Full of Mettle

by Thornback

Chapter 19

The shrill ring of the telephone shattered the evening quiet.

It echoed down the narrow hallway, past the walls lined with family photos and soft shadows, and spilled into the kitchen where the warm scent of baked fruit and cinnamon lingered. Maes, still in his rumpled uniform, didn't pause at the sound as he dropped another dollop of thick cream onto the second helping of apple and berry crumble. The dessert sat in a heaped mound in the bowl, still warm from where the rest of it had been left warm in the oven.

It had been a long day; his shoulders felt heavy, his chest a bit too tight, and an ache that settled behind his eyes. Typically, all these sensations tended to melt away when receiving a kiss from Gracia and a cuddle from Elicia. But not that time. No. Instead, all thoughts circled back to a certain boy. Still, it was why the Investigator told himself he earned a sweet treat after a long day, coupled with wrestling a toddler into pajamas and fielding no less than forty-nine questions during Elicia's tuck-in time. Now, Maes felt like he earned this moment of peace and indulgence, if only to try and figure out what and how he was going to say before we even spoke to –

"That'll be Roy wanting to speak to you again," Gracia's voice drifted from the doorway. Soft, steady, and threaded with a familiar warmth. There was fondness there, but also a touch of amused reproach of a woman who had long since learned the rhythm of her husband's mind and bad habits. "Put the spoon down, Maes."

Maes half-smiled and stuffed the spoon in his mouth as he peered over his shoulder at her. Gracia looked tired after a long day of running around with their little girl; her hair a little wild, her blouse dabbed in paint, and possibly a few teary smears from the typical two-year-old melodrama of being introduced to the word "no".  Still, to Maes, she looked as radiant as she did on their wedding day.

"Go answer the phone before it wakes Elicia," Gracia added, leaning against the doorjamb.

That made Maes raise an eyebrow at her method of light-hearted manipulation. His wife knew full well that nothing short of an earthquake could wake their daughter once she was truly asleep. Elicia was a marvel. A darling little angel. Maes had heard terrifying tales of colicky babies and tantrum-prone toddlers, yet all he had ever known was sheer bliss and wonder. True, Elicia was inching her way into the so-called 'terrible twos', but if the worst of it were dramatic sniffles and jealous pouts when other children so much as glanced at her mother or him, he considered himself blessed.

Even bedtime, long and winding as it was, brought its own joy. Yes, it took forty minutes to get her down to sleep most evenings, given how every line in a storybook was met with a curious, "Why, Daddy?" but once her eyes fluttered shut, she was out for the count. Barely two years old and, so far, Elicia was proving to be a breeze. If Maes had it his way, they'd have a horde of little ones that were just as endearingly easy as Elicia…

"Maes," Gracia said, a little firmer, giving him a look. 

The bespectacled man popped the spoon out of his mouth just as the phone stopped ringing. "I'll call him back in a moment."

"While you were putting Elicia to bed and Roy rang the first time, I told him you'd be free by seven-ish," Gracia explained, eyeing him with concern. "He seemed anxious, even if he tried to distract me by asking for a casserole recipe, despite Roy not owning a casserole dish. Is there something I need to know?"

"Besides, Ed looking worse than I've ever seen him?" Maes muttered as he scooped a spoonful of dessert and shoved it into his mouth. "And, if we are going to be honest," he added between chews, "that boy didn't look too great to begin with."

"Oh, love." Gracia sighed as she neared him, resting her hand on his elbow. "I know you said things looked bad with seeing Edward again, but at least you saw him. You've probably been the first friendly face he's seen in over a month…"

Which, Maes hated to admit, hurt the most to know.

"Don't remind me," Maes muttered darkly, mostly to himself.

The hour Edward had spent in his office had been eye-opening, yet with nothing solid to go on. The kid had sat atop one of the filing cabinets near the overfilled notice board, chewing on sandwiches and snacks Maes kept pushing into his little hands as he poked amongst the wanted posters and memos. Every subtle question or gentle offer  - "What are you and Kimblee here for?" to "Where are you staying? It's pouring down out there; I can drop you off." and "Loaned out to General Raven, huh?" – was artfully blanked or given vague answers.

It had been incredibly frustrating.

And Maes had dealt with prying answers out of hardened criminals.

Yet, most of all, the investigatory side of his mind caught subtle tells that Ed let slip. The boy was a good liar, despite his evasiveness and lopsided smiles as he insisted that he was fine. Maes has seen it, though. The new nanosecond full-body freezes, the twitchy flinches that had long left when he'd been in East city, and now the way the kid kept rubbing at his mouth and scarred jaw in a way that Maes didn't know was absent-minded grounding or self-soothing.

If Maes didn't know any better, it was both. It was almost as if the kid was trying to eradicate a phantom sensation or scrub away a memory. The dark places Maes' thoughts went to weren't worth repeating and –

"Listen," Gracia told him firmly, giving his arm a squeeze and pulling him into the present. "You can only do so much and it's a delicate situation. Being your usual overbearing self –" she ignored his raised eyebrow at her choice of words "– isn't going to work. From what you've told me, you can't sweep him back here and force him into dinner or staying without spooking him."

"Mm. I know," Maes murmured, twirling the spoon between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the crumble, but the food no longer held his full attention.

"Regardless," Gracia continued, "this isn't like you to avoid things, least of all Roy."

"I am not avoiding," Maes said, too quickly. He sighed, heavily and tapped the edge of the spoon against the rim of the bowl with a soft clink-clink. "I'm… tactically planning. I told you how he was with Ed. While it was a good thing that Roy has altered his mindset, having something more than goals, booze, and redemption, it's also a…" he pulled a face "… dangerous thing.  Roy-boy might be a right grump and have emotional constipation, but he's –"

"Soft," Gracia supplied with a knowing smile.

"Maybe soft in the head, after his aunt clipped him too many times," Maes quipped, his smirk twitching back into place. His heart wasn't entirely in the jest, yet Gracia gave him a half-hearted scolding look, the kind she wore when trying not to laugh at Elicia.  He chuckled, then let the moment settle into something quieter. "Alright, yes, honey – you are right. He is more soft-hearted than he appears. And you know what he's like when it comes to the people he cares about."

Gracia nodded, leaning against his side, one hand stilling his tapping of the spoon. Maes barely noticed. He was too busy recalling past incidents – near misses on the battlefield, cases gone wrong, the few times Riza or his unit got caught in the crossfire of avoidable harm due to poor intel – or even the lesser, life-threatening moments. Like the time Maes had vented to him about Elicia getting bitten by another child at nursery, and Roy had given him advice about filing complaints and pulling rank over a tiny mark and a toddler's tears.

And yet all of that – all that quiet protectiveness, that flinty glare and emotional bottleneck – paled in comparison to how Roy behaved when it came to Edward.

There was something different in him then; some deeper, fiercer, and – before Ed's arrival –  nonexistent. Maes wasn't sure exactly where it stemmed from – guilt, responsibility, affection – only that he had seen something wild simmer behind Roy's eyes to keep the boy safe and to carry burdens he never admitted aloud. Even Riza had noticed that spark: how Roy got uncharacteristically reckless and wild-eyed, looking as if he would burn down the world when it came to that kid.

That kind of fire was what Maes was really hesitant to confront tonight.

After all, he had to be careful with his words. Maes was accustomed to doing that, whether in a professional or personal setting, balancing truth and omission. He told superiors what they wanted to hear the same way he'd mince his words to Gracia. He'd let his wife think the mud on his uniform was from tripping across Central HQ's immaculate lawns. She didn't need to know that mud had been from how he'd lost his footing on the slick edge of a canal while helping fish out the body of a child: nameless, faceless, and bloated from days in the water. His wife didn't need to know those sorts of grim details, and Maes felt that it applied the same way regarding Roy. Telling his friend the details of Edward's deteriorated state would offer no value or comfort, only heartache and stress.

It wasn't deceit, not really. It was strategy. It was kindness. Sometimes the truth did more harm than good. The last thing any of them needed was Roy storming Central because Maes was too detailed with how bad Edward seemed. It wouldn't do anyone any good, especially Ed. The kid looked too thin, twitchy, and burned out…

The telephone sliced through his cluttered thoughts, and Maes jolted when Gracia snatched away his bowl and spoon.  "Hey," he half-whined. "What are you –?"

"I'll be taking this," Gracia said smoothly. "Something sweet when soaking in the tub is always a nice treat."

Maes blinked and felt her kiss him on the corner of his mouth before she headed off down the hall. The telephone stopped ringing and was replaced with her soft greeting. Then came the expected words:

"Honey, it's Roy."

Of course, it was Roy.

Maes heaved out a sigh, quietly resigned.  He wasn't one for cowardice despite his habits of ducking and hiding during any brawls involving alchemists and their freaky skills. He plodded out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where Gracia stood waiting, holding the receiver out with the same comforting smile as always. He took the phone from her, fingers brushing hers, and gave her a faint nod as she retreated upstairs, his hazel eyes watching her longer than necessary before he turned and tucked the receiver against his ear. Only then did the Investigator plop down onto the bottom step of the staircase with a low grunt and forced a brightness into his tone that he wasn't entirely feeling.

"It's kind of refreshing to have you chase me for a change," Maes began with a chuckle. "Normally, I'm calling Riza since you love dodging my phone calls."

There was a low, gravelly rumble on the other end of the line from Roy. "Don't exaggerate," was the mildly irritated reply. "Now, what have you got for me?"

The urge to sugarcoat was strong, but he couldn't. A tiny little voice in his head kept reminding him that if positions were switched and he was asking about his Elicia, he would want all the details. Maes pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose and rubbed briefly in hopes of driving away the mental exhaustion, knocking his glasses in the process, and decided to be honest.

"Ed's putting on a brave face, but… he's not in a good place," Maes confessed.

After a beat, Roy huffed. "Well, obviously. How could he be with that son of a –"

"Roy," Maes interrupted softly. He scratched at the scruff on his jaw, realizing he hadn't chosen the best words in describing a kid who looked close to the tipping point despite smiling too widely and trembling when hugged. Mindful, Maes tried again: "I'm not talking about where or who he is with."

"Oh..." Roy sounded wounded.

Yeah. Maes thought bitterly. Oh.

Silently, he made the decision not to mention the returned firearm that had been holstered to Edward's hip.

---

"You should give them a call."

Edward could still hear Maes' parting words bounce around his head repeatedly for the remainder of the night and well into the following evening. It was just another thing to add to the many that quietly festered within him when awake or asleep, leaving the hollow ache in his chest feeling raw and exposed. He pushed the words down, burying deep between the distant screams and gunfire at Westpoint and the terrified whispers of What If during what could've happened in that ratty tent in the desert.

It didn't wholly work; almost like there was only so much to be contained in his mind. Like overspill,  a few involuntary and unwanted memories sprang to the surface in a rapid succession…

Mildew, antiseptic. The scent of that mingled with dried blood was overwhelming. A hefty nurse pressing her forearm over his bandaged chest, pinning him in place, and sneering at her coworker to sedate him. The other nurse, male and timid, fumbled with grappling his lone arm with a needle that was stabbed too harshly into his clammy skin.

A tap of a teaspoon against a mug. Warmth at Edward's side as Riza's laughter filled the room. The faint scent of gun oil no longer a reminder of the weight that was once holstered to his hip. Something about that tell-tale tang of oil mixed with tea leaves was slowly becoming comforting.

Kimblee's taunting voice echoing in his ears. Hot sun burning above. Soft, bloated and rotting bodies of Aerugonian soldiers cushioning Ed's fall into a ditch-turned-corpse pit. The liquified rot of the deceased made his boots and hands slip several times until he got out.

"Mettle, kid." Roy's low, rumbling voice sliced in out of nowhere. “M-E-T-T-L-E.’’

A sharp crack of leather meeting flesh, the humiliation burning more than the searing pain blooming across his spine. It was followed by Archer's cold order to, "Stand straight, boy.". He could feel the eyes of the others watching from the open office door, and all Edward could do was clench his fists and glare at the oil painting of that damn lamb.

… Edward sucked in a trembling breath, feeling off-kilter, and pushed them back down.

He pressed the heel of his automail hand against his temple. It was partly for the relief – cold metal against a clammy brow – against a brewing headache, but mostly the childish attempt to see if the physical act could assist in burying those thoughts into the recesses of his mind. The fleeting memories, along with Maes' words, needed to leave him alone so he could focus because –

A heavy door groaned open, the sound reverberating through the silent labyrinth of Laboratory 5.

It was a welcome warning bell accompanied by footfalls – measured, lazy, no rush – echoing down the warren-like corridors that made up the East Wing. Voices accompanied the sound, the words distorted by the twists of the passageways.

Edward halted in his spot, sucking in his breath and wedged in a dusty air vent he had been crawling his way through in the dead of night. He was sweaty despite the bitter chill, automail ports aching more than usual, and metal and flesh knees tender, his body twisted in a huddle. The vent was barely wide enough for him to crawl through comfortably, and every movement scraped his skin against rusted metal and jagged bolts.

