AN: hey all, this is yet another storie i will start and hopefully finish!

if you like it please feel free to review, i will reply to everyone's comments and make sure everyone feels loved!

so please R&R!!! cause if you dont theres not gonna be any more chaps to read!

DISCLAIMER: they own the neighborhood, i just rent the house.


What is the use in the stone once the creator has everything he ever desired? It is pointless without a task, useless without a purpose; when left unguided turns unpredictable. Becomes lost.

At first it was just the rebel in him. His desire to do everything he could to get his own with the gate that had taken everything.

But then he forgot his purpose.

Then it was just her.

And still he couldn't explain it;

They had met at Alphonse's funeral. Alphonse, he could still remember that name, that was worth something, even if he could no longer remember his own.

Clarabell called him Asha. Asha Jay. He couldn't remember why, but there was a reason. It still didn't seem to fit.

The funeral: It seemed a morbid place for a meeting perhaps, but then again Asha didn't remember ever witnessing it, it didn't feel like the thing he would do anyway; not that he would remember if he had. He knew there was no point for a funeral simply to honer ones body after their very essence had already left the decomposing corps, or in this case empty metal casing. He wasn't sure why, but there was no flesh body in his mind, and it connected with the memories that he tried not to think about; the only ones left clear and untouched by the gate. So he left that question to fester in his mind, so he wouldn't have to relive those terrible things that must have happened to him.

So instead of the pew in his place by a blond haired girl who's face blurred with yellow and silver in his few memories, he was outside with the wind tearing at his hair and the cold biting at his flesh. And suddenly she was there, Clarabell, she simply stated that it was funny to be holding a funeral for a suit of armor, especially one charged with so much death energy. She had an odd look in her miss-matched eyes as she said it, not mocking but almost as if wistful just to be in the presence of such a great and meaningful death, and in the presence of he who caused it.

And strangely, he wasn't repulsed. He was different, so was she. They could relate.

He could remember that, the day he met Clarabell. The day he must have left his home, but he couldn't remember that.

Clarabell.

He didn't understand her, but he didn't need to; she needed him to help her survive. She called herself a junkie- addicted to the energy and the thrill of the gate. He thought he might be a junkie too, but it wasn't the same, she did it for the thrill alone; he did it for something he couldn't remember.

It started small; alchemical transmutations -the ultimate taboo, Clara called it, but Asha couldn't remember why- to themselves and a few animals, but slowly it progressed until they were at the gate asking so much and not giving a damn what the cost. Breaking every rule. And the gate did nothing but slowly deteriorate the lives that they offered more and more frequently.

And still there was a reason he was there at the foot of the gate, again and again; the young man slumped against the gate entrance, just out of reach of the black tendrils that sucked the light out of the air. There was something important about this particluar body, more important than his own now more a mixture of beast and man.

The body was slack and lifeless, the blood gone from his lips and dirty blond hair and nails grown long, greasy and uncut. Still sitting there, for an eternity more, always growing old without anyone to witness his age, though nor could he himself, as the body was no more than a doll; a drooling body without a soul to guide it to the mortal plains. The owners soul was inside the gate his body leaned forever against. His essence was gone, but Asha still wished to see his face.

Damn the costs.

There was vague memories joining this soulless body to the armor and the name...Alphonse. So he kept coming to the gate. Occasionally to glimpse the hushed voices that sounded so familiar yet so forgotten it frightened him as they came whispering from the inky depths of the writhing gate.

They didn't matter. Not any more.

Asha didn't care, Clarabell had stopped eating after the cat eyes, she was too thin. But she complained to him when he asked after her health, saying only that the gate would just take the meal from her stomach if she ate.

He had come round to see her way of thinking, to let the gate rule his mind and body. But still, something was withheld from their acts within himself, something he didn't want to lose, even after the gate had asked for his most preshious memories -witch he had gladly given as the price for scales that skated over his body from the snake Clarabell had given him as a gift for the day he started forgetting-.

After a while the body beside the gate became anonymous, the memories ripped from his mind, the mind who cared for it the most. All he knew was that he had to keep returning to the gate to see it, even if the act itself no longer held any meaning.

It was a shame, that's what everyone said, that he would fall to such 'depravity' when he could have been so powerful. But Asha didn't care, couldn't see how their opinion could matter. he couldn't remember how.

All he remembered was that nobody needed him any more. And that Clarabell would die without him, surly waste away without him to force the food down her throat and cocer he into a bed once in a while. She was too thin.

Like that old saying...Edward thought to himself as he laid down the components in an array he had designed, Clarabell wanted ivory spiked ears this time, what is the use of a stone once the owner has all he needs?... I wish I could remember the rest of it. Clara might like a stone... pretty with the green ones in her stomach...