Sand. Again. Everywhere. Between my fingers, under my nails, in my hair, and — don't ask me how — even in my ears. It crunched in my teeth, filled my collar, snuck into the deepest pockets. I crawled out of the ruins of Xerxes like out of hell — hot, dusty, and totally incompatible with my existence. My first instinct was to lie face down and play ostrich. Sadly, I had a guardian angel with wings, sarcasm, and zero tolerance for self-pity.
— Rise, hero, — Luci drawled, hovering above me like a statue of arrogance in female form. — Sure, the earth is a reliable support... but you're not a geologist to study it that closely. And definitely not a weed to take root in it.
I got up slowly, groaning like an old man whose body ached from hope itself. Every cell reminded me of what a body is — and why it had betrayed me. My back throbbed, hands trembled, thoughts scattered like mice.
— We survived? — I muttered.
— What do you think? Purgatory? Although… with that hairstyle — maybe.
— Thanks, as always, for the support, — I muttered, brushing off a chunk of ancient architecture from my shoulder.
We had emerged from Xerx. But not into a void. Ahead, silhouetted against the blinding sun, stood outlines: a tent with a flag, a couple of military vehicles, and... a figure. A figure.
Massive, gleaming. With a chest like a marble statue, mustache shimmering like legend, and a bald head reflecting the sun better than any mirror. He sat on a crate, like a throne on weekend loan.
— Who's that?.. — I whispered.
Luci snorted:
— Armstrong. Alex Louis Armstrong. Major of the Amestris Army. His abs can suppress a rebellion without words. His mustache — a symbol of his dynasty. And the baldness… let's just say, it's a sacred relic even higher powers dare not touch without permission.
I slowly turned to her:
— Wait… you know him?
— I'm a guardian angel. I have extended access. And yes, he has a personnel file three pages long. Half of it — dedicated to his mustache.
That's when he noticed us.
— DON'T MOVE, CIVILIAN! — he roared, and I swear even my eyelashes trembled from the air pressure.
— Run? — I whispered.
— Seriously? From him? Good luck.
— Oh-no-no-no, — I exhaled… and bolted.
Too late.
With the force of a freight train, he slammed me into the sand. The air was knocked from my lungs, and above me loomed muscles — absurdly massive muscles.
— You have entered a restricted zone! Identify yourself and state your purpose! — he bellowed.
— I… was just taking a walk? — I tried.
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing:
— Traces of alchemy. Dust with quartz and silver particles. Elevated pulse. This is no walk.
— Are you… a forensic analyst? — I rasped.
He lifted me like a sack of potatoes and set me on my feet. Then squared his shoulders and thundered:
— I AM ALEX LOUIS ARMSTRONG! MAJOR OF CENTRAL COMMAND! DIRECT HEIR TO THE TECHNIQUE PASSED DOWN THROUGH GENERATIONS! 💪
Even the sun seemed to applaud.
— Are the mustaches passed down like alchemy too? Curious... The women in his family probably grow theirs like war medals — by thirty and not open for discussion.
I glanced at her:
— If their weddings include shaving ceremonies, I officially fear this lineage.
Then... Armstrong whipped around:
— Who were you speaking to just now?
— What?.. — I froze. Then it hit me. I looked at Luci:
— Wait… he can't see you?!
— Oh, right... — Luci smacked her forehead with a little fist, smiling guiltily like a schoolgirl who forgot to turn off the iron at home. — I totally forgot to mention that ordinary mortals can't see me unless I allow it... But it's not that important, is it?
I gawked at her, mouth ajar like a fish on land. I wiped my face like I could erase the absurdity.
— Not that important?! — I hissed. — He's going to summon an exorcist and simultaneously write up my psych evaluation!
— Oh, stop being dramatic, — Luci huffed, twirling around me like a butterfly of mockery. — He's not shouting. He's analyzing. First evaluation, then reaction. Muscles don't hinder discipline.
I peeked at Armstrong. He stood like a statue, but the concentrated concern radiating from him made my back sweat.
Then came the voice. Low, steady, as if deciding whether to file me under archive or clinical case study:
— Are you… sure everything is all right?
Armstrong didn't break eye contact:
— Hmm… We had a soldier in Ishval like this. He used to speak with a flying goat and called her his grandmother. Perhaps… you require psychological assessment.
— Goat-grandma… — Luci wheezed with laughter. — This world just keeps getting better.
— I'm in hell, — I muttered. — A mustached, muscular hell.
At that moment, Armstrong froze. Then stepped aside. His gaze landed on a half-buried slab poking out of the sand. He knelt, brushed off the dust…
And froze.
— What is this?..
— It's… a face… — he whispered. He lifted the slab, turned it toward me. — It's YOUR face.
My fingers went cold.
— I… I don't know what that is. Honestly.
Luci said nothing. Even she — was silent.
Armstrong stared for a long time. Then slowly placed the slab back down.
— I don't believe in coincidences. If the very earth decided to remember your face… then you have a role to play in this story. And honor demands I give you the chance to fulfill it.
He pulled out a canteen, a map, and handed them to me.
— Leave. Before the rest of the unit arrives. I saw nothing. Only sand, stone… and a strange conversation with a man speaking to the void. But know this: I remember you. And this slab. And if one day you become a threat… my mustache will sense it.
— That is biologically terrifying,— I muttered.
We walked away. Away from Xerxes. Away from Armstrong. The sun climbed higher. Luci hovered beside me, stretching out mid-air, eyes forward.
— Now you're officially an artifact of an ancient civilization, — she smirked. — Might as well put it on your Tinder bio.
— I don't understand anything anymore.
POV Shift
Sand still crunched softly beneath boots. Armstrong stood motionless, his back silhouetted against the crimson horizon. The waning warmth of day pressed on his shoulders, but his eyes remained on the slab, half-buried in the sand. Slowly, he rested a hand on it — as if to confirm it was real.
Several more minutes passed. Then he turned and walked unhurriedly to the army tent. Inside, everything was military-minimal: a field desk, stacks of papers, radio equipment. He removed his gloves, approached the table, and switched on the receiver.
— Comm. Is the line secure?
A short beep answered.
He sat down, adjusted his mustache, and without looking away from a page of hastily drawn alchemical symbols, spoke:
— Connect me to Lieutenant Colonel Mustang. Confidential.
Several seconds passed. A click. Then a familiar, tense voice crackled through:
— Mustang. Go ahead, Armstrong.
— Sir, subject located in zone S-5. Identity unknown. Behavior — abnormal. Visually — poses no immediate threat.
— And?.. — Mustang asked dryly, though curiosity laced his voice.
Armstrong hesitated. His hand touched the slab, carefully placed at the table's edge.
— Artifact found. Subject's face engraved on it. Match — nearly exact.
A long pause.
— Understood, — Mustang said. — What did you decide?
Armstrong looked toward the narrow slit of the tent where daylight was fading.
— I let them go.
— Reason?
— Intuition. And...
He clenched his fist, as if trying to grasp an elusive thought.
— Because we both know, Lieutenant Colonel: everything tied to Xerxes ends up in archives — and comes back not as truth, but as a weapon. And if the higher-ups decide this boy is part of some old legend… they won't study him. They'll erase him. And you, Mustang, are one of the few still trying to think for yourself. And remember — sometimes, honor lies not in obedience, but in doubt.
Mustang sighed heavily:
— Noted. Make sure you're not being followed. I'll contact you later.
Click.
The radio fell silent.
Armstrong sat in the dim tent for a long time, eyes fixed on the stone face — as if trying to see something more within it. Then he slowly nodded to himself.