A/N: Hi guys, Indie here! Ha, this is my first FMA fic so be kind to me. xD I kid you not, the idea for this came to me in a dream. And it was awesome. I thought "there's no way I can selfishly keep this to myself." So, I hope you all have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.

Warning for the chapter: Slight crack, perhaps a little OOCness, mild language and Armstrong's dangerous projectile sparkles.

Disclaimer: FMA belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, not me. Heck, I didn't even own an eightball until recently – and even that's actually my brother's! T_T

Thanks: to chocolatexloverx16 for being a brilliant author and a whooole lot of fun to bounce ideas around with. You'll see I included a couple of those lines here. You SHOULD be afraid – in the good way obviously! 8DDDD

001: Colonel Roy Mustang

"...And just what is this again, Major?"

Colonel Roy Mustang lounged back in his office chair. His brand new – and very comfortable – office chair. Ah, there was nothing quite like the smell of a new leather chair. He stopped spinning around the round object in his hands and held it up to the light in order to get a better look at it. It was a large, smooth, round, black ball. There was just one white circle in the middle with the number '8' written on it.

"It is a most valuable treasure, Colonel!" Mustang winced sightly as Alexander Armstrong's enthusiasm bounced off him in waves. Any minute now, the shirt would be off and the sparkles flying. He made a mental note to try and keep things (those things being shirts and sparkles) under control. "It is a container of divine wisdom – limitless wisdom!"

"Is that so?" Roy said, carefully tossing the ball into the air with one hand, and catching it with the other. "And, why are you giving it to me?"

Armstrong spared a moment to look over his shoulder. The coast being clear, he said, "...Permission to speak freely, sir?"


"I know of your ambitions, Colonel, and I would like to see you achieve them – I consider you to be a great man, and worthy of my trust. And I'm sure this treasure will be of great help to you in your journey for the top."

Roy considered the object in his hands for a moment, vaguely wondering how something so… ordinary looking could help him achieve the position of Fuhrer. Not that he'd need it – he was the best! ...But if it could help him get there faster, how could he complain? "Alright," he said, lifting his eyes to the Major again, "so... what does it do? How do I use its… limitless wisdom?"

"Well, it's quite simple. You just hold the ball in your hands and ask the '8' a question. Then, you shake it and flip it over – on the back there is a window, and it will reveal its answer there. But, you must only ask it a yes or no question."

"I see…" Mustang was beginning to like the sound of this. "Major, can it predict the future, too?"

"Of course, Colonel. And the eight-ball will never tell a lie."

"Hmmm…" Mustang stroked an imaginary goatee on his chin for a moment in thought. Then, he lifted the eight-ball before his mouth, and said, "Eightball, will I someday become Fuhrer?" Eagerly, he shook the ball and flipped it over.

Nothing. Huh. Was the Major playing a joke on him? On he – Colonel Roy Mustang? Had he lost his mind?

"Major, is this some kind of –"

"– Wait, Colonel, it takes just a few moments… and – there!"

Ah, so it did. No sooner had Armstrong spoke did the eightball give its answer.

'You may rely on it.'

"That means yes, right?" Roy said, looking up at the Major from his seat.

"It would seem so."

Mustang smirked. Of course it meant yes – how could the eight-ball have answered anything else? How could he – Colonel Roy Mustang – ever not become Fuhrer? He was the best! "This is quite an impressive object, Major. I'm sure it will be very useful to me."

"Thank you, Colonel. You see, the Eightball is no ordinary treasure. It is an heirloom – passed down the Armstrong line for generations!"

Mustang glanced up at the Major, and then recoiled back into the depths of his chair. He must have missed it while thinking of other questions to ask the Eightball. One moment, he and the Major were holding a perfectly normal conversation in his office, then the next, Armstrong's shirt was in tatters on the floor and his bulging muscles were invading Roy's personal space with every glittering, unholy pose he made.

And oh God, those pink sparkles were out again.

