A/N: Don't own FMA. Don't own "Little Weapon" by Lupe Fiasco. Don't own anything really.


Little Weapon.


Little weapon, little weapon, little weapon

We're calling you, there's a war,

If the guns are just too tall for you,

we'll find you something small to use.

Little weapon, little weapon, little weapon

I need you now


When Edward Elric passed the State Alchemist Exam, Mustang promised himself that he would do everything in his power to protect the little boy as much as possible from the darker side of the military. But it seemed as if Bradley had other things in mind. After all, the Fullmetal Alchemist needed to know what being a soldier was really all about, twelve years old or not.

The problem with Edward Elric was that he was too smart to believe the propaganda. He knew exactly what he was marching into. Mustang remembered with excruciating clarity the day of his deployment. He was all youthful cockiness, but the colonel could see the pallor underneath his tan, the way his stubbornly-set jaw trembled, and the fear that flickered in his eyes when Al wasn't looking.

The colonel had been stationed elsewhere, but that didn't stop him from hearing the news about the little blonde boy. A whole platoon had been crushed under an avalanche of rock and snow. He was famous. The other soldiers were inventive in their adoration of the boy:

The Blonde Bombshell.

The Fullmetal Demon.

The Bone Crusher.

The Golden Guillotine.

And Mustang's personal favorite, the Devil's Child.

It was a "sweet little war", ending as soon as it began. Three months is really no time at all and the casualty rate was a record low. So why was it when Ed stood in front of his desk the colonel only wanted to despair?

Al hulked at his big brother's side, subdued by the hardness in those golden eyes. The anger in the older Elric's voice had a razor's edge now, even if the words hadn't changed. Mustang was still Colonel Bastard, but the moniker was anything but childish spite. It lacerated him with a fury and resignation that belonged to multi-tour veterans.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Roy had heard that somewhere and on the surface everything was the same, but the truth was that everything had changed: the anguish and hate that radiated off that small body wasn't for his commanding officer, the army, or the Fuhrer, it was for himself.

So Mustang sent him after every possible lead on the stone and blessed the scotch that curtained his own self-hatred at the feelings of relief when Ed was away. The colonel wished he could comfort him in some manner, but he knew that was more for his own conscience than for Ed.

He had to take the Fuhrer out. The colonel promised himself there would be no more Edward Elrics.


A/N: Thought about this while listening to the aforementioned song (points up at first A/N), which is about child soldiers. If you are interested in the subject "The Lost Boys of Sudan" is good documentary.

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