(A/N: Cadwgan Gruffudd is pronounced Kad-oo-gan Grif-ith.)

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"Thanks again for your hospitality." Said State Alchemist Cadwgan Gruffudd. He stood in the Resembool train station, the handle of a large trunk in one hand, a wicker basket of assorted pies in the other. "I must have gained five pounds since Friday."

"It was my pleasure." Said Winry Elric-Rockbell. "The kids love you, and you need a few square meals before they ship you out."

"Tell them I'll bring souvenirs from Xing." Assuming I ever make it back.

Major Cadwgan dragged his trunk into the military train. Steam billowed, hissing, as its steel body shuddered into motion. He waved a glum goodbye to Winry as the platform slid slowly away from him.

"Is it true there's a sheepfestival in Resembool?"

The voice of Second Lieutenant Lenity 'Len' Holt brought him crashing back into reality.

"I believe there is, yes." The alchemist said evenly.

The two were a study in contrasts. Cadwgan's hair, ash white and pin straight, was cut high and tight. Len's was a medusine tangle of black curls so thick they overshadowed the eyes beneath. Len's half-veiled face was anemically pale, while Cadwgan was dusky as a clove, and, at six and half feet, a full head taller.

"I like wool and mutton as much as anyone," Len said, "but that's an almost suspicious love of sheep. They say humans caught gonorrhea that way."

"What?"

"Screwing sheep." Len clarified. "That's how - "

"No, I mean – why do you know that?"

"It's my job."

"It's not…"

Len was Cadwgan's bodyguard, and did the job well, off-color remarks aside.

"Resembool is a lovely place." Cadwgan said. "I'd consider living there."

"Not thinking of leaving me for some civilian lady?"

"Only every waking moment." Cadwgan sighed.

Len cackled. "Well, you sure won't find one this side of Xing."

"I'm aware." Cadwgan hoisted his trunk with a sound of exertion. "This is heavier than I remember."

Len grabbed the other side. "Nancy."

"I'm not saying it's too heavy, just heavier."

"Right, right."

As the highest-ranking officer on board, Cadwgan had a private cabin. Luxurious compared to the barracks, the space was small in and of itself, and most of it was filled with boxes.

"You sure packed." Len said, as they set down one piece of luggage amid all the rest.

"I don't even own this much stuff." Objected Cadwgan. "It's what the government thinks I'll need to study Eastern Alchemy."

Len bent to examine one of the boxes, baring the insignia of the Amestrian government. "This one has test tubes."

"Of which I've used zero in my career as a State Alchemist."

"Well, now you get to carry a box of them to the ends of the earth." Len grinned. "I bet we could hawk them."

Cadwgan sighed again. Len would, no doubt, fare well enough in the badlands beyond civilization. He'd spent his own life trying to get out of such places.

"So how are the Elric-Rockbells?" Len didn't care, but was resigned to the fact that Cadwgan did, and seemed to want distracting.

"Never better. I can already tell Lucy will make better State Alchemist than I'll ever be."

"What about the Rockbell Automail business?"

"More her brother's interest." Said Cadwgan. "Winry says that Maes is just like his father, until he sees something with gears. Then his soul belongs to automail."

Len listened with half an ear, not imagining the information would be relevant.

"She gave me some food," Cadwgan said, remembering. "Would you care to…?"

"Nah," said Len. "My fancy is the meal car. See you tomorrow."

.

"Honey, Ronnie." Len greeted a short, muscular man and tall, thickset woman, taking a seat at the table across from them.

"Fuck off, Holt." Snapped 'Honey', a.k.a. Lieutenant Osborne, a.k.a. 'Oz'. Len was the only one foolish enough to call him the h-word.

"Ain't Mustang got rid of you yet?" Inquired the woman, Rhonda Walsh.

"He's doing his damnedest," Len replied, "shipping me out here again."

"Reports of bandit activity is down." Said Peter Ellis, the only one at the table who had never been as far as Point East. "And now, they wouldn't dare – not with a Sate Alchemist on site."

There was an almost imperceptible pause.

"Maybe so." Said Rhonda. Len could hear in her voice that she didn't really believe it either.

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Much later, when the lights in Cadwgan's cabin were out, his breath deep and slow in slumber, something moved in the cabin that should not.

The trunk stirred. Slightly, at first. Then with more determination. The zipper was pulled open from the inside. A bright golden eye peered out.

Finding the coast clear, a small boy with golden hair and eyes emerged from the trunk. He stretched the kinks out of his long-inert limbs, and crept quietly out of the cabin.

With everyone asleep, he was off to examine the train's engine. It was his dream come true, a magnificent monster of a machine: military-grade, cutting-edge, bound to the ends of the earth!

He had left a note explaining. He could only shudder when he imagined his mother's response, but he would be safe from her in Xing. Perhaps, when he returned home with glory and riches, she would see that he had been ready. She would have to understand, they were just alike in that regard, after all.

Such were his hopes as he stole along the dark and narrow hall, cautious but confidant.

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It was one of those nights when Len and sleep were not friends. It was loud and stuffy in the barracks, so he smoked a few cigarettes on the narrow metal walkway between two cars. Looking for a reason not to go back, Len went to check on Cadwgan's cabin.

It was unlocked.

