Chronicles of Foster and Fuchs Part 1

Year 1921, Drachma, Ivansgorod outskirts.

Winter time.

8:12 PM.

Fuchs lazily scratched his stomach as he took another swig of his ill spent booze from a fortune that should be conserved. Much to the displeasure of his partner, Foster. He was a fair skinned man of youthful complexion, blue visage and brown hair. Adorned in a suit overlapping a sweater worn underneath. His hands had gloves to keep them worn as his feet had Oxford loafers. His scalp concealed by a worker's cap. Eyeing Foster occasionally, whom should be apart of him in this otherwise ruined cabin of little value but for shelter. Not that he disagrees with his presence if anything, just his demeanor.

It was two decades since Roy Mustang's counter-coup d'etat back at the homeland in Amestris, where Amestris's warmongering days were long left behind. A temporary peace if anything in Fuchs' own estimate. A huge waste of time, but it wasn't his place to comment he knows. He had a job to do. Setting aside the Devil's drink to inspect his arms. His Krauser c69 (based on Mauser c69), the both of them. And his Tommy gun (based on the Thompson sub-machine gun) too. Holstering the both of the Krauser's, as well as his Tommy submachine gun worn behind as it was strapped to his torso. Pocketing the extra ammunition he left on top of the table, keeping his booze company in particular.

"Alright, I'll repeat it again Foster over our overall objectives." He says in a deadpan lazy Amestrian, as if mocking his partner's own intelligence in remembering things like this, "First, we're to raid the facility in Ivansgorod and find information of this unknown hostile. Take any documents, and afterwards, meet with our handler. Simple shit. Understand? I hope you do, otherwise this is going to be one LOOOONG night."

"Ahhh, fuck you Fuchs." came the caustic reply of the 'partner' in question, who was seated on . . . what appeared to have been part of the roof to the cabin, now furnished as a seat. The bitter Foster was a fellow whose scalp was layered with pale blonde hair, and ever-angered eyes of blue gazing out of a sizable gap in the wall of the cabin.

"I do what I want, and even when I do that, I don't jeopardize the mission unlike you in that time in Aerugo and Xing and Creta ... and at West. You really need to put down the bottle sometimes. Your silly drunk ass always almost gets us filled with lead." he bitterly snaps. . . . God, he needed to kill someone, or someTHING at least.

Right now, the wondrous snowscape out there, which he wanted to burn down since he hated the god-damn cold . . . this was why he lived in East, but yeah the wondrous land out there was now a field of darkness and ... soon to be filled with some death. Their mission was going to begin soon, and they always did things on the dot.

Foster twitched a little, his craving for blood and this cold wasn't helping, but still, he was experimenting with the new rifle he brought along. A wonderful piece of work, got renamed twice already, and was just called Rifle No.1 Mk. III (SMLE [Short-magazine Lee-Enfield] Mk. III rifle, wheee). Already he was assuming position, as though he was going to fire . . . but he wasn't crazy enough to waste a bullet, oh no. Bullets were a precious commodity, even if he did have plenty of five-round clips on his person.

It was still taking some work, getting use to a new gun, but he'd already used it for another mission . . . so, it'd be good ... hopefully. If that didn't work, he always had his trusty sidearm, Cretan-import just like the rifle, designed in 1911, but still as deadly and possibly going to stay that way.

"I know you're highly anal-retentive and like to keep things nice and orderly to schedule, but can we just start the god-damned mission and get it over with? All this snow is so dreary and wretched ... like you. And I'd rather get out of here as soon as we can."

A breeze of cold hit Fuchs, causing him to shiver slightly, as he took up an Esparian cigar. Lighting it up and pocketing his lighter. Inhaling and exhaling the rather noxious fumes causing his lungs some mild distress, yet soothing his body in the sweet embrace of warmth deserved well. Clouding his general area with smoke, as he turned to look up at his partner above in his typically neutral face devoid of emotions.

"Ahhh, fuck you Fuchs."

"No thanks Foster, I don't swing that way, take your man-loving shit somewhere else." He interjects sardonically to his partner, kicking the snow. Sheesh, that Foster can be a pain in the ass to be around, given his rather coarse language, unrefined skills, if not rather liberal attitude when it came to matters that need a more delicate... touch.

"I do what I want, and even when I do that, I don't jeopardize the mission unlike you in that time in Aerugo and Xing and Creta ... and at West. You really need to put down the bottle sometimes. Your silly drunk ass always almost gets us filled with lead."

His face frowned with a heavy scowl of displeasure, flinging the cigar to the ground that was so fresh, as he stomped on it to death, killing what embers lingered within with prejudice.

"THIS AGAIN!? That was ONE TIME, ONLY ONE. Unlike you, at least I like women," He kindly replied to Foster's assertions of Fuchs' own incompetence with a rather eloquent rebuttal worthy of respect of Foster's station, which is to say... not a lot, "The waitress was a babe, what was I to do? Just order once so I can only see such a fine piece of ass briefly? Anyways, we're ending about this discussion, those times don't count."

"I know you're highly anal-retentive and like to keep things nice and orderly to schedule, but can we just start the god-damned mission and get it over with? All this snow is so dreary and wretched ... like you. And I'd rather get out of here as soon as we can."

Fuchs turned about, onward towards the facility that rests ahead of him, the way he was heading, a walled in compound with many buildings housing silos that tower over everything, spitting out smoke. The two were a good few meters away from the place, shielded by darkness of night as their approach would be rather covert.

"Wish granted, if you can stop obsessing over my hindquarters. Now get a move on, or are you just going to be talk like you always are?"

Now that he has that out of the way, Fuchs unveils his two pistols, holding each fully loaded arm in their own respective places, taking larger and larger strides until he broke into a run. Bracing his back against the red brick walls of the Ivansgorod facility, sponsored and under the Czar's own protection. The front door was far too guarded to enter from. The side entrance was the best location to break into the facility, make use of the confusion, kill witnesses, take the package, get out. Job is simple, he just hopes that Foster can actually follow this simple order without indulging into his... otherwise unhealthy homicidal tendencies.

Foster merely shook his head. Ordinarily, he'd be more combative today and keep the argument running on, but . . . it was too damn cold. Blasted Drachman winters and snow and shit. Though, he had one last thing to say to Fuchs before they'd stay quiet for the mission.

"The only thing I'd obsess about your ass is how many bullets I can shoot into so so you'll need a colostomy bag instead of being able to sit down." Foster snarls back, before making use of the straps on his rifle to wrap it around him and carry it without needing to use his hands. He drew out the 1911's (M1911 equivalents, in case you were wondering), both of them imported from Creta. Oh this was going to be fun times.

First corpse he makes, he's going to god-damned skullfuck it, since it's been a while.

"About frigging time" he mutters, following his partner.

"Well Miss Foster, ladies first. Blow this fucking wall apart, we don't have all night for you to yank your tampon out." He suggested most eloquently to Foster.

After all, Fuchs lacked the means to destroy the wall, as he wasn't the one to stock up on grenades. Rather he spent that said money on some Esparian cigars, booze, and a lighter. Having worn them around his belt with holsters specially fit to keep his Whiskey canteens around, all to drink in the middle of the job that must be so pivotal.

His fingers twitched, he SO wanted to waste Foster right now in the face, riddle his body with so many bullets, take the grenades, and do the job himself. But thing is, Foster was not worth a bullet. That's too expensive. Foster was probably worth 1 Cenz in Fuchs's mind. He has to think of the money! He isn't a cash cow and all that, and his boss wouldn't exactly be pleased to hear of Foster's demise.

"Well? What're you waiting for? Got some panties to put in a knicker? Just do it!" He barked, inclining his head towards the direction of where the grenade should explode, as he eyed Foster with clear malevolence spewing out of his eyes.

Now, it should be noted Foster had a penchant for carrying straight razors and other sharp rectangular objects ... like boxcutters! If his dumbass-of-a-partner wasn't giving the half-thoughtful suggestion of blowing up the wall so they could get into the shitty compound, of which ONLY HE wisely choose to purchase before and brought with him tonight on this mission, he would have dug one of those bladed implement into the back of his partner.

Yeah. Many an incident occurred where he got shot in the leg or the gut, after driving Fuchs nuts enough to finally consider wasting a bullet by backstabbing his 'pal' more than once, AND THAT WAS DURING DEBRIEFING.

Ah well, but the dumbass had a point. So, he obliged, wordlessly. Since, if this conversation kept on going, he'd be tempted to rip out a knife or a razor or something and stab him in the back. God, he needed some release: First asshole they'd find he was going to torture like hell. So, Foster placed one of the 11's back into it's appropriate holster (namely, the one in his left hand) and drew out the stick grenade that he had made sure to get his hands on. Good thing.

The psychotic who skinned people because for shits and giggles proceeded forward, making sure to give a rough backhand that impacted into his partner's shoulder (bound to leave it a little sore, considering he was holding a somewhat heavy object in it) and approached the wall, trying to find a good place to plant this stupid thing. Luckily for him, it seemed there was nice sized crevice he could nudge this grenade into, which he already loaded the detonator into. Now to set it off. God, he hated grenades, despite how useful they could be. Or at least, he hated these ones.

The cord was pulled, the internal mechanism done its work . . . and now they have about five seconds to run.

'ShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShitShit'

Fosters immediately turned and BOLTED, not wanting to stick around at all to see what the grenade did to the clearly damaged wall.

Fuchs was not amused. Definitely not. He was less than likely to stand a smack to his shoulder, given his arrogance and pride, his ego must be untarnished by the likes of Foster, especially since their relationship isn't based on honesty, trust and camaraderie. It's more to do with which one is better, and likely to outdo the other. Right now malice filled his veins as he hated his partner for that display of rudeness given out. So he strolled away from the wall as Foster planted the explosive and pulled it out.

In a display of treachery, he thwacked his pistol's butt against Foster's back, before sprinting off ahead of him. Such a hit should hurt like a mofo and make one feel lightheaded. Fuchs leaped into a mound of snow and rolled up there behind the cover, as the explosion would encompass sending the rest of the facility to panic, and a nicely placed opening in the wall for the two to enter.

Without wasting time, Fuchs sprinted into the opening in the wall, which coincidentally was strong enough to blow an opening into a factory. The workers inside were in a disarray, the explosion blew bricks that impaled a few of the workers inside, and out of the thin smoke poured gunfire being shot from one pistol in a leftwise sweep the Krauser is notable for. Shooting away all the workers mechanically and methodically that worked on these mysterious ammunition and weaponry that glowed with ethereal blue energy. Cylinders that glowed blue arranged into steel shells and done so by hands. And yet all the workers here were Xingese in appearance, their hands swollen with blisters and torn apart, unlike the men holding guns whom were just shot as of now.

The entire facility was in an uproar as an alarm sounded, with Fuchs sprinting upstairs towards the office. Witnesses were eliminated, but they had no time to spare. Guards would peek into the current building from an entrance opposing the holes, wielding energy weapons that fire beams of disintegrating rays. Looking around for the intruders, with Fuchs's luck quite high to have bypassed their sights. Scrounging whatever pile of paper upstairs. An office hanging up and connected to a catwalk that was in turn connected to a set of stairs. Whomever occupied this office was killed with a brutal thwack of the Krauser's butt against his nostril, caving his face in and causing death. It was a single Krauser held out, the one he didn't shoot. He holstered the other, smartly holding the loaded one as the half-empty one was kept in reserves.

His haste was not a result of his dedication to the mission, merely the head start he planned to get in taking all the credits for a job well done, ever so whoring for glory.

"GAH!" was all Foster could say as he got freaking pistol-whipped by Fuchs. Oh that motherfucking, backstabing sonovabitch! HE WAS GOING TO KILL THAT ASSHOLE! Foster, fortunately, was already a fair distance away from the explosive and that blow didn't stop him from dropping down as quickly as he could in the snow to avoid the explosion and whatever bits were flying from that.

And minutes later, agonizing details later, he was now hot on Fuchs' heels. Y'see, it's not that he was superhuman, no it was that he had been expecting Fuchs to try something, but to be honest, he hadn't expected to get pistol-whipped: So, while he was feeling the ache, he had managed to relax enough a bit (coming to a stop to drop down into the snow) to make sure the blow didn't do its total intended damage.

That might explain how he was able to trail after Fuchs, only a few seconds behind him, and stand outside in the doorway just as that greedy bastard had finished off the office worker and was now scrounging through the papers. THAT MOTHERFUCKER. Trying to take all the damn credit for the mission, well Foster wasn't going to have any of that. He'd rather see Fuchs dead than be able to gloat! This, as he had drawn the '11 again and was now preparing to aim it for Fuchs's head (especially since his back was towards him).

But, before he did, he heard some idle chatter down below. Xingese. Those workers down there, who spoke not a lick of anything else besides their native tongue, were trying to explain to the guards, some armed with weird laser weapons and other with Drachman-made sub-machine guns. If there was anything Foster hated more than Fuchs, it was Xingese who couldn't speak anything besides that. Hell, he hated anyone who didn't know more than just one language, and that's why he could speak Cretan, Amestrian and Drachman. Personal interest and plenty of time got him to learn those languages.

So, he holstered the '11 and instead drew out the Rifle No.1, already having the rounds loaded in it. Locking the bolt in place and chambering the first round, he took aim for that nosy Xingman. It took about a second to get his sights on the ass's head, and not much longer to pull the trigger.

-BAM- There went the poor Xingman. Foster just grinned as the bullet had cleanly struck the target, pulling back the bolt and let the spent casing out. Unfortunately, his surprise attack and poor choice of target meant there were a whole bunch of guards down there who had realized that he was up here on the catwalks. Well, considering how heavy those weapons looked and the fact they would need to lift them up, he probably had a few seconds to shoot, before they started returning fire. Although this rifle was new for him, he had given himself plenty of practice on operating it, so.

Needless to say, in the next six seconds, he had shot out three more bullets, which each neatly struck the intended area of his targets (one for the head, another through the heart, and the last one through the groin). -BAM--BAM--BAM- God DAMN! This rifle was quite good, it's reputation for speed and accuracy was certainly true.

And now he threw himself back, into the office, considering the doorway was just behind him. A wise decision too, as some laser and a storm of bullets came flying towards where he had been earlier. Unless he had counted wrong . . . there were twelve guards, initially. About four, maybe, were holding those nasty-looking energy weapons, and the others were armed with sub-machine guns. Fortunately for him, he had taken down one of the energy weapon users, but only one sub-machine gun user (the fellow who took a bullet to the groin wasn't quite dead yet).