You're walking alongside Sascha around the perimeter of the mansion, which also functions as the town's military base. After a bit of convincing, Sascha stopped glancing over his shoulder like Arzen was going to leap out and have him executed on the spot, and he told you everything: of mutilated bodies brought out to the buzzards, of bright lights and screams they were ordered to ignore.
'From what he told me, it sounds like Arzen's been experimenting. But with what? Why does he need alchemists?' Gold? Human transmutation? Immortality? Part of you hopes that he's a little more original than most megalomaniacs, but he's already built his evil lair on top of a hill. This will probably end up being one of the missions that makes you lose a little more faith in humanity. Well—you glance over at the hazel-eyed boy walking quietly beside you, lost in his own thoughts—maybe not.
"Hey Sascha, I've been meaning to ask, does your dad own the restaurant in town?"
He stares blankly at you for a few moments before his lips curve into an easy smile. "Oh, you've met my old man?"
"Mhm." You return it with a small smile of your own. "I like to stop by town before these kinds of inspections, get a feel for morale in general. You don't learn much when people are showing you what they want you to see."
"Ah. That's smart. Sounds like something my mom would do." His eyes are tinged with nostalgia. "Believe it or not, she used to be a water alchemist."
Used to be. You keep your observation quietly to yourself, letting Sascha speak as the two of you slowly walk around the mansion.
"Not state certified or anything like that, but, she used to keep the oasis water so clean that you could see straight through to the bottom." A smile lingers on his features, his bright eyes staring off in the distance. If you try hard enough, you can almost imagine the Krowatol he sees, of a secret treasure glimmering in the sunshine—a woman with dark hair and soft, drooping eyes watching over the crystalline waters, wearing the same smile as Sascha.
"Was she one of the alchemists that Arzen...?" There's no need to finish the sentence, and you don't, more for Sascha's sake than your own. You shouldn't have even asked, but your mouth moved quicker than your brain—it was too late to take it back now.
Sascha stops. For a while, he doesn't move, save for the tremors that rack his body. He shakily exhales, opens his mouth, closes it, and then settles for a nod as words fail him.
You take a few steps forward and then circle back to meet him. Gently, you place your hands on his shoulders, making him glance up at you; if not for the relentless, desiccating heat, his eyes would have been filled with tears.
"Sascha, I don't know how much it'll mean to you, but I'm sorry."—beneath your palms, Sascha's shudders increase; he closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth but you keep your grip tight and your voice steady—"Sorry that Arzen's been allowed to continue his reign of terror,"—up and down his chest heaves in shallow breaths, he's hyperventilating—"sorry that your mother was lost to one man's selfish ambitions and no one's done anything,"—chapped lips part to release a drawn out yell, just barely over a whisper; you wait until he finishes—"and I'm especially sorry that I had to make you relive all of this."
You squeeze his shoulders with all the strength you can muster. The force of it is enough to surprise Sascha and reward you a look at those bright hazel hues. You catch his gaze and refuse to let it go. "Arzen's going to get what he deserves, I promise you that. It won't bring back any of the alchemists or the oasis, but, at least it'll keep Krowatol from being swallowed by the desert."
His eyes go wide. After a few breaths, he's steady enough on his feet, you let go. "I..." He looks right at you but then breaks eye contact and looks down. "I didn't tell them." His words are barely over a whisper. "I didn't tell them what happened to the alchemists before them. It's my fault. I don't even know what Arzen does... I just... I just know about what's left after the process is over." His face pales as his fists clench. "It isn't much."
You close your eyes and breathe out. 'It was probably a rebound.' Alchemy is first and foremost a scientific study, but some people seem to think it's sorcery. Alchemists aren't magic, they aren't gods—and rebounds are there to remind them of that. 'No one would risk such a dangerous transmutation for nothing... There has to be more to this.' You glance back at the mansion, at the ominous presence that's been bothering you all day. It has to have something to do with that.
A shadowy tendril tugs on your leg. Speaking of ominous presences—your lips pull into a faint smile—Selim's got perfect timing. Beneath you, the two dimensional figures stretch out with ease. You thought the desert sun would be too bright for Selim's ability, but that's not the case, if anything, he has more mobility than ever. Fortunately, Sascha is too preoccupied by his grief to notice the shifting shadows. From the dark depths one crimson colored eye opens to peer expectantly at you. Selim's surprisingly willing to help you on these missions, but only if you ask, and only if it's on his terms.
It's amazing how many people you can send to their death with a single nod.
And nod you do. A thin line stretches across one of the shadows, which parts to reveal jagged teeth. The lopsided grin is shaped uncannily like a scythe's blade. "I'll see you soon." He leaves with that soft promise, but it's just loud enough to snap Sascha out of his stupor.
"Did you hear something?" He blinks and looks around, and to his knowledge, there's nothing beside the two of you.
"I asked if you wouldn't mind doing me a favor?" You lie smoothly.
Sascha blinks and tilts his head. "Sure, what is it?"
"Do you know who's involved in Arzen's crimes or not? Or at least, do you know someone that would know?"
"I... I think so. My parents have a few friends at the base."
"Good. Talk to them."—
"Major Hughes!" Tch. That much be Arzen.
—"It'll be the deciding factor as to who's executed alongside Arzen," you state, just before the bastard's within hearing distance. Sascha's still left wide eyed by your statement, but he tries his best to throw on a neutral expression—albeit he ends up looking slightly constipated.
You glance over at Arzen. He's rat-faced as one might expect, with greasy looking black hair just past his shoulders and a distinctive widow's peak. His goatee makes him look like the villains in old Xingese fairy-tales.
"I have to say, I wasn't expecting your visit!" He struggles to catch his breath, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
"Ah, Major Arzen, it's a pleasure to meet you. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if you were expecting me." You plaster a friendly smile on to lower his guard, it's an art you've mastered well—it helps that you're so young and look so unthreatening. "I was just telling Private Sascha here to gather a group of men he trusts and to receive a friend of mine from the train station."
"A friend?" Arzen forces his slit-thin eyes open. "And who may that be, if you don't mind my inquiring?"
"Selim Bradley, Führer King Bradley's son." They go silent. "It's a very important task, and I've come to trust Private Sascha in the time I've spoken to him, so I entrusted him with the task of selecting others to welcome Selim. I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience."
"N-no. Not at all."
Sascha seems shocked by Arzen's compliant attitude, but he conceals it as he stands at attention. "Major Hughes, how many should I take with me?"
"As many good men as it takes." You lock eyes with him, conveying your silent message the best that you can. It's a heavy burden to push on someone, but this is the best you can do right now.
You drop the serious act before Arzen can catch on. "It's really hard to miss him. Tall, dark and handsome, distinctive violet eyes, dressed like a rich brat who doesn't realize the desert is hot as hell." Then again, Selim probably didn't actually feel hot, considering his body's composition, but still.
Arzen and Sascha both stare at you blankly. You grin at them and wave Sascha off. "Well? Get going soldier, Selim doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Sir!" Sascha stands at attention and salutes. "Please excuse me, majors!" Sascha heads into the mansion, running right past the racist baldy from earlier on his quest for good men to escort Selim. You smile slightly at this.
"Please, come in, come in. It's a bit last minute, but the cooks are preparing some lunch." Arzen gestures you to follow him back to the front entrance. The racist baldy from earlier walks a few paces behind the two of you, and you're vaguely aware of the dirty look he's shooting at the back of your head.
"If you don't mind me asking, Major Hughes, what were the two of you doing on the side of the mansion like that?" Arzen tries to disguise the suspicion as cordiality, but he hasn't had nearly as much practice as you have—or he's just not as good.
"Ah, taking a walk and appreciating the elegance"—gaudiness—"of your manor."
Bellowing, Arzen nods. "Oh, the outside is nothing, Major Hughes, it hasn't been washed off in a few days and the desert sands love making a mess of things."
"You can afford the water to do so?"
"Ah, yes, of course, are you thirsty, Major Hughes?"
A bucket of filtered rainwater, sealed with a padlock and four loud latches; the hoarse voice of a man deprived of water yet not daring to indulge, the revenant way he drank from the dusty cup as if it was the nectar of the gods.
The cries of your aching throat go ignored. "No, not at all."
~~**~~*~~**~~
'As many good men as it takes. As many good men as it takes...' Sascha repeats the words like a mantra, protocol be damned as he runs through the halls. There aren't that many people stationed here at the base, but, he doesn't want to miss anyone. Was (Name) really being serious about having people executed? She flitted between emotions so quickly.
