. About the wars he'd fought in, and the wars Mustang knew were coming. About Alchemy and its purpose, and the very fabric of reality. And with all that knowledge was power, the ability to reshape the universe, to unravel it and recreate it in his image.
It was so tempting.
But Mustang could feel Anna's ghost as well, and the harsh lesson she learned was not lost on him. Mustang didn't get to be a Colonel by giving into temptation. He was seasoned and disciplined, and was so power hungry that he would not heed warnings when they made his skin crawl.
Anything Mustang could hope to accomplish with the Claire Bible, Father could also. Father already had the power of the philosophers stone and the might of the entire military to back him up. With the Bible his last few vulnerabilities would be shored up and no one could oppose him.
I need information. But I also need time, and imagination and large dose of good luck.
Ambrose was staring at him, waiting without hoping, for some sort of response.
"Lieutenant!" Mustang called back. "Sergeant!"
The two couldn't have been that far down the hall because they immediately returned to the room. "I'm taking this man to Central." Ambrose sucked in a breath, but Mustang ignored him. "I'm classifying his existence as top secret. I want you to forget you ever had him. In fact, if I even hear of the 'Claire Bible' floating around as a rumor, I will throw the two of you so deep into prison, you'll never see the sun again. The Claire Bible does not exist. Do you understand?"
The two stiffened up and saluted. "Yes, sir!" they chorused.
"If I'm right there should be another train passing through in a few hours. We will be heading to the station immediately. I have no urge to stay any longer than I have to in this godforsaken place. Unlock the chains on his feet."
The sergeant complied. Ambrose merely looked confused. Mustang barked out a few more orders, and soon the homunculus was dressed in civilian clothes that fit his frame close enough.
"Colonel?" Ambrose asked, touching the brown collar of his shirt doubtfully.
"Be quiet. I have made up my mind."
The silence was thick as Lieutenant Danube drove them back to the station. It wasn't until Mustang stepped off the coach and onto the graveled road that he spoke up. "I appreciate your not including the prisoner in your report. That kind of discretion will take you far." Mustang tried not to smirk at the irony of his words.
The Lieutenant beamed at the praise. "Thank you very much, sir."
"Make sure any notes that mention this man are destroyed and I will put in a good word for you at your next review."
Mustang felt a wave of relief when the Lieutenant bit eagerly at the bait. He felt a bit sorry for whatever station Danube would be sent to next - they surely didn't deserve him. But for this to work, he needed the man to be silent.
As the carriage pulled away from the station, Mustang reached into his pocket and felt for his wallet.
"He will find out," said Ambrose. "No matter how hard you keep quiet about it, it will come out. Father will wonder how it is you know all the things you do. He will search until he finds the source."
Mustang pulled out several large bills and pushed them into Ambrose's limp hand. "I suggest you get on the train with me to Central. From there you can take another to any place in the country. Find yourself a small town. Become a cook. Clean houses. Find lost pets and children, but be quiet about it."
Ambrose looked at the bills, then up at him again, realization starting to dawn.
"I will do what it takes to stop Father," Mustang continued. "Even if it means giving up the Claire Bible. However, if you ever think of any information you know I could use - "
"I know your number," assured Ambrose.
"Yes, you do."