I've had about 30 pages of this written for some time now. So until what I've written has been exhausted, updates will take place about once a week. I first posted this prologue without editing, but now I'm going to go through it and see if I can tame this metaphorical mop of unruly hair.~GB

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"The sun is up...it's time to get out of bed, sleepy head."

You feel a warm slant of sunlight caressing your cheek. Golden light shines through your closed eyelids. Your body is heavy, and your bed seems to embrace you, drawing you close. "No. tired," you object to the voice, turning away from the light and drawing your blanket closer. A hand shakes you gently.

"Are you sure? The food will get cold."

All at once, multiple savory scents drift to your senses from the downstairs kitchen. You should be racing to eat such good smelling food, but a tiny warning bell is chiming in your head. The soft hand on your shoulder does not comfort like it should.

You turn your face deeper into your pillow. You should have known it was too good to be true. "Yeah. Jus' wanna sleep," you mutter—right before the voice turns distorted.

"Are you sure..."

Something drops to the floor. It splatters.

"...you can't save Mommy if you're sleeping."

Your heart skips a beat. Breath quickening, you slowly pull your blanket over your head, shutting out the sunlight. "...Where's Al?" you ask weakly.

"With me."

That sentence is damning. It slams into your heart with the weight of an anvil and pins the weak, fluttering organ against your chest cavity. "...No. No, that can't be true. You're lying."

"He's with me, Edward. Isn't that what you wanted?"

You struggle to even out your breathing, and gulp what little moisture is left in your dry mouth. "...N-no. Never."

"But he's happier here. It's no longer cold. He never liked the cold."

"I know that."

"You can be with us too. Get out of bed, little man. It's dark in there. Come on...wake up..."

"Brother, get out of bed!"

You choke on your own spit, lashing out beneath your covers at the booming voice. "Gyaa! Sonofa—"

Metal clanks and creaks nearby as it shifts. "Hmmph. You're impossible to wake up, Ed," Al sighs.

You stop thrashing around as your body flares with fire in protest. Panting softly, you look up to see your armