A/N: Alrighty now. I'm a good... 5 and a half chapters into this one already, so look forward to frequent updating.

I would like to point out right now that anyone looking for a fluffy fic should leave now. This is not a sweet love story in the slightest.

It also follows the Brotherhood storyline.

Warnings: Gore, violence, eventual smut, and general psychopathy.

All you sinners stand up and sing, "Hallelujah!"

Chapter One:
Of Green Eyes and Red Stones

Blood-spattered sand, rank with death and decay, was all that lay before him. Nothing but rubble and bodies, a wonderland of destruction that soothed his being to the very core. The anguished cries of pain of those had barely managed to survive his blast, those poor bastards left to bleed to death on the scorching sand, brought a deranged grin to his lips as he watched the chaos unfold.

This was when he knew he was alive. Surrounded by mangled corpses and the dying, he was alive.

He fed off their pain, used it to remind himself that the numbness deep in his gut was only temporary.

A gunshot from the building beside him brought his focus back to the task at hand and shattered some sorry sod's kneecap. A howl of pain erupted, but no other shot was taken. The sniper was toying with the already suffering people below.

It only further exhilarated the dark haired man.

He never met the sniper who was just as sadistic as he was, but he could always tell when they were the one taking the shots. They always left their prey alive, although the mortality of the wounds depended on the day. Sometimes it was the kneecap that the sniper aimed for, and he'd have accused them of being soft, but some days it was the throat or stomach of the mark that nearly exploded on impact.

Finally, curiosity got the best of him; he simply couldn't take it anymore and had decided to find out whom the sniper was. He gave some speech about remembering the faces of those they killed that weeded out plenty of possibilities in just a few short minutes. No one who had been listening had had the stomach to take the shots his sniper did, let alone the personality to enjoy it.

It wasn't long before a single, small truth came to light: the Military had called for outside black operations agents to clean sweep after every battle. They were kept away from the uniformed soldiers except on the battlefield, where they followed behind with rifles to pick off those left standing or knives to slit the throats of anyone left breathing, and he just knew his sniper was one of them.

He wasn't sure when he became so possessive or began - even mentally - calling the sniper his, but the fact remained that, although the two had never actually met, he felt a deranged sort of kinship with them. The fact that this particular sniper seemed to be the one assigned to cleaning up anyone his explosions left alive or, rather, not injured enough to die even with medical attention, helped matters, too, of course.

The two never met, but he knew they resonated on the same wavelength.

And then the higher-ups had given him the stone - the tiny red shard that held immeasurable power - and let him off his leash. Told him to kill as many as possible and he had no problem filling such an order.

He thrived on the death and pain that surrounded him. It invigorated him beyond words, and, as his body count climbed, he practically vibrated with the thrill of it all.

He was alive.

The building fell before him, the explosion rocking his footing with its shockwave as he watched. He watched the blood pool and the people gagging and coughing it up, watched red-eyed faces contort in agony before the light in their irises finally fell extinguished.

But there was one face in the rubble, one that he swore he would never forget. It stared straight back at him, devoid of pain despite the owner's leg and abdomen having been shredded in the explosion, holding only anger and hatred. Blue eyes widened as he realized the female's own hues were a bright, murderous green, not red, her hair blond, not white, and her skin far too pale for her to have been an Ishvallan.

The rifle next to her and the lack of any sadistically playful gunshots whispered her identity to him like a sour note in his perfect symphony of death and destruction.

x . x . x . x . x

His eyes snapped open at the memory of those green hues. The face was blurry after all these years, and he could no longer remember the finer features that had hidden under the blood and grime, the shape of the woman's nose or jaw, if the slope of her cheekbones had been soft or sharp. But he hadn't paid much attention to those features, anyway. Not with those eyes piercing him in a way he hadn't expected, striking him to the core. They blamed him, and, for once, that had meant something. For once, he cared about the fact that someone blamed him for their misfortune, and beyond just an amused smirk and a feral laugh.

He remembered that hate-laced green like it was yesterday. He'd memorized it and kept it close. His reminder, his only regret of Ishval.

