Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ed has always been an angry kid. Watching his father walk out the door while his mom didn't do anything to stop it, and then watching his mom slowly die, leaving him alone with a toddler brother to look after... Each is a good excuse on its own, but the seed was there from the beginning and those experiences only watered it.

It fuels his research and keeps his resolve while training with Teacher, that snarling, snapping thing in his guts that devours all his grief and fear and shits it out as rage. Mom doesn't get to just leave, not after Hohenheim left. What is Ed supposed to do? How is he supposed to take care of Alphonse on his own? How could they do this to him?

(Granny and Winry are there, and they watch Al when Ed can't, which is often, especially when Al is too young to watch after himself— when Al is older, all he wants is to be around Ed, and he emulates Ed by picking up alchemy books, and he shows Ed all his little circles and creations and beams at Ed's every half-hearted praise.)

Coming out the other side of a failed human transmutation without his arm, half his leg or his hearing, or even his mom to show for it, was not, actually, the formative experience to get Ed to pull his head out of his ass and turn his life around.

It was Al, after, six years old and clinging to Ed in his med cot, trembling and wracked with sobs. Without his hearing, all Ed could do was focus on the press of Al's small body against his, feeling his every shuddering breath.

Al was the one who found Ed down there, bleeding in the basement, and it was only his hysterical call to Granny that saved Ed's stupid life.

There's nothing he can do about his hearing, but he's going to get automail limbs to replace the ones he lost. He needs them if he's going to start taking care of Al the way he needs to. The way he should have been taking care of him all along.

(Granny pieces together what happened, what he tried to do, and the sympathy in her eyes almost hurts worse then his carved-up body. It's more than he deserves. He's not some lost boy who just wanted his mother back, he's a—

It doesn't matter. Ed knows the Truth about himself. No one else needs to.)

Al vibrates with excitement in his train seat, watching the scenery rush by the window with wide, sparkling eyes. This isn't Al's first time coming to Dublith with Ed, but it is the first time since Ed's agreed to let Teacher take on Al as a student.

It's his job to be protective. No one was around to stop Ed from signing up to get his ass kicked six ways from Sunday, but as the one responsible for Al's health and safety, he's allowed to get a little apprehensive. Especially at the idea of Teacher leaving Al on that island alone for a month.

"Oh, Sig will check in on him," she signed to him, interrupting his worrying. He'd blinked incredulously at her.

"Sig didn't check in on me."

"Of course he did. I wouldn't have let you die out there. It would've defeated the purpose if you'd known that."

There's also the fact that Al is whip-smart and passionate; the good kind of passionate, the kind that makes him want to save the world, not the corrosive kind that carried Ed through his own training. Teacher's methods may make Ed get a little queasy when he considers setting her loose on Al, but she's also the only one he trusts to mold Al's potential without warping or killing it. Ed included.

So Ed finally caved to Al's increasingly frequent pleading, and the two of them packed up to relocate to Dublith for a year for Al's training shortly after his twelfth birthday. There's no doubt in Ed's mind that Teacher will take the opportunity to give Ed a refresher course, even though she claims to have expelled Ed once she figured out what he tried to do with what she taught him.

Ed's job is one he can do anywhere, so the move won't hurt them financially, but honestly, he's hoping to take at least a little bit of a break from his burgeoning notoriety in the art world.

He's pretty sure his popularity is just a fad, but he's already sold enough of his pieces to rich weirdos for him and Al to live comfortably for the next decade or so. Fad or not, he's sure the commission requests will die down soon and he'll be able to turn his attention to something new.

Al tugs on his sleeve to get his attention, then points up the train car. Up in front of the car is a blond man in military blues with a cigarette in hand, in an argument with a broad male passenger.

Ed rolls his eyes at Al and flashes a quick, rude sign that combines the words army and bitch that has Al giggling into his hand.

Then the passenger pulls out a gun and shoots the soldier in the chest. A moment of stillness is followed by immediate upheaval from the rest of the passengers as the guy starts waving the gun around, eyes wild and mouth flapping as he shouts. Ed's lip reading ability fails about 70% of the time, and that's when he knows the topic of conversation, and when he's facing the person straight-on, and he's familiar with their patterns of speech. The only word he catches from the gunman is 'down', but it's more than enough.

Ed shoves Al to the floor between the seats, putting himself between Al and the aisle, facing outward to keep his eyes on the threat as the burst of chaos around them subsides into fearful cowering.

Losing his arm and leg were painful, bloody experiences, followed by the even worse pain of automail surgery and rehabilitation. The pain follows him still, in phantom bursts where his limbs used to be, or when the air pressure changes, or on days his automail ports decide they need to throb in time with his heartbeat, and every time a new limb needs attached to his nerves, and every time he outgrows his ports (which has been very often, thank you very much) before Winry can adjust their fit.

But god, if losing his hearing isn't the worst. It strips so much context from what's happening around him. In every conversation, if someone can't sign to him, or doesn't write down what's being said, he's completely cut off. And even then. Even then, there's a glass wall up between him and the rest of the world, always. It's cold on this side of the glass. He longs to rage and shout and smash it to pieces, but he can't, and his own helplessness burns coldly inside him.

The gunman stalks down the aisle, his hands and the gun trembling with adrenaline. Dumbass. How does he think this is going to end?

The cavalry arrives in the form of another soldier, a woman this time, who wastes no time in shooting the gunman in the shoulder of his gun-wielding arm, putting a non-lethal end to the nonsense. The gunman flails and falls against a seat, mouth open, and the gun goes flying, hitting the ground and sliding down the aisle until it stops at Ed's feet.

Hopefully that soldier guy up front isn't dead; if the military traumatizes his little brother by having some idiot they hired get murdered in front of him, Ed's going to be so pissed.

Ed picks up the gun and releases the magazine, throwing both pieces onto his seat. Another soldier, a heavyset ginger man, sprints down the train car to his injured comrade while the woman deals with the former gunman, holding her gun to him and getting him to lay on the floor, hands flat and in view.

The danger passed, Al slides out from behind Ed's protection, peaking curiously out at the scene. Ed pulls him back. If that guy up front is dead, Al doesn't need to know about or see it.

Al frowns at him and signs, "The soldier is bleeding out. The medic is on the other side of the train."

Well, shit. The other two must be yelling about it to each other. Don't they know he's trying to protect his kid brother's innocence here? "Stay here," he grumbles, and steps out into the aisle.

The soldier woman sees him and says something. Probably something like, "What the hell are you doing, stay where you are," but hey, Ed's got plausible deniability and he can always rely on Al to inform the people Ed deliberately ignores of his perfect excuse for doing so. Not like she can do anything without dropping her guard from the gunman.

Up in front is a mess. A puddle of blood pools out from under one side of the blond soldier's back. The front of his uniform stains red in a growing radius around his lower left chest where the stocky soldier presses a pile of blood-soaked bandages. He's saying something to Ed, too, but since he's occupied he doesn't do anything to stop Ed, either.

Ed's medical knowledge is limited. He spent enough time as a patient to have a pretty good idea of which organs are where, and Hohenheim left behind some interesting texts on Xingese alkahestry that Ed's tested out a few times on Al's scraped knees, but he's not expecting to perform any miracles here. Just to keep the guy alive long enough for someone else to fix him up.

He presses his palms together, centering his mind; he focuses on the bleeding, because that's the most pressing concern and because he really doubts his ability to repair anything else without fucking it up more. He presses his hands to the soldier and encourages blood in the damaged areas to coagulate faster.

The bleeding slows to an ooze. The ginger man blinks and gapes between his injured buddy and Ed.

Mission accomplished. Al remains unstained by the taint of death for another day.

The train is inevitably delayed, much to everyone's annoyance but to nobody's surprise, while the military unloads their newest prisoner at the nearest stop. The soldier woman— a First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye— comes to question Ed while the train has stopped. Al has to relay her questions to him, and Ed grudgingly answers because he doesn't feel like getting arrested for obstruction and leaving Al to get the rest of the way to Dublith on his own.

She asks his name (Edward Elric), where he's going and why (Dublith, visiting family friends with his brother), and what he did to Second Lieutenant Havoc (slowed his bleeding with alchemy, you're welcome).

She thanks him for his time and for saving that Havoc guy (he didn't save him, he'll still die unless he gets real medical attention soon, something Ed is sure to mention because that lady may be a sharpshooter but he doesn't trust the intelligence of anyone who signs on for military service), takes the gunman's gun from Ed's seat, and then the soldiers are gone back to East City and the train is back on track.

"Is Teacher going to be mad we're late?" Al signs to him, worrying his lip between his teeth.

"Nah. She knows the trains are shit at keeping schedule," Ed says. He stretches his arms over his head and slumps in his seat. Teacher might be mad he didn't let that guy bleed out, though. Not a fan of the military, that one.

Jean Havoc wakes in a private military hospital feeling like he got hit by a train. It would be an impressive feat on his part to somehow get from inside the train to out in front of it in time for it to bowl him over, wouldn't it, but he can't think of any other reason his body feels completely pulverized.

"You got shot," Fuery helpfully informs him from his bedside.

"How many times?"

"Just the once."

"Oh. Ow."

Fuery smiles and shakes his head. "I'm going to let Mustang and Hawkeye know you're awake. Try not to move around too much, okay?"

Not a problem, because getting shot means getting the good drugs, and a nurse comes in just as Fuery's leaving to give Jean his next dose, and he's out again in less than a minute.

The next time he wakes up he's got Colonel Mustang frowning down at him. It's a lot less nice than Fuery's helpful smile. At least Lieutenant Hawkeye, standing beside Mustang, has some sympathy for him, asking, "How are you feeling, Havoc?"

Better than before, but... "Dying for a cigarette," he says. The events of the train start coming back to him. They'd been tracking down a smuggling operation in connection to a chimera fighting ring they busted months ago; many of the arrested culprits alluded to it not being the only one.

They got a tip that an important product was being moved out of East City on that train: they searched it, but found no trace of chimeras or any other contraband. It being completely devoid of anything suspicious made Mustang suspicious, so he had Jean, Hawkeye and Breda board to keep an eye out for anything or anyone out of place.

Jean saw a guy that matched the description of a POI and figured it wouldn't hurt to ask for ID. Turns out, it did. A lot.

"What happened after I got shot?" he asks.

Hawkeye fills him in; the guy was their POI, go figure, and was transporting what Falman says is an encrypted client list. A much better find than a half-dozen tormented chimeras in crates, for sure, once Falman manages to pull some names.

Then she tells him that he almost died. The unwashed floor of an Amestrian train has got to be up there in the list of worst places to bleed to death, so he’s pretty grateful that didn't happen. He'll have to send the alchemist who saved him a fruit basket or something.

"His name is Edward Elric," the Colonel says. Something about the name tickles the back of Jean's mind. "We'll be following up with him later. Do you remember anything from when he healed you?"

Everything after he got shot is a blank in his memory. "Nah, I'm sure I was passed out by then. Why?"

"According to Lieutenant Breda, he managed to do it without drawing a transmutation circle."

"Ah, so he made your super-special alchemist recruitment list. I take it that's something not many can do?"

"Before Breda told me what he saw, I would've said it was impossible. I still have my doubts."

It clicks where he's heard the name Edward Elric before. "Wait, Elric? The Fullmetal artist guy?"

Hawkeye asks "Artist?" at the same time Mustang asks, "Fullmetal?"

"Yeah, the one who uses alchemy to make unique color hues for his stuff. He's called Fullmetal because it's the name of one of the colors he invented, or something? I don't remember. I dated this artsy girl a little while back who was real into his work. He uses those whatcha-call-ems, the chalk but for paper?"

She'd shown Jean one of the guy's drawings that her rich friend's father had. It was called Heresy Red and depicted a robed man at a pulpit in a deep, brownish-red. She'd gushed about shading and the detail work, and of course the vivid coloring, and snickered when she pointed out to him that the bolded lines of the man's face were shaped like the alchemical symbol for horse dung.

It's a shame they broke up. In her social circles, dating a military man was an unpopular choice.

"Pastels," Roy answers, and is, in Jean's opinion, unnecessarily condescending about it. "We haven't had a chance to look into Elric yet. If he's an alchemist, it's possible he's the same guy, and that his talents lie far beyond simple artwork."

Al comes back from his month on the island even hungrier to learn everything about alchemy. It's sweet and heartbreaking all at once. Ed sees in Al everything that he should have been.

Al peers down at Ed's desk as he works, taking a short break from Teacher's training to observe Ed's process. Ed doesn't understand the point of Teacher sending Al here, but knows better than to question it. Creating the pastels themselves is the same thing every time: mix the pigment with a binder, and sometimes with white pigment if he wants to lighten up the color. It's the process of making the pigments themselves that's occasionally interesting.

There are multiple sheets of paper covered in messy notes piled at one side, the top one displaying a chemical equation for turning gold into a soft powder that he just finished explaining to Al, plus an array Al made to reflect it. In front of Ed is a glass pallet holding several small piles of bright yellow powder. Ed picks up a jar of one of his inert binders and carefully pours a small amount in the center of each pile.

It's gold. Some dick with too much money sent him a brick of 24-karat gold to make into pigment. Making it into a powder involved crushing it into a dust and combining it with glue, and then rinsing out the glue, resulting in a flour-like texture. It would have been a pain to do by hand, but luckily, Ed does not have to.

He's going to name the color Rich Fool's Gold.

Done pouring, Ed claps and touches his finger to the pallet, and solidifies the piles into a neat row of gold pastels. Ed picks one up, testing its softness with his flesh fingers and then on a test canvas. It slides smoothly over the material, leaving behind a bright, metallic yellow.

