Spoilers: All the way up to, and including, episode 51.
Rating: PG (blood).
A/N: Something did not sit right with me about the nice and neat way in which the military government simply glossed over the whole situation with Mustang and the Fuhrer. I mean, I could see how the military government might be convinced of the corruption of the high officials and the true nature of the Fuhrer, and thus be swayed to dissolve martial rule, form a parliament, and let Mustang and Hawkeye live happily ever after; but I could also quite clearly see how they might not be convinced. In that case, nothing about the military would change save for a minor reshuffling of its leaders. And if nothing changes, I suppose this fic would happen.
Roy Mustang stands before the Military Court, flanked on the right by Riza Hawkeye and on the left by Jean Havoc. He has stood here, flanked by these two who have served him longest, many times; but never quite like this. Never for this reason.
Hawkeye and Havoc's wrists are cuffed behind them. Mustang's are cuffed in front of him, such that he cannot draw an array without being instantly perceived.
The Court has always been renowned for dealing with the military's internal unpleasantries quickly and quietly. This is no exception.
"Your assertions that the Fuhrer was a created human, or 'homunculus,' and therefore unfit to rule, remain unsubstantiated. We have found no remains that can prove the validity of your statements. The only thing we found at the home of the Fuhrer was a scene of great destruction, the body of his son, and yourself and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Forensic alchemists have turned up nothing that resembles remnants of a human body, but state that it is possible for a skilled alchemist like yourself to restructure and hide any such evidence that was not already completely incinerated. The sole pieces of evidence that have been found are the scorched sword of the Fuhrer and the body of his son: whom his mother testifies was last seen running back towards the home. Other witnesses testify that the Fuhrer went down to meet you with that weapon in hand; the burnt nature of the sword, as well as the array found drawn on your hand, points towards the conclusion that you assassinated the Fuhrer with alchemical flame. Subsequently, not wishing to leave any surviving witnesses, you broke the neck of his son when he stumbled upon the scene."
Mustang has long ago learned how to dissemble away his emotions. He does not flinch as he is accused of the assassination of the Fuhrer. It is true, after all. But even he cannot keep the wounded look from his eyes at that last accusation. The body of Selim had been so light and limp in his arms--
"The point is that homunculi do not leave remains," he argues, his voice still strong. "You must listen. Why else do you think he led so many wars, if not to incite large-scale despair and drive people to seek the Philosopher's Stone? The evidence of their activities is tied to the Fifth Laboratory. I tell you, he was in service of an organization that sought the Philosopher's Stone for its own pur--"
The collective gaze of the Court falls heavily on him. This is not a topic they wish to discuss. This is a topic they would rather sweep under the rug and ignore.
"The Fuhrer led wars in order to maintain the peace and assert the might of Amestris. If not for his leadership, we would not be half the country we are now. All of his military campaigns have furthered the reach of Amestris, and under him we have never failed to triumph over the hostile forces of foreign countries."
The jawline of Roy Mustang draws taut. He can smell it vividly: charred flesh, his scent-memory of Ishbal.
"If not for his leadership, thousands of people would still have their liv--"
They cut him off. The Court has no more need to listen to Mustang's attempts to explain. The more he reveals, the more threats loom against their institution. What they truly fear is change; what they truly fear is exposure.
"We have already reached a verdict. This situation will be treated as the insurgence it is. The current General has accepted the elevation to the status of Fuhrer, and the normal order of the military-- and of Amestris itself-- will be restored."
Mustang knows the current General well. Though not a homunculus, he is a man after the previous Fuhrer's own heart.
He spares a glance to his right, and then to his left. Hawkeye and Havoc remain still and upright. Their gazes are fixed forwards. They are the very models of perfect soldiers. But he has known them long enough to catch the signs of their helpless anger. Hawkeye's cuffed hands have curled as if longing to cradle a firearm in their grasp. Havoc's jawline has drawn taut; his shoulders are visibly tense.
He knows their reactions do not arise because they fear their own deaths. Their reactions arise from their joint realization that they have failed in their duties: for Mustang has failed. This cycle will not be broken.
"Brigadier General Roy Mustang. You stand accused of treason against the state, assassination of the Fuhrer, and first-degree murder. The penalty is death."
A beat. The shuffle of paper.
"First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. You stand accused of treason against the state, assault and battery of members of the Presidential Guard, and entrance into a conspiracy with intent to assassinate the Fuhrer. The penalty is likewise death."
A beat. The shuffle of paper.
"Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc. You stand accused of treason against the state, impersonation of a superior officer with intent to manipulate and deceive fellow officers, and entrance into a conspiracy with intent to assassinate the Fuhrer. The penalty is likewise death."
Mustang counts heartbeats. Three flutter past before the Court speaks again.
"These sentences are all to be carried out immediately. Proceed."
The manner of death is firing squad. The executions proceed in order of ascending rank.
Jean Havoc is executed first: his eyes seek Mustang's and hold his gaze throughout, even after the life has left them. Then Riza Hawkeye; her eyes meet his as ten triggers are pulled, and her lips part as if to whisper his name to him. A stream of blood issues forth, instead of a name.
Roy Mustang barely feels a thing when the ten bullets pin him to the wall. By making him the last to be executed, they have already killed him.