"...Major –"


"Yes, yes, I get it, genera – ergh, my eye!" Mustang held his eye as a stray pink sparkle flew into it. Damn the Major's sparkles! The more he tried to blink the damn thing out, the more it seemed to get stuck there. Finally picking the thing out, he said, "Well, thank-you, Major, I will be sure not to abuse such a… precious object. Thank-you. Is there anything else you wanted to speak to me about?"

"No, sir, that was all."

Then Armstrong gave a flawless salute (sending another shower of sparkles at Mustang), before turning on his heel and leaving the office. Mustang let out a breath of relief and spared a moment to brush those troublesome sparkles off his military jacket.

"Now that he's gone," he said to himself, smirking, "it's time to get down to the important questions." He cleared his throat dramatically and said, "Eightball, will my campaign to change the female's military uniform to miniskirt attire ever be successful?" He shook the eightball and turned it over, eagerly waiting for the response.

'Better not tell you now.'

Mustang blinked. What was that supposed to mean?

But he shrugged it off. Of course his campaign would find success eventually. The only reason it hadn't is because his simple-minded superiors had no vision, no imagination – no taste! And besides, when he became Fuhrer, he would change the uniform regulations himself. Every female officer in the army – wearing a miniskirt! There was nothing better on this earth – except for himself of course. And as the best person on this earth, a miniskirt harem was exactly what he deserved. Hm, perhaps the eightball just wanted to keep this amazing future as a little surprise for him.

But dammit, Mustang wanted to know now!

"Eightball, when I am Fuhrer, will I have my miniskirt harem then?" Another shake, another few seconds of waiting.

'Outlook not so good.'

What? Surely not! There had to be some kind of mistake. Perhaps it misheard him? He cleared his throat again.

"Eightball, will I ever have my miniskirt harem?" He shook it roughly this time.

'Don't count on it.'

Mustang blanched. "What? But I am Colonel Roy Mustang... I deserve a miniskirt harem! To be at the top, surrounded by beautiful ladies, all wearing miniskirts – don't you understand? It's my destiny! It's what I've been aiming for – working hard for – all my life!"

The ball just sat there in his hands, mocking him with its little 'don't count on it.'

Then, the Major's words echoed around his head. The eightball will never tell a lie.

But that couldn't be true… Maybe he was doing something wrong. Yeah, that's it. There was probably a certain way to phrase the questions. He swallowed a little of his pride, and tried again.

"Oh... great Eightball, all-knowing container of divine and limitless wisdom – I ask you but one thing. Will I, humble, modest, lowly Roy Mustang, ever be surrounded by beautiful female officers wearing miniskirts?" He closed his eyes and shook the ball reverently. And waited. Then…

'Very doubtful.'

Mustang's eyes bulged with disbelief. This couldn't be happening! He needed that miniskirt harem. He needed to see those legs! He'd worked all his life for it! Those beautiful legs, he didn't know how much longer they could continue to go unseen, unappreciated, under that hideous, ankle-length monstrosity that was the current standard women's uniform.

Maybe he was asking too much? After all, not every woman in the army was a stunner. Riza Hawkeye, now she was one of the women in the army who was as beautiful as she was deadly (although, he'd never say that to her, it wasn't worth the risk with that aim of hers), and he was lucky enough to have her working by his side – but not all the women were like her. Some were… not so pleasing to the eye.

Perhaps that was the problem. So he tried again.

"Great eightball, will I ever be surrounded by the women in the army wearing my miniskirt uniform – regardless of their shape, size, and natural beauty?"

'My sources say no.'

"...No? No! Why not? Who are your sources?" he shouted. But the eightball gave no reply. But Mustang wasn't about to give up yet. Running a frantic hand through his increasingly disheveled hair, he thought about his options.

Ah, yes.

"Will I ever be surrounded by any women in miniskirts?"

'My reply is no.'

"Well your reply is wrong!" Mustang shook the ball in anger. It was a good thing it was just an inanimate object – if this had been a real live fortune teller, he would have throttled it by now. "Not even one?" he said into the eightball, "Will I not even have one woman in my miniskirt harem?" Granted, it wouldn't be a harem with only one woman in it – but it was a start. He waited for the Eightball's answer.

'Concentrate, and ask again.'

Mustang grinned like a cat that got the cream. Finally! At least, it wasn't a definite 'no' this time. Concentrate. Mustang thought a little harder about his question.

Rome wasn't built in a day, after all – and he supposed harems didn't just appear out of thin air (although they really should, and especially for him). One woman was all it took, he could build from there. She could go off and gather her little friends – and then his harem would grow!

But who could this one woman be? Who had always been there for him, through the good times and bad? Who had never let him down before?

And then it came to him – Hawkeye.

His Lieutenant had always been there for him and given him her support. He trusted her with his life – literally. But… she had always said she would never commit to his campaign for the uniform changes.

He confronted her about it, one evening, and she'd been rather sharp with him about it, actually. What was is she called him again – a hedonistic, chauvinistic pig. He still hadn't gotten a dictionary out for those first two comments, but he knew he didn't like the 'pig' part. Still, he also knew that miniskirts were a sensitive subject for the Lieutenant.

Maybe she was just self-conscious about her legs? She really shouldn't be, they were quite fine!

Grinning to himself like a fool, he figured he could convince her eventually.

"Eightball – can I convince First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye into wearing a miniskirt for me?" Mustang shook the ball, quite enthusiastically.

'Very doubtful.'

Mustang's jaw hit the ground. What? But… but how would he start his miniskirt harem now? Was he not deserving of a miniskirt harem? He was Colonel Roy Mustang – of course he was deserving of one! This stupid Armstrong treasure must hate him or something. That was the only explanation!

"Eightball, do you hate me?"

'Don't count on it.'

"Then why do you insist on tormenting me! Am I not at least deserving of a miniskirt harem?"

'My reply is no.'

"Bastard! Do you not know who I am? I am Colonel Roy Mustang! I will not be denied my miniskirt harem!"

Mustang wound his arm back and made to throw the Eightball across the room in rage. However, just as he felt the ball leave his hand, he saw the door open and a certain short blonde annoyance enter the room.

"Yo Mustang! I'm starving, so transmute me a frickin' sandwich –"

Roy wasn't sure what was more satisfying, the loud, but hollow thudding sound the Eightball made when it hit Edward's head, or the strangled, pained yell that came out from his mouth as he fell to the floor like a dead fish.

"Aaauuhhhh!" Edward yelled, his hands flying up to cradle his poor head. "What the hell are you doing, you bastard?"

Mustang smirked and stood up, before walking over to the door and prodding the writhing mess on the floor with the toe of his boot. "Well, it seems that stupid 'treasure' was useful for something after all. I feel much better now." Then he stepped back and folded his arms, saying to himself, "But, I'm still very upset that it insists on denying me my basic rights. It obviously has no idea who I am..."

Just then, Riza Hawkeye herself came through the door with a stack of papers in her hands. With a slightly perplexed expression on her face, she entered the room and sidestepped around the still groaning Edward on the floor. "I heard a lot of noises from down the hall. Do I even want to ask, sir?"

Mustang waved a slightly dismissive hand. "No, not really."

"I see. Well, anyway, I have all your reports typed up for the General, all they need now is your signature," she said, placing them neatly at the end of his desk.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Not a problem. Oh, and sir?" she said, twisting back around again. "You should probably stop talking to yourself, it isn't conducive to good mental health."

Mustang's eyebrow twitched. "I wasn't talking to myself. I was talking to… Fullmetal, actually."

"Of course, sir." She tactfully ignored Edward's protest of 'no he wasn't!' from he floor. But still, Mustang was sure he saw the traces of a smirk on her lips.

"Well, is there anything else?" he said.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question?"

Mustang huffed, and tried his best not to pout. First the Eightball, and now his closest comrade! Why did no one believe in him? He swore sometimes this woman thought he couldn't do anything for himself. But he could! He just preferred to have other people do it for him, was all. He had more pressing matters on his mind than paperwork – finalizing his miniskirt uniform designs, for example. "You know, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off, Lieutenant," he said folding his arms a little childishly. "I can manage the signing from here."

"If you're sure, sir," she said.