It's a nice change of pace, at least. Everyone and their cousin wants blue, blue, blue. He stopped taking on commissions of blue because he's sick of coming up with different shades of blue. Now it's mostly all reds and greens. Would it kill someone to request something in black? It's got just as many interesting possible hues as all the rest.

Al waves in his periphery to get his attention. "What are you going to draw?" he signs.

That's a question. Ed scrutinizes the pastel in his hand under the light, trying to conjure inspiration from the gleamy color. Nothing comes, so he shrugs. He could always just sit in front of a canvas and improvise. He's done it before.

A grin splits Al's face, and his next sentence is signed with rapid excitement. "You should do a self-portrait!"

Ugh. Ed does his best to curb the disgust that fills him at the idea. "Or maybe I'll draw you."

Al does not have the same inhibitions as Ed. His nose scrunches in discomfort. "Only if you keep it after."

Ed laughs and Al goes back to grinning.

The door to Ed's workspace opens, and in walks Teacher, he mouth pulled down in displeasure. An instinctive shiver runs down his spine at that look, and he sees his apprehension mirrored in Al's wide eyes.

"You," she points at Ed, lip curling up in a snarl. Oh, shit, what did he do? "Why is the military knocking on my door asking for you?"

"Uh," he blanks. Having no patience for his freeze response, Teacher marches over and pulls him from his chair, dragging him out to the front room. He doesn't have to look to know Al followed behind him. Two military officers wait for them.

He recognizes the woman, Hawkeye, from the train, but not the man. Ed doesn't know the exact rank, but he can tell by the stars and bars on his uniform that he outranks her. There's also a telltale silver chain hanging out of his pocket that marks him as a State Alchemist.

"Edward Elric," Hawkeye signs, fingerspelling out his whole name. He nods in confirmation, and is surprised when she continues on in sign language, something he's sure she didn't know two months before. "I don't know if you remember, but I'm First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. This is Colonel Roy Mustang. We're here about the incident on the train two months ago."

Ah. Teacher did tell him that all that would come back to bite him in the ass. "It really didn't have anything to do with me."

The Colonel says something, and Hawkeye relays it to Ed. "You performed a transmutation without a circle."

So that's what this is about. He can feel Teacher staring daggers at him and Al radiating worry at his back. "So what?"

Hawkeye continues to relay for the Colonel. "It's true, then? You can transmute without a circle?"

Well, hell, it's not like that other guy saw him do it right in front of him or anything. Why would Ed lie about it now? "So what?" he repeats.

Then comes the recruitment speech. He was half-expecting it, but it's a little weird that the military would bother with a deaf double-amputee, transmutation circles or not. The Colonel, through Hawkeye, makes clear that part of becoming a State Alchemist is serving in times of national emergency. Ed's plenty capable, but there's no avoiding the fact that he'd go into any emergency situation at a severe disadvantage.

There's the perks, of course: funding, access to restricted materials, private military hospitals and healthcare (and automail engineers, they're sure to emphasize), but just putting aside that he doesn't want Teacher to cut him down where he stands into tiny little pieces, he's not stupid enough to join the state's murder-club when it stands a realistic chance of getting him killed. He's all Al's got left; the memory of almost losing him is enough.

He turns them down flat and expects them to leave. Instead, the Colonel asks to commission an art piece from him. Ed may not want to join the military, but he's not opposed to taking money from them. "What do you have in mind?"

His commissions are never requests for what they want drawn; that's always up to Ed. The requests are for what color he'll draw it in.

He doesn't need Hawkeye to relay what the Colonel says, able to read it on his lips. He wants something done in black.

Chapter Text

Pastels are a great medium for vibrant color, obviously, but it does come at the cost of being an absolute nightmare of smudges and smudging. There are ways to fix it to the canvas, but not without washing out the brightness, and that's an exchange Ed is not willing to make.

As such, his completed projects need to be packaged and handled with care. Ed doesn't trust the Amestrian postal service not to drop them into a mud puddle at first opportunity, so he does most of the delivering himself. It's a pain, but it does mean he can charge a hefty travel fee for anyone outside the East.

Now that he's based in Dublith in the South, he's getting a flood of commission requests from people in the South happy to take advantage of their newly lowered pricing. He tosses out all the ones looking for blue, which leaves him with half the pile.

Next he throws out any of the micromanage-y requests. They want this shade of color made from such-and-such material for this specific image— No. He's not going to draw a portrait of some fuckoff-wealthy family patriarch, he's not going to hunt down any goddamn malachite, and he's not going to make 'spring-forest-green'. If he makes any green, what shade it takes will be between Ed and his alchemical whims.

That leaves him with three requests to choose from. One is addressed from right here in Dublith. How convenient.

His workroom door eases open and Al pokes his head inside. Ed waves him in.

While he and Al are technically staying in a hotel nearby, their room doesn't have the space available for Ed to work. Since Ed was already spending his whole days at the Curtis house with Al, Teacher gave him use of the house's mostly-unused study. He suspects it was a move to get him out from underfoot.

"Lunch in five minutes," Al informs him. He inches closer to the desk. "Did you finish Rich Fool's Gold?"

"I did," Ed confirms, and slides out of the way so Al can get a look at the canvas. Three rolling hills rise from the bottom, barns and cottages dotting the lower levels. Up higher are larger buildings: a temple, city hall, factories and a mausoleum. Walls of arches line the paths leading higher, touching manor homes and an observatory. At the very top of the highest hill are five spiraling towers. In the bottom right corner is Ed's signature— a metallic gray wax he made himself that reminded him of bullet shells and automail. He named it Fullmetal Gray. The wax is impressed with a flamel.

"It's beautiful," Al signs. "I think this is one of my favorites."

It is nice. Ed gazes at his work and tries to dredge up some pride, or sense of accomplishment. At the very least he should be satisfied to have completed a project. All he feels is annoyance at the prospect of delivering it all the way to Maungat back East. "I have some of the pastels left over if you want some."

"No, thank you. You should—" Al raises a hand to his mouth, interrupting his signing and yawning so wide Ed wouldn't be surprised if his jaw cracked. "You should use them for your own projects."

"Geez, Al, has Teacher tired you out already?" Ed teases. "It's barely afternoon."

Al smiles wryly and shrugs. "Didn't sleep well last night, is all. Let's go eat."

It's a Sunday, so Sig is home to join them for lunch. He likes to pile Al's plate with extra helpings, the same way he did for Ed during his training, insisting that "You're a growing boy, Al," whenever Al tries to be polite and refuse. Al always eats the extra, though; Teacher's training burns a lot of energy.

They discuss how Ed's art is coming along, and the principles of alchemy Al is in the middle of being drilled on (the properties of metals as described by Maria Prophetissa, an early alchemist who had a lot of crackpot theories and a few brilliant ones. Funnily enough, she's also cited as being one of the first to be able to produce caput mortuum, a purple pigment made from hematite, beloved by contemporary nobles and religious figures for coloring their clothing).

Al continues to yawn through the whole discussion, and though his usual enthusiasm is present, it's noticeably quieted. He's picking at his food, too. "Are you alright, Al?" Ed asks. "You've barely eaten." He presses his flesh hand to Al's forehead, not able to feel any concerning heat in the time it takes for Al to bat his hand away and insist he's fine.

Teacher feels his forehead next. "Your brother's right. You've been sluggish all morning." She says this both verbally and in sign. She and Sig are good about remembering to sign even when not speaking directly to Ed. "You don't have a fever," she concludes with a frown.

"I'm fine," Al repeats. "Just tired today."

Teacher shakes her head thoughtfully. "I noticed your reflexes getting slower this week. You sure it's just today you've felt unwell?"

Al shifts in his seat, casting a hesitant glance at Ed. "Well... maybe I've been a little run down the last few days. It's no big deal, honest."

"You should've said something," Ed says, and irrationally feels the need to press his hand to Al's forehead again. "I would've gotten you that tea you like. In fact, I'll go get some right now. I was thinking of going out anyway."

"You don't have to do that, Brother," Al protests. "I'm not sick. Teacher said I don't have a fever."

Sig shakes his head. "You don't feel run down for no reason, Al. It's important to listen to the signals from your body so you don't overdo it." A sentiment Sig frequently applies to Teacher.

"My wonderful husband is right. No more training today." She holds up a hand, her face darkening with threat to stave off Al's impending argument. "A bit of rest will do us both some good."

Ed pushes up from the table. "I'm going for a tea run. Need anything else?"

Al shakes his head, smiling tiredly. Ed grabs his coat and heads for the door, ruffling Al's hair as he passes by. "Get some rest, little brother."

Ed considers the pile of scrap on display carefully, a box of Al's tea tucked under his arm. The dealer hovers on the other side of the counter, hands clasped in front of her. The scrap is all harvested from the war zones on the Aerugo border, and is not technically legal, but military machines are the only thing in Amestris that contain stibnite.

Also known as antimony trisulfide, it's used to create metal alloys for many kinds of equipment. It's also useful in the creation of ammunition and explosives. In Creta, it's used in the production of fireworks for its ability to create bright flames and unique colors. Contradictorily, it's also useful as a fire retardant in textiles and all kinds of construction materials.

Drawing transmutation circles from the age of four has given Ed a hefty appreciation for symbology. Antimony trisulfide will make the perfect base for Colonel Mustang, Flame Alchemist's art piece.

He hefts a chuck a little larger than his fist in his hand. "How much for this?"

The dealer scribbles a number on Ed's notepad. He scoffs, crosses it out, and replaces it with something more reasonable. She shakes her head, crosses out that number, but lowers her original price enough that Ed is grudgingly willing to pay.

He forks over the cens and pockets the metal. The dealer shoots him a two-fingered salute in thanks.

The thing about scrap dealers is that they're not exactly located in the best parts of town, so when Ed passes by someone crouched and rocking back and forth in a dirty alley on his way back to the Curtis's, he's not shocked so much as disappointed with the world at large.

In this area, the homeless are churned out by the war machine. Something the East and South have in common. Discharged soldiers, either too injured or too haunted to take care of themselves anymore. Orphan runaways or castouts. Displaced civilians without the means of rehoming themselves.

The stranger huddled on the ground is covered in a large brown cloak, obscuring all their features. Ed hesitates at the mouth of the alley.

"Hey, pal. Everything okay? You hurt?"

The stranger freezes, curling on themselves. There's no way for Ed to know if they're saying something, either threatening or placating, with that hood over their face.

"You need help getting home? Er, if you need somewhere to sleep tonight, there's a shelter over on Hillyard." He inches into the alley. "You're gonna have to make it really clear if you want me to fuck off. I'm deaf."

There's no response as far as Ed can tell. He inches further in, going slow more to avoid spooking them than for his own sense of caution, until he's right in front of the stranger. He crouches down to their level, getting a glimpse under the engulfing hood.

The shapes don't make sense. There's too much shadow and not enough light to make out anything distinctive, but Ed knows the shape of a human face, and what he sees doesn't fit.

Small hands fly up and yank down the cloak's hood, hiding before Ed can get a closer look. The hands are thin and boney, and the backs...

The backs are covered in patches of gray fur.

Ed has seen hairy people before— Sig, for example, has a healthy coating of body hair, including on his knuckles and the backs of his hands— but this is not just thick body hair. It looks animal.

Is Ed dealing with some... strange primate chimera that escaped its lab? That would be the most likely case, but Ed doesn't know of any chimera research taking place in Dublith. And besides the fur, those hands are so human.

Why are they hiding their face?

Ed reaches out slowly. "Are you...?"

Goosebumps prickle down Ed's spine a second before a powerful weight slams into his side. Pain flares like fire over Ed's side where he lands on his automail arm, the steel forced into his ribs with all the force of his attacker landing on him.

His attacker tries to grab his flesh arm to pin him, but Ed lashes out with his metal leg and lands a hit on the guy's shin. And it is a guy, dark hair and a compact build registering while Ed's fight instinct kicks in.

The guy recoils in pain (hits to the shin bone hurt like a bitch) giving Ed the leverage to twist out from under him. He rolls to his feat, putting up his arms defensively. His attacker recovers fast, already on his feet and putting himself between Ed and the cloaked stranger.

Ed is pissed. It figures that any attempt on his part to do something good only got him into a pile of shit.

His attacker shouts incomprehensibly, but by his wide gestures, Ed gathers that he wants Ed to fuck off before he decides to bruise the other side of his rib cage. Which Ed would love to do, but given that he's on the wrong side of a dead-end alley and passing his attacker by will put him within arm's reach, he's not exactly eager. Especially now that Ed can see the sword strapped to his back.

The cloaked stranger pushes off the ground on shaking legs, using the wall as support. They stumble over to the dark-haired man, nearly collapsing into his side. He catches them without a second thought, dropping his stance but not his guard, keeping wary eyes on Ed. His head's tilted like he's listening to them speak.

One-handed, the guy signs, "You deaf?"

Ed is always surprised when random people know sign. All the people he knows who learned sign learned it for him. Although, this guy probably isn't fluent; sentence structure in sign language is different from Amestrian, and even that short sentence was structured like an Amestrian one rather than the sign you deaf you? Signing in Amestrian structure is clunkier for long sentences and in conversation, but Ed still understands regardless. "I am."

"You hear me yell?"

"No," Ed says flatly. "I'm deaf. Listen, I wasn't trying to hurt your friend there. Just thought they needed help."

The guy sighs. "Sorry. We learn to expect worst."