He's known her for less than an hour and she's left a stronger impression than anyone else he's ever met—and yet he can't make sense of any of it. Ruthlessness and compassion—is it even possible for someone to exist on both ends of the spectrum the way she does? Is it all just an act? Maybe she's already helping Arzen and working with him, what if he's just leading everyone to their death? On the flip side, if she isn't, if she's really there to free them of Arzen, who the hell should he consider a good person? And what happens to the people he decides aren't good—wait, he already knew the answer. They'd be executed too. Was he going to be responsible for their deaths? How good is good? Surely some of the people only sucked up to Arzen because they thought it'd keep them alive, but is that really enough to justify their murder?
A wall kindly slams him in the face and forces him to stop, physically and mentally. He's almost grateful for it—his brain matter pulses and throbs against his skull—well except for that.
"Did the heat get to your head, Private Sascha?" The wall—not wall, Captain—reaches out for his shoulder and squeezes it over the spot (Name) held not too long ago as she apologized.
Sascha rubs his forehead. "No, no."—"It'll be the deciding factor as to who's executed alongside Arzen."—"More like, I was struck by lightning..."
"Heat lightning?"
"Never mind that, sir." He stares up at the hulking man in front of him, his maternal uncle, someone he's known his entire life. "Uh, actually, sir. Major Hughes has entrusted me with an important duty, but"—he breathes out, and looks down at his shaking hands—"I can't do it on my own. I need help."
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with a Major Hughes. Under what authority are they operating?"
"Führer King Bradley personally sent her and granted her written permission to act as she sees fit in regards to the missing alchemists."
"Führer King Bradley, huh? Didn't think he'd care enough to send someone all the way out here. What are your orders?"
"Uh, to gather a team of good men, and receive Selim Bradley from the train station." Gods, how could he even start to word it? That anyone left behind would be executed? Should he say that much? Was he even allowed to say the much?
"Come into my office. You're all shook up, the heat must have gotten to you." Uncle Harris puts a hand on his shoulders and guides him down the hall, to a private room. The lock on the door clicks quietly behind him. "We should be able to talk freely," his uncle reassures. He strides into the room and leans on the paper-covered desk. "All right, Sascha. This isn't a simple escort. Of course, it is the Führer's son, but, there's more, I can tell from how jittery you are." It's times like this that make him realize he got his brain from his dad's side of the family; stubborn and straight-forward, charging blindly ahead guided by pretty-sounding philosophies.
"Tell me everything, from the beginning."
And so he does his best to scramble through the explanation. He can't help but look over his shoulder every now and then. He's not sure whether he's waiting to see Arzen, one of his lackeys, or (Name) break down the door. His poor heart is slamming frantically against his ribcage, and his throat is completely dry by the time he's finished.
His uncle hasn't said a single word. All this time, he's just been staring—Sascha's pretty sure he hasn't even blinked. His jaw's clenched. "Sascha. This girl. You're sure she introduced herself as the Water Dragon Alchemist and that she had a letter from Führer King Bradley?"
"Yes, I'm sure. It don't make a lot of sense though. Why send a water alchemist here? Especially when she looks so"—cute? Innocent? Helpless? The words are appropriate, yet they don't sit quite right on his tongue. Something about the way she carries herself, that easy, unflappable confidence, he'd almost swear that she was the older one between the two of them—"young." He settles lamely on that description, even though he knows it's not what he really wants to say.
His uncle exhales through clenched teeth, distorted whistles breaking the silence that had settled. "Listen carefully, Sascha. That girl, the Water Dragon Alchemist, she's the Führer's favorite pet."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm saying that she's an extremely efficient state alchemist who knows how to make people disappear. No one ever asks questions, especially since she works right under the Führer. She's more a myth than a person." Uncle Harris takes his cap off, tilting his head back and tightly grabbing the few hairs he has left. "And you're telling me she's here, that she introduced herself to you and chose to send you on a mission to pick up the Führer's son? Kid. This sounds like a trap."
A trap... He considered it himself, but, was (Name) really that kind of person? He could still imagine the tight grip on his shoulders, holding him steady. It didn't feel like an act. Her hands didn't feel like the hands of a killer—they felt like his mom's, catching him before he could pass out from the heat. "I'm sorry." Her voice was so resolute, so sincere. It had the eloquence of a rehearsed speech, but it was so soft and laced with emotion.
Maybe he was weak. Maybe he wanted to believe in the sincerity of a stranger's kindness.
Maybe he wanted Arzen gone.
"I don't think it's a trap." He shakes his head before the fleeting confidence can pass. "I believe in her, and besides, this might be our last hope."
His uncle sighs as he releases his hair. "You've got your mother's optimism, kid." He sets his hand on the top of Sascha's head. "Let's hope it doesn't get us both killed."