"Oh, I am."

Riza gave him a little salute and left the room. He was sure he saw the traces of that smirk widen.

"Huh… what's this supposed to be?"

Mustang's eyes fell to Edward on the floor. He was sitting up now and holding the eightball in his hands, peering at it curiously. Perfect. Mustang was looking for a way to rid himself of the infernal thing, and who better to burden it with than the blonde midget himself.

Mustang crouched down on the floor next to him. It wasn't like him to stoop to Fullmetal's low, low… low level like this, but he was so eager to get rid of the Eightball that he was more than eager to do anything it took. "That," he said, "is a magical object – very powerful."

Edward looked at him skeptically. "Powerful, eh? So why were you throwin' it around the room like trash?"

"Oh, er, I was just testing its physical strength. It if was fragile, it'd be no use in battle and such, would it?"

Edward wasn't buying it. "Why were you shouting at it, then?"

"I was just getting in the mood. You know, powering up for a decent throw – the test wouldn't be effective if I didn't put real strength behind the throw."


"And, now, I know that it is truly solid – if not even your head could lay a dent in it, Fullmetal."

"Oh ha ha, ya wiseguy," the short ex-alchemist said, glaring at him. But then his gaze dropped down to the Eightball, curiosity finally getting the better of him. "So… what exactly is its 'power' anyway?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Ed. The Eightball knows all things, and it can tell the future."


"Would I lie to you?" Edward raised an eyebrow at him, but Mustang just rolled his eyes. "Go ahead, ask it."


"Just look at the '8' and ask it. Then shake it and turn it over."

Edward cleared his throat, and ignoring the fact that he felt pretty stupid right now, he opened his mouth and said, "Hey...Eightball. Would Mustang lie to me?"

"Now shake it, go."

"Alright alright, you bossy, pushy little…" Edward continued muttering and shook the eightball. Then he turned it over.

'Most likely.'

"Ha – it really does know everything! But – wait, I'm confused now. Does that mean you were lying to me before?"

Mustang smirked. He had Edward right where he wanted him; hook, line and sinker. "Why don't you ask it?"

Edward asked the eightball a little more enthusiastically now. "Eightball, was Mustang telling me the truth earlier about your power?" Shake shake. Turn over.

'Signs point to yes.'

"Wow. That's amazing!"

"Isn't it?"

"And it can really tell the future?"

"Of course."

Edward furrowed his brow for a moment in thought. "Eightball, will Mustang transmute me a sandwich?"

'Outlook not so good.'

Mustang laughed. "And I should warn you, Fullmetal – the Eightball never lies," he said smugly.


"But I'm sure it can help you find a person who will transmute you one."

"Really? Can I borrow it, then?"

"Go ahead."

"Sweet! I'll give it right back –"

"– No!" Edward blinked. Then Mustang pulled a smooth recovery. "I mean, no. Feel free to keep it. Honestly, as amazing as its power is, I really have no use for it. I already know everything I need to know."

"Heh, you arrogant prick." But Edward kept hold of the ball, and Mustang was sure that it was his ticket to never seeing the stupid thing again. He would achieve his dreams of a miniskirt harem, regardless of Eightball's predictions! The Eightball knew nothing!

So he let that little insult slide.

Mustang smirked. "Well, go on, get out of my office. Go and squander the Eightball's power on your trivial little needs."

As Edward left the room, chuckling to himself and asking the Eightball more meaningless questions, Mustang threw himself down into his new office chair again, breathing in the tantalizing aroma of new leather. Oh, how it inspired him.

Opening a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a stack of paper and began a sketching out a new line of uniforms for female officers, humming contentedly all the while. There was no way some dumb Eightball was going to stand between he – Colonel Roy Mustang – and his miniskirt harem.

A/N: Hahaha, oh that Mustang, he never gives up. Even in the face of all eightball adversity he marches onwards. XD
Anyhowwww, I have vague plans for this, I was thinking about passing the eightball around the fma cast, but that's only if anyone's interested in seeing it. So, review, review if you want more! And tell me, who should get the eightball after Ed?

Until next time!

~ Indie