That's a sentiment Ed can understand even if he's still pissed about it. His ribs throb in time with his heartbeat. "Whatever, guy. I'll leave you alone."

Reasonably certain the guy won't tackle him again or try to cut him in half, Ed advances down the alley, keeping his hands in view. The cloaked stranger shrinks in tighter to the dark-haired man the closer Ed gets, fur-covered hands pulling on their hood.

Curiosity itches at him. On the one hand, Ed hates when people ask about his own body differences on the grounds that it is both invasive and none of their fucking business. On the other hand, Ed can't stop thinking about that fur and his half-glimpse of a face-that-wasn't-a-face and what it could mean.

Chimera, that curious part of him whispers. But a chimera of what?

The answer is simultaneously obvious and impossible. Chimeras made from humans are solely theoretical, not to mention illegal and more importantly immoral. The possibility that someone's done it refuses to align in Ed's mind as a reality, but there's no other hypotheses forthcoming. A genetic fluke might explain the fur, but not such a radically different facial structure. It was almost like... well, like a snout. Like a mouse's snout.

In an instant, an image of that day in the basement is superimposed onto his eyelids. Gray, leathery skin. Twisted, protruding bones and dark blood spilling over white chalk on concrete. Sunken eyes gazing from oozing sockets.

You have dared to knock on the door. Now, the door is open.

He hesitates a second too long and the guy tenses.

"Stay safe," Ed says, and continues on his way.

A skill that every alchemist has that has nothing to do with alchemy is the ability to create and to break codes and ciphers. It's an unfortunate truth that there's no such thing as an unbreakable code— replacement ciphers favored by alchemists in decades past are child's play compared to what today's alchemists come up with, but even those complex encryptions have a key, and the second that key is known, the code may as well be written in plain Amestrian.

Sometimes keys stay buried forever, and a code remains forever undecrypted. This is not common, because as clever as alchemists have gotten with their codes, at a base level all alchemists are deeply predictable people.

In this case, Whoever wrote the ciphers, multiple, for the client list went through a lot of trouble to make it as unbreakable as possible. The document is divided into multiple sections, each with its own set of ciphers and keys. Roy sent Havoc to interrogate the POI who shot him, a man named Dane Orvar with a criminal record consisting of petty crime until his recent dip into animal trafficking.

Orvar at first denied knowing the keys. Then, after being pressed and a little guilt-tripped by a still-recovering Havoc, he tried to claim that Havoc was better off leaving it alone. That kind of talk is typical for Orvar's type. He's a small criminal fish taking a swim in the big crime pond. Eventually Havoc got him to cave and admit that he knew one set of keys.

It's a columnar cipher with the keyword 'tekhne', tekhne being a word meaning 'craft, skill, or create', as defined by Typhon Echidna, an early alchemist philosopher who first theorized on the creation of chimera, run through a vigenere using the phrase, 'It is not wisdom but Authority that makes a law'.

Falman comes to Roy with the translated portion of the document looking grim.

It is nothing so useful as names, addresses, or phone numbers. No new connecting threads to root out and follow. Instead, it is a warning. The section of the document is one keeping track of clients' titles. There's Mr's, Dr's, Miss and Mrs's. It's also densely populated with military ranks as far up as Major General.

The house is quiet when Ed returns. He neatly removes his shoes (rather than kick them off and leave them where they land like he does at home). The box of tea goes on the counter, ready for Ed to brew some up if Al isn't napping on one of the couches.

He gets himself a glass of water. He's still turning over his encounter with that cloaked stranger and their sword-wearing friend. The unsatisfied curiosity refuses to subside, only burning brighter the more he starts to doubt what he saw.

Rinsing the cup, he sets it out to dry and goes into the bathroom, pulling up his shirt to poke at the bruises forming over his right side. Sore, but he’ll live. 

He wanders his way to the sitting room, expecting to find Al, Sig and Teacher there relaxing. Instead, he only finds Teacher. She's leaning forward, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She turns as he comes in.

A shiver of foreboding runs down his spine at the way she looks at him. He's struck with the bone-deep certainty that something has gone wrong, and for a moment all he can do is grapple with the rise of fear.

No, he denies. This fear is based on nothing but a look. It's baseless. Al was only tired this morning. There's no need to panic. Not yet.

His throat is tight. He forces himself to ask, "What happened? Where's Al?"

"Sig is with him," she signs, slow and defeated, "at the hospital."

Chapter Text

Bonnie has problems with her memory. Small things trouble her, like keeping track of her belongings, recalling a conversation from the day before, needing to keep re-reading the steps of a recipe she's working on even when she's just read them... or forgetting who she is, where she is, and why.

Not all the time. It's been getting better, the longer she's away from the labs. There are days she forgets that it's been a long time since she was in the labs.

Dolcetto's arm tightens around her shoulders. When Bonnie forgets who Bonnie is, she wanders. No, not wanders... goes searching feels more accurate. It's a cruel irony that once Bonnie remembers who she is, she forgets what it is she'd been searching for.

It could be nothing. It could just be her fragmented mind sending her off into the fog. But she doesn't find it hard to believe at all that she's lost something. It's nice to think that there's something to be found in her wandering.

Because she wanders, the others are responsible for watching her. To be an adult (she is fairly certain she's an adult) that needs others to be responsible for her is something she's made her peace with. What can she be, other than grateful, that there are people in this world who love her enough to want to keep her safe?

It was Dolcetto who was supposed to be watching her when she wandered out of Devil's Nest that morning. She can feel his guilt in the tense line of his body, and how he holds her like she might vanish if he lets go.

It's not his fault. He'd only left the room for a moment, and she'd been having a good memory day. A long series of good memory days, maybe the longest she's ever had.

Except from before the labs, she assumes, but since she doesn't remember the time before that, she doesn't count it. Sometimes she thinks she is like Greed, and simply didn't exist until she was made fully formed into what she now is.

Dolcetto does not let go until they are safely back in the Devil's Nest. The familiar scents of her family are soaked deep in the wooden floors and furniture (as well as the scents of alcohol and food grease), soothing the last of her frayed nerves.

It's frightening to be lost. For one like her, it can be deadly. Even when she doesn't remember who she is, she knows, instinctively, not to show her face.

They are not expecting the others back for days yet; if Dolcetto wished, they could both pretend that Bonnie never wandered out. There's a chance that she'll forget it ever happened, and then he won't even have to worry about her letting it slip.

She slides the heavy hood of her cloak off her head, her ears twitching at the brush of fabric.

"Are you hungry?" Dolcetto asks without looking at her. What a silly question.

"I'm always hungry." She sheds weight faster than the others. She has to eat nearly as much as Roa to keep from starving. "Is there anything left of Bido's pie?" Bido makes an excellent shepherd's pie.

Dolcetto releases a long breath and smiles a stiff ghost of a smile. "Let's go look."

He watches her while she eats. She expected he would, but it makes her self-conscious. Her face is very different, especially around her nose and mouth. "I will not disappear if you blink too often," she reminds him. He doesn't laugh.

"Did he see you?" he asks instead. "You had your hood up, but he got close."

She fiddles with her fork. "I don't think so." How she ended up in that alley is a complete blank; being in the alley is more a blur of fear and confusion, until she recognized Dolcetto's scent as something safe and familiar.

"You don't think so?"

"It is hard to say. But he would have said something if he saw, no? Something like, 'AH! A monster with a rodent's face!'."

Dolcetto frowns.

"What?" She stabs a carrot hard enough that her fork scrapes unpleasantly at the bottom of the bowl. "В каждой шутке есть доля шутки." Jokes only have a little bit of joke in them. The rest is the truth.

He sighs and smiles ruefully. "You notice you only speak Drachman while you're eating?"

"Huh." She twirls her speared carrot and pops it in her mouth. "How odd."

She's able to clear her bowl under much less scrutiny. Dolcetto's leg bounces as he watches his new target: the door. Maybe he's imagining that small young man has already run off and told his story of a half-glimpse of her face to the military, and a whole brigade will crash through the old wood and paint at any moment.

"We'll need to find him once Greed and the others get back from Liore." There's a man there who claims to have discovered the key to eternal life. He's gathered enough of a following to have made the papers. Greed declared the man was a likely con artist like all the rest, but still made the trip to verify for himself. "Just to make sure he doesn't try anything."

"The young man who saw me when I..." lost my mind, "was not myself, and offered to bring me to shelter? Yes, I'm sure even now he's tracking us through the streets so he can strike me down and personally offer my head to the Fuhrer."

"People are only kind when it suits them."

"Is serious-Dolcetto leaving soon? I miss fun-Dolcetto."

"The man who sleeps with a gun is a fool every day but one."

"Or a sword, in your case, yes? You snuggle up to it like it is a sweet teddy bear."

He tears his eyes from the door to look at her askance. "Bonnie."

Smiles are never right on her face, but she tries anyway. "There is no harm done. We are both safe back home. You think too highly of us. I guarantee that young man has more important things to worry over."

There's bandages wrapped around Al's head. When he collapsed, he hit it hard enough to split it open. Little purple bruises litter his body from his seizure, including a black eye from before Teacher was able to protect his face. An IV goes into his right arm, but Ed doesn't know what's in it; if he did, it wouldn't matter. Medicine isn't his field. Something he's regretting right about now.

He's regretting a lot of things. Mostly going out for tea and metal instead of sticking around when Al wasn't feeling well, and his every peeved thought about Al growing taller than him, because in that hospital bed he is far, far too small.

"I'm feeling better already," Al signs in clumsy, sleepy gestures. "You go home. Shower."

Ed tries to smile. "You trying to tell me I smell?"

"So bad," Al signs, nodding so emphatically he winces and presses a hand to his forehead.

Ed snorts. "Fine. I'll go shower once I talk to your doctor."

Flopping his hands in a whatever, Al settles into a small mound of pillows and closes his eyes. In the harsh light of the hospital, Ed can make out a faint purple ring under his unbruised eye.

There's probably a shower somewhere in the building he can use. He doesn't want to leave Al alone. The stress of the last day made Teacher's illness act up, so Ed insisted that Sig take her home before she ended up in the bed next to Al. They'll be back in the morning, but...

The doctor arrives, an intern at his heels. They both introduced themselves when Ed first arrived, but given the circumstances he did not retain the information. The intern gently rouses Al to take his vitals. Al is hardly present at first, blinking slowly into the middle distance and flinching when she shines a penlight in his eyes, but wakes up enough to grumpily complete his cognitive tests.

The doctor— a Dr. Whitney, according to his name badge— pulls out a legal pad and scribbles down How's he been?

"He's tired. Kind of loopy." Whitney nods like this is expected. "In good spirits."

Good, Whitney writes, and turns his attention to Al and the intern. Davis, her name badge reads. She shows Whitney Al's chart where she's written down his newest numbers, the two of them having a short discussion. Their calm, professional demeanors never waver, and Ed really wishes he could hear what they're saying.

Whitney returns with his pad, writing out an update for Ed. Concussion is not getting worse, it starts, which is not an optimistic beginning for most people, but for Ed, things not getting worse is about the best he dares to hope for, He'll make a full recovery with rest. As for the seizure, we believe it was caused by a prolonged lack of sleep and is unlikely to reoccur if he maintains a consistent sleep schedule from now on. With the vitamin drip his vitals are recovering. It's happening slower than we anticipated, but nothing to be concerned about.

Ed swallows past the swell of relief that seeks to burst out of him, probably through ugly weeping. "He's going to be okay?" he asks, and later, Ed will look back at this moment and think only of a blank white face and a wide, horrible grin.

Some tolls can never be paid in full.

He's going to be just fine, the doctor assures him.

Al does not feel good, and has been feeling less good as the morning goes on. His stomach churns unpleasantly and he's getting waves of lightheadedness. Sweat slicks his palms and the hospital gown scrapes on his oversensitive skin. His ankles ache. The doctors told him that his concussion would make him feel sick, but he thought the headaches and grogginess would be all he had to deal with.

He's already been in the hospital for two days, and today makes three. They took out his IV earlier and Dr. Whitney said he'll be able to go home that afternoon. He really doesn't want to stretch his stay out any longer. Brother worries when Al is sick, and Al being in the hospital has only made him worse.

He's sleeping in the chair next to Al's bed, slouched over Al's calves. His face is scrunched up tight even in rest.

Teacher sits on his other side, reading aloud from A Discourse of Fire and Salt. Al has already read it, so it doesn't count as not resting his brain, but it does stop him from dying of boredom. "Wherein four things come to be specified, Man, and Sacrifice, Fire, and Salt, which are yet reduced to two..."

"Teacher," Al interrupts softly. She sends him a reprimanding frown but nods expectantly. "Do you ever worry... I was just thinking, if something were to happen to me... do you think Brother would try to... bring me back?"

When Al was young, he hadn't understood what Ed had done. That day he found Ed in the basement, he assumed that the monster in the circle had attacked his brother. How it got there or why was another matter, but he was too busy getting swamped in the half-grief, half-panic of being convinced his brother would die before Granny got there to save him to think that far.

It didn't take long for him to stumble into texts about human transmutation and put the pieces together after, though.

He's never talked about it with Brother, but after he became her student, he had a long conversation about it with Teacher where she told him about her own human transmutation attempt. She said she regretted not telling Brother when he was her student, and she wouldn't make the same mistake with him.

She closes the book, considering him in a way that is somewhere between stern and sad. "No," she says. "He wouldn't do that to you. He knows better now."

A knot in Al's chest, a tension he didn't know he was holding, releases. "Good. Could you grab the trash bin? I think I'm going to puke."

