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Title; Things Unthought
Rating; PG13
Fandom; Fullmetal Alchemist
Summary; There are things they know and avoid.
Wordcount; 567
She knows that she could have had a normal life if she had so chosen. Well, 'normal', because her father's legacy would have set her apart, no matter how well she had integrated superficially.
But still. She could have had work- a normal job, normal apartment, a garden perhaps. She could have spent her days working somewhere - some office, perhaps - doing something that would have occupied her.
But it wouldn't have meant anything. It would have solely been a job. Not a mission. Not something priceless, invaluable, crucial. She could have changed jobs if hers didn't suit her. If the supervisor was unfair. If she had grown bored.
She could have lived her life without ending the life of anyone else. She could have kept the right to live her own life out to its natural end.
She does not think of all these things as she lowers her pistol, sound of the gunshot dying away, dying with the enemy in front of her, trickle of heart's blood reaching her boot.
This is her life. Her hands are soiled, accustomed to the feel of cold steel and harsh grip of her guns, shoes crusted with mud and blood.
Her other arm drops back to her side from where it had flown, holding back the Colonel's next step. The Colonel steps forward now, surprised expression at her sudden motion fading into something like pity.
"Poor bastard," he says.
But she knows that had she been a half a second slower, had not been alert enough to sense that murderous intent, it could have been him bleeding out on the ground.
He knows her life could have been normal. At least to all appearances. He knows she could have left that legacy behind, let it bury itself in hiding on her back. She had told him she would find something, and he'd seen no reason she wouldn't.
He knows she needn't have followed him into his blood-soaked world.
He doesn't think about this as he walks into the arm that's suddenly flung into his path, stopping too abruptly-
-and then it was over, before he'd had the chance to react, and the man who'd leapt out, knife in hand, was dead on the ground. Probably before he knew what had hit him.
There's a small silence- the only noise is the casing, rolling slightly where it fell.
Her arm falls down and he can take that aborted last step, looking down at the body. "Poor bastard." It's barely louder than a whisper.
He knows she's just saved his life. Again. But this is their system.
Signals to one of the groups of men - soldiers - following them. They all stand stunned, some with guns half-unholstered, some with hands on their weapons, some too slow to have gotten even that far, before she had fired. Shake themselves. The group he'd motioned to bustles into action, making the call to MP, starting the routine that will end with paperwork on Armed Assailant Killed In Combat, forms 9A-T55 and 5H-WGA.
Satisfied, he turns back to her, she, who has reholstered her gun, and stands at attention, waiting.
A nod, curt - but silent recognition of her promise upkept.
And walks on.
She'll be there, that half step behind, the other soldiers falling into their ranks further behind, now - but from shame or deference, even the soldiers couldn't tell.
Rating; PG13
Fandom; Fullmetal Alchemist
Summary; There are things they know and avoid.
Wordcount; 567
She knows that she could have had a normal life if she had so chosen. Well, 'normal', because her father's legacy would have set her apart, no matter how well she had integrated superficially.
But still. She could have had work- a normal job, normal apartment, a garden perhaps. She could have spent her days working somewhere - some office, perhaps - doing something that would have occupied her.
But it wouldn't have meant anything. It would have solely been a job. Not a mission. Not something priceless, invaluable, crucial. She could have changed jobs if hers didn't suit her. If the supervisor was unfair. If she had grown bored.
She could have lived her life without ending the life of anyone else. She could have kept the right to live her own life out to its natural end.
She does not think of all these things as she lowers her pistol, sound of the gunshot dying away, dying with the enemy in front of her, trickle of heart's blood reaching her boot.
This is her life. Her hands are soiled, accustomed to the feel of cold steel and harsh grip of her guns, shoes crusted with mud and blood.
Her other arm drops back to her side from where it had flown, holding back the Colonel's next step. The Colonel steps forward now, surprised expression at her sudden motion fading into something like pity.
"Poor bastard," he says.
But she knows that had she been a half a second slower, had not been alert enough to sense that murderous intent, it could have been him bleeding out on the ground.
He knows her life could have been normal. At least to all appearances. He knows she could have left that legacy behind, let it bury itself in hiding on her back. She had told him she would find something, and he'd seen no reason she wouldn't.
He knows she needn't have followed him into his blood-soaked world.
He doesn't think about this as he walks into the arm that's suddenly flung into his path, stopping too abruptly-
-and then it was over, before he'd had the chance to react, and the man who'd leapt out, knife in hand, was dead on the ground. Probably before he knew what had hit him.
There's a small silence- the only noise is the casing, rolling slightly where it fell.
Her arm falls down and he can take that aborted last step, looking down at the body. "Poor bastard." It's barely louder than a whisper.
He knows she's just saved his life. Again. But this is their system.
Signals to one of the groups of men - soldiers - following them. They all stand stunned, some with guns half-unholstered, some with hands on their weapons, some too slow to have gotten even that far, before she had fired. Shake themselves. The group he'd motioned to bustles into action, making the call to MP, starting the routine that will end with paperwork on Armed Assailant Killed In Combat, forms 9A-T55 and 5H-WGA.
Satisfied, he turns back to her, she, who has reholstered her gun, and stands at attention, waiting.
A nod, curt - but silent recognition of her promise upkept.
And walks on.
She'll be there, that half step behind, the other soldiers falling into their ranks further behind, now - but from shame or deference, even the soldiers couldn't tell.