Although... regret probably wasn't the correct word for it. That dance of anger and hate and the promise of vengeance swirling in a green deeper than any emerald and brighter than any star... A shiver of delight ran down his spine, an excited hum thrumming through his entire being at just the memory of it. Oh, he could damn near get off to that memory alone.

He had had the time of his life in that desert, but that... oh, that had left him tingling. He cherished that moment more than any other of the war.

The look of the utterly betrayed shone in that green, one that could only mean that unnamed female had felt the same unspoken connection that he had.

Staring at that stone, in that stuffy cell, all he had were the memories of the war. The memory of killing those officers for the sheer hell of it, of the blood-soaked sand and the heat of the flames and the lullaby of agony. Those officers' screams of "traitor" were so damn pale in comparison to that shade of hardened green and the dry but somehow soft-looking lips that mouthed the word even though he'd never hear the voice behind it.

He had always imagined what that voice had sounded like. Had it been choked and rough with pain? Had it dropped an octave in anger? Had it held the same unrelenting fierceness that her eyes had? Had the word been a whisper of anguish or a growl of hatred? Had she even spoken it out loud at all? Had it been her last word before slowly bleeding to death, or had it been a declaration of her determination to survive?

Maybe she was still out there somewhere, an automail leg as a reminder of him - his mark left permanently carved out of her body. That odd possessiveness stirred in him again, as it had back then, and a smirk twisted his lips as he thought about it. What he wouldn't give to see that look again, to finally hear that voice. Maybe, if he ever did see her again, he'd manage to make her scream.

Footsteps approaching down the hall brought him out of his reverie.

"Visitors," he spoke aloud to himself, a small habit he'd gained after years of being isolated like this, then promptly swallowed his little secret shard of euphoria. No need for anyone to find it now.

"On your feet, Kimblee," the guard's rather gruff voice barked at him, "you've been released." There was a reluctance in his voice that the long-haired man would have smirked at if he weren't shocked at the actual words.

Someone decided to let him go? That seemed rather odd, given most people's natural distaste for him and his thinking. But he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not when it came knocking with his freedom in tow.

His white suit, still so pristine after these long years, no longer fit as well as it used to - he'd definitely lost some muscle tone while sitting in that damned cell for so long - but it looked good enough, he supposed. He wasn't exactly out to impress anyone, after all. Still, his comfort level dictated that he'd have to have it taken in at some point.

"So, who made this decision?" He questioned, almost innocently as the guards followed him outside, a brow arching elegantly toward the man to his right.

"I didn't say you could talk, Kimblee," the stout man snapped back, clearly not wanting to discuss the release of the prison's most dangerous inmate. The taller man supposed he could understand that. No one liked talking about their defeat, but it only made it more fun to rub a little salt in the wound.

"Must have been someone pretty high up," he dug deeper, twisting the blade any which way he could. There was always more than one way to toy with a man.

"Shut your mouth," was the reply spat at the back of his head, and it was all Kimblee could do not to outwardly smirk at the rise he was getting. "You must have some kind of big connections to avoid the death sentence." The suited man wasn't sure whether that was an admission of defeat or a jab at him, but it didn't much matter. "It makes me sick." Ah, there it was, the grumbled, half-hearted, utterly useless, attempted-swing at his ego.

"Nope," he drawled the word a bit, just to be an ass about it. "No connections. I just deserve to go free," he'd have added some coy little smile, but he had a better trick up his sleeve for this. One final twist of the blade, as it were.

"You really are psychotic," Kimblee could practically hear the other man's fist clench and had to actually restrain himself from laughing outright. As if he would ever take that as an insult. "What kind of political move is this?, letting a nut job like you out?" The guard continued to seethe, and Kimblee allowed him the moment to verbally vent his frustrations. He'd get his stab in soon enough.

The sunlight that hit his face nearly blinded him after spending so long in that dim-lit hellhole. Shading his face with his hat, he waited a moment, still at the armored door until his eyes finally adjusted again to the unfamiliar brightness of the outside world. The gate was in sight, and soon, it would all be official. He'd be a free man with a Philosopher's Stone in his gut. Oh, the havoc he could wreak... He was about as giddy as a schoolboy at the idea, and nearly shaking with anticipation.

Maybe he'd track down those green eyes. He hummed lowly and smirked to himself at the thought, the flash of that face blurred by time and those so violently angry eyes. Yes, he'd track them down.

But he had one more thing he had to do here.

"You know, Warden," planting a most convincingly warm smile he could fake across his features, he turned to the guards behind him, holding out a single hand in a gesture of feigned gratitude, "I appreciate you taking care of me." He lied through his teeth, but he could be a damn good liar when he wanted to be.

"Tch, I hope I never see you again," the other muttered, taking his hand without much hesitation.

The red sparks were immediate as their hands clasped, the alchemist's mouth twitching as the bomb formed around the other male's thick wrist. How he had missed this feeling. The feel of the power coursing through his veins, the rush of watching the stone and his alchemy melding together to form his will. He had so missed this.

"Just my way of saying thanks," he placed his white hat to his chest and bowed his head - if only to cover the smirk playing across his lips and the mirth dancing in his blue hues.

He watched with cold amusement as the man begged and fretted over his new bracelet, trying oh so hard not to ruin it all by bursting out in gleeful laughter at the warden's hysterics. He loved this, rendering helpless those who thought themselves above him even just for a moment. Putting people in their place firmly below him, where they belonged, and using them as playthings in his twisted game of pain and death.

The sight of the balding man nearly reduced to tears by the time the little chick popped out of the "bomb" with an innocent little tweet would have had Kimblee doubled over in laughter if he wasn't so set out on having the last word in his little quip-war with the warden.

"It's just a harmless toy," he lifted a single brow as he spoke, as if offended, "I thought you could give it to your kid or something," and then he had to turn away to hide the grin tugging the corners of his mouth.

Freedom was sweet, indeed.

"Farewell, Warden," he left, then, hat just the slightest bit off center on his head as he did, leaving the warden on the ground gaping at him.

His shoulders squared as the gated clattered closed behind him.

"What next?" He asked himself - really, he'd have to stop with this habit now that he was out of that cell - though whether he meant in his hunt for that cold green gaze or what other trouble to cause, even he wasn't quite sure as he looked down either direction.

A horn honking from a Military car answered his question for him. He didn't know whether he should be delightedly anticipating whatever they had cooked up for him to do, or disappointed his hunt would be delayed.

"It's been a while, Kimblee," the unfamiliar man behind the wheel spoke in a very familiar voice as he took his place in the backseat of the car. He eyed him until his true face was revealed. "Congrats on the early release," Envy grinned darkly over his shoulder at the newly released convict.

"So, I take it I have you guys to thank," he smirked as the other slid back into the visage of some blond Military grunt.

"Yep, we could use a little extra help," Kimblee knew the other loathed to admit such a thing. Seeking help from a "lowly human"? Oh, today was a good day to watch people squirm.

"My first day out of jail, and I already have a job," he grinned at the prospect. Such a sweet day to be him.

"You remember Doctor Marcoh, don't you?" Envy wasted no time getting down to business - something Kimblee had always appreciated in the homunculus. There was no beating around the bush with him.

"The scientist who created the Philosopher's Stone?" He questioned back, tempted to cant his head to the side. "How could I ever forget him?"

"It appears he's escaped," Kimblee easily caught the frustration and irritation in the other's voice, although it may have been more difficult for others to notice. "Or... we think he has."

"You think?" He urged, wanting to glean as much information from the homunculus as possible.

"We're still sorting out all of the details," the driver explained further, "one of the chimeras that we had watching over him has gone missing. Marcoh's specialty was transmuting living tissue. He might have used the chimera in his place." The frustration came even thicker the more the other spoke, and Kimblee watched him carefully for any signs of lashing out.

"And as if that wasn't bad enough," he continued, and Kimblee could hear his lip curling, "we think he might have escaped with an Ishvallan warrior known as 'Scar'." Kimblee's eyes narrowed at that, something bubbling deep in his chest at the mention.