An hour before Al is set to be discharged, Davis changes her mind. The reason, Al signs to Ed, his brow creased with confusion, is that Al's ankles are swollen. She takes two vials of Al's blood while reassuring Teacher (when Teacher or Sig are around, the doctors and nurses always talk to them instead of Ed) that she's just taking a precaution and that it's probably just from sitting around in the hospital too long.

When she comes back, she's brought along Whitney. Their calm professionalism has morphed into something more somber. Ed paws over the hospital bed for Al's hand and clutches it tight.

Kidney disease.

Teacher acts as proxy between the doctors and Ed, her signs jerky and stiff with stifled emotion.

They can't even say they're lucky to have caught it, because there's nothing to be done. It could take years for Al's kidneys to fail, or it could take days. They can treat symptoms, make Al comfortable, maybe prolong his prognosis if he's lucky.

Ed gets up from his chair beside the bed and clambers in next to Al, wrapping him under his arm and pulling him in close. He's warm against his side, chest rising and falling with even breaths. He rests his head on Ed's shoulder, tucking his own arm around Ed's waist and squeezing tight, hand fisting in Ed's shirt.

This can't be real.

Whitney leaves to give them time to process and consider what they want to do, and Davis nearly follows after him, but hesitates at the door. She pulls out a legal pad from her white coat pocket and writes down a hasty note. She rips the page off and hands it to him with a sad smile, leaving the three of them alone.

Experimental treatments exist but only conducted in military hospitals. Could be years before legal in civilian hospitals. If family in military get them to apply Alphonse for admittance.

He can't think about this right now. He hands the paper off to Teacher and watches the series of complicated emotions flicker over her face. She presses her hands together and incinerates the note. Al jumps in surprise and Ed feels rather than sees him speak.

"Your brother is joining the military," she responds thunderously. Ed buries his face in the top of Al's head and closes his eyes.

After learning of potential military involvement in the chimera case, Roy ordered an information lock down on the investigation. It's not a good look on him that his case has apparently stagnated, but it would be even worse if it got out that he's looking into his superiors. Hell, if it got out that he even suspected his superiors of wrongdoing.

He doesn't have names, only ranks, and therefore he suspects all of them. But what are respected, high-ranking military officers doing getting involved in something as vulgar as chimera trafficking and fighting rings? There are better ways to make money, and there are ways to gamble that would be simply embarrassing rather than career-ending.

Something's not adding up here.

His desk phone rings. "Mustang," he answers.

"You have a call coming in from Sergeant Darcie Glenn from the State Alchemist's office in Central, sir," the operator informs him. "Shall I put her through?"

The State Alchemist's office? He's not due for his assessment yet. "Go ahead."

A click. Then a new voice. "Good morning, sir. I apologize if I'm interrupting. I’m calling to inform you that we had a young man called Edward Elric take the State Alchemist's exam last week."

"Really?" Pleasant surprise bleeds into his voice. "I honestly didn't think I'd hear from him again."

"So you are responsible for offering him a position as a State Alchemist?"

"Yes," he says slowly. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not, sir. We only wanted to verify that you will vouch for Mr. Elric's viability as a candidate for the State Alchemist program."

"I see." There have certainly been State Alchemists with automail before, but there's never been a one that was deaf. This sets a new precedent. New precedents make the old guard twitchy and eager to pinpoint someone to take on any fallout. "I can vouch for Mr. Elric. The practicals are next week, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"Perfect. I'll be stopping by to observe." He ends the call, leaning back in his chair and pinching his chin thoughtfully.

Elric is an unknown player, and that makes him a wild card. That he apparently changed his mind and came to work for a military he holds a complete and unsubtle lack of respect for confirms that. But something has to have changed for Elric, and whatever it is cut past his moral objections and right into whatever it is he really cares about.

If it's enough to get him into the military, it'll be enough to keep him in line. He has the potential to be a high-value piece on Roy's board, but not if he doesn't curb what he suspects will be a willful insubordination streak a mile wide.

And if Elric doesn't have the best timing. Another alchemist's eyes on this chimera case could be just what they need.

He's looking forward to his visit to Central. It's been too long since he's seen a good show.

Chapter Text

The interpreter Ed's given for his practical exam is a severe woman with dark hair that doesn't move her face as she signs. It makes it a headache to read context. Ed can sort of read the tone from the people actually speaking, if he's up for swiveling his head back and forth like a gopher poking out of its burrow.

The exam room is a bare, empty space, save for the lone table in front of Ed and the wall of military blue uniforms lining the raised gallery. He recognizes the Colonel among them, smirking down at Ed expectantly. Like a prick.

A man in an eyepatch stands front and center, a good-natured smile on his face and an inquisitive tilt to his head. The stars lining the shoulders of his ostentatiously medalled uniform mark him as the Fuhrer.

Being observed by the leader of his country should probably make Ed nervous, but instead it irritates him. Does the guy not have better things to do? Is there not a whole country he's meant to be running? It figures he'd be one of those leaders that leaves the hard work to his underlings while he does fuck all. "You are a man of some notoriety, Mr. Elric. I'm curious what a man of the arts such as yourself would have to offer the military."

Ed doesn't have anything to say to that. One of the guards flanking him steps up and offers him a stick of chalk. He holds up a hand to wave it off.

He breathes in. A ringing feedback reverberates from the clap of his hands, a high enough pitch that he doubts any of the old geezers in the room can hear it. He presses his hands to the table in front of him and begins the reaction.

It's a stainless steel alloy, meaning it'll be around an eighth chromium and have trace amounts of carbon rattling around inside. The solidity of the metal feels good under his palms; he may be doing an awful lot of chemistry these days, but his specialty is always going to be in the simple, blunt work of metallurgy.

An excess of energy is lost during transmutation; alchemic reactions are completed quicker than is otherwise possible through natural means, which produces heat and static discharge that often takes the form of the blue lightning that is the hallmark of alchemy. This is the way of energy transfer— the rabbit gets more energy from the grass than the fox does from the rabbit, not because the rabbit has less energy than the grass, but because it's an unavoidable consequence of all transformation that something is lost in the process.

It's a goddamn waste, is what it is.

A burst of alchemical discharge dances out from where his gloves hands make contact with the table. Then, all at once, the exothermic reaction reverses, and Ed guides the energy into the steel. It heats, and heats, the air in the room around them cooling by multiple degrees. He breathes out, and the gust of it mists in the air.

The steel gives to the array in his mind. From a table he forms a long-bladed ranseur spear, made entirely from tempered blue steel. Not the same shade as the military uniforms— such a thing promises a loyalty he doesn't intend to give— but a little darker.

He is known for his color work, after all. It's been a while since he's made anything in blue.

The sudden drop in temperature has his stumps aching. It's the last drop in the bucket and his carefully neutral mood darkens to a stormy black. Appraising gazes from the gallery become needle-like prickles over his skin. He holds the spear out in a tight-fisted grip.

"That's an impressive trick, young man," the Fuhrer says, friendly, setting Ed's teeth on edge. "Mind if I have a look?" He holds out a hand, palm up.

It would be so easy to skewer the asshole through the throat. So, so easy. Stupidly easy.

Sometimes, the best way to control an impulse is to reign it in just before the finish line. Ed wields the spear in both hands and charges.

Mustang, it would appear, has been learning Sign in his free time. Not perfectly, yet, there's some grammar fumbles and nuances with body language he hasn't quite gotten down pat, but it's a perfectly serviceable skill level for him to rip Ed a new asshole.

"... unacceptable behavior befitting a child, not a future ranking officer of the military. I put my name on the line for you, you know that? I can't believe you would risk everything for such a petty reason. You're lucky the Fuhrer had a good sense of humor about it, or else not even the results of your practical would have been enough to get you enlisted..."

It's been going on for a while. Impressive how the man manages to drone in Sign. He's still flapping his gums, too, even though he knows Ed can't hear him. It gives Ed the impression the man just loves the sound of his own voice.

Ed leans his chin on his hand, all but lounging on the office couch, looking out Mustang's window from the corner of his eye and wondering if Al's train has left yet, until—

"...here I thought you actually cared about getting your brother proper care, but I can't say I believe you do if this is how easy it would be for you to throw it away."

The hot rush of rage snaps him upright and back to attention. "Don't talk like you know shit about me or Al."

Ed's anger rolls off Mustang like water, and he fixes Ed with a look like he's nothing but an irritating gnat. That has Ed's hackles rising even further. Being looked down upon in any sense galls Ed, and Mustang manages to do it in all ways at the same time.

"Speaking that way to your superior is unacceptable conduct," Mustang signs, eyes as cold as ice. "The paperwork may still need to be signed, but I am your commanding officer and you are my subordinate. You'd do well to remember that your continued employment, and your brother's treatment, are reliant on you making me happy."

Ed swallows his next retort, fuming.

"I'm well aware that you're used to your flagrant disrespect being excused for want for your talents, but that ends now," Mustang continues. "We're walking a fine line here. If you screw this up, I will not hesitate to throw you to the wolves, is that understood?"

Ed holds himself so tensely his whole body may as well be made of steel rather than just pieces of him. "Yes, sir," he grits. Joining the military was a means to an end for him; he knew, in theory, that it would require following orders he didn't like or agree with, but somehow it never crossed his mind that he'd have to change his entire demeanor to keep his position.

He's a dog of the military now. Snarling at the hands that hold his leash is just going to get him put down.

It's a hard pill to swallow. Everything is different now. What he wouldn't give to go back to the time before Al got sick. Before he had to worry if his little brother could survive a train ride from Dublith to East City, and before he consigned his life and freedom to an institution he hates.

Satisfied, Mustang leans back in his chair. "Good. Make your introductions with the rest of the team. Lieutenant Hawkeye will have the forms you need to take to the quartermaster for uniform assignment. Dismissed."

Eager to get out of that damn office and away from Mustang's shrinking gaze, Ed's gone in a flash, and it takes considerable effort not to slam the door on his way out.

His exit brings him into the team's bullpen, and into the center of attention for five near-strangers clad in uniform. It sets his teeth on edge. He takes a breath and forces the growing hostility to leak out of his posture. Polite. He has to be polite.

He's already sick of it. How does Al manage this all the time?

Ed remembers the broad ginger man— Heymans Breda— from the train, and of course Jean Havoc, no longer bleeding to death. He takes Ed's gloved automail hand in both of his own and shakes it enthusiastically, speaking too rapidly for Ed to catch a single word.

Either someone reminds Havoc that Ed can't understand him or he comes to the realization himself, because he stops trying to pull Ed's arm off and grimaces sheepishly. "Sorry," he says.

"Nah, it's fine," Ed says, carefully extracting his hand. "I got the gist. You're welcome."

Vato Falman and Kain Fuery cut in and introduce themselves. Everyone on the team has at least learned to fingerspell, which is more than Ed was expecting. With Hawkeye being so proficient, he thought she'd become his de facto go-between with the rest of the military. They've also each got a small notepad on their desks that they got for the specific purpose of communicating when fingerspelling gets too cumbersome.

Ed stares at the little off-white pad of paper on Fuery's desk, his eyes itchy and dry from staying up worrying about every little thing that could go wrong between Dublith and Blackwell Military Hospital. Dr. Davis and Teacher will be with Al the whole way, and he tries to let that comfort him. He wishes he could be there himself, but his position isn't finalized enough yet for him to even request family leave. Taking off without going through official channels would be a good way to end his career before it even began.

It occurs to him that he's joined the military.

The military. All these people around him are military, and so is he. The organization that stands as a starkly dressed monolith of killers and warmongers in his mind. What does it mean for him now that the monolith is breaking apart into individual people?

He was raised on the horror stories pouring out of Ishval. The way the adults spoke in quiet tones about bloodbath after bloodbath, anger and grief and helplessness in turns, how his classmates discussed what they gleaned from the whispers and newspaper headlines, trying to wrap their young minds around their morbid curiosity of the what and the why.

The war was not far from Resembool. The sick and injured sometimes made their way through the Rockbell's clinic, on their way to a city hospital to be medically discharged, or to a slow death away from the maelstrom of war. Once, he'd gotten a peak at one of the patients in the sickbeds. He can still remember the rotten smell of what Winry later told him was called gangrene.

Ed remembers the day soldiers came to conscript Winry's parents to the warfront, and he remembers how she cried for days when those soldiers returned with a death notice.

He knows exactly the kinds of stories people tell about the bastard sitting in the office one mere doorway away. The Flame Alchemist. If even half of them are true, how can Mustang stand to live with himself? How can Ed live with himself for serving under his command?

No. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. Ed's only here for one reason, and for Al, he can keep his head down and his mouth shut.

Maes drops in entirely unannounced, as is his wont, piling another problem onto Roy's already precarious tower of problems. A visit from Maes can be relied upon to tank his productivity, and while Roy mostly does not mind this, it's the last thing he needs right now.

While his team weighs strategies for how to move forward with the investigation without drawing fire, the trails are running cold. Orvar clammed up and refuses to give them anything more to go on, either on the encrypted client list or the identities of his employers. They've monitored the trains for more suspicious activity, but after the last fiasco he can only assume the smugglers got spooked and went to ground. All they've got to show for their work is a list that may as well be written in gibberish and a low-level informant that refuses to talk.

No results means the higher ups have been piling more administrative work onto his plate. Such as the drudgery he's currently working through: agricultural evaluations and labor statistics he's meant to compile into a succinct economic report on food price changes for the entire region. It's mind-numbingly droll and time-consuming, and he would love nothing more than to throw it to the side and let Maes distract him, but it needs to be done.