He didn't know how long he had been navigating the vents – an hour, maybe two – during a time he suspected the already empty place to be emptier. The lab didn't seem to have many guards or scientists loitering about, and the handful he had seen dwindled after 10 PM to a lone guard at the front gate, the East Wing always bolted shut and inaccessible. Time in the laboratory tended to lose all concept, yet in the vents it had blurred into a crawl of cramped limbs and squinting.

Even the option to check the time wasn't available; his jacket and pocket watch were still in Eastaugh's cell, left behind on purpose to avoid a repeat of mistakes. Edward hadn't even noticed that he had torn his uniform jacket until Maes pointed it out at HQ.  Still, if Dr. Sanderson's evasiveness about the East Wing wasn't enough to pique his curiosity, then his previous moment in the air vents certainly did.  After all, when he had first wormed his way into a secondary shaft that branched from the main vent system, the sounds of life tugged at him.

Voices murmuring in conversation. A muffled shout. An occasional clatter of tools or squeak of equipment. A rustle of papers... and the awful gut-churning feeling of wrongness that saturated the lab seemed thicker in the East Wing.

He hadn't gotten far enough to see anything with his own eyes, but the implications were damning. If Archer had sent his reports to Central – his revised theories, his improved transmutation circles, even the dangerous refinements he'd made – and sent them here to Central City, then this was the place. This was where they had been catalogued, dissected, perhaps even weaponized.

The thought made his stomach twist into knots.

Shifting slightly, Edward tried to ease the cramp in his left thigh, but the movement made the vent creak. He winced, froze again, and listened. The footsteps were getting closer and so were two voices. He squinted through a gap, already recognizing the fast candace of Dr. Sanderson as she talked to a dour-sounding male, their exchanged words close enough to pick up.

"– need more materials."

"Listen, Rumsfeld," Sanderson's voice snapped down the corridor, clipped and cold. "We've been through this. The General said there's no prisoner transfer due until next month."

"But..."

"I'm not discussing this further," she cut in, sounding fed up. "You want more? Take it up with Raven yourself. Besides, you're already notorious for burning through our… stock like firewood."

Rumsfeld let out a low scoff. "I'm not wasteful. I'm pushing boundaries. For results."

From his cramped position in the vent, Edward pressed his cheek against the metal, angling his head to peer through a thin slit. Below, he spotted  Dr. Sanderson moving down the corridor, closer to Ed's spot, looking harried and exhausted. She was trailed by a gaunt, younger man – Rumsfeld –  with prematurely thinning hair and a face pinched with irritation. Both of them wore lab coats that looked as creased as their brows and looked like they hadn't slept much in days.

Edward pulled a face; he had suspected what the vault-like door could've been used for when he first spotted it, yet the confirmation sat heavier than suspicion now that he knew it really was a tunnel for transportation between the lab and prison. It seemed almost insane to consider, except it wasn't. Not when Edward's darker thoughts whispered how it was perfect, and if he was going to need subjects and materials, he would've chosen a seemingly abandoned building nestled perfectly next to a prison that had a lot of death row inmates.

Now he knew. A tunnel. A direct route from the lab to the prison. Efficient. Secret. Insidious. Before the boy could dwell on it further, Sanderson's voice dipped into a sigh, snagging his thoughts once more.

"I've got other things on my plate. Eastaugh was supposed to submit a final transmutation array on the Soul Binding project this month that should've worked without the inanimate object and soul repelling each other so quickly. Everything seemed promising before he… well, you know."

"I told you he was on the edge," Rumsfeld muttered. "These alchemists… they crack when they're pushed off the page and into reality."

The word - alchemists - was spat like venom; like it meant something lesser. Something beneath them.

"You forget," Sanderson replied, dry and unimpressed, "you're an alchemist too."

That landed badly. Edward could see it from how Rumsfeld's face twisted. "I'm not like them," he said, voice low. "Not the State Alchemists. Those dogs are either too scared to lift their eyes off the textbook. They are good little dogs trained to bite without thought."

"You haven't met many, have you?" Sanderson murmured, voice trailing slightly as they moved down the hall, "Not all of them are like Eastaugh or Marcoh. The Crimson Alchemist lives for the practical. And then there's Major Doe… Fullmetal… he’s a…”

Edward tensed.

"… unsettling little thing," she went on. "Not what I pictured. Smaller. Younger. And one hell of an ugly scar on his jaw and eerie golden eyes. That kid doesn't just look at you. He looks through you… Something isn't right with that one, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up."

Oh.

Ed's jaw clenched. He'd been called worse, but hearing it like that still hurt.

"Mad-Dog, right?" Rumsfeld whispered, suddenly animated. "That's what I've heard him be called. Vicious little genius with automail? The one from New Optain?"

Sanderson gave a noise of agreement. "The one Hartnup won't shut up about."

"Well, can you blame him?" Rumsfeld chuckled. "Freaky or not, Fullmetal's been breaking barriers. Every time we get his incident reports, we make weeks of progress overnight. His transmutation circles - his amendments - they've made all the difference. I swear, whenever I get one of his breakdowns, I can sit back and let the equations do the work for me."

Edward chewed on the inside of his cheek as a sick, sour taste coated his tongue. He wanted to scream. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip until the bitter tang began to taste like stale copper.

"I'll admit," Sanderson added, "Major Doe's been… useful. Let's just hope he can make sense of Eastaugh's last batch. Because if he can't, no one else will."

"Can I meet him? The Major?" Rumsfeld sounded giddy. "There is so much I'd love to discuss with him. Like the case involving using humans akin to fertilizer, or how he knew of the Trismegistus theory to solve –"

"No," Sanderson interjected.

Rumsfeld huffed. "He would be better suited in here."

"Add it to your proposal."

Edward shifted, rolling onto his side, a chunky bolt in the vent biting into his hip. His chest felt too tight for the narrow airspace to be the only cause. Voices drifted, growing fainter as the two scientists continued down the hall.

"… so, back to Marcoh," Rumsfeld's voice carried faintly, casual now. "He's refusing to eat again. Might be time for stronger encouragement. Our threats are losing their edge."

"Let him sit with it," Sanderson grumbled, her voice joined with a rattle of a door handle being yanked open. "The old man always caves. His self-preservation is too strong, regardless of what he says. It's another empty threat - if not, then we make him eat."

Edward closed his eyes for a beat, soaking in the confirmations of what he already suspected. They spoke about taboo as if it were the weather, about prisoners like livestock, about him as if he were an undesirable tool to engage with. And, somewhere amongst it all, a name Ed hadn't heard before was mentioned: Marcoh.

He shifted a fraction, inching deeper into the vents of the East Wing. Dust clogged his nose, and his breath was hot and shallow against the cold steel. Ed was just bracing himself to quietly push onward when Rumsfeld's voice reached him from afar:

"Hey, wait a second. I thought you were heading home? It's nearly one in the morning."

Sanderson responded, her voice echoing from somewhere further away, clearly having taken a different corridor. "I will shortly. First, I want to check Eastaugh's cell. See if Fullmetal left any notes behind. I want to assess his progress."

The color drained from Edward's face. His stomach twisted. Shit.

His heart kicked into his throat. He didn't dare move. Not yet. He waited, ears straining as he counted the seconds, listening for every breath, every footstep, until a door in the distant slammed shut. Then – silence. No voices. No footsteps. Only the buzz of flickering electricity, the metallic tick of cooling vents, and the steady drip of something somewhere reached his ears.

It was safe enough to scrabble into motion. In one violent jerk forward, Ed tried to sit up only to feel his forehead clang against the vent ceiling. Pain sparked in his skull, and he bit back a shout, clutching the spot with a hiss, but didn't stop. Writhing about, Edward twisted his body around, knees scraping, elbow jamming into a corner as he tried to reverse his course.

"Fuckin' stupid –  c'mon –" Edward muttered, breath rasping.

The vent was pitch black now. The bulbs overhead, which had once cast a dim yellow glow, had all gone out, one by one, leaving nothing but inky blackness. Panic swelled with every second, his automail smacking into the side wall with a scrape loud enough to make him wince. It was too loud but – he hoped – it was safe without witnesses.

He wriggled faster, spine twisting, metal joints clanking, his boots scraping against the narrow space. The whole structure seemed to rattle with his frantic movement. It felt like the vent was closing in around him, tightening, narrowing, and becoming harder to breathe.

Finally, skin slick with sweat and shirt smeared with grime, Ed reached the drop shaft that he recognized as the one he'd entered, which led down to the main hallway before the East and West wings branched off. Without ceremony, the boy swung his body and slid down too fast to grip anything, flying out of the chute that had him slamming onto the floor.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but nothing stopped him.

Edward clambered up, mismatched knees wobbling and hastily half-ran, half-stumbled, to Eastaugh's cell. He couldn't hear much but his own rabbiting heart and thump of his boots, his breathing frantic. He skidded around the corner, spotted the cell door: the buzzing light, the mess on the wall, his papers on the desk, and his jacket thrown over the back of the chair.

He dove in and snatched up his jacket, already shrugging it over one shoulder with fumbling fingers. Any hopes of appearing composed, normal – like he'd been here the whole time – appeared dashed when a door squealed open and that familiar tread followed: light, steady, and getting closer.

Edward barely had time to straighten up before she appeared in the doorway. He had front row seats to Dr. Sanderson's poorly hidden surprise at him still being here at such an hour; her brows lifted slightly – an involuntary flicker of expression before her face settled into something more neutral and controlled, albeit too neutral.

"Ah… Major," Sanderson said stiffly, shuffling to a halt a few feet from the cell door.

"Hullo," Ed mumbled, hoping he didn't sound as breathless as he felt. He was hyperaware of how he must have looked; one arm in his uniform jacket, shirt rumpled and half-untucked, sweaty and flushed.

"It's late," Sanderson said slowly, her gaze narrowing. "I thought you left earlier with Lieutenant Colonel Kimblee when…" she trailed off, her eyes zeroing in on his mouth. "Your lip is bleeding."

Edward blinked, his flesh fingers reaching up, encountering a warm wetness by his lower lip. It stung. He looked down, noting his fingers were daubed red, not having realized how deeply he must have bitten into his lip when in the vents. He licked his lip, recalling her words and the mention of Marcoh – whoever that may be – and shrugged on his jacket.

"S'what I get for chewin' on my lip when focusin' on work," Edward said, not wholly lying.

Sanderson didn't answer immediately; her discomfort in his presence was obvious in how her fingers twitched at her sides. Regardless, she tried to hide it as she tilted her head slightly, as if weighing that response. Until, finally, she whispered, "I suppose it is easy to lose track of time."

"Mhm…" Ed gave a small nod.  

"You seem very dedicated, Major," Sanderson uttered. "It's admirable."

All Edward could do was stare at her unblinkingly, his mind replaying the overheard words from before. A flicker of disgust curled in his gut as her former words settled deeper than he'd ever admit. He had an inkling and suspected Sanderson didn't like him, but now he understood. She didn't simply dislike him – it was discomfort. Unease. He unsettled her, supposedly, in her own words.

And, buried deep in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded too much like Kimblee purred to use that to his advantage.

Ed attempted to do so by not engaging beyond delivering an unwavering, blank-faced stare. After several beats, Sanderson shifted on the spot. Then – finally – she averted her eyes to the bare bulb above and gave a curt nod and her version of a stiff-lipped goodbye:

"I'll tell the guard at the front gate you'll be leaving shortly."

"G'night," Ed rasped, more so out of habit.

Sanderson didn't linger and turned, her shoes scraping against stone. She didn't rush, but he did look back over her shoulder once. Then, again, almost as if she was checking he wasn't skulking at her heels.

Only when the corridor swallowed her shadow did Edward finally exhale. It wasn't a breath so much as a sound: a low puff of air that was part scoff mixed with relief. His shoulders sagged, the lack of pressure in his chest making his posture fold in a fraction, and he slumped against the iron bars for a beat. That had been close. Regardless, the urge to scurry back to the vents and clamber in until he could pop out within the East Wing was strong, yet he thought better of it.

Grimacing, Ed tugged his uniform jacket into place and fumbled with the buttons on his uniform, hands still shaky from adrenaline. His automail ports throbbed in that familiar, tell-tale way that promised the world above was due another downpour of rain. The long walk back to the hotel awaited him, though he hoped Kimblee wouldn't have company, otherwise he'd be sitting on the fire escape for a while…

Edward lurched forward, stepping out of the cell and eyeing the rusted vents. He’d soon try again to see the damage of his ignorant contributions to the military’s hidden and morally dubious experiences. He curled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palm while automail gave a brief rattle, and muttered under his breath:

 "Maybe the third time's the charm."

 

---

 

During lulls in the day or sleepless nights, Roy developed the terrible habit of flicking open Edward’s journal to a random page.

He had already devoured the yellowed pages, dog-eared corners and scribbled writing that he knew there wasn’t anything new to really uncover, save a few minor details. Yet, almost religiously, Roy would slip a hand into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, right where he kept his own thinner, more well-kept notebook of coded notes. Roy wasn’t sure why he did it, but he wasn’t alone; he caught Riza doing the same thing often enough when the raggedy item was left in her possession.

