Hopelessly (In)Humane | FMAB Reader-Insert

4. The Precipice of Immortality

    Ten soldiers are lined up beside Sascha on the sand-covered platform. Ten good men, ten people who wouldn't be executed alongside Arzen. Is ten too little? Surely, there has to be more. But he doesn't know much about the branch, so he just has to trust his uncle's judgement. Even so... Sascha can't help but think about soldiers who followed Arzen for the sake of their families. It was the best way to get fresh supplies. He would have done the same, in truth, but his dad refused to take anything that came from Arzen: "What's the point of taking shit from scum like that?!"

    Sascha sighs and closes his eyes for a moment's reprieve. The sun burns through his eyelids regardless, illuminating the veins like red lightning bolts. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. When had decisions started feeling that way? Since the drought started? Since his mother died? He wasn't sure. But he had never been that brave. He didn't have the courage to commit, he stayed safe, unharmed, not causing trouble, never truly taking a side. Is that why he put his faith in (Name)? Her self-assurance, the lack of hesitation—he wished he could have been like that. If he was, his mother would have been alive, and maybe he could have helped those other alchemists too.

    A bead of sweat trails into his dry eyes, burning, as if sand had just slipped in. He wished he could say he was crying. Everyone in Krowatol was too dehydrated for tears.

    "It's been an awfully long time," Uncle Harris says, his voice even gruffer than usual thanks to the dry air. Sascha opens his eyes and glances at the other soldiers; he was used to the prolonged heat exposure from standing guard outside, but everyone else looked like they were ready to lay down and die. "What? Do they plan on waiting for us to dehydrate to death?" His uncle's humor has only gotten darker over the years, because of Ishval, and even more so after his mom died.

    His response is cut off by a high pitched whistle that cuts through the air. They both turn toward the tracks. The train barrels through the transparent heat waves, spitting smoke, angry and determined not to be outdone. The soldiers all stand at attention, doing their best to look like they weren't about to collapse.

    Slowly, ever so slowly, the train comes to a halt at the platform. Through the windows, Sascha can see a single person shift.

    'Please, please let my eyes be wrong.' If they really wanted to detain Arzen and all his men, they'd need a team of bodyguards or soldiers, not one state alchemist and the Führer's son.

    Unfortunately, his eyes aren't lying to him, only one person steps out, matching (Name)'s description perfectly: tall, dark, handsome, violet eyes, rich-kid-outfit. Dark seems like the most fitting description, an assessment made painfully apparent as the males lock eyes. If eyes are windows to the soul, Selim's soul is an abysmal chasm of no return, no light, no hope. A chill—an actual chill, in this unforgiving heat—skitters up his spine, a spider with iced legs, stabbing into him with each step. The corner of his lip twitches, and the male looks away, as if Sascha is no longer of any interest to him. He has never been happier to be so unremarkable.

    Sascha swallows, only a drop of water seems to flow down his throat, not nearly enough to shove the sudden lump down.

    His uncle, seeing Sascha's state, steps in as the voice of authority. "Selim Bradley, I presume."

    "Mhm," Selim gives a noncommittal affirmation as he focuses on rolling back the sleeves of his button-up. Somehow, he doesn't look particularly uncomfortable in the desert heat; there's not even a bead of sweat anywhere on his face while they all look like drowned dogs.

    '(Name) forgot to mention his cheery attitude.' The wave of fear dissipates slightly, slightly. If (Name) could switch from sunshine and sympathy to sadism-with-a-smile, Sascha didn't want to see what someone like this was capable of when he got angry.