"Well, how about it? Considering you were the one responsible for the extermination and all," Kimblee was fairly certain there was an insult hidden in there somewhere. You left survivors. Well, he'd just have to fix that, then.

"You do have a point," he leaned an elbow out the window of the car, looking out of it and covering his mouth with his hand, more to hide the deep, angered frown there than in actual thought. "It's inexcusable if I let a survivor crawl out of my path of destruction."

"You're free to kill Scar if you want," Envy responded, to which Kimblee replied mentally with a consider him dead. "But we do need Marcoh alive."

"You released me just for this little errand?" He was skeptical at best. This was something the homunculi could easily handle on their own. And if not, well, he wanted to make Envy admit it.

Envy just chuckled. "After you find Doctor Marcoh, there's a certain little town we'll be asking you to wipe off the map. That's your kind of job, right?" While he did enjoy the idea of being sanctioned to destroy an entire town, he was still rather unimpressed with the answer.

Maybe he just really wanted to hear Envy admit they needed his help for something. Still, he'd take what he could get from them until he had everything he wanted. And if they were setting him loose to do this his way, he may be able to track down some of his own leads along the way.

"It's remarkable how cruel you are," he chuckled, loving every bit of this. He couldn't wait to get back onto the playing field.

Pressing on his stomach, he used the muscles there to push up the stone he'd swallowed.

"It's been too long since I used this," he grinned broadly as he admired the stone - everything about it, from its power to its very color - only to frown questioningly as Envy spoke again.

"I don't know if that one's going to be enough for this job," he practically sang, holding a round version of the stone between two fingers.

"A new stone? Did you use more Ishvallans to make it?"

"We actually used Doctor Marcoh's assistants who helped make the first stone for us," he informed him as Kimblee looked over his new stone and pocketed it.

"Your cruelty is infinite," he knew there was a reason he enjoyed working with these people so much.

"We're sending someone with you, so we have another stop to make," Envy added offhandedly over his shoulder to the man in the backseat. "We don't completely trust her, but she's the best tracker we've got. I'm sure you can sift through any bullshit she flings at you," he shrugged as if it was all of little consequence.

He simply left out that this "partnership" was, in a way, both a gift and a test for said tracker, but if the newly released man had any suspicions, he didn't voice them.

"She's a bounty hunter," the now-blond man continued, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to watch the other's reaction.

Kimblee's upper lip twitched slightly upward. If he was going to have to put with so self-righteous justice nut, a lot more people than just Scar would end up dead.

"I don't think you'll have any trouble with her morals, though," he went on as if reading the alchemist's mind, "seeing as she doesn't have any to begin with."

Now that caught Kimblee's attention. A bounty hunter with a completely lack of moral motivation? Then why did she have such an occupation? For the thrill of the hunt? Perhaps having a partner wouldn't be so bad, after all.

The car came to a stop not too long after, the door on the opposite side of the suited man was jerked open impatiently, but the female on the outside paused when she got a good look at her new partner. All Kimblee could see of her, however, was a pair of black, baggy cargo pants and the hilt of a boot knife.

She promptly slammed the door shut a little too violently and climbed into the front seat instead, completely ignoring Envy's irritated sound.

"Damn princess," he muttered under his breath, but the blond let out a laugh that would have disturbed anyone other than the two men with which she shared the car.

"I'm the fucking queen, sweetheart, and that," she jerked her thumb in the other man's direction, "both pisses me off and amuses me. Good job," she grinned like some wild animal and flung her bag into the back seat of the car, just barely missing the other passenger there.

"Well, you're the most fickle and dangerous of the entourage. We need to keep you interested somehow," Envy gave a little smirk, to which the new arrival simply grinned.

The man didn't speak, but he did raise an eyebrow at the two.

"Oh, don't worry so much, Kimblee," the natural blonde turned to face him, sunglass-covered eyes meeting his own somewhat confused gaze. "I promise this is going to be entertaining as hell."

When his brows twisted into a very confused expression, she laughed even harder.

"It just keeps getting better and better. I wonder how long it'll take to figure it out," she mused to herself, settling in her seat properly for the first time since she got into the vehicle.