Now, with the early morning sun warming his back as he sat in his office, Roy found himself retrieving Edward’s journal from his pocket. He had carefully dissected the boy’s terrifying breakdown of his alchemy the very night he had discovered it. The pages had been neatly cut out and burned in Riza’s fireplace, yet the book remained intact for him to riffle through the pages until he stopped on a random page.

Of course, out of all the pages of coded sentences or blunt confessions, he had to land on one with a singular sentence and nothing more…

Please, put me in the ground anywhere – just not in uniform with no name.

… and felt the same lump in his throat reappear the first time he had read it.

There was too much to unpack in that simple request.

After all, Roy had known the kid had some fear of being shoved into one of the pauper plots in Central City; one of many unclaimed or unnamed soldiers laid to rest amongst the brambles and weeds.  Riza had told him about her and Ed’s discussion, which revolved around this morbid topic and the burst of protective anger that this was even a discussion – or, well, a concern – for someone so young. That said, the soldier in Roy understood. Edward's written request and reminder was no different than the sealed envelope Riza had in a safety deposit box, or the one Roy had kept in the safekeeping of his foster mother.

It was normal for soldiers to write a letter that would be delivered with notification of death for loved ones should their life be cut short. Death letters were standard practice for soldiers. Quiet traditions. Soldiers wrote them not out of paranoia, but inevitability:

They weren't if I die letters. They were when I die letters.

The only difference was that Edward's wasn't even a letter. Not something addressed to a loved one, not pages of parting words. No, it was a footnote buried in a journal, slipped between alchemical diagrams and half-coded observations. A last request, just a single line of ink with a fear that wasn't so much about death itself but about being unknown and forgotten.

And, after reading the entirety of the journal of a genius child that fluctuated from resigned to angry, Roy couldn't control the bleak thoughts that surfaced.  Because, deep down, Edward's lack of self-preservation was downright suicidal. The boy had sworn he wouldn't do anything like that again, but he and Riza had concerns at the way Ed threw himself into things without forethought, sometimes overly reactive, like the outcome didn't matter if he–

“Hey, Boss.’’

Breda’s voice cut in, swiftly snuffing out that particular avenue of spiraling thoughts. Roy froze and stiffly looked up to find Breda lounging in his doorway, his shoulder braced against the doorjamb. Instinctively, Roy snapped the journal shut and cleared his throat.

“Yes?’’

Uniform jacket unfastened, the portly redhead scratched absently at his stomach as he shuffled inside. “Heard Ed’s in Central,” Breda said, almost cautiously. “Something about you and Hawkeye talking to Hughes last night?”

Roy let out a small, dry huff. Of course. Of course, Breda and the rest of Roy’s pack of bleeding hearts and sharp minds had been observant enough to catch wind of that conversation. It had obviously been heard from him or Riza and – naturally – Breda and the others wanted details. They were the same as Roy, far too invested and silently at a loss, in wanting to know everything about their the kid.

Not that he’d kept any of them in the dark. No, Roy usually passed along whatever intel that came his way but, this time, there hadn’t been much to share: only that Edward had turned up in Central looking rundown and evasively dodging questions, according to Hughes. That and Kimblee and Ed had been loaned out to General Raven, of all people.

Still… “Yes,” Roy divulged, sliding the journal into his uniform pocket. “Edward’s been stationed in Central for a brief assignment, supposedly, but Hughes isn’t sure what it involves. No open investigations. No details. Just that Ed’s now under General Raven for the time being.”

“Huh,” Breda grunted. “With Kimblee?’’

Roy tried not to snarl. “Yes. With him.’’

Fuery’s head suddenly poked around the doorframe, his brow furrowed with concern. “And Ed’s okay, right? I mean… as okay as he can be?”

No. Roy’s face pulled into a frown. Maes had told him how thin, tired, and jittery the kid had looked. Edward didn’t seem to be okay. Yet, before Roy could answer, the Master Sergeant yelped and stumbled forward, shoved by someone behind him. Havoc appeared in Fuery’s place, the scent of second-hand cigarette smoke clinging to his uniform. The blond had been smoking more lately – stress, he said, and for once nobody complained, scolded or teased him. Not since Edward left their unit.

Havoc fiddled with the unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear. “So? We heading to Central to drag the Chief back or what?”

Oh, how Roy would’ve given anything to say yes.

Yet the annoying thing about being a Commanding Officer meant he couldn’t act on impulse, no matter how loudly his scorched, shrunken excuse for a heart begged him to.  Instead, Roy had to follow The Plan now that they had finished poring over every available document, dead end, and scrap of possibility. After those endless hours and eye strain, their five potentials had dwindled to three semi-solid potentials:

E. Whitten in Albion.

E. Lerwick in Rookridge.

And E. Elric in Resembool.

Whitten had supposedly died the same year Ed vanished into Archer’s hands. Lerwick was an orphan with a paper trail full of contradictions. Elric, though… That one stood out purely because of the void of information. According to Falman, Resembool’s records stopped being submitted after the bombing in ’07 - no census updates. No paperwork. Nothing.

It made sense, though. Havoc pointed out how rural villages like Resembool barely maintained clerical records in the best of times. Between sheep wool and rebuilding efforts, no one had the time – or need – for submitting records when they could have a basic ledger of birth and death in their town hall ledgers. If Roy wanted answers about Edward Elric or even the other boy listed on the old census – Alphonse Elric – they’d have to go to Resembool themselves.

Admittedly, Roy had already began mentally drafting the world’s most tactful version of “Hello, I’m Colonel Mustang. Are you missing a kid or had a loss of a child well over a year ago involving a boy about yea-high with blond hair and golden eyes?”

He had already braced himself for a punch or two, knowing all three leads would involve grieving family or friends in one way or another.

Thankfully, Aunt Chris had always said he had a hard head.  He could handle a few punches or slaps. All he hoped was that they didn’t break his nose in the process for vanity’s sake. Roy had managed to survive boarding school, the military academy and warfare without breaking his nose – he’d be damned if some farmer did the honors.

Whatever the case, the Flame Alchemist leaned back in his chair with a gusty sigh and glared at his meddling, soft-hearted subordinates. “Did I miss a scheduled meeting with you lot?” Roy groused, his fingers tapping out a sharp rhythm atop the closed journal. “Why are you all bothering me?”

“So, that’s a no on stealing back our kid,” Havoc drawled, unimpressed.

“Knock it off,’’ Fuery whispered, albeit not hushed enough as Roy heard him. “The Colonel is in one of his moods… let’s leave him be.’’

Roy sent the pair a sharp look of warning. He wasn’t in one of his moods. Whatever that may be. He was ready to bark at them to get back to work until Falman made an appearance, looming behind Havoc’s tall form in all his lankier, slightly taller glory. The Warrant Officer was frowning, having clearly heard enough of the conversation and – predictably – stayed on the main task with his one-track mind.

“We’ve said how attempting to reclaim Fullmetal could create significant complications,” Falman intoned. “It may be construed as poaching personnel – or worse, provoke Archer into keeping Edward out of your reach entirely. Also, let’s not forget the ramifications for Ed himself…he’s made it abundantly clear that he’s often punished for things beyond his control.”

“Not. Helping,” Breda ground out.

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose as the throbbing behind his eye intensified. He knew they all meant well. But between the journal’s contents, the bureaucratic brick walls, and the growing pile of what-ifs, his chest felt too tight, his fingers twitchy with the urge to snap do something.

Breda, thankfully, had the sense to answer his previously blanked question. “Hawkeye’s been out for a while,” he offered, clearly sensing the need for an explanation. “So, we figured we’d check in, Boss. That’s all.”

Fuery quietly murmured to Falman, “Where is she anyway?’’

Falman shrugged, gray brows clashing together in deep thought. “The Lieutenant been gone for nearly two hours now.’’

The tiny flutter of unease in Roy’s chest came to life, and he pushed it down. Riza had politely and professionally requested part of the morning off for a few hours. It was unusual for her not to go into detail, but she stated she’d be back soon enough and – trusting her implicitly – Roy had waved her off. Regardless, he focused on one issue at a time, reassuring himself that his First Lieutenant should be back shortly, as promised.

For the time being, the best Roy could do now was steeple his fingers and remind his men – and himself – again of The Plan.

“Once we find a relative or – hell – even Edward’s real surname, we’ll make contact with the kid,” Roy said, voice calm but firm. “That’s why Hawkeye and I are heading out in a few days for our weekend trip to the backwoods.”

The Colonel didn’t say it aloud, but he hoped discovering Ed’s origin – who he was before everything – would be enough to shake something loose in the kid. Many people focused on moving forward and, while it was clear Edward tried to do that, the burning need of the unknown kept him shackled in some way. Some information, solid yet clear, might be enough for the boy to actually listen to the adults who wanted to keep him more than safe, but happy, too.

And, if that didn’t work, then Roy would do what he should have done from the beginning: finagle a way to bring Ed into his command, uncaring if the boy resented him for it. He didn’t care for whatever muddled ‘things to do’ Edward had fleeting stated he needed to do. The kid could do them here, under his Command, if need be. After all, Roy meant what he’d told Riza…

He would’ve let the kid hate him for an eternity as long as it meant he was safe.

“You sure that you an’ Hawkeye ain’t eloping on us?” Havoc teased, grinning. “Barn weddin’s are all the rage this season, y’know, Boss.’’

The others broke into light chuckles while Roy’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Dark eyes locked eyes with Havoc’s blue gaze, and Roy flatly stated:  “You’ll be doing overtime that weekend, Second Lieutenant.”

That got Havoc sputtering. “Hey - what?! You can’t just – ”

“I just did.” Roy picked up his pen and pretended to jot something down on his calendar. In reality, he was sketching an extremely unflattering drawing of Black Hayate. Only Riza would notice it when checking his schedule later on, presuming he was slacking and doodling. Capping the pen with exaggerated flair, the Colonel added, “General Grumman was kind enough to frame our absence as a recruitment exercise but it’ll be good to have someone on stand-by at the office.”

“Smart,” Breda said, nodding. “That’ll keep what you’re doing under the radar if someone’s keeping tabs on you. Falman and I mapped out your route. First stop: Rookridge, followed by Albion. Albion’s only about an hour from Resembool, but the terrain in Resembool isn’t fit for cars, so I hope your time at the stables with Ed made you like horses.”

Roy pressed his lips together at that information. He still wasn’t a fan of the humongous hooved and smelly beasts, but that didn’t stop him from walking past the military’s livery stable more often than not. Maes had taken many photos – like always – during his time in East City, yet the bulk that had been taken of Edward at the stables always remained near the top of the pile Roy flicked through some evenings.

“Accommodations might be tricky,” Fuery added, a bit sheepish, pulling Roy’s mind away from lopsided smiles and golden eyes. “There are a few inns listed, but...”

“That far east,” Havoc cut in, sounding more serious than usual, “if you show up in uniform, you’ll get a pitchfork to the gut. They hate the military out there. Hell, when I visit home, my momma still reminds me to be in my civvies before I even step off the train.”

“They saw some of the worst during the Ishval war,” Falman said quietly. “It’s no wonder they’re bitter. Rookridge had their food supplies commandeered and sent to the front lines…”

“Which means the military probably left that town with scraps,’’ Breda winced.

Falman sighed softly. “When going through the archives, Rookridge’s records had a lot of children with rickets from limited food resources. We know Resembool got their station bombed, but even Albion gained backlash when – ’’

“Enough of the history lesson,’’ Roy gritted out.

That, finally, gave Roy a brief respite from external noise… though, the pounding in his head remained.

“Be that as it may,’’ he continued with a grumble, rubbing at his brow. “Traipsing around fields and hoping not to get stabbed will be a welcome relief from you lot.’’

“Pfft…’’ Breda scoffed. He lightly elbowed Fuery. “Wanna bet he’ll call us every time he finds a working phone?’’

The Master Sergeant’s smile didn’t fully reach his eyes. Roy stared at the four of them and caught the glimmer of genuine concern that was so poorly buried. He rolled his eyes with a huff and reassured, “Hawkeye and I will be fine on our little… excursion.’’

“You say that like a man who hasn’t run for his life from an angry farmer,” Havoc drawled, unconvinced. “Just imagine it: you go digging through someone’s grief about what could be their missing or dead kid, and they don’t take kindly to strangers asking questions. Next thing you know, you are runnin’ through a corn field and – ”

“Fortunately...” Riza’s dry tone interjected softly from somewhere beyond the wall of their bodies. “I can outrun the Colonel if it comes to that.”

The cluster of men blocking his office doorway quickly parted as they turned in the direction of her voice, revealing her standing in the outer office. Roy would’ve breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she only needed to give them a certain look that would have them scuttling back to their desks and not bothering him. Yet that relief was short-lived when her words caught up with him, making him sit up a little straighter as he stared at her, incredulous.

“What the hell, Hawkeye? Outrun?” Roy fired back, offended.

“Means she’s leaving your slow ass behind,” Breda said with a smirk.

“So you can get picked off by the rabid locals like you deserve,” Havoc added, tone sullen.

Falman gave a sage nod. “It was quite self-explanatory, Sir.”

“And a very tactful method of retreat,” Fuery added primly.

Roy gave them all a sharp look and waved his hand dismissively. “Out. All of you. Now.”

There were the usual grumbles and exaggerated sighs. Havoc even went so far as to mutter something insulting under his breath about tyrannical Commanding Officers, but they dispersed quickly enough, retreating to their desks in the outer office. The moment the door shut behind the last one, silence settled, and Roy felt a little less tetchy.

The stretch of silence wasn’t awkward or tense, but it was heavy. Riza glanced at him, expression knowing, and uttered, “What’s wrong?’’

Everything.

The word was on the tip of his tongue, yet he looked at the way she carried herself – spine straight, shoulders back – despite her own exhaustion and swallowed it down. Instead, Roy shifted in his chair, rotating a fraction until he could feel the morning sun on one side of his face. This entire experience was akin to walking on a tight-rope, his ability to plan and think several steps ahead muddied by emotion and blurred by too many variables that left him feeling – dare he say it – heart sick and drained. It felt like they had chosen the least damaging outcome, clinging to the hope that more information would only be a benefit despite the knee-jerk reaction to head to Central.

“Just thinking…’’ Roy confessed. It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Russet eyes burned into the side of his face.

The Flame Alchemist blanked the intensely knowing look, feeling her gaze sear into his skin as she tried to peek into his cluttered thoughts and tangled feelings. He briefly clenched his fists, feeling his knuckles creak and crack, before relaxing. It was then he was hit with the quick-flash memory of Edward’s first visit to his apartment, and how the kid had pushed up on his tiptoes, shy yet curious, at one of the few photographs Roy had displayed in his spartanly furnished home.

The kid had taken a good while staring at the old sun-faded photograph of Roy’s late parents and aunt standing proudly behind a bar.  The three of them in that photo had looked far too young, especially Aunt Chris. Yet, at the time, Edward had swiftly been distracted by Maes beckoning him into the kitchen to taste-test food rather than continuing his not-so-subtle nosing. The fleeting memory was enough to make him glance at Riza and muse out loud…

“Maybe I should ask Aunt Chris to fetch the kid,’’ Roy murmured, half-serious. “She’s pretty good at hiding people.’’

Riza barely contained her soft laugh. “Well, that’s one way to petrify him further.’’

That, Roy hated to admit, was true. Chris Mustang was a rare breed of woman capable of gruffness, no nonsense, and a buried brand of softness that peeked through to a select few. Still, Roy daydreamed about the option that would be nothing more than that: a daydream.

"She'd probably send Vanessa to fetch him," Roy replied, the edges of his mouth tugging upward. His voice lightened, if only slightly. "Vanessa's more… approachable. Far more than Catalina, and the kid could tolerate her.’’

"Edward was pretty fond of Rebecca, I’ll have you know,’’ Riza dryly reminded him.

Roy shrugged. "What I’m saying is that Ed’ll be fine with Vanessa or Chris. If I could survive Chris raising me, Ed'll find it a breeze."

"Until Vanessa drags him back to your aunts and Edward realizes she works in a brothel," Riza murmured, amusement tempered with something softer, sadder. "He'd freeze up."

"Actually, it's a hostess bar," Roy corrected with a sniff. "A classy establishment meets subtle spy network."

Riza made a dubious noise. "Mm."

"What? It's true," Roy insisted, shifting a little straighter in his seat. "You've been in there. It is a hostess bar. It stopped being a brothel shortly after I finished my apprenticeship."

Silently, Roy had to admit that it was moments like these – when they mentioned their own unconventional upbringings – that Roy realized why they both never wanted or planned for children.

They weren't exactly... equipped.

Roy, certainly, felt like he wasn’t. Despite Riza’s blunt statement that being a woman didn’t make things natural, she seemed like it. Roy constantly felt like he was fumbling blindly and hoping for the best.

"I don't think Edward would be able to differentiate between the two," Riza said, her tone growing quiet and thoughtful.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the journal on his polished desk. Roy knew like himself, the sharpshooter was undoubtedly recalling the contents: clinical observations from many cases, as well as the flippant speculations of a child figuring out what was right and wrong, or expected in a world too big and ugly.

“He isn’t… he hasn’t…’’ Riza paused, blew out a breath, and bluntly continued. “Edward’'s not exactly been introduced to the birds and the bees with delicacy."

Roy's expression darkened slightly. A muscle in his jaw flexed, and his fingers curled inward. That fact left him feeling nauseous, angry, and – although they hadn't been physically present to protect Edward from that crude aspect of life – guilty.

When Roy had been a very young boy, he hadn’t known exactly what type of establishment his aunt had run. It had been a bar with pretty ladies that Roy was never allowed to set foot in during business hours. When it closed, he’d sometimes help collect glasses or do his homework at the sticky bar table while his aunt swept the floors for the upcoming night ahead. His ‘big sisters’ would let him sit on the dressing table, the scent of perfume always burning his nose as they gossiped and made him giggle, pressing his pecks to his small face akin to blotting paper – playfully covering pale skin in various shades of lipstick.

Truly, ignorance was bliss until the age of ten or so, and even then, the truth – that his aunt was the Madam of a brothel – had been something she had eased him into with a strange kind of gentleness. She had never lied; Chris had only delayed the truth until he was old enough to carry it and before others would weaponize it. And even once he understood, she had done her best to make it seem ordinary in a world that had little space for morality when survival came first.

Roy tried not to dwell too much on it, especially when circumstances had changed for Aunt Chris and the women under her wing. Yet those memories remained ingrained – of smoke and perfume, the laughter of women who were both protectors and victims mingled with the clink of glasses. All Roy could do was be thankful things had changed for the better for them all.

And, maybe, sometime soon, he could have those ugly but honest discussions with Edward as a form of belated damage control for the many things the kid had been exposed to….

Clearing his throat was more to remove the lump that had formed than anything else. Roy shifted, chair creaking, one large hand absently resting atop the battered journal, his thumb brushing against the cracks in the leather as he regarded Riza. At a glance, she looked prim and professional as ever, yet the light sheen in her sharp yet tired eyes was easy for him to spot.

“We’ll deal with it,’’ Roy began softly. “I was just – ’’ feeling uneasy, growing desperate, foolishly daydreaming “ – musing. Anyway, where have you been?’’

“Oakmere,’’ was her swift reply.

Roy raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He didn’t know what the tiny township, nestled right on the edge of East City’s nicer parts had to do with anything. It was a forty-minute drive and was upscale suburbia at its finest. He shifted in his chair and regarded her, feeling like this came suddenly out of left field and not wholly knowing what to make of it.

Which was why the Colonel cracked a half-hearted smirk and teased, “You house hunting for somewhere bigger already?’’

“No,’’ Riza said blandly.

“Then what – ?’’

“A doctor by the surname of Wilmott lives in Oakmere,’’ Riza cut in, her eyes staring down at the journal beneath his hand. “209 Mossgrove Street, to be precise.’’

Oh. Wilmott. Roy tried not to reel at the additional possibility for more intel. The name Wilmott had been buried in the messier parts of Edward’s journal, and one of the few legible threads from his time in Broadgate military hospital. Any search into Broadgate itself came up redacted or nothing at all beyond the basics, and it had been cited as being closed the moment the war with Ishval came to an end, long before Edward became an unwilling patient there.

Honestly, Roy hadn’t thought Riza had looked into it when the two of them had already discussed a better route of finding information about Edward from potential origin points. More so because the few names scrawled in that section of Ed’s journal were so common that chasing them down without more information felt like a waste of effort.

Nothing new – well, no. Nothing new that would assist them could be learned from the medical staff who had medically neglected and abused an amnesiac child.

The only information gained from then would be enough to boil his and Riza’s blood.

And yet...

“Are you telling me you’ve already paid this doctor a visit?’’ Roy probed, sounding a touch sharper than he intended. “Without back-up? Or – or giving me notice?’’

“It was a social call, not guns-a-blazing call,’’ Riza flatly told him. “Need I remind you that I have far more restraint than that.’’

“I know. I wasn’t saying you’d go pistol whip a civilian…’’ Roy fired back waspishly. “You’re my – my Lieutenant. I was merely pointing out the poor judgment for you to go out alone. Civilian or not.’’

He meant it.  Every word from her, from her going alone to his unfathomable trust in her, he meant it. Out of the two of them, Riza was rational in the most trying of emotional moments, oftentimes keeping him in line. Sometimes, Roy would muse on what spectacular mess or cocktail of emotions would drive her into something irrational and unhinged, and shuddered at such a terrifying concept. However, despite it all, a tiny sliver of doubt crept in because neither of them were in the best of states as of late.

“Although…’’ Roy uttered, eyeing her carefully, “… if you did do anything. Now would be the best time to tell me before someone calls in with a complaint.’’

That earned him a look that was more of fond exasperation than strain and hurt. “I didn’t do anything but knock on his door and ask for him,’’ Riza explained. “His wife answered. Dr. Wilmott came to the door – he spotted my uniform and told me he wasn’t available for ‘any contracts’ this year before I even introduced myself.’’

“Ah…’’ Roy paused. Then, after a beat, asked, “How the hell did you find this guy? Ed only wrote a surname and barely anything.’’

Riza’s posture eased a fraction. “Rebecca.’’

“Catalina? Rebecca Catalina?” Roy echoed, astonished.

Riza nodded, settling herself on the corner of his desk.  The Colonel told himself he shouldn’t have been surprised, especially when he knew Rebecca had always been one of Grumman’s favorites for a reason. There was more to that wild-haired woman than her brash, husband-seeking and carefree act suggested. All Roy could do was lean back in his chair and let out a chuckle that was laced with a sliver of embarrassment as realization sank in.

 “…I think I need to be nicer to her, huh?’’

“I did warn you when you first met her,’’ Riza smirked, openly amused. “She and I were talking the other night while you were on the phone to Maes.’’

Roy didn’t like thinking of that telephone call with his best friend; information had been given but it was nothing beyond Edward’s poor state and shit company.

“I mentioned Ed’s journal involving a Dr. Wilmott,’’ Riza continued. “You know, the part where he had written a list involving exercises to do and – ’’

“Nerve attachment testing,’’ Roy gritted out, pulling a face. Ed had written it in passing, like a nothing of import, just a grim factoid between locked door and either too much or too little medication. And, as someone who didn’t know much about automail at all, finding out what that meant sounded more like a torture exercise than a medical check that the surgical implantation of his ports was successful.

Seeing the kid get his automail leg reattached had been painful enough. Roy didn’t think he could’ve been in the room if some doctor had to painstakingly jangle wires attached to nerves. The logical part of his mind understood it was a process, but the idea of a small boy holding back sobs made Roy feel sick with anger.

“Yes, that,’’ Riza nodded stiffly, looking pale. “Well, Rebecca said that the job involved expertise. Next thing I know, she is telling me this morning at the gun range that she's got an address for the only registered Dr. Julius Wilmott, who is an automail surgical consultant with a record of having military contracts.’’

That was… a lot to absorb. Roy queried, “Did you ask? About whether he had any patients called Edward?’’

“I asked if he had overseen the automail operation of an eleven-year-old double amputee called Edward, and he promptly shut the door in my face,’’ Riza informed, unfazed. “Not that I expected anything less. His reaction was confirmation enough.’’

“And?’’ Roy urged, waiting for something.

“And I saw that he has a lovely house, pretty wife, and they have three boys – the youngest one looked around Edward’s age.’’

That information made Roy’s stomach flip. He – and Riza – had committed their own atrocities and Maes, too. Maes, who, in Roy’s opinion, was the King of Compartmentalization. He was often jealous of his best friend’s ability to split being a hardened war-worn soldier with deadly knife skills and the tender-hearted father and husband. While Roy was capable of pocketing things away, burying emotion to focus on the task at hand, he often struggled when around something so - innocent, pure, joyous - as children. He didn't quite know how Dr. Wilmot, or even Maes, were capable.

Moreso when Roy's own fleeting interactions with Elicia had always left him feeling awkward and hyperaware of his tainted hands. 

Oddly enough, the latter feeling hadn't gnawed at him so much when engaging with Edward. 

“Then why did you even go?’’ Roy said, perplexed and trying not to think too deeply on other things. “We’ve got our plan. In 3 days, we head out. What on earth possessed you to visit this guy – ?’’

“I wanted to see his face,’’ Riza calmly interjected.

Roy stared, charcoal eyes unblinking. “…What?’’

“I wanted to put a name to his face, that’s all,’’ Riza said nonchalantly, slipping off the edge of the desk.

A small, nervous chuckle left him, and he briefly wondered if she had a hit list. Instead, he watched her rifle through the stack of papers he had neglected all morning. After a small stretch of silence, he dazedly confessed:

“At times, I don’t know if I should be concerned about you or scared of you.’’

The Sharpshooter gave him a glance that told him to stop talking as she swept the journal aside and dropped a thick stack of papers in front of him.

 

---

 

The boy ate like an animal.

Even from afar, Kimblee’s silvery gaze could see as such from the doorway of HQ’s mess hall. The place was deserted, almost cavernous without the clamor of chatter and clatter of metal trays. It was too early in the day for groggy superiors or soldiers lining their stomachs and too late for sweat-drenched recruits fresh from drills. Heavy wooden tables and metal chairs were neatly aligned, the air a blend of stale coffee and grease. The only occupied table was tucked in the far corner, where the fluorescent lights didn’t fully reach, softening the hard edges of the room.

Mad-Dog, hair damp from a splash in the hotel bathroom sink and too-big uniform hiding the shirt he slept in, was hunched over his tray.

Edward always ate like a half-starved alley dog, be it the crumbling hardtack stuffed in his pockets or the rare moment when the boy sat down to eat, and it always made Kimblee’s lip curl. The boy seemed always ravenous – something he presumed came with his stunted form attempting to grow, or merely powering automail limbs – when he remembered to eat. This, however, had to have been the most he had seen the blond eat since their arrival in Central.

Fullmetal was gnawing at a strip of leather-tough bacon, eyes averted from the only other occupant in the mess hall: Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. Kimblee couldn’t see the man’s bespectacled, unshaven face, but the haircut and casual stance were recognizable. Whatever was being said was too far away to pick up, but given the cautious approach of the Investigator and soft tone, it was clear he was being friendly.

Kimblee had always found Hughes to be an odd one.

He remembered crossing paths with him back in Ishval, when Hughes had still been a Captain under the late-Brigadier General Fessler who had lost his life via a stray bullet. Always first in line for the post, always flashing photographs of the woman who sent him letters – on the surface, Maes Hughes had seemed little more than a jovial, sentimental man. It would have been easy to dismiss him as such. But Kimblee had seen enough in Ishval to know better. Yet Kimblee had caught glimpses of Hughes in Ishval…

Hughes, always huddled with Mustang and Hawkeye at camp. Hughes, flaunting perfume-scented letters from his beloved. Hughes, with his grubby glasses failing to hide the eyes of a man who had accepted his blood-stained role with a bit more ease than Flame and the Hawk's Eye.

Now, in the mess hall, Kimblee’s gaze tracked him once more. The man was setting down a mug of coffee and a small plate of buttered toast and bacon. Kimblee saw the way he took only a slice of toast before nudging the rest towards Edward. Mad-Dog stared at it before snatching up a slice, grumbling something between mouthfuls and earning a light chuckle from Hughes. It was shortly after that moment, as Kimblee sauntered further into the mess hall, the tread of his boots silent and cat-like, when Edward’s owlish eyes latched onto him.

It was too late.

Before Hughes realized he had extra company, Kimblee caught a snippet of the man’s words.

“ – like I said, I’m not mad over anything, kiddo. But if you want something, I need you to come to me, not sneak around my office. Okay, Ed? We’ve had this talk before, you know, about asking for help.’’

The Investigator’s voice was low, measured, almost indulgent – the soft, coddling cadence that was borderline paternal. It was the same sort of tone Kimblee had heard from his own father during his formative years, always out of his mother’s stricter earshot when digging for excuses and explanations to the accusations that surrounded him and his curious, boyish antics. For the briefest moment, the memory tugged at him, unbidden, before he brushed it aside with a sardonic curl of his mouth.

Kimblee came to a halt behind Hughes’ chair, his presence quiet but unmistakable. Something in the air shifted; Perhaps Hughes had finally caught how Edward’s eyes flitted over his shoulder, or – more likely –  he simply sensed the predator at his back. Either way, Kimblee saw Hughes’ shoulders tense, a subtle stiffening before he turned to face him.

“What trouble has the puppy gotten into this time?” Kimblee asked, his voice silk-smooth and eyes alight with curiosity.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Hughes replied at once, tone clipped, gaze darting away as though dismissal alone could sever the exchange.

Unfortunately for him, Edward ruined the attempt by nearly overlapping him in speech. The boy spoke around a mouthful of food, not bothering to lie. “I was just lookin’ at some old wanted posters, that’s all.’’

“Oh?” Kimblee tilted his head, the sound equal parts interest and challenge. Edward’s eyes flashed up at him, flat and defiant, as the boy sucked bacon grease from his automail thumb.

Kimblee closed the distance in a fluid step, his tattooed palm skimming lightly across Hughes’ broad shoulder in passing. The contact was casual on the surface, yet Kimblee felt the tension coil beneath his fingers like wire. Sliding into the seat beside Edward, he settled with a smile that sharpened at the sour expression Hughes now fixed him with.

“That does sound like something that concerns me, Lieutenant Colonel,’’ Kimblee continued. “Especially when the boy should be keeping his attention on our assignment.”

It wasn’t Kimblee’s imagination that Hughes suddenly seemed more interested in talking to him. The older male didn’t outwardly change; eyes still narrowed, expression neutral yet grim and posture staged as being relaxed. The Crimson Alchemist presumed that this – calm, implacable, quietly suffocating –  was the exact view many criminals face during interrogation if luring them into ease with a jovial attitude didn’t work.

“Which, might I remind you…’’ Kimblee gave Edward a disapproving look “…is soon going to run behind schedule. General Raven was lenient with me this morning, but that generosity has its limits. If you’ve got time to fill your stomach and snoop through offices, Fullmetal, then clearly, I’ll need to keep my eye on you, don’t I?”

“No,” Edward shot back immediately, sullen and stubborn, his voice little more than a growl.

Kimblee’s lips peeled into a sneer and, with deliberate care, he extended one finger and nudged the plate of toast and bacon across the table, sliding it away from the boy’s reach. He opened his mouth, ready to press further, but Hughes intervened with quiet finality – lifting the plate and returning it firmly to its original place before Edward.

The gesture drew a heavy, theatrical sigh from Kimblee. He sank back into his chair, folding his arms across his chest in mock irritation, one leg swinging up to drape lazily over the other. His expression carried the air of a disappointed tutor, thinly veiling the predatory amusement in his eyes.

It wasn’t true enjoyment, not really. No, this was more the quiet delight of a man who had found a pressure point to prod. Or, a cat with something live and wriggling to toy with.

“Do you undermine your wife’s parenting methods in the same way?” he asked silkily, sweeping the plate out of Edward’s reach once more. “Because if you do, I can’t imagine that bodes well for your marriage long-term.”

“Speaking from experience?” Hughes fired back, tone dry, his stare unwavering as he shoved the plate back toward Edward.

The Crimson Alchemist could read the unspoken warning to not talk about his precious wife or child. For a heartbeat, the temptation tugged at him. He wondered if there was a temper lurking beneath Hughes’ layers of charm and restraint. But he let it pass, filing the thought away for another day.

“Can you please not do such things when I’m handling my subordinate?’’ Kimblee drawled as he l aced his fingers together and rested tattooed palms neatly atop his knee.

“It’s food,” Hughes replied flatly, glaring. “He’s entitled to the same Basic Allowance for Subsistence as the rest of us.”

Edward frowned. “Basic wha’?”

“You get three meals a day,” Hughes answered, clipped and impatient. “It’s regulation…”

The boy emitted a scoff and grumbled something bitter-sounding under his breath. Kimblee paid it no mind, used to the growing jaded frustrations of a child understanding how rules in the grown-up world were bent when it suited those in charge.

“He’s really wormed his way in during his time with you lot, hasn’t he?” Kimblee murmured, tapping a finger against his own chest, directly over his heart. His grin widened as his eyes gleamed. “Tell me, was Mustang this pathetically soft with the pup?”

“Let the kid eat, Kimblee,” Hughes’ tone was firm, but he looked fed-up.

“Yeah,’’ Edward chimed in impishly. “Lemme eat.’’

Spitefully, Kimblee’s smirk cut sharper, and in a petty flourish he snatched the toast Edward had been reaching for, taking a deliberate bite. He chewed slowly, savoring both the taste and the irritation sparking in the boy’s expression. Mad-Dog looked seconds away from lashing out with a kick to the shin, and Kimblee almost hoped he would… if only so he could return it.

“Now, what’s this about wanted posters?” Kimblee asked smoothly, dropping the bitten slice back onto the plate with a faint clatter. It was too dry, but his point had been made.

Edward seized it anyway, unfazed, and shoved it into his mouth. His golden eyes slid away, fixed anywhere but Kimblee. “Eastaugh was on one in Ma – Hughes’ office. He looked younger. That’s it.”

“That’s it, huh?” Kimblee echoed, skeptical.

Nothing was ever “it” with Fullmetal. The boy’s mind spun like a storm, and Kimblee had learned to recognize when he was clamping down on it, bottling everything behind his teeth. Edward had tells that he doubted Archer had even picked up on. Still, the brat wasn’t lying. No elaborate excuse, no hastily concocted story. Just a shrug, those small shoulders tightening as he hunched protectively over his plate, wolfing down the rest of his meal in silence.

For once, those tells weren’t signs of typical defiance, but secrecy.

Kimblee missed the typical nips and snarks he typically gained from Mad-Dog, but it wasn’t hard to guess why the boy had muzzled himself. Edward was keeping his cards close to his chest, deliberately withholding information from Hughes for some unfathomable reason. That much of obvious. Alas, Hughes, ever the investigator, sat in silence, his glasses hiding sharp eyes that flicked from Edward to Kimblee, absorbing details like a sponge with feigned neutrality.

Given the way Hughes wasn’t saying anything, Kimblee knew he was on the right track. More curious than anything, Kimblee smirked and put Hughes out of his misery. He leaned in, voice low enough only to be heard between the three of them as he addressed the youngest of their trio.

“You should know better than to think – ” Kimblee’s finger pressed against Edward’s temple, delighting in the glare it earned from the boy “ – beyond what’s been asked of you. You don’t need to know about Eastaugh. You only need to fix what he left behind in Lab 5.”

There it was – a crack in the armor. Edward winced before slapping his hand away, fury burning bright. Brief, almost imperceptible, but there on Edward’s face. Hughes, meanwhile, was already frowning, his gaze flitting between them.

“They’ve got you two assigned at that abandoned lab?’’ Hughes queried, voice taut.

“I wouldn’t say it was abandoned…’’ Kimblee purred. “Would you, Mad-Dog?’’

Edward remained stock-still. “S’just alchemy research ‘n development.’’

The crease between Hughes’ brows deepened.

“It looked quite active to me,” Kimblee went on softly, savoring the unease. “Then again, Fullmetal has spent far more time there than I. With luck, we’ll finish quickly and head back to New Optain. Central is… dull. Finding something to unwind here is scarce and pricey.”

That barb earned him a pair of looks: Hughes’ cool disdain and Edward’s childish, nose-wrinkled disgust. Kimblee chuckled, pushing himself to his feet, and shot his hand out to snag the boy by the scruff of his uniform. Hauling that runt upright , even with two hefty chunks of metal bolted to his body, was a habit at this point. The sudden motion tugged the blue fabric, and Kimblee’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of yellowed paper tucked into Fullmetal’s inner breast pocket.

“Time to go, puppy,’’ Kimblee clicked his tongue, dropping the boy roughly on his feet.

The young alchemist stumbled forward, scowling at him. Kimblee pushed him forward into a march, one hand clamped on the back of his neck. Edward cursed something foul at him and writhed, failing to get out from his grasp, pale face blotchy with irritation.

“None of that,’’ Kimblee chided with a slight tsk. “Good soldiers follow orders. Ask the Lieutenant Colonel here – he’s very good at that. Wouldn’t you agree, Hughes?”

Hughes’ mask never wavered, but Kimblee saw what lay beneath. The fists curled tight at his sides, the tic of jaw muscle betraying clenched teeth. It gave Kimblee a warm feeling of satisfaction.

Squeezing the back of Edward’s clammy neck in silent warning, Kimblee watched the half-hearted tantrum cut short. Then, he slid his free hand past the marred jaw into the ill-fitting uniform jacket with practiced ease, his inked palm gliding over the wrinkled shirt that was overdue for a wash. Thin cotton offered no barrier, and Kimblee could feel the frantic beat of Edward’s heart against his palm. He let it linger for a beat or two before slender fingers searched for what he knew was tucked away, absently noting the initial way Mad-Dog violently jolted.

A flicker of irritation surfaced at how jittery and almost rundown Fullmetal had become since their time in the Eastern desert. The urge to say something scathing was on the tip of his tongue, but shoved the thought aside when he felt aged thin paper. With a deft motion, he plucked the folded papers from the boy’s pocket and straightened, holding them aloft as Edward jumped for them. Kimblee only raised them higher and re-clamped his hand a little firmer on his shoulder.

“Well, well,” Kimblee hummed, delicately unfolding the sheets. “So, these are the wanted posters that didn’t matter, hm?”

Two sun-bleached flyers rested in Kimblee’s hands, the paper brittle at the edges, corners ragged where they had once been stapled to a board or tacked against a post. The first bore the blocky, bold print of a name he only vaguely recognized: H. EASTAUGH. The date stamped beneath it marked it as several years old, the image of a man he’d never laid eyes on faded, and the crime that of treason.

Kimblee’s interest waned quickly on that, unlike the second that captured his attention longer, tugging at his memory. The ink announcing in bold the crime of desertion was more common, especially after Ishval; those caught leaving had been court martialed or lined up for execution. Given the date, this had originally been printed near the end of the war, and the face printed on it was one he knew by reputation, not by direct acquaintance.

Dr. T. MARCOH.

Tim Marcoh: the Crystal Alchemist. A squat, round-shouldered man, always with that weary slump in his white lab coat, bobbing his head in subdued acknowledgment. Kimblee had only ever glimpsed him at the fringes, a presence peripheral and unremarkable, and yet essential for some favorable reason amongst higher-ups. Kimblee had heard whispers of the man’s desertion when it happened amongst superiors, and it had been no surprise. From what he gleamed, Marcoh had been many things: a talented researcher, a valued alchemist, but at his core he’d been a coward – the sort who would wilt under true pressure.

Why Fullmetal had snatched up an outdated flyer on Marcoh was baffling.

The Crimson Alchemist let the edges of the flyer curl between his fingers as he lifted his gaze. He peered over the top of the flyers only to find Fullmetal watching him intently. The boy’s stare was eagle-like and unblinking: unsettlingly bright golden eyes fixed and head tilting in that peculiar puppyish way Kimblee had seen before. It was the look Edward reserved for bloodstained crime scenes, for fractured transmutation circles, and all the moments where puzzle and horror intertwined.

“D’you know him?” Edward mumbled.

Raw, insistent curiosity would be what always drove Mad-Dog into danger, and Kimblee pulled a face. The boy had the self-preservation of a Dodo. As much as Kimblee thrived off putting his soul and very well-being at risk, he didn’t do so blindly. Unlike Edward.

“Know him?’’ Kimblee echoed, feeling Hughes’ attention tightening around him like a noose. “I know of him, I suppose.’’

“Know who?’’ Hughes was already standing up.

Kimblee slapped the papers against Hughes’ chest. “Marcoh,’’ he said, watching Edward carefully. “I have a feeling Mustang would know more given how pally he was with Knox and others.’’

“Don’t say it like that…’’ Hughes hissed bitterly, accepting the papers.

Edward looked between them, and Kimblee let out a dry huff. For all the truthful – and sometimes slightly embellished – horror stories he had shared about Ishval and Roy Mustang being Amestris’ Number One human incinerator, he hadn’t gone into the deeper details with Fullmetal how not all deployed military surgeons had been placed there to save lives. A good handful of doctors had been sent to study the corpses or use Ishvalan’s as test subjects. In fact, he had been summoned by his superior to demonstrate his alchemy in front of an exhausted pathologist who requested he not totally obliterate a test subject…

And, as for the doctors who weren’t military authorized – kind-hearted civilians volunteering medical aid – they were seen as a hindrance, especially if they were assisting the side of the opposition. Kimblee could still recall seeing the name of those two fair-haired doctors who ran their clinic amongst the ruins: Rockbell.

It had been a wasted assignment to dispose of the do-gooder doctors, especially when he arrived and he wasn’t needed. The female doctor had been slain by one of the patients while her husband, a fellow bleeding heart of a doctor, was –

“What?’’ Edward piped up, tone irritable and silencing Kimblee's trip down memory lane.

“That should be my question, pup,’’ Kimblee shot back. “What has you so invested in digging through deserters and traitors?’’

Edward’s mouth opened, then closed again, that glare narrowing as if he’d realized the trap mid-step. Kimblee’s smirk widened at the hesitation. Hughes, on the other hand, looked as if he had his own questions yet was clearly biting his tongue due to Kimblee’s presence and for Edward’s sake. That soft-hearted loyalty would be the death of Hughes someday, Kimblee was certain of it.

“Come along,’’ Kimblee huffed, interest rapidly dwindling. “Let's get you back to the Lab.’’

“I…” Edward faltered, his boots dragging a fraction even as his body obeyed. His golden eyes flicked toward Hughes almost instinctively, a silent appeal, though his feet shuffled in the opposite direction. “…M’kay.”

Hughes’ face pinched, his mouth opening in protest. “Now, hold on a second. Kimblee, let him – ’’

“Mad-Dog’s got more important things to do than gossip about the dead,’’ Kimblee cut in smoothly, his palm flattening between the boy’s shoulder blades, guiding him into a brisk march.

“Marcoh’s dead?”

The words slipped from Ed so softly that Kimblee almost dismissed them; he knew it was nothing more than a voiced thought. But, no. His ears caught the faint rasp, quieter even than the low rumble of Hughes’ voice still carrying across the mess hall, unimpressed. Kimblee turned his head slightly, just enough to see the boy’s scowl drawn tight and lurching gait worsened by the dreary city weather as he pushed forward.

“Of course he’s dead,” Kimblee answered without hesitation. “Captured within days of his little desertion, or so I was told.”

Edward’s throat bobbed, his voice cracking against the next question. “… You sure? Or - or are there other Marcohs you might’ve – ”

“Do we need a little field trip to refresh your education?” Kimblee snapped waspishly, slicing off the fumbling question. “You know what happens to traitors and cowards.”

The boy paled, automail fingers skimming his holstered revolver as they flexed, ears flushing red. Kimblee knew exactly what image had surfaced in Edward’s mind: the dangling corpses in Aerugo, uniforms the same blue as their own. The Crimson Alchemist had pointed them out to him in passing with the same casual air of an estate agent revealing mold spores in a kitchen.

“There’s a courtyard on the north side of base we could visit,” Kimblee went on, his tone light and airy, his hand pressing harder against Edward’s back. “Central does it better, of course. Quick. Efficient. None of that flailing or waiting around until the twitching stops. A firing squad tends to be the main method here.”

Edward scowled up at him. “Y’such a dick.’’

Kimblee’s hand had a mind of its own, and the retort earned the boy a clipped cuff to the side of the head. Edward stumbled forward, swearing, barreling through the mess hall’s double doors with all the fury of a kicked dog. The doors clattered closed behind him, and still he could feel Hughes’ stare digging into the back of his skull like a brand. It lingered, heavy, until the distance and closed doors swallowed it.

It was easy enough to match pace with Edward, despite the pup’s frantic shuffle. The automail was working against Ed in the miserable damp of the city, his uneven gait forcing him into three quick strides for every one of Kimblee’s. Smirking, Kimblee fell in beside him with deliberate ease, watching the boy’s jaw clench, his breath hitching in uneven bursts.

Marcoh… Eastaugh… whatever fixation Fullmetal had dredged up wasn’t worth tearing open. The Major’s mind was a weird and wonderful place: a marvel of raw genius tangled with pitfalls in the form of amnesiac gaps and stunted, childish cognition. As much as Kimblee relished in the unveiled inner workings of that unique mind, sopping up Edward’s unfiltered theories and breathtaking alchemical knowledge, he had no interest in the method to the boy’s madness.

It honestly wasn’t worth the headache.

 

---

 

Edward wriggled out of the vent and landed with a heavy thwump.

The landing was harder than expected, his automail leg jarred by the impact, which had him wincing. Pain pulsed around his automail ports, more so his leg. It was dull and nauseating – a sure sign that the storm outside was worsening – yet that hadn’t stopped him from crawling through Lab 5’s ventilation system. While the weather had been miserable since his early morning encounter with Maes and attempt at a chat in the mess hall, it had continued all day as he picked through Eastaugh’s work in his grim cell.

This morning’s venture to poke around the Investigator's office had been an impulsive decision. Kimblee had told him to wait in HQ’s entrance hall, yet curiosity had him leafing through the aged flyers on Maes’ corkboard to see if any other familiar names resurfaced. The urge to see if the name Marcoh was branded on wanted posters had been too strong, especially since previously spotting Eastaugh’s.

It seemed like the military was keen to employ a lot of supposed dead traitors or criminals.

With a hiss, Ed pushed himself upright, knees trembling, back hunched. He held that breath for a beat or two, listening.  It was a little past one in the morning; he had painstakingly waited, dodging Sanderson, and letting her presume he had left hours ago. He knew the woman, along with the limited staff, had left an hour or so ago, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding as he strained his ears.

No voices. No footsteps. No distant whir of equipment or crackle of alchemy.

The East Wing remained relatively silent, save for the soft drip of water from somewhere and the low hum from the dim lights. Edward, uniform rumpled and smudged with dust, rubbed at his nose, his eyes flitting about the corridor that was stretched on, branching into the dark unknown. The air reeked of ammonia, copper, and something else – something sour and meaty – and carried a weight he couldn’t shrug off. It was stifling; a suffocating presence that seeped into his very marrows, weighing him down more than the metal screwed into his bones.

Alchemical taboo always unsettled him in the same way, the wrong sort of people happened to be easy to spot and read. It was some sort of primal instinct of wrongness that very few seemed to understand beyond the basic visceral reactions of goosebumps and raised hair. There was a vibration – a low, subsonic thrum that he didn’t so much as hear as feel judder through bones and crawl under his skin.

Kimblee loved to mock him and call him melodramatic.

For all the atrocities the Mad Bomber had committed, Human Transmutation wasn’t one of them. Those tattooed palms were free of the sin of that particular taboo, and Edward had once briefly wondered if that was why Kimblee was immune. That, maybe, dabbling in taboo had imprinted upon him in an unspeakable way beyond stripped memories and limb loss, but no. That theory was wiped aside when recalling how Roy had reacted poorly – anger, disgust, horror – when encountering the attempt they’d seen in the mine at Mountford. 

Edward brushed off such thoughts as he took a few tentative steps forward down the long stretch of corridor.

Each tread of his boots against the cracked concrete sounded too loud to his ears, warped by the damp stone walls. His uneven gait didn’t help; his right boot scuffed once or twice. He passed by one of the smaller lab rooms and peered in past the open doorway, his hand instinctively finding the light switch.

A dim, amber bulb sputtered to life above his head, casting the room in a sickly glow. The light spilled across workstations and apparatus; steam still clung to the glass of a small alembic, and scattered tools – calipers, gloves, test tubes – were neatly set aside. He edged further in and wove about, even going so far as to pull open drawers. This was how he anticipated a lab to look like, a drastic contrast to how abandoned the lab looked from the outside or the upper levels.

Still, there were no notebooks or logs. Not even a scrap of paper with scribbled equations. Edward had no clue what was being worked on when there were no labels or documentation. He shuffled out, flicking the lights off and moving on. Another room was the same story: equipment laid out, desks used, smudges of something greasy on a cracked chalkboard. No formulae or records, though.

Ed had told himself not to expect much, but…

He had presumed this would’ve been the place where he’d at least find the location of all his old reports and amended equations he had sent over the past year. Instead, as he turned down the next corridor, careful to trace his steps to the vent he’d crawled out of, Edward berated himself. He should’ve known better to think it would be this lab and –

There was a gurgling, choked keen.

It was muffled but nearby, and he froze mid-step, head tilting slightly, trying to isolate it. It was coming further down the corridor. He followed it until he was standing outside another unlit room, unable to decipher what he was hearing. The door was ajar, and the noise continued. It was part animal, part something else. Not speech, but not just a creature’s cry either.

Stepping forward, the boy nudged the door open, and hit with the scent of antiseptic, blood and something musky akin to damp dog. There was enough light from the corridor to highlight the long, narrow room with work tables crammed against one wall, while the other was steel cages suited for animals. His eyes zeroed in on the transmutation circle, drawn neatly on the floor, radiating wrongness and looking familiar enough to tug at his brain. However, before Ed could inspect it further, the noise came again: almost dog-like in its plaintive whine but mangled with something raspy.

Attention snapping to the row of cages, he skirted around the array for a better look. The majority of the cages were empty but bore some trace of their last inhabitant – blood spatter, tufts of fur, claw marks – yet two or three were shut, and he caught the reflective glint of eyes amongst the shadows.

“Oh…’’ Ed exhaled, his heart sinking.

The source of the noise came from the cage tucked mostly in the shadows. It was - had been - an animal once. Maybe a dog. Or a fox. Or… something. Now, it was unrecognizable. The body was hunched and twitching, every breath a labored shudder that rattled through its ribs. Patches of fur had fallen out, replaced by raw, blotchy skin that cracked with every movement. One of its legs – too long, too thin, too crooked – ended in claws that looked a bit too humanoid for comfort.

Its maw twitched open and closed in slow, pitiful motions, and another weak, trembling sound tumbled out. Something had gone wrong in whatever horrible experiments had been applied to it. Edward couldn’t see too much of its features, but the poor creature’s eyes met his for a heartbeat – milky, unfocused, but so aware in the worst possible way.

And it shrank – dragged itself pathetically with a scrabble of claws – back upon seeing him.

He wasn’t seen as a person or a form of help. No. He was viewed as another thing that let this happen. Something to bear its teeth at.

Edward felt bile tickle the back of his throat, hot and sour. It rose without warning, forcing him to swallow hard, his vision flickering. The sight of the creature, that half-made, half-ruined thing, was still burned behind his eyes even when he couldn’t see it amongst the shadows. Instinctively, he backed up out of the room, numb with a brand of disgust that burrowed deeper than he dared admit.

A part of him – that hopeful, bleeding-hearted part that often caused more stife – wanted to step forward and do something. The urge to fix bubbled deep within his veins, until cruel and clinical rationality came hurtling forward with equations, theories, and anatomical truths: whatever abominable transmutation had been done here was irreversible.

Mercy was the only fix.

That thing was suffering in its warped state. Absent-mindedly, his hand brushed the revolver hanging at his hip. The moment the boy noticed, he jerked his hand away and picked up his pace in leaving the room. Suddenly, the holstered weapon felt heavier than ever as his mind kept whispering how it would’ve been a kindness to put a bullet between its eyes…

But he couldn’t didn’t.