Len drew his gun and yanked the door open. Everything appeared to be as it should inside.

"Hey!" Len pummeled the peacefully sleeping Cadwgan. "Hey, wake up!"

"Mmph, wha…?"

"Did you lock your door before you went to bed?"

"I...yes, I'm pretty sure I did." He fumbled his glasses on, still half-asleep. "Why?"

Len was already moving back toward the door. "Because it wasn't when I came in."

.

The boy slipped out of the train car to find himself standing upon a small metal platform. It was a long step down onto the jointed walkway between cars. If structurally sound, it was still disconcertingly mobile.

From among his many pockets, he drew a pair of bulky yet meticulously jointed gloves. They were custom designed for him (manufacturing was anther story). He placed one gloved hand, palm-down, on to the metal side of the car. It held fast. Only a sharp tug with his body weight behind it would dislodge the magnetic grip.

Climbing hand by hand in such a manner, he began to scale the train, tugging each hand off only after the next grip was firmly established.

As he approached the top, the sound of gunfire tore the night. The boy cried out in shock and fear as bullets scattered sparks around him. A surge of adrenaline carried him onto the roof of the car.

Len watched the target vanish over the top of the train. He could not fathom how the small form moved, like a spider up a wall. It didn't matter. There were only two directions the target could be going.

The boy's main impediment was moving between cars. Their roofs were several feet apart. Peaking over the gap, he saw the ground rushing twelve feet below. The sight made his head spin, but to take the convention route risked capture.

He took several steps back from the edge. Taking a deep breath, he got a running start, and hurled himself at full speed into the dark, windy void. He barely grabbed onto the lip of the next car, legs thrashing about as he clung dear life.

Len, who had been lying in wait, burst through the door of the car from which Maes had jumped. He also took a running start, seizing Mayes around his dangling legs.

The two collapsed onto the narrow walkway. Maes put up a spirited struggle, but Len pinned him against the slotted metal floor.

"Who are you?" Len growled.

"His name is Mayes Elric." Said Cadwgan. Maes and Len turned, as one, to see him standing in the doorway, his uniform coat flung on over his pajamas. "And he has a lot of explaining to do."

"I know not thees Maes El-reek." Said the boy in a fake accent.

"Kid," said Len, "that name is the all that'll save you from a world of - "

"He's a minor." Cadwgan cut in.

"Fine, Mr. Juvenile Law," said Len, "how did he get here, and what do we do with him?"

"He seems to have stowed away in my trunk." Said Cadwgan. "I told you it was heavier."

"Nancy."

"Just lemme go! I didn't do anything!"

"Or I could bury you in the desert where they'll never find your - "

"Okay, you're officially not babysitting." Cadwgan pulled Maes from Len's grip.

"Fine by me." Len said. "Little shit's a biter. And how the hell was he climbing like a bug?"

"Like a what?"

"My newest invention!" Maes wiggled his gloved fingers. "I call them Spider Gloves!"

"Why test them here?" Cadwgan asked."We're not doing this for fun."

"I think our jobs are fun." Len muttered.

"Because." Maes reached into one of his pants' many pockets, producing a worn comic book. Its cover depicted a square-jawed, muscular man in military uniform. Bright red letters proclaimed him: Hanz Gregory, the Railroad Alchemist.

"In the comics, Hanz Gregory builds this railroad!" Maes expounded. "In this volume, he makes rainstorm with his alchemy to put out a fire at the Way Out Outpost! He always has to save miss Hilda Honey, and fight the evil Mu Fanchu! It's the best thing ever!"

Len burst out laughing. Cadwgan could have wept.

"It's well past your bedtime." Cadwgan said instead. "Both of you." He moved into the train car, ushering Len and Maes along with him.

"You can't just put him to bed." Len objected, shutting the door behind him. "He's the son of Edward Elric, you have to tie his hands."

"I told you, he doesn't do alchemy." Said Cadwgan.

"He could be lying." A former 'problem child', Len was cognizant of children's capacity for deception.

"What do you suggest?" Cadwgan rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.

"Tie him to a chair."

"Oh come on!" Maes pleaded. "Don't tie me up, I'll take the floor even."

Begging had a counterproductive effect on Len, who would have smacked him for whining.

Cadwgan was more sympathetic. "No. I'll take the floor. I'm not a light sleeper, but there's no way you can get out without walking over me."

"Oh for the love of - "

"Len, go to bed!"

"Fine." Len snapped. "When he gets himself killed, don't expect me to – "

A muffled thud sounded from somewhere above their heads.

Everyone froze.

The sound was repeated, louder and closer: something heavy landing on the roof.

"You bring more friends?" Len asked.

"No." Said Cadwgan. "It's certainly no friends of mine.

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(A note on names: The series doesn't give us much in the way of Ishvalan names. The only canon examples I recall – Logue Lowe and Madam Shaw (spelling varies with translation) – might be titles rather than given names. Either way, they don't strike me as being strongly associated with any preexisting naming conventions. I don't want to make assumptions, or impose my own geopolitical paradigm on what should be, in the end, just light fantasy. The only thing I want to do is create likable characters and torment them. To that end, I wanted to give my Ishvalan State Alchemist an impossible-to-pronounce name. I could invent one – but why, when Welsh exists? Thanks for reading!)