"Roy! Good to see you, buddy, say, I heard the new member of your team is a real spitfire, hah, you really know how to pick 'em, eh?" He drops his hands on Roy's desk while he speaks, leaning over the small mountain of reports.

Not looking up, Roy responds, "Yes, he made quite the scene at his practical, but at least it meant no one argued when I requested he be placed under my command." He runs a pen down the edge of the page he's reading to keep his place.

"Ah," Maes straightens and claps his hands together. "Crafty! Think he did it on purpose?"

The pen freezes in place. He hadn't considered that possibility, but... "No. Elric may be intelligent, but he's not conniving. There's never any mystery about his motives because he doesn't see the point in hiding them."

It's, frankly, a liability. Elric knows what he risks if he can't learn to play nice, but he's already demonstrated that he doesn't tend to think before he acts. Some maneuvering will have to be done to get any use out of him in regards to his alchemical expertise. Getting Hawkeye to take on a mentorship role could help integrate him into military life. God knows he's not going to take any advice from Roy on that front.

Maes laughs. "Sounds like a real catch."

Finally, Roy asks the question he cannot put off any longer. "What are you doing in East City, Hughes?"

Maes waves him off. "Just looking into some tax discrepancies among the rich and famous."

"Aren't you always?" Roy drawls.

"Yeah," Maes sighs. His expression turns pensive. "Sometimes you put two and two together and you get five, right? But other times, a pattern's a pattern. There's a lot of big money disappearing from the books these days."

Sounds like a Tuesday to Roy, but he's never had cause to doubt Maes's instincts before. The encrypted client list comes to mind. Specifically, all the information he hasn't gotten from it. "Well, keep me updated," Roy says casually, and Maes raises an eyebrow at his interest. "And watch your step. You never know how deep some of these pockets are."

Maes nods once in understanding. Then, he brightens. "So, you gonna introduce me to your newest recruit?"

Chapter Text

Al spends the train ride to East City sick to his stomach. Dr. Davis makes sure he drinks a lot of water, but he can't bring himself to do anything but nibble on any of the food provided. It's hard for him to tell how much of his sickness is from his sickness and how much is his nerves roiling from every thought of his future in Blackwell Military Hospital and Brother's future as a State Alchemist.

The train rocks their sleeper car steadily back and forth, the occasional shudder breaking up the rhythm and rocking their booth table on its loose bolts. He rests his elbows on top of it, cushioning his chin in his hands.

They won't send Brother down to Aerugo, will they? Al won't be able to take it if they do. He still has nightmares about that awful day years ago— the day his brother, all the family Al has left, all the family he's ever known, almost left him forever. Bleeding out on the cold basement floor.

Brother promised he wouldn't die on him. He promised.

"Ed's going to be fine," Teacher says, like she knows exactly what he's thinking. It's something she's done a lot in his time under her tutelage, so he's gotten used to it. She does it to Brother, too. "He's a hot-headed little idiot, but he's not stupid."

Al giggles. It comes out as breathless and exhausted as he feels. He folds his arms over the tabletop and rests his head on top of them.

"That boy strikes me as the tenacious sort," Dr. Davis says, nudging Al's water flask toward him. To appease her, he sits up long enough to take a sip. Unfortunately, he'll be needing to visit the gross train bathrooms soon. Again. Dr. Davis has him on medication that's supposed to reduce the swelling in his feet and ankles by making him need to pee all the time. "A spirit like that will thrive in the military."

"Not to mention how State Alchemists are afforded extra leniency." Teacher says this with a sneer, but the usual heat behind her words isn't there. It's replaced by a solemnity she quickly shakes off with another reassurance that his brother will be fine, but Al's mind already spirals in new, unpleasant directions. What will the military ask of his brother?

Al hasn't seen him since he left for the exams. Will it change him? Has it already? The fuzzy image he tries to form of Brother in uniform refuses to solidify.

He's tired. He misses his bed. He misses Resembool. It feels like he hasn't been there in forever. Talking to Winry and Granny over the phone just isn't the same. They said they'd come visit as soon as he was settled, but that won't be the same, either.

He's tired.

He wants to go home.

Greed knew chasing true immortality would put him at odds with his— what, family? Hardly— former associates, but after going nearly a century without running into any of them, he wasn't prepared for a mini-reunion in Liore of all places.

It was only Lust and Gluttony. Finding the two of them together wasn't a surprise. Their only sister was always Gluttony's favorite, and she indulged his affection with her characteristic aloof patience. They make an odd pair, but Greed has never claimed to understand his siblings or their vices.

He found them in Liore's temple. It towered over the simple town, reaching for the sky with a sense of spirited audacity that Greed respected. Its grandeur and opulence stood in stark contrast to its surrounding buildings, all nothing more than a utilitarian three stories high. Any wealth generated in the area clearly funneled in one direction.

It was enough to give Greed ideas, but Martel cut him down by saying he doesn't have enough self-control to run a profitable religion. Roa nodded sagely in agreement while Bido, who could never bring himself to say anything negative about Greed, remained suspiciously quiet.

Greed's rebuttal of, "But I'm already running a sex cult," was met with less-than-impressed reactions from all three of them.

Lust was far less surprised by their reunion than he was. "I wondered when you'd come crawling out of the gutters, Greed," she sighed.

She spoke, as she always did, in a gentle manner, on the edge of seductive, ensnaring the listening ear with promises of pleasure until her prey dared to tread close enough for her to sate her bloodthirst.

Pleasure, in that case, would not have been the kind Greed typically indulges in, because as much as Greed enjoys the pleasures of the flesh, he's never desired his fellow Homunculi in that way and she knew that. No, the false promise laced in her words was something different, something that spoke to a desire in him she could exploit.

He doesn't know which one. There are many; he's made of desire. Whatever it was, it compelled him to linger there with her instead of splitting town without a backwards glance. "I'd say it was lovely to see you again, sis, but..." He shrugged.

Gluttony peaked out from behind Lust's legs, comically attempting to conceal his bulbous body behind her petite frame. It's for the benefit of all of them that he's ridiculously meek for a creature who could swallow the world if he were so inclined.

Greed's cavalier disinterest only made Lust smirk. Her gaze slid over his shoulder to the chimeras flanking behind him, dark eyes glinting. Not wanting to give her the opportunity to make things messy, he dismissed his henchmen to search out the old man they came here to find. None of them were happy about it, but beyond Martel's cuttingly suspicious looks, none of them argued.

"I didn't think backwater zealots would be your kind of crowd, Lustie," Greed drawled. "Wait, I got it. You're grounded. What'd you do to piss off the old man? Late night snack run gone wrong?" He tilts his head at Gluttony, who shuffles haltingly, like he can't decide if he wants to step toward Greed or hide further behind Lust.

Lust smiled, sharp as a knife. "Father doesn't tell us where to go any longer."

Letting out a low, impressed whistle, Greed couldn't help the genuine delight in his grin. "No way I'd have ever thought Daddy's girl would turn rebel. Didja have a spat? Didja run away? Taking a pit stop before you flee the country, is that it?"

"I forgot how much you talk," she told him. Her smile widened to show her gleaming teeth. "Consider this a courtesy visit."

Greed tilted his head patronizingly. "I found you, remember?"

"Oh, please," Lust scoffed. "I send out a story about a silly little human spouting nonsense about eternal life and you're here before the newspaper's ink has dried. You don't think, Greed, you never have. Always chasing whatever shiny bauble has caught your eye, no matter how much trouble it gets you into. The last hundred years haven't changed you at all."

A snag caught in his chest and he glowered. "I forgot how much you talk."

That sharp smile returned. Then, "Father's gone, Greed."

Gone where, he almost asked, before the meaning behind that smile sunk in. The smile of a shark that smelled blood in the water. That's all anything ever is to Lust; a prelude to the killing blow.

She told him how it happened. How their Father met his end. There was a man who looked just like Father, and not enough time to stop him. Envy chased after the man and didn't come back; after enough time passed, Lust decided it was no longer in her best interest to linger. Without Father, their plans fell apart. It was all pointless now. Might as well move on.

Move on. Fucking hell.

Greed couldn't get out of Liore fast enough after that. Lust didn't insult him with an offer to join her, wherever she was going, a rare act of clemency on her part, and Greed throws away the thought that it might be the last time he sees her and Gluttony. It's not any more true now than it was a hundred years ago.

He wasn't prepared to learn that Father is dead. Fuck, he didn't think the bastard could die. What the hell is he supposed to do with that? If not even he was immortal, then...

"Greed," Roa's deep rumble pulls him from his sour thoughts. The boxcar they stowed away in rattles around them, empty save for the scattering of loose grain from its previous haul dumping food into Liore. On either side of himself, he's beset by a pair of concerned eyes, Roa and Martel refusing to let the silence linger any longer. "That woman. She was like you?"

"Yep," Greed replies, popping the 'p' irritably.

"What did she say?" Martel asks. She's wrapped herself and Bido tightly in Rao's shawl to keep the cold metal of the car from sapping their reptilian body heat. Bido has burrowed completely underneath it, only visible as a lumpy mass at her side. He might be asleep.

Rolling his neck, Greed expels a puff of air. "That I've been chasing shadows."

Martel and Roa frown and glance at each other. Bido peaks his head out from the cover of the shawl, a strange and sad understanding in his gaze.

Nothing more is said. His chimeras reach for him and offer comfort in the only form he knows to take it.

The stiffness of the new uniform isn't entirely uncomfortable, at least not to Ed, who wore leather pants for most of his adolescence, but there's a moment when the cuff on his left arm brushes over his wrist that shocks him loose of his body. The moment lasts less than a blink, but the disorientation remains.

It's a similar sensation to what he got accustomed to after his mistake that day in the basement, when his body became foreign to him and he had to re-learn how to live in it. It reminds him that he's adjusted to worse circumstances than an unsavory occupation.

Quiet, child. This is what you wanted, isn't it?

The boots are nice. Sturdy.

The uniform is for a Major. The quartermaster examines the fit around his shoulders and down by his ankles (the implications of which rankles Ed but he makes sure not to scowl) before handing over the real measure of Ed's new status, the silver pocket watch. It's heavy for its size.

He has to sign some forms, and the quartermaster passes over a copy of a statement of his uniform allowance that tells him he's agreed not to ruin it more than once every two years or lose the pocket watch at all unless he wants to pay for it himself. He tucks it in his pocket and makes his way back to Mustang's bullpen.

The others greet him with the same camaraderie as before. Havoc pats him heartily on the shoulder and Falman gives a simple thumbs-up, accompanied by a Looks great, boss Fuery scratched out on his notepad.

These people aren't what he expected. Maybe that's a good thing. Or maybe it will make it too easy for him to get comfortable.

Hawkeye gives him a critical once-over and signs, "Is your hair going to get in your way?"

He shrugs. "Hasn't so far."

"You might be able to get away with the braid. Otherwise, you'll need to pin it up." She goes into her desk and pulls out a plain hairpin. He takes it and stares down at it dubiously. The only ways he knows to style his hair are 'in a braid' and 'not in a braid'.

He takes his braid, twists it around itself behind his head, and stabs the pin through to hold it that way. When he lets go, it doesn't feel completely stable, but it's out of the way for now.

The door to Mustang's office flies open and an unfamiliar man flounces out, honing in on Ed with unnerving precision. He waves at Ed cheerfully, approaching him with an amicable smile. Mustang files out behind him, face pinched, and introduces the man as Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes.

The Lieutenant Colonel then begins to talk while Mustang blatantly struggles to keep up translating. It's funny, and a little bemusing, to watch. For all that Mustang broadcasts his irritation, there's a clear indulgence in his attempts to communicate his subordinate's chatter.

From what Ed understands of Mustang's fumbling, Hughes is visiting from his usual station in Central and wanted to meet Ed in person while he's here. Apparently, Ed already has somewhat of a reputation, being the youngest State Alchemist ever enlisted, being deaf, and for his practical exam. The pinched look on Mustang's face pinches further.

"Thank you, sir," Ed says, and because he can't resist, "I hope to meet your expectations." The menacing twitch in Mustang's brow makes the comment worth it.

Hughes' grin stretches gleefully. "Wonderful! Now, I have got to get back to work, but while we're all here, it's been so long since we all caught up—"

Looming dread drops everyone's faces. Hughes reaches into his coat and Ed takes a hesitant step back.

Out comes a wallet, and from that wallet comes a bundle of folded-together photos of a pretty, short-haired woman and a little girl that unfold all the way to the floor. "You just have to see how much my little Elicia has grown!"

Chapter Text

The room they settled Al in is nice. The walls are painted a soft blue, and like every room in the pediatrics ward, has fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling. The furniture are greens and earthy browns, including the nice bedding laid out on the hospital cot. A vase of fresh lavender sits on the bedside table, permeating the room with its subtle fragrance.

Al sits cross-legged on the bed, facing the door, hunched over a book in his lap. Teacher had some errands to run in the city, and Dr. Davis left back for Dublith yesterday morning once she filled in his new doctor, Dr. Ottenbreit, about Al's condition. Al hasn't seen Dr. Ottenbreit since, but he's met with a handful of nurses who come to check on him and give him the medication Dr. Ottenbreit ordered.

He feels like a guest at a stranger's house and can't relax. Is he supposed to get used to this?

A tell-tale uneven gait marching closer from down the hall has his ears perking up. He slides his bookmark in place and looks up as Brother appears in the doorway, a grin splitting his face in relief and excitement. Shoving the book to the side, he slides off the cot, and his brother strides over before he can blink to pull him into a warm embrace.

Hugs with Brother are a little aggressive. Affectionate, absolutely, but also combative. When Al was little, he used to think his brother was angry with him whenever he hugged him, especially if it was after Al got hurt. The quick, rough pull into his arms, the tight squeeze that was never enough to be uncomfortable but was enough to knock a little breath from his lungs if he wasn't ready— he didn't know what else to make of it.

But if Al asked Brother if he was mad at him, he'd always say no, and his brother never lied to him. Al didn't want him to feel bad and stop hugging him, so he didn't ask any further and just accepted it as part of him.

Brother's arms are strong around him, and Al squeezes back with what strength he can muster and thinks he finally gets it. He'd like to see anyone try to take his brother from him right now. He tucks his head under Brother's chin and is thankful that he won't have to.

They pull apart and Al has a moment to take in his brother's appearance. The uniform looks as strange as he thought it would, formal and pressed fabric in place of Brother's usual semi-rumpled pants and long coats. His hair is up in a lopsided bun. It's strangely reassuring.

"How are you feeling?" Brother ruffles his hair. "These fancy doctors fix you up yet?"

Al shrugs, climbing back onto the cot and crossing his legs. "They did tests, and I'm taking medicine. Nurse Lili said they're for my bones, my blood, and my heart." Having bad kidneys can cause all sorts of other problems over the whole body. It ties his stomach up in knots to think about all the things that could go wrong, so he tries not to. "I guess I haven't been here long enough to feel much better."

His brother frowns. "Someone's supposed to send your doctor to talk with me. I might have a little talk with him."

"Brother, don't," Al protests. "I just got here. Give it time."

His mouth twists mulishly, then he softens with a sigh. "As long as this doctor knows what he's doing."

It's so good to have his brother back with him. There's are no words for his love and appreciation for having someone who's in his corner, unconditionally, always. One day, he hopes he can give his brother just as much comfort and support.

Al smiles teasingly. "I'm sure he does. It is his job, you know."

Brother crosses his arms and shifts his weight off his automail leg. "Speaking of jobs." He sighs heavily. Al's heart sinks. "I won't be able to stay long today. They want me back at HQ once I've met with your doctor."

"You just got here!" Al hates how selfish, how childish, he's being, but he can't stop from signing his complaint. "I don't like being here alone."

The guilt on Brother's face has Al curling in on himself, wishing he could take it back. The only reason his brother has to leave for his new job is because Al got sick. It's his fault his brother had to join the military even though he hates it and he might die. Who's he kidding thinking he'll ever be a support for his brother? All he's ever been is a burden.

Tears prickle at his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall, not even when Brother slides next to him on the cot and pulls him under his arm. He's warm. "I'm here now," he says. "At least for as long as your doctor takes his sweet damn time."

Al giggles hoarsely, chest tight.

Ed leaves the hospital dragging his feet. The visit was far too short and Al's future is far too uncertain for Ed to feel good about being away from his side. Speaking to Dr. Ottenbreit assuaged Ed's fears that Al had one foot in the grave, but had also made it clear that even with successful treatment, Al was going to be sick for the rest of his life, and always at risk for things to get worse.

A hot coal sits low in his guts, burning with the certainty that this is his fault.

The walk back to HQ is a six-block trek that crosses over an edge of a middle-class shopping district, and if Ed thought he was going to be lucky enough to avoid seeing his old teacher while in uniform, he should have known better.

They lock eyes and it's already too late. "Edward Elric!"

Her commanding declaration— and only his teacher could make signing his name into a declaration— freezes him in place mid-step, muscle memory from his time under her tutelage. He turns to watch her advance, sweat forming on the back of his neck.

She's carrying two shopping bags on her elbow, neither of which he can see the contents of. Al mentioned she was off on errands.

"Hey, Teacher," he greets nervously. "I was just coming from—"

The bags hit the ground in the same instant she grabs for his shoulders, pulling him down to meet the knee slamming into his gut. He doubles over, air forced from his lungs in a wheezy gasp. She drops him, letting him stagger to keep balance.

One of her hands drops into his slightly-blurred field of vision, indicating that he should look up. He knows better than to refuse, awkwardly craning his neck up while still cradling his midsection.

"That was your final reminder of your expulsion," she signs grimly. "I will not be associated or addressed as the teacher of one of the military's dogs. Understand?"

"Fuck."

"Good."

A woman across the street is staring at them open-mouthed, brow furrowed in confusion about why the lady who just attacked a military officer is not currently being arrested by said officer and no doubt coming to all kinds of conclusions. He winces and waves his hand at her as if to say Nothing to see here.

"You're coming from the hospital, aren't you? Al was anxious to see you."

Good ol' Teacher. (Er, Mrs. Curtis. Izumi. Ms. Izumi?) Renouncing him with violence and then asking after his little brother. Ed gingerly straightens up. "Yeah. I wish I could have stayed longer. He's— He's pretty scared right now."

"I know." She picks up her bags. "I'm almost done here. He won't be alone up there much longer."

He shoves a hand through his bangs and sighs. "I'm more worried about after you go back to Dublith. Once they start assigning me work, I don't know how much free time I'll have. Shit, I have to go. I'm already later than I thought I would be. I'll see you later, alright?"

She grabs him by the arm, stopping him from leaving. He turns as she releases him, quickly signing, "Don't worry so much. I'll be around. Got an apartment here."

He stares. "What?"

"Al is my student," she signs, like her reasoning is obvious. "I'll need to be here to teach him."

"But... Sig?" Can she even afford to live in East City? Moving is so stressful, what if she gets sick with no one around to take care of her?

Like she can hear what he's thinking, she smacks him over the head. "Didn't I just tell you not to worry so much? The shop needs his attention more than me. Go on then. We'll talk more later."

Not having the will or the time to argue, Ed leaves her and continues on his way to HQ, double-time.

Riza Hawkeye has many regrets, but her decision to follow Roy Mustang into hell was never one of them. It may make her a hypocrite to not regret the source of her regrets, but just as she believed in the idealistic young man who inspired her to join the military, she believes in the jaded, no less idealistic man who inspires her to work to change it.

Sometimes, though. Sometimes she doubts his methods.

"You're going to send him out of the city?" she asks. The file in her hand details the permits and ownership of the Youswell mines, which are due for renewal and inspection. Colonel Mustang has already filed the form to put Elric on the assignment. "You're not going to do yourself any favors by making him hate you. Sir."

"I don't need him to like me, I need him to follow orders." He shakes his head, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk. "If it's not crop numbers, it's mining outputs. I'm starting to think I'm running this whole sector on my own."

"A preview of what's to come, sir," she answers, and for this the Colonel spares her a glance, smiling with his eyes. "I'll send him in when he arrives."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

She leaves the office, finding Breda and Fuery crowded around Falman at his desk with Havoc nowhere to be seen. "What's going on here?"

They all startle to attention, Falman faltering between standing and staying seated. "It's that odd phrase, sir," he says. He lowers his voice. "It is not wisdom but Authority that makes a law. It sounds like civil philosophy to me. I looked through as many books as I could find and found similar statements, but no exact matches. I have a hunch they're all referencing the same source, but not one of them cites where this idea came from. I've compiled a list of commonalities surrounding the reference. I hoped it would help us locate the origin, but..."

"We've got nothing," Fuery sighs. Breda shrugs in commiseration.

He holds a sheet of lined paper. Riza takes it, reading over the scant few connections Falman's research has made. Her father, like all alchemists, dabbled in philosophical discussions, so she has some familiarity. The Law of Equivalent Exchange is most famous for taking on a life of its own beyond being a basic physical law, but many alchemist philosophers go far beyond that.

Argues for monarchy

Natural laws distinct from spiritual laws

Human nature is counter to civilization

Social contract

Leviathan

The first four are not unique ideas, especially the first. Political philosophy that doesn't sing the praises of centralized power is fairly impossible to get published in Amestris. The others make for an interesting web of ideas that make a central thesis difficult to parse without more context. "What's this last one?"

"I... don't know," Falman admits. "A symbol of some kind. It might be the monarch, or the populace of a society, or the idea that holds a society together. Or none of those. The authors I've read can't even agree if it's beneficial or something profane. I'm working to compile a more comprehensive analysis, but I'm worried it's another dead end."

Riza hands the paper back. "Keep working on it. Right now, any lead is a good lead."

Elric chooses this moment to rush through the door. There's a line between his brows and his mouth pulled down into a severe frown that quickly smooths into a neutral mask when he faces her. "Uh, hey. Got held up. Can I—?" He motions to the Colonel's office door.

She nods, signing, "He's expecting you."

He turns away too slow to hide his grimace. As the door swings shut behind him, she gives an internal grimace of her own.

Elric enters his office at a controlled saunter, standing at an approximation of attention in front of Roy's desk. Roy flourishes his signature (in triplicate) over the resource allocation requests he's busy with before looking up.

Boredom and annoyance. Elric is trying, schooling his expression into something almost blank, but he can't help that he's lived his whole life up until this point without the need for a professional veneer. Still, the effort is promising.

First, the easy part. Roy picks up a neatly folded document from the side of his desk, passing it over to Elric. "The Fuhrer has assigned you your State Alchemist's title."

Elric unfolds the paper, scanning down the letter until he catches on the code name. "Fullmetal?" he scoffs. "The name I already have? Creative."

Roy quirks an eyebrow and is amused that he can see the moment the not-so-newly-christened Fullmetal kicks himself.

"I mean. Great," he amends with blatantly false enthusiasm. "Makes it easier... to... remember."

The effort may be promising but also, Roy is a little bit embarrassed for him. "To mark your official induction, I have your first assignment here." He lifts up the file Hawkeye looked over earlier. Fullmetal looks at it like it might burst into flames the second he touches it. Roy chooses not to take offense. He gestures for him to hurry up and Fullmetal takes the file. "Something easy."

Roy pretends to busy himself with more of his never-shrinking mountain of paperwork while Fullmetal reads it over. He notes the way his grip over the manila folder tightens and prepares for an explosion.

"Youswell?" Fullmetal asks, forcefully calm, and a hint too quiet.

"Shouldn't take more than a few days," Roy says lightly. "You can take the rest of today to prepare. Dismissed."

Fullmetal swallows audibly and doesn't move for several seconds. When he does, his retreating footsteps are heavier than when he came in.

Good. If this assignment goes well and Fullmetal can prove he can stay in line, Roy will be more confident in bringing him in and utilizing him as an asset. He hopes he can. He could use all the assets he can get.

Chapter Text

Youswell isn't as close to the former Ishvalan lands as Resembool, but their coal mines would have put them in the midst of heavy military activity during the war. Activity that would have enriched the town. While attitudes toward the military tended to sway negative in the East, Ed isn't naive enough that he doesn't know the effect money has on people's opinions, even when that opinion is genocide is wrong.

Still, Ed's skin crawls at the thought of showing up in uniform, so he exits the train in Youswell wearing his civilian clothes, his pocket watch tucked discreetly away in his jacket.

For a mining town, it's oddly quiet. It's inching into evening, but the few off-shift miners he passes by are subdued, a gauntness to their faces bordering on desperation. Mining is meant to be a lucrative job— how else would they convince anyone to do it?— and miners have a reputation for being a rowdy crowd when out under open sky.

This place is a year or two away from being a ghost town. It's looking like Ed's report is going to be on the Youswell Mine drying up.

Something solid jabs him in his flesh shoulder, causing him to stumble a half-step. He turns with a warning to watch where you're fucking going, buddy on his lips, only to see a kid around Al's age carrying a long wooden beam. The vague contrition on the kid's face morphs into a toothy, excited grin. He chatters something far too quickly for Ed to even hope to catch a word of it, and grabs onto the sleeve of Ed's jacket.

Ed can barely get out, "Kid, hang on, I can't—" before they're halfway down the street with no signs of stopping.

Their destination is the crowded inn. The front-end bar and dining area seem to function as the town's social gathering spot, hosting a small crowd of off-shift miners still covered in soot and their families. It's livelier than outside, and Ed is forced to awkwardly smile as he's dragged up to who he presumes are the kid's parents and that liveliness is aimed at him.

Eventually, their gazes turn expectant, and he's able to cut in. "I can't hear." He points to both sides of his head. "Completely deaf." He pulls out his notebook and a pen and holds them in indication. "You the proprietors here? I'll need a room tonight. Maybe tomorrow night, too."

The couple are friendly and accommodating. They introduce themselves, via the notebook, as Mr. and Mrs. Halling, and their son Kyle. Their easygoing dispositions and quick acceptance of his communication needs eased him into a false sense of security.

"Two-hundred thousand cens for one night?" he asked incredulously. "Does each room come with a free bag of nineteen-hundred thousand cens?"

Mrs. Halling covers her mouth as she laughs, and Mr. Halling shrugs with an unapologetic grin. He holds up the notebook. Wages at the mine being what they are, we have to take the opportunity to bleed you for all you're worth!

Wow. He wrote that down and everything.

Ed has plenty of money. More than enough money, even, for stupidly-priced inn rooms. Just not on him. Who carries that kind of money around? Bringing more than modest pocket change onto the train is just asking to get stolen from.

He did not count on unassuming innkeepers trying to blatantly fleece him. Ah, well. There's always Plan B.

The Hallings are happy enough to give him a discount in exchange for his services with alchemy. He repairs things around the inn, and eventually the other patrons get in on it and he's repairing tools, equipment, and personal belongings for everyone.