Instead, his feet had a mind of their own, and he stumbled out into the corridor. The pitiful sounds – heartbreaking warped croaks and wheezes that weren’t quite growls, weren’t quite cries – continued to echo and follow him down the hall. Edward didn’t know how far he walked, or how fast, only that he was finally free of the noise and nearly collided with a wall.

Edward sucked in a sharp breath, blinking hard as he steadied himself, one hand pressed against the cold concrete wall. His heartbeat was hammering in his throat, a wild, uneven rhythm that made his automail ports throb painfully with each pulse. He presumed he was at a dead end, yet there was light spilling from an archway to his left, and he strode towards it.

The moment he crossed under the archway, the corridor changed. Harsh, sterile light greeted him – a shocking contrast to the murky gloom of the halls behind. The fluorescence buzzed with unnatural clarity, making him blink several times as he eyed the short corridor that looked a little bit more well-kept. There were only a few cells – three at most – each reinforced with heavy metal bars, very similar to Eastaugh’s in the West Wing, only without earned creature comforts.

He edged in, peeking through bars and –

Mid-turn of Edward’s head, something caught his eye. A flicker – movement or shape – that made Edward pause, instincts flaring before his thoughts caught up. His golden eyes narrowed, flicking toward the central cell at the end of the blinding corridor. He had presumed the cells were empty, but no.

To say the young alchemist’s heart jolted would’ve been an understatement. It was more like his body seized around it –  shock clamping down on him like iron. He froze on the spot and stared, his mouth going dry.

Inside the central cell, perfectly framed by the hallway’s mouth, sat a figure – still, hunched, and human. The man perched on the edge of a metal-framed cot, elbows resting on knees, his posture one of quiet defeat rather than threat. His brown trousers were worn while the once-white shirt and rumpled sweater sagged on his thin frame, collar crooked, threadbare and loose at the seams. Draped over his shoulders, like a makeshift shawl, hung a ragged lab coat. It wasn’t worn as a profession or pride, but a simple barrier against the chill.

Tired eyes blinked back at Edward. Dulled, sunken, but a glint of calculation. And the boy felt his stomach twist.

Because he knew that face.

Maybe not personally, but from memory. The grainy photograph from the wanted poster he’d scrounged up out of curiosity. It was Dr. Tim Marcoh: The Crystal Alchemist and deserter. Marcoh looked older and thinner, stooped with age and exhaustion. The strength in his shoulders had hollowed, and his once square jaw had slackened slightly beneath the weight of long-held guilt. Yet the lines in his face were unmistakable – deep frown creases carved by regret, crow’s feet at the corners of tired eyes, and that stubborn groove etched into his brow from a life of clenched tension.

Oddly enough, Marcoh was the first thing in this wretched, suffocating place that didn’t make Edward’s skin crawl or his thoughts unravel into frantic spirals of overloaded, bleak theories.

His senses had been screaming at him since he set foot in Lab 5, but Marcoh wasn’t adding to that wrongness. There was something there, yes – something heavy in the way Marcoh sat, the way his shoulders hunched and his eyes stared with the hollow weight of someone who’d seen too much – but it wasn’t malicious or twisted.

It was the same kind of ambiguity he’d felt around Roy, and Riza, and any half-decent human being with zero ill intent. Ed was faced with that awful blockage of not being able to read and figure him out. And that, more than anything, was probably why Edward found himself moving down the short hallway, drawn toward the cell.

After all, only good people didn’t make his brain go haywire.

That wasn’t to say Marcoh was unscathed; Ed had a feeling the man wasn’t unblemished, especially not when he’d been enough for the military to fake his execution. Still, Edward barely got four steps forward when Marcoh jerked upright, eyes wide with disbelief. The shackles around his wrists clunked against metal when he stumbled into the bars with stiff, almost startled urgency.

“A… a child?” Marcoh spat the word, like it physically offended him. “What are you doing here? Is this some kind of joke?”

Edward scowled, bristling. “I ain’t a kid.’’

Marcoh’s eyes dropped to his uniform.

The older man blanked him, his eyes sweeping over Edward’s uniform. It didn’t skip the boy’s notice how that gaze scanned him from top to toe, zeroing in on the facial scar and glint of a pocket watch chain before, finally, settling on the holstered weapon. That stare lingered a beat too long on the latter.

Then, like gears locking into place, Marcoh’s eyes flicked up to Edward’s face. That gaze looked less wild now. Sharper – more knowing.

“Why…” Marcoh started, but his eyes slid sideways, darting toward the corridor behind Edward. He seemed to anticipate someone else, like waiting for another pair of footsteps to follow behind. When none came, he snapped his focus back to Ed, his expression hardening with realization.

“Oh…” Marcoh said, voice low now, like a puzzle had clicked into place. “You’re him.”

Marcoh gave him a sharp once over, his eyes giving a frantic flit.

Ed shifted on the spot, uncomfortable under the weight of the gaze. Without thinking, he curled his automail hand into a fist and tugged it close to his side, shoving it beneath the too-long cuff of his military-issue jacket. It was as if the act itself could hide what he was – what he represented here – as the burn of shame that resided behind his ribs coiled up.

He didn’t need to ask what Marcoh meant. Not when he already knew. There weren’t many alchemists his age walking around with defining features. Instead of answering, Ed glanced at the cell that was absent of the small luxuries Eastaugh had earned. Marcoh’s cell was cold metal and concrete, built solely for containment.

Then Marcoh spoke, his voice hoarse and low, like it hurt to form the words.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been assisting with?’’

“…Me?’’ Ed asked, soft and unsure. He felt stupid the moment he said it. Of course, him. Yet he felt off-kilter.

This was not how his night was supposed to go. He was supposed to get in, confirm what he suspected about the East Wing, maybe steal a few documents, and get out unnoticed. Edward hadn’t planned for caged scientists or creatures stitched together by twisted transmutation.  

He hadn’t planned for this.

“Yes, yes. You,” Marcoh said, with an exhausted impatience. He sounded like a man who had been trying not to scream for far too long. “You’re the boy I’ve heard them talk about. The prodigy they found...” his voice tapered off, and a strange look – grief, maybe, or disgust – as his eyes bore into Edward’s own. “…Fullmetal, isn’t it?”

Edward stiffened; he didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. Silence was an answer enough.

Marcoh leaned against the bars now, breathing heavily, his hands wrapping around the wrought iron bars. His face was pale, drawn tightly over sunken features, lips dry and cracked. “Every equation,” he began with a bitter tone, “every detailed report, every copied transmutation array… I’ve heard Hartnup and the others talk about it. How you’ve helped them work past barriers they couldn’t overcome. How your diagrams solved the stabilization problems I refused to address for their other projects…”

The older alchemist’s voice cracked as he continued. “They might have sent you some of mine – my early drafts. The ones I wrote in code. The ones I withheld for a reason…”

Edward had lost track of the smaller equations or queries Archer had shoved under his nose, especially during those sweat-drenched, pain-filled days of recovery in Broadgate. It had taken him longer than he dared to admit to figure out that his amendments or reports weren’t simply for documentation purposes, but for study.

He averted his eyes, not daring to interrupt. Ed couldn’t. Not when Marcoh wasn’t talking to him anymore. Not really. The old doctor was unraveling.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Marcoh whispered, his hands trembling against the bars. “I can’t. It was bad enough during the war, but at least then… at least I thought I was helping. That it was necessary. Now… now it’s just…” he trailed off into a croak, his head sagging, the coat over his shoulders slipping off, revealing the thin collarbone beneath his frayed sweater. “I need to go. Please.’’

Go away… It was such a vague choice of words for what Edward felt like he knew what Marcoh really wanted. Probably the same release as Eastaugh, given the almost yearning looks he was giving Ed’s side arm.

“What did you do?’’ Ed found himself tentatively asking, the words slipping out without permission.

Marcoh’s eyes met his and, for a silent beat, the older man just looked at him – expression unreadable. “You don’t know?’’ Marcoh finally uttered with a bitter huff, shaking his head. “Of course, you don’t. They wouldn’t… and you’re just… just a… a child.’’

Child . The word wasn’t sneered or spat in an insulting way, and Edward tried not to feel irritated. Maroch said it softly, almost mournfully. Nevertheless, Ed tried not to bark back and glanced away, scanning the hallway, forcing himself to focus.

“You said you’ve heard about me?” Ed asked, tone dull. “D’they keep my reports and stuff… here?”

Marcoh looked at Edward as if he were missing the point entirely. “Where else do you think they test your theories?”

Jaw clenching, Ed flexed his metal fingers, feeling off-balanced and jittery with nerves. In the back of his head, Roy’s voice growled something about impulsive decisions and death wishes. Edward ignored it, not wholly caring…because as much as everything inside him screamed wrong, the longer he stood in front of Marcoh, the less threatened he felt. There was no madness in Marcoh’s eyes. No malice. Just weariness and deep, recognizable pain.

“I don’t think I can get you outta here…” Edward started slowly. “Or – uh – even if I should. I don’t know you. And you’re supposed to be dead, technically. Well, that’s what folk think you are. But…”

“Please,’’ Marcoh whispered. “Please. I – please.’’

It wasn’t manipulative. Edward would’ve felt that slight tug in his gut if it was. It was just the pleading of a man who had nothing left. Marcoh’s desperation wasn’t loud or theatrical – it was quiet and raw, and that made it all the more unbearable. Edward swallowed hard, casting another quick glance over his shoulder as he mumbled his thoughts aloud.

“At this hour, there ain’t anyone ‘round here in the lab except you and…” whatever that thing was or who-knows-what-else he had yet to encounter. “I dunno,’’ Ed grunted and shifted again. “They’ve got an armed guard at the front at this hour. I know that must. S’why I waited ‘til this hour.’’

“Just let me try,” Marcoh pleaded, gripping the bars like they were the only thing keeping him upright. “I won’t be any trouble. I’ll disappear. Like I tried to the first time. Please.”

“Uh…’’

“I don’t think I can ever atone for my sins, but let me try… let me go… I’ll disappear and help those in need or – or something. I can’t take another day in here.’’

The words resonated within Edward, making him pause. After a beat, he murmured, “Maybe. I mean, could you show me where they keep the records?”

Marcoh nodded eagerly. “Yes. Yes, I can. I need to… I want to collect a few things, too. Just a few. That’s all.”

Edward chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering.

There were at least fifteen different ways this could go wrong. Maybe more. If he was lucky, Marcoh went on his merry way while Ed confirmed his guilt-riddled suspicions about his old assignments, and neither of them were discovered. If he was unlucky, Edward’s radar for terrible people was reading wrong, and Marcoh was a very well-disguised monster, and his snooping was discovered. Archer wouldn’t court-martial him if the latter happened; Ed knew for a fact the man would flay him alive, remove his prosthetics, and probably dump him in Marcoh’s emptied cell.

The younger alchemist blew out a long breath, decision made.

“Fuck it,’’ Ed muttered.

Marcoh’s eyebrows shot upward at the language. Maybe, if Ed’s pulse wasn’t too high and his nerves weren’t fraying at the edges, he would’ve found the look funny. But right now, all he could do was step forward, clap his hands together, and place them on the lock.

The metal groaned, the thick mechanism parting under the transmutation. The bolt twisted in on itself and the padlock landed with a heavy clatter. Marcoh flinched, instinctively shrinking back, as the door creaked open with a shriek of juddering metal.

And Marcoh just… stood there.

The old doctor didn’t move at first; Marcoh stared at the open space in front of him, unmoving, disbelief etched deep into the weary lines of his face. It was only after Ed shuffled back that Marcoh blinked and, finally, stepped over the threshold. The man moved like he was skirting around landmines – stiff, cautious, his fingers limp within the cuffs of wood and steel.  For a fleeting moment, Edward grimaced, wondering if this was the point Marcoh would panic and bolt down the corridor to flee, landing them both in hot water.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen.

“Could you…?” Marcoh rasped, voice raw and tentative as he held out his wrists, the manacles still clamped tight around them.

Those thin arms trembled slightly under their own weight, skin bruised and rubbed raw where metal and wood had bitten into his flesh for an unhealthy amount of time. Something in Edward – something twitchy and instinctive blended with a trickle of paranoia – warned him not to. But his heart sank and his palms clapped together before he gave it too much thought. In seconds, the wood fell apart with a muted crack, splinters cascading down Marcoh’s wrists as the locks crumpled and dropped to the floor when –

Marcoh lunged and made a clumsy grab for Edward’s sidearm.

Too slow. Too weak. Or, probably, both mixed with nothing more than blind desperation to regain some control for possible freedom. Those pale fingers notched with scars didn’t come close to grazing the grip of the revolver when the boy reacted without forethought. Edward reacted without thinking: his automail hand shot up, intercepted the wrist mid-lunge, and clamped tight.

Metal fingers curled and he squeezed – brutally so – as he felt cartilage shift and bone grind.

“What t’ hell?” Edward barked, voice ricocheting against the walls. His automail hand kept squeezing, twisting slightly now, forcing Marcoh’s arm downward.

The older man dropped to one knee with a strangled wheeze. “S–Sorry…” Marcoh gasped, crumpling under the pressure. “I – I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to – ”

“Yeah, you did!’’ Ed snapped, his temper flaring and face feeling too hot. “What were you gonna do, huh? Try ‘n blast my brains out?’’

Marcoh kept shaking his head, stammering apologies. It wasn’t the lighting; the doctor looked disgusted at the notion. For a moment, Edward didn’t let go, keeping his smaller hand locked around flesh – it was a bit of a stretch, the joints between his automail fingers pinching frail skin, accidentally drawing blood as fingers purpled.

After a beat, seeing the man’s face creased with pain, Ed roughly let go. Marcoh pulled back, cradling his hand against his chest, gasping quietly. Edward tried to pull himself back from the thrum of adrenaline that made his limbs vibrate, his heart thudding too high in his throat.

“Shit…’’ Ed half-growled. “Why would you do that? I was helping you –!”

“Don’t lie,’’ Marcoh gritted out, inspecting his hand with a hiss. “You’re helping yourself by letting me out. You’re l-looking for something. If you didn’t need a tour guide you’d have left me.’’

“Nah. I would’a just walked outta this corridor if I didn’t recognize you’re stupid ol’ face,’’ Ed confessed angrily. “That,’’ he muttered under his breath, “and you don’t feel like you belong in here.’’

“…What?’’

“Nothin’,’’ Edward huffed, grimacing at the dark smear of blood streaking his metal palm. He stared at it for a beat, then flicked his gaze to Marcoh who was shakily pushing himself upright, cradling his swollen hand with bloodied nicks.

“You… You shouldn’t have done that,’’ Ed added, lacking venom.

The doctor only stared at him, expression unreadable.

Ed clenched his jaw, ears burning. “Is… issit broken?’’

“I… I think my proximal phalanx might be in my index finger…’’ Marcoh said weakly, looking a little stunned to even be asked the question.

“Yeah, well…’’ Edward nodded tightly, his stomach twisting with something uncomfortably like guilt. He wiped the lingering smear of blood onto the thigh of his uniform trousers, leaving a rusty streak on the fabric. “Don’t do that again, y’hear?’’ he added brusquely. “Or I’ll snap ‘em properly…and I don’t really wanna do that.’’

“Understood,’’ Marcoh gave a small nod.

And just like that, the tension thinned. Not gone, not resolved, but shifted. Something fragile slotted into place between them – a truce or desperation – that couldn’t be named. A shared understanding born out of too much pressure and not enough time.

Rubbing at the back of his neck with his flesh hand, Edward wished he could get a proper read on the old guy, yet knew it was a good thing he couldn’t. He swallowed thickly and watched Marcoh keep him in his peripheral as he finally began his slow pace out of the well-lit hall, leaving the cells behind, and stepped into the gloomy main corridor.  Hyperalert, Edward kept pace as Marcoh trudged forward, clearly following a route he knew as someone who had probably been dragged through the corridors daily against his will.

They moved in silence for a while; the only sounds were the soft patter of Marcoh’s worn shoes and the uneven, dragging rhythm of Edward’s gait – the distinct clunk-shuff of his automail leg echoing through the stone corridor. Golden eyes continued to rove about, scanning branching side corridors as they passed, noting how they twisted off into shadows. Then, as they rounded a subtle bend, Edward’s gaze caught on something familiar.

It was the vault-like door that undoubtedly gave access to the prison next door. Marcoh moved quickly past it as the boy craned his head up, catching a glimpse of the catwalk above that he knew lead to Eastaugh’s cell.

It was during that moment, just as they passed under the overhang and entered a barely lit corridor, when Marcoh’s voice broke the quiet.

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’’

Ed shrugged. “Does it matter?’’

Marcoh gave a tired, noncommittal hum.

“Are there others like you here?’’ Edward asked, curious. At Marcoh’s frown, he elaborated. “Y’know, other alchemists that don’t wanna be here?’’

“If you mean those wrongly imprisoned under the guise of treason, then no,’’ Marcoh answered. “Fewer people, fewer mouths to talk.’’

“Right…’’

“I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here… the war feels like it was only yesterday. There was Eastaugh, myself… our research was valuable to the State, so they made sure we couldn’t go anywhere,’’ Marcoh muttered to himself, almost in a daze. He paused momentarily in his steps, struck with a thought, and grunted. “But I think they pulled a rogue alchemist from death row last month. Something about letting him experiment. I wouldn’t be surprised if they extracted information from him for research and then executed him… it wouldn’t be the first time...’’

Ed pulled a face. “D’you know who that was?’’

Marcoh blanked the query, clearly focused on one thing. “You won’t stop me from trying to leave?”

“No…” Ed muttered, his voice quieter now. “Alls I ask is if you get caught… don’t tell ’em it was me.”

Marcoh didn’t respond. Not a yes or no. Just continued walking, stooped slightly, heading toward a towering archway that swallowed the end of the hall in utter blackness. Edward felt his stomach twist the closer they got, with more than mere nerves, as he stayed half a step behind Marcoh. The doctor kept glancing over his shoulder again, not so much with suspicion, but with an expression that Ed couldn’t decipher – like calculation or concern.

Then, quietly, Marcoh murmured, “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Edward didn’t answer.

“The type of alchemy that happens in here…” Marcoh continued, his voice low and brittle. “It’s rotten. It leaves a stain on the soul. One that won’t ever be washed clean.”

Edward clenched his jaw, gaze flicking toward the looming black of the passage ahead.He hated how the man was right. Because that feeling—that icy revulsion clawing under his ribs – was the same one he’d felt too often at crime scenes where transmutations had gone too far.

Upon nearing the archway, Marcoh flicked a switch that sounded too loud, and light bloomed to life, revealing a cavernous chamber of sweating stone and a low groan of veins of metal pipes. The place seemed to stretch on forever, reeking of iron, old sweat, and despair. The scent clogged his nose, clinging to his skin and seeping deep into his lungs: this simply wasn’t another horrifying laboratory room of experimentation.

It was a damn mausoleum.

Briefly, Ed’s eyes flitted to Marcoh, who had moved past the row of cells lining one wall to twist the handle of a door. He shuffled towards the older man’s direction, hearing a clink of glass, yet his attention remained riveted to the vast transmutation circle etched into the floor with glyphs that twisted with merciless symmetry, every line precise and perfect despite the dark patches soaked into the stone.

It had to be the largest transmutation circle he had seen to date.

It felt alive in a way that made Ed’s skin crawl.

“What… What is this?’’ Edward squinted at the design, not wholly understanding.

From the side room, Marcoh’s voice carried – dull, full of self-loathing, and bitter.

“My work.” Marcoh sounded as though the words cost him something to say. “If you don’t know what it is, then consider yourself lucky.”

“But this ain’t normal,’’ Ed muttered, glaring at the array. “The inscriptions don’t name any element or material output. Just –  just flow, compression, convergence. S’like it’s built to swallow everythin’ poured into it…’’

There was no great leap to know humans were being used as test subjects or easy materials. He’d overheard the scientists whine about needing more for their own venture of study, and seen whatever that suffering thing was with milky eyes pleading for death peace. However, when eyeing the large array carved into the very foundation of the despicable building, the boy didn’t know what for.

Oh, Ed could pick it apart with ease.

His mind was already whirling at a speed faster than he could speak. He knew the markers, feeder points, and connections. In a blink, he concluded it wasn’t for single material conversion, and the design was to draw on huge power. And, given the cells in the chamber and the short walk from the vault-door that led to the prison next door, human lives were that power – that fuel.

“What the hell are you even makin’ down here?’’ Edward sneered, frustrated. He turned sharply, boots scraping against stone, and marched toward the open door where Marcoh stood inside the adjoining chamber.

The doctor didn’t flinch as Ed burst in. No, Marcoh was solely focused on stuffing papers into the pockets of a pristine lab coat he’d tugged on, standing hunched over a cluttered workstation. Edward watched him gingerly cradle a slither of a ruby-like shard in his injured hand, tucking it into his trouser pocket.

“I don’t understand,” Edward said, impatiently. “You’re usin’ prisoners as fuel for somethin’ but what’s your outcome?’’

Marcoh’s shoulders grew more tensed but he didn’t answer. Hell, he didn’t look up. Ed watched him shakily hold up a vial of a gelatinous crimson liquid that looked too thick to be blood.

Edward stepped closer. “What’s… that?’’

“If you want any reports you submitted – the ones they found useful – they’ll be in there,” Marcoh blanked his question, jerking his chin toward a cluster of rusted filing cabinets.

It should’ve been the confirmation Edward was chasing since the thought entered his head nearly a year ago. The proof that Central had taken his work – his reports, his amended arrays, his notes from crime scenes – and used them for whatever twisted things they desired. But, as the boy stood watching Marcoh keep one hand over the pocket he’d stored the shard and vial in, Edward didn’t care. Not when the massive transmutation circle behind him still clawed at the edges of his mind and he had too many questions.

The flat look and grim expression on that weathered face made it clear Marcoh wasn’t going to share any knowledge.

In fact, the doctor was already moving, edging past him, headed for the exit with the slow, uneven steps of a man determined to leave before someone else returned. Edward swore – loudly – with the kind of curse that would’ve earned him a sharp look from Riza, yet it slipped out in raw rage and frustration boiling over.

Torn between the filing cabinets and Marcoh’s retreating figure, Edward glanced rapidly between the two. The doctor didn’t wait, giving Ed a singular, sidelong look that was easy to read. Marcoh was clearly testing Ed's commitment to not stopping him from leaving.  

Gritting his teeth, Ed turned and yanked open the heavy drawers, the musty scent of old paper hitting him. He rifled through them, fingers skimming across documents, flipping files until he encountered his own handwriting. Slanted, sloppy, but undeniably his. It wasn’t just one report, it was several.

He wanted to burn them. Rip the files from their folders and obliterate every note. But he didn’t.

Because Marcoh’s footsteps were fading, and every second he lingered meant the old man was dawdling further away. The last thing Edward needed was Marcoh to alert the lone guard stationed out front while fleeing…

With a frustrated grunt, Edward scrubbed mismatched hands down his sweaty, grimy face. He pivoted sharply, boots thudding as he bolted back through the threshold of the chamber, telling himself he could come back for more files later.

With a frustrated grunt, Edward slammed the drawer shut, stuffing two files into the side of his uniform trouserss coat. His heart pounded against his ribs as he turned and ran after Marcoh, the lab coat tails just disappearing into shadow. Right now, he needed to make sure Marcoh didn’t do something monumentally stupid.

“Hey – hey, hold up!” Edward shouted, voice echoing through the narrow halls. “Marcoh! Dammit. You son of’a – ”

His head swiveled, golden eyes darting from wall to wall, corridor to corridor, yet it was like chasing a ghost The dim lighting flickered unhelpfully, turning corners into mazes, and everything in the lowest levels looked the same: dull stone, iron doors, cables trailing overhead. 

Straining to listen, Ed’s breath was shallow and snagging in his dry throat as he picked up the sounds of distant footsteps somewhere ahead of him, hurried yet distorted. The acoustics played tricks; the sound bounced and bent, refusing to give him a clear direction. All the boy knew for sure was that the steps were growing fainter.

“Shit,” Edward hissed, pushing himself faster, deeper.

Each turn of the corridor led him further into the warren-like ruin of Laboratory 5. The deeper he went, the more unfamiliar the corridors became. However, just as he accepted defeat in catching up with Marcoh, he skidded around a sharp corner a bit too fast, and his foot struck a slick, blackened puddle.

Edward’s heel shot forward, his automail leg whipping out and slamming hard into a row of wrought-iron bars. The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Pain shot up his leg like a lightning bolt, and he let out a strangled gasp, nearly biting his tongue as white-hot agony flared across the old scarring where metal met ruined flesh. His vision blurred as he staggered, forcing himself to remain upright, clinging to the bars he collided with that made up another row of abandoned holding cells.

That hurt.

A lot.

Gripping at his thigh, Edward’s automail fingers curled tightly, the cold metal digging into the thick blue fabric of his trousers. He pressed hard against where the scarred, inflamed tissue met the metal port; pain throbbed in nauseating pulses – dull and searing at once, like fire just beneath the skin. The constant pain from the dreary weather felt mild in comparison to the sharp pain of slamming his tender leg against solid metal.

It was times like these that he wished he wasn’t so – cowardly, frightened, petrified of letting his guard down – stubborn about not taking pain relief, yet Broadgate had ruined that for him. Still, Edward pushed past it like everything else. He caught his breath, one hand still gripping the cell bars for support as he stretched his leg, metal knee rattling as he willed away the worst of the ache.

He was so focused on pulling himself together that he didn’t notice the ripple of shadows shifting within what he’d thought to be an empty cell.  

 

 

Notes:

I'm not a happy chappy with this chapter, but ''fuck it, we ball''.

That said, you guys are goddamn SAINNNNNNTS...only more supportive and holy, and honestly, my measly thanks only go so far. I've got so many delicious fanarts: please spy them on my tumblr.

Note: I'll come back and edit this note in a few days to pimp out wonderfully talented artists who I don't deserve.