"Tired? How about we rest a bit. It's not our turn yet," Mokhfat said as he lit a cigarette. The army had no shortage of smokers and drinkers. The brutality of the battlefield defies words: enemies collapse before your eyes—some torn to pieces by high-impact rounds, some with their heads blown apart, some simply erased by the terrifying methods of alchemy. Not knowing whether the next second you'll still be alive to make it back to your hometown, to a warm home—despair like that eats at you. Smoking and drinking dull the fear, so plenty of soldiers do both.
Allen shook his head, rubbed his eyes, pressed two fingers to his temples, and kneaded them with his eyes closed.
"Want one?"
At the sound, he looked over. Grinning, Mokhfat offered him a cigarette. Allen hesitated only a heartbeat before taking it. He lit up and drew deep; the thick smoke, textured like water, slid down his throat into his lungs. One cycle later, the blue smoke turned to a yellowish haze as it left his mouth. "Good smoke," Allen said with genuine admiration.
"Heh, my grandmother makes them herself—aged three years with a bunch of special spices. You can't buy this anywhere," Mokhfat said, clearly pleased by Allen's verdict. Most tobaccos are only aged two years; three is pushing it, but the result is rich. With those rare spices—and that spark in Allen's eyes—Mokhfat couldn't help feeling warmer toward him. (Author's note: I'm a heavy smoker too—been at it for over ten years. No idea how many years I've got left.)
"You'll smoke us to death!" Riza Hawkeye, jolted awake by the haze, sounded annoyed. War's cruelty had wrung her out, body and mind; she'd only just fallen asleep when the two of them choked her awake. She shot them a glare and muttered the complaint. Mokhfat froze for a beat, then laughed heartily, took two quick drags, stubbed the cigarette, and flicked it out the window before giving Riza an embarrassed grin.
Allen, by contrast, felt his temper spark. This woman never gave him a pleasant look—she wasn't close to him, and she wasn't his anything. He took shallow puffs instead, exhaling swathes of smoke that hadn't been "filtered" by his alveoli into the cabin, setting Riza coughing again and giving him a small, guilty thrill.
After a short commotion, the speeding trucks braked at the city's edge. The soldiers on board were already pouring forward in dense lines. From the first shot, the crackle of gunfire went off like New Year firecrackers in another world. This wasn't like the villages behind them; this place was armed. On a continent at war, guns weren't contraband—if you had money, you could buy them by the truckload.
Every so often, two or three men carried a wounded soldier to the rear, where medics did quick work—stanch the bleeding, disinfect, bandage. There was no chance for anesthetic with a gunshot wound: needle-nose pliers went straight into the wound, clamped the slug, and yanked it out; then strong liquor was poured in and a flame was touched to it. When the wound and nearby muscle blanched and the bleeding stopped, they smeared on a green, mud-thick paste and wound two loops of bandage. That was considered "handled."
The wounded sat or lay on the ground, brows knotted. As the medics worked, the corners of their mouths twitched now and then, but no one cried out.
The truck's once-boisterous compartment fell quiet. They'd thought about resistance, sure—but the battle had only just begun, a surprise attack at that, and there were already dozens of wounded. No one felt like celebrating. These were only the injured; out there were soldiers who died without even a chance at treatment. A bleak chill spread among the new recruits.
The air inside grew heavy. Mokhfat's usually fair face flushed, like a man who can't hold his liquor. A hard, vicious glint flashed in his eyes as he stared at the quarter of the city where the shots rang.
Everyone had their own thoughts. Armstrong had woken at the very first shot. Sitting upright in the back seat, he looked every inch the soldier—ramrod straight, hands on his knees, a hint of excitement on his face. The muscles under his uniform twitched.
Allen, meanwhile, smoked at ease. He understood: his chance at merit was here. He might be a Special Investigator, but he was also an alchemist; at the front he had latitude—join the fight or head straight back to Central.
As they drew closer to the city, they could already hear the convalescing wounded talking. Some wore smiles—maybe they'd felled plenty of enemies. Some looked grim—maybe they'd taken a crippling hit and couldn't return to the line. But none of them looked afraid. That surprised Allen. In another world, those petty warlords ran as far as they could at the first sign of invasion—nothing like their usual swagger. Fearlessness might as well be scripture to them.
With a soft swish, the soldiers to the rear snapped a textbook salute toward Allen's vehicle. The car rolled to a stop. A soldier with second-lieutenant shoulder boards opened Mokhfat's door, planted his boots, saluted sharply again, and practically shouted, "Report, Commander: our forces have entered Sector A3. We've lost over three hundred men; one hundred nineteen wounded. Enemy KIA count not yet confirmed. Awaiting your orders!"
Mokhfat took off his cap, his face stormy. He peeled off his black leather gloves, returned the salute, asked for a few details, and then dismissed the officer.
"What is it?" Mustang had already gotten out. Standing beside Mokhfat, he glanced at Mokhfat's furious face and then toward the city.
Mokhfat's expression twisted at the question. "Damn it—someone's been selling a ton of weapons to Ishval. We've run into unprecedented resistance. Those idiots in Military Intelligence must've been raised on crap. Not one word of this in the file I saw!" He seemed to realize something and shot Allen an apologetic look. Allen answered with a glance that said it was fine.
The Military Intelligence Bureau and the Intelligence Bureau were two different outfits—mainly because there were too many lieutenant generals and full generals. The wars east and west had dragged on for decades; how many generals that had produced, no one could say. The elderly ones couldn't go to the front anymore, and the government couldn't just shelve them after a lifetime of service, so it kept spinning up new agencies and putting them in charge. Military intelligence had once belonged to the Intelligence Bureau, but once the top brass multiplied, the hassle of investigating enemy information was split off, and a Military Intelligence Bureau was born. These days the Intelligence Bureau was basically a Jinyiwei-style internal watchdog, focused on officials and domestic society—something like today's Ministry of Public Security and Procuratorate.
TN: You can vote for this series as a free member here: https://[email protected]/posts/142658209. The winner will continue to receive updates. While the poll is running, new chapters will be added to both fanfics.
//[email protected]/Razeil0810