He's more than happy to do it. It helps that the crowd around him jostles to watch and marvel at the display of his skill. It's been a long time since his alchemy has impressed anyone other than rich art snobs. And the military.

Speak of the devil.

The local head honcho— Lieutenant Yoki— and his heavy-footed goons march through the door. The air is sucked from the room, tension and hostility spiking. Disdain drips from Yoki's demeanor, going so far as to hold a cloth over his nose to protect himself from non-existent foul odors from the inn— or the people inside it.

The people here were not on good terms with the military, then. Good to know.

Words are exchanged, and the hostility only grows. Mrs. Halling hovers nearby, face pinched with worry and clutching the vase Ed had newly-repaired in her arms. He gives her an inquisitive look. Her mouth thins into a helpless frown, and she picks up the pencil to write a quick word on the notebook at his elbow. Taxes.

Well, shit, no one likes paying their taxes, but if it's got a crowd of people on the edge of rioting there's got to be something deeper going on.

One of the patrons charges Yoki. Ed shoves up to a half-sitting position in alarm, but the man is quickly put on his ass by one of Yoki's goons. It's too much to hope that things will deescalate from there; whatever Yoki says next angers Kyle enough to throw a dirty, wet rag in Yoki's face.

He's a kid. That doesn't seem to matter to Yoki or his men, the first of which shoves Kyle to the ground while the other draws his sword. Ed's body moves on instinct, and takes the hit— the hit meant for this kid, someone Al's age, and doesn't that just put Yoki and everyone who answers to him right at the top of his shit list— on his metal forearm.

The sword snaps on impact. Ed bares his teeth at the wielder in a mockery of a grin. The careless bravado of a man capable of swinging a sword at a kid drops in an instant and he takes a half-step back. "Lieutenant Yoki," Ed says, and hesitates only a moment before he pulls out his pocket watch. "Nice of you to drop by. Saves me the trouble of announcing myself."

Winry and Granny arrive in East City a few hours after Brother leaves. It puts musing thoughts of Equivalent Exchange on Al's mind until he dismisses them outright. People can't be exchanged, not even for other people. There's no way to quantify them, so any notions of equivalence become nullified and irrelevant.

"I hope we can bring you home soon," Winry sighs. She sits beside Al's cot in one of the plush green chairs, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. "This place is very..."

Her absent gaze travels up to meet his and she catches herself.

"I mean, it's nice!" She holds up her hands and smiles self-deprecatingly. "But nothing beats sleeping in your own bed, right?"

"It's alright, Winry," Al assures. "This place is pretty sterile."

She sighs. "I guess that's one word for it."

Getting to go home with the two of them is a distant hope. The medications he's on are only available to live-in patients of military hospitals in case they have an unexpected reaction. They're not making him better, but they are keeping him from getting any worse. If he left, his kidneys would deteriorate until they failed, and then there would be nothing anyone could do.

He's in stasis, preserved under the clinical gazes of the hospital staff. It's lonely, and suffocating. What if this is all his life will ever be now?

"Do you think automail organs are possible?" he asks. Winry tilts her head consideringly.

"...Maybe. Replacing an organ would be a lot more complicated than replacing a limb. It's not just a placeholder for mobility." She taps her chin. "I'll have to see what Granny thinks when she gets back from her coffee run."

Al puts on a tenuous smile and tries not to get his hopes up.

Yoki is an idiot and an avid bootlicker, the latter trait being the only explanation Ed finds plausible as to how the man has made it as far as he has despite the former. The people of Youswell are beaten down and stretched to their limits, and Yoki thinks that will be enough to keep them from retaliating. All it’s done is create a town full of people who hate him enough to be willing to swear up and down that his death was an accident.

If Ed hadn't stepped in when he had, none of Yoki's men would have survived to see sunset. The people here weren't soft-skinned metropolitans; they were miners. They'd be more than comfortable descending into the murky darkness of death if it meant dragging some blue-shirted bastards down with them.

A mentality that Yoki seems to be blissfully unaware of. He brags to Ed, over a rich dinner, and in essay form, about his efforts to keep the miners— and the rest of the town— from banding together to negotiate over the low wages and high taxes that are keeping them on the brink of desperation. Like a lion tamer explaining how he gets his unruly beasts to submit the moment before one of them finally sinks their teeth into his neck.

Apparently no one ever told Yoki that collective bargaining was the nice alternative to  workers simply dragging their bosses out of their homes in the middle of the night and beating them to death.

Honestly, Ed considers just leaving them to it. That stunt with Kyle really managed to piss him off more than anything else, and he's not inclined to be charitable after. But even if it is successfully ruled an accident, that only means that Yoki and his goons will be swapped out with some other uniformed idiot and some other uniformed goons, and after dealing with all this shit, Youswell deserves a break.

And because Yoki is an idiot, it's very easy to give them one.

The silver watch in Ed's pocket has Yoki assuming the two of them are of the same mind when it comes to the roles of money and the military. From there, it's child's play to scam the deed to the mine right out from under him. Literally. A child could have done it.

Where did Yoki think he got all those gold bars from? Seriously, who promoted this guy?

He passes ownership of the mines to the Hallings, and all the leverage Yoki— and the military— had over the town evaporates.

It's good to know there's at least one State Alchemist looking out for the interests of the common man, Mr. Halling writes, and Ed stares blankly at the note for a long, uncomprehending moment.

As dumb as Yoki is, it was Ed's authority as a State Alchemist that made the Lieutenant so suggestible and trusting. Yoki never would have handed off the mine to someone non-military, no matter how much under-the-table gold he was offered. Hell, it was Yoki's bribe money that Ed used to transmute those rocks into fake gold in the first place.

And now Youswell is out from under the thumb of the military altogether. That's... good. He did something good with his State Alchemist title, albeit off the record.

He can work with this.

Chapter Text

Mustang's team is investigating the military. Learning this is a bit like if someone told Ed they were planning on sawing off their own arms. It's hard to imagine what would possess them.

"Colonel Mustang wants you to look over the cypher to see what jumps out at you," Hawkeye tells him. She slides a thin, nondescript folder onto his desk. "You should familiarize yourself with the history of the case, first."

This is not what Ed expected to be confronted with when he got back to East City Command. "Mustang knows?"

"Of course," she signs, smiling. "He's leading our investigation."

Ed has concerns. This happening under the Flame Alchemist's nose is one thing, but his involvement makes Ed suspicious. But this could be another opportunity to misuse his institutional power for good, if he plays his cards right. Working around Mustang can't be much harder than working around Yoki.

The file starts with animal trafficking, illegal chimera production, chimera trafficking, and— most infuriating— chimera fighting rings. Chimera research toed enough ethical lines as it was. Deliberately engineering creatures to be aggressive is unforgivably cruel. Animal aggression is heightened most by two things: fear and pain.

And the military has their fingers in it. They're going to great lengths to hide their activities, but that phrase— It is not wisdom but Authority that makes a law— rings with an air of hidden messaging. A dogwhistle of some kind that goes beyond whatever is hidden in the client list.

Where has he read that phrase before? It itches at the back of his mind. He compiles a list of books that are possible sources for him to dig into later, and gets to work taking a closer look at the encrypted list.

The problem of the source of the cypher phrase bothers Ed all day at Eastern HQ and all the way to the hospital to see Al. He knows he's read it before, and he's usually pretty good about keeping track of the sources of the ideas he's studied. It's irritating.

Izumi is in with Al when he arrives, a tray set between them holding the components for the Desert Midnight experiment. It's a practical demonstration of chemical kinetics. Two colorless solutions are mixed together in a single beaker. Two invisible reactions occur at different rates once the solutions are combined that culminates in the formation of a triiodide-starch complex, changing the clear solution to a dark blue after a time delay. The color change can be timed down to the second if the reagents are proportioned carefully.

"Just because you can't see something changing doesn't mean it isn't," Izumi told Ed, back when he was her student, and it was the two of them doing this demonstration together. "And sometimes a change that seems sudden has been a long time coming."

Al greets Ed with a wide smile and returns his focus to the tray. The two starter solutions measured out, he pours each into the central beaker, briefly mixing them together. "Thirty seconds!" he signs to Ed.

Knowing better than to interrupt a lesson in progress, Ed takes a seat to wait it out. Izumi holds a watch in her hand, watching the solution and the second hand. At thirty seconds, the clear liquid flickers to midnight blue.

"Good." Izumi puts her watch away. "We'll end there for now, but I want you to think about situations where you might take advantage of delayed reactions and present them to me tomorrow."

"Yes, Teacher."

Officially no longer interrupting, Ed asks, "Hey, Al, do you remember where the phrase 'It is not wisdom but Authority that makes a law' comes from?"

"That's Leviathan by Tomas Hobbsen, isn't it?" Al answers immediately. "I'm surprised you don't remember, Brother. You threw it across the room when you were reading it."

"Oh, yeah." It clicks in Ed's mind. One of Hohenheim's collection that he read back when he was trying to crack human transmutation. Skimming the first few chapters, it was an interesting dive into the power of subverting death, but on a deeper read it was... bad. "Buncha pseudo-scientific nonsense wrapped in juvenile 'might-makes-right' philosophy."

"Required reading for your new position?" Izumi signs pointedly.

"Sort of. Part of a case I'm working on." He hesitates to mention his desire to do as much good as he can while forced to be part of the military. Saying the words 'do good' and 'military' in the same sentence around Izumi might actually get him killed. "I hope they have a copy in the library here, or else I'll have to run all the way to Resembool for it."

"Actually," Al corrects sheepishly. "It's at Teacher's apartment. It was one of the books I brought with me when we moved to Dublith, and then Teacher brought all my books here for me. It's such a strange book, I wanted to go over it with her."

That's convenient, at least.

"You can walk me home tonight to fetch it, Ed," Izumi signs.

Ed spends the rest of his evening there until a nurse comes in to give Al his medication and take some blood samples. Afterward, Al flags pretty hard, so Ed and Izumi tell him goodnight and leave him to sleep.

Izumi's apartment isn't in the best part of the city, but Ed knows she can handle herself if anyone gives her trouble. The biggest threat to her is her own health.

It's clean and warm inside, at least, if sparse. There's a bed, and a small eastern-style table flanked by cushions. Ed takes a seat on one. Izumi makes him a cup of tea in one of two mugs she owns and digs Al's books from underneath a loose floorboard in the tiny closet.

Hohenheim's copy of Leviathan is hardcover, with a hand-sewn book jacket protecting it from damage. Hobbsen's verbose prose makes the pages thick and heavy. "Why this book?" he wonders out loud. "It's so... stupid."

Izumi sits across from him, an amused smile on her face. "For your case?"

He's probably not supposed to talk about it with her, but... it's Izumi. His teacher, even if he's not supposed to call her that anymore. "Some chimera traffickers are using it as their cypher key. The military's involved somehow. I get the feeling there's a lot going on beneath the surface." He runs a finger down the book's cloth-covered spine in thought.

The amusement vanishes from Izumi's face. "The military is a big mess, Ed. Do you know how hard it is to clean up a mess that big without getting dirty yourself?"

Ed winces. "Yeah, I got it. But I think it's worse to pretend I can't see the mess when I'm right in the middle of it."

She nods once in acknowledgement. Not agreeing, but not disagreeing, either. "Speaking of messes. How's your art going?" She takes her mug of tea in both hands and takes a faux-casual sip.

"I've been a little busy lately." He shrugs. "It's not like I need the money."

Her mug slams back on the table hard enough to slosh the tea inside over the rim. "It's not about the money, idiot. It's about having something for yourself. Using your alchemy for the purpose of creating something beautiful." She frowns at him, and her disappointment sinks like a heavy stone in his gut. "I thought you understood why that was important."

Ed looks down into his near-empty mug. "Between Al and trying to keep my head above water as a State Alchemist, I don't know if there's room."

She waits until he looks back up to sign, "Make room."

He doesn't argue. There's not any point. Part of him knows she's right, if only because Izumi usually is. A larger part rebels against the idea of spending his time on something as trivial as drawing with everything that's happening.

They speak more, about Al, and a little about what happened in Youswell, until it gets late and Ed has to excuse himself to get ready for another day of work in the morning.

"Where are you staying? I don't think you've told me," Izumi asks.

"Ah," he scratches the back of his neck. "I was just planning on sleeping in Al's room with him. It's not like they'll kick me out." He takes his silver pocket watch out and wiggles it with a smirk. "I can do whatever I want now."

She cuffs him over the head for that joke and kicks him out.

Fullmetal comes in with a new break in the case after one full day working on it. Roy would have regretted not bringing him in sooner had he not had so many reasons to doubt him.

"It's just something my old man had in the basement," Fullmetal says, baffled and a little uncomfortable over the team's excited praise for this achievement. "Were you really not able to find any copies of it in the city?"

It's the first Roy has heard of it, and after Falman and Fuery scoured libraries and bookstores in search of  a lead, it's evident that the book is a rare print. Maybe even a censored one, and this copy only survived destruction by being hidden away by Fullmetal's father.

He turns it over in his hands, flipping through the pages and scanning over an occasional passage. It's... esoteric. Lots of talk about spiritual truth and transcendence. There's a few notes written in shorthand in the margins, presumably from the book's owner. Fullmetal has marked the page with the original key phrase with a loose slip of paper and underlined it in red ink, along with three other phrases marked on other pages he claims are the rest of the keys.

"That tiny string of numbers and letters at the top is hexadecimal for the page, paragraph and sentence number for the keys," he explains. "Matched it up with the first one and dug out the rest."

Fuery and Falman take the book and the client list and confirm Fullmetal's claim, then come back ninety minutes later with a complete translation.

Titles, names, addresses, and order details. Beyond the fighting rings, it seems the upper echelon is the midst of a designer chimera fad. They want bird-based chimeras with beautiful voices, but with fur and no wings, they want leopard-based chimeras with prey instincts instead of predator, they want their household pets to be fused with exotic animals to make them prettier, but just as loyal.

It's not exactly what Roy was expecting. Glorified luxury pets hardly warranted this amount of secrecy. Not unless it was a cover for something else.

Fullmetal's eyes burn with rage while he reads over the orders. "What the hell is this?" he spits. "Trying to make a leopard disgusted by meat? No matter what they mix it with, it's just going to starve itself to death. All of these are—" He snorts in disgust. "How much are these bastards paying for this torture?"

Roy is taken aback by the intensity of his response. On some level, he knows Fullmetal must care. He saved Havoc's life despite his distaste for the military, and he compromised his morals in order to get his sick brother into treatment. It's difficult to parse how much of that caring is out of convenience or obligation, but this, these chimeras— there's no reason for him to be angry on their behalf unless he simply is.

Interesting.

"And these idiots," Fullmetal scoffs, jabbing a set of names on the list. "They can say goodbye to their commission."

Roy raises an eyebrow at Riza. She waves to get Fullmetal's attention. "Are they patrons of yours?"

"I recognize the address. I've got a piece I'm supposed to deliver, but," he half-shrugs, "fuck them."

He and Riza lock eyes again, and he can see they're both thinking the same thing. An opportunity for recon. But one with the potential to be a complete disaster if Fullmetal blows his cover. And, given his history of impulsivity, it's a very real possibility. Getting caught out at this point in their investigation will land them all in hot water.

He shakes his head. She tilts her head and lifts a shoulder in a near-shrug, a question of, do you have any better ideas?

He doesn't.

"Fine." Roy gestures to bring Fullmetal's gaze to himself. "It would be a shame for them to lose out on your art. So here's what's going to happen."

Chapter Text

All the yuppies who want Ed's drawings love that he personally delivers them. Even his reputation for being... blunt didn't stop them from fawning, shmoozing, asking about 'his process', and god, the flirting (some of those high-society ladies could lay it on thick). That he's known to be reticent to pretty much all of it only seems to enhance the appeal of being the one to crack him. That's what they tell him, anyway.

Ed has never made it a habit to stick around much longer than it takes to hand the finished product over, but he's been known to linger an extra beat or two when bribed with food or interesting book collections.

Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman, buyers of Rich Fool's Gold, must have known this about him, because they are quick to offer both. In fact, they offer it to him in Sign. He can't hide his surprise, which he soon regrets.

"It's a lovely language," Mrs. Hoffman signs, delicate hands glittering with golden, diamond-encrusted bands. "There's something so delightfully primal about using one's body to speak."

"Yes, training our beloved dogs in hand signals gave us a much deeper appreciation for the versatility and intimacy of this mode of communication," Mr. Hoffman adds in broad sweeps. "Our boys were much more attuned to our desires and commands this way. We were quite pleased to learn it could be extended to humans as well!"

Yuck. Yuck on so many levels.

"That's great," Ed responds, with as much false enthusiasm as he can muster. It's not a lot, admittedly, but they'd probably get suspicious if he was falling over himself to kiss up to them this soon. "I appreciate being able to have a true conversation."

The two of them eye him like vultures spotting something near-dead.

"Very good!" Mrs. Hoffman signs cheerfully. "And why not continue this conversation over dinner? Our chef makes a wonderful quail, wonderful. Fresh caught, you know, by my dear husband, with help from our lovely boys, of course." 

Ed assumes she means their dogs. The sign she used is meant to be for human children, but according to the briefing on the Hoffmans Mustang made him memorize, the couple don't have any children.

"Why not?" Ed agrees, smiling through the discomfort. 

Mr. Hoffman laughs. "Why not indeed! Of course, our staff are still putting the finishing touches on dinner, so you simply must indulge us in giving you a tour of our estate. Ah, we'll give you that look in the library, as promised, and oh, we'll put up this beautiful piece you brought us in the main hall! You can tell us all about your process in creating it."

Despite this being exactly what Ed wanted, he can't help but feel he's walked himself right into a snare. The Hoffmans are an overwhelming presence, even to Ed, who considers himself to be a difficult man to fluster.

Mrs. Hoffman calls for someone— a man, dressed in a formal uniform— who takes the drawing from Ed, carefully avoiding looking at him. Ed may not know the many intricate ins-and-outs of the wealthys' social protocols, but a servant not even acknowledging a guest of the house has to be a breach of manners. Ed's apprehension ticks up a notch.

There's already space set aside for Ed's drawing to hang in the main hall, with a frame to match. All of Ed's commission work goes on the same size canvas, and it seems the Hoffmans were prepared in advance. The frame— solid gold, of course— requires two servants to lift it into place on the wall. When they finish, they bow dutifully, the first still refusing to look at Ed, the second casting him nervous, furtive glances.

The Hoffmans dismiss them, then proceed to ply Ed with questions about Rich Fool's Gold. He gives them a half-truthful spiel about the uniqueness of the medium and the lustrous color being an exciting shake-up from his usual jobs that pleases them.

"Why a city?" Mrs. Hoffman asks.

The immediate answer that almost jumps off Ed's tongue is I was bored and cityscapes are easy. He bites it down and casts his mind for a better answer. 

"My father was... very interested in the lost history of Xerxes." Ed swallows. Hohenheim left them shortly after Al was born. Ed had never been close to the man. In his memory, his father was a towering, inscrutable giant, appearing and disappearing from their home like a ghost. Unapproachable, and a little frightening, but Mom was always so much happier when he was around. Then he just... stopped coming around.

Eventually, Ed stopped being afraid of encroaching on the spaces set aside for Hohenheim, like the study and basement, and quickly devoured the eclectic collection of books his father left behind.

Lots on alchemy. Lots on Xerxes.

"There's not a lot known about the religion there, but there are some recovered manuscripts talking of a Golden City filled with spirits that historians believe was the Xerxian concept of the afterlife."

Mr. Hoffman's face splits in a grin. "Spendid!" he signs. "A city of spirits. Can you imagine?" He laughs, like he's told a joke. "A lovely piece you've made, truly lovely."

"Yes, money well spent," Mrs Hoffman winks. "Now, I believe you were promised a look in the library?"

The couple usher him through their mansion with a bit more touching than strictly necessary, and much more than Ed would normally tolerate. They take a long, circuitous route to the library while the Hoffmans show off their many rooms, and their many other pieces of art from paintings to sculptures to hand-woven tapestries.

They pass some house staff along the way. Most, like the first, don't even look at Ed, though a few steal glances with mixed expressions of apprehension. One girl, a few years younger than Ed, freezes for a half-step when she sees them coming, eyes widening before she ducks her head and scurries off in the opposite direction.

Their library is, Ed can grudgingly admit, pretty impressive. They have a Fifth Edition Properties of Heavy Metals, the one annotated by Gustav Tammann, a Drachman chemist with unparalleled expertise on the structures of metal alloys. It's been a rare edition since the war with Drachma began, either because the military wanted to erase any evidence of previous collaboration between Drachma and Amestris, or because they wanted to erase evidence that Drachmans were anything but cold, violent savages.

He's itching to sink his teeth into it, but once Ed is done oohing and ahhing over their collection, the Hoffmans lose interest in Ed being in their library and declare it time to head for the dining hall.

He has to wonder how many of their books they've actually read. Not many, if any, he assumes.

His eyes catch on a copy of Leviathan on the way out, neatly shelved, but clearly out of place. Unlike the neighboring books, the spine is worn and cracked, indicating its been well-read.

Mr. Hoffman runs his hand along the line of Ed's shoulders in what barely passes as a friendly gesture, beckoning Ed to follow.

Dinner is buttered quail, potatoes, and salad. Kitchen staff move with practice grace around the table, carving the birds, filling their plates, and pouring their wine. They melt back against the wall like sentries, waiting to refill glasses or buss away dirty dishes.

The Hoffmans are content to pretend the three of them are the only people in the room. "The quail is fresh," Mr. Hoffman brags. "Got them myself early this morning. Went out with the dogs, and told them 'quail'. Not two hours later, I've got three of them hanging from my belt!"

"Our boys are the best hunting dogs in the country," Mrs. Hoffman adds. "Though they'd be nothing without my husband, of course. What about you? Do you have dogs?"

"Not personally," Ed admits. "But I've gotten along well enough with my Granny's mutt."

"A mutt!" Mr. Hoffman laughs. "I have to admit, me and the wife used to be of the mind that purebred was the best choice. Then we got a mixed-breed of our own, and we have yet to be disappointed. Isn't that right, dear?"

He addresses his wife, but his eyes bore into Ed.

"Yes," Mrs. Hoffman signs emphatically. Her lips curl into a smile that sends a shiver of foreboding down Ed's spine. "All our boys are wonderful. Dogs are such pure creatures. Loyal and obedient. Would that humans were a bit more like dogs, don't you think?"

Well. This conversation took a creepy turn. "I suppose." He stands, unable to withstand the combined weight of their gaze any longer. "Um. Where was the bathroom in this wing?"

"P-A-T can show you," Mr. Hoffman says, gesturing one of the kitchen staff forward. Pat is an older man, just beginning to grey. He meets Ed's eyes only for a brief second, nods, and leads Ed out the northern entrance to the dining hall.

Pat keeps a half-step ahead of Ed, hands folded neatly behind his back. He isn't rushing, but there's a quiet urgency in his gait.

They stop outside of a nondescriptly ornate door that Pat indicates with a tilt of his head. "Thanks," Ed mumbles. Pat holds out his hand for a handshake.

A bit weird. But things have been weird this whole time, so. Whatever. He takes the guy's hand and shakes it.

Pat takes his hand back with a nod, leaving a small, folded slip of paper behind in Ed's palm. He turns around and heads back for the dining hall.

Ed slips into the bathroom and locks the door. He unfolds the paper. On it is a single word: KENNEL.

Okay. The client list had indicated that the Hoffmans ordered a primate-based chimera. But since he's been here, everything has been pointing to something involving the dogs. Either the Hoffmans are freaks in more than one sense of the word, or...

He doesn't like where this is going.

It could be misdirection. Maybe the Hoffmans are on to him. It's not exactly a secret that he's a State Alchemist now. But the Hoffmans are supposed to be cozy with the government. If anything, the silver pocketwatch would make them more trusting of him.

He fucking hates this spy bullshit.

He looks at the note again. Ah, fuck it. This place is massive. They'll probably buy he got lost on the way back.

Slinking through the halls, and stopping in the emptied kitchen on the way, he slips out a side entrance where the mansion is bracketed by the Hoffmans' private forest. He spots the kennel toward the southwestern corner of the building.

The dogs sit up at attention when he approaches. Ed doesn't know much about dog breeds, but they all look to be the same kind. No mutts. There are four partitioned cages, but only three dogs.

One of them bares its teeth at him, so before they can decide to sound the alarm and start barking, Ed pulls out the frozen pork cutlets he swiped from the kitchen. Their body language drops from wary to plaintive in an instant. Two of them wag their tails.

Ed chuckles. "Alright, guys." He tosses the bribes in, and the dogs happily tear into them. He steps closer to the kennel crate, eyeing the empty cage. A missing dog, or just extra space?

A familiar pattern on the floor catches his eye, half-covered by scattered cloth from torn-apart toys and an old blanket. Alchemy marks.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Mr. Hoffman stands behind him, a large grin fixed on his face. He raises his hands and signs, "You just couldn't resist."

Oh, fuck. "I, uh— I think I took a wrong turn—"

"Of course you had to come see our prized hounds for yourself after we talked them up so much!" His mouth opens and his body shakes with hearty laughter. "I knew you would be an interesting guest. Sneaking off during dinner! Your reputation is well-earned!"

"Thank you?"

"Let me introduce you." Mr. Hoffman takes out a ring of keys, unlocking the gate to the kennel. "Don't be shy now. Come and meet the boys! Dinner will keep for a few more minutes, I'm sure."

Ed follows him in, keeping his guard up. Mr. Hoffman is blithely oblivious, rambling about the dogs, but all Ed can think about is what could possibly be right beneath their feet. He has a feeling he's really going to hate it.

The Hoffmans try to put him up in their mansion, but he begs off by saying he's already paid for the hotel with military funds, and he would hate to waste the military's money. 

He retreats to his hotel room. He's never been more relieved to put a door between himself and the rest of the world.

He pulls out the luggage he didn't bother to unpack from under the bed, flipping it open and tossing the piles of clothes out of the way to get to the morse code transceiver Fuery modified to make a bit more portable. Ed can't use radios or phones, so this was the best way they could come up with for Ed to communicate long distance without a wait period.

He taps out a quick message to make sure someone's listening and receives an affirmative. As concise as he can, he gives a report of what happened and what he found. He gets a response that his report was received and to wait for further communication.

His leg bounces impatiently. He could go back now. The sun was setting. The dogs were familiar with him. He could sneak over and find out for himself what was hiding under the Hoffmans' kennel.

The message comes through.

DO NOT ENGAGE. BACKUP ON ROUTE. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS. DO NOT ENGAGE.

They want him to wait for back-up? After they sent him alone, so as to not arouse suspicion? Ed doesn't need back-up. He could be in and out before anyone notices. Whatever was under the kennel wouldn't have to spend one second longer with the Hoffmans.

Fuck it.

Ed grabs his coat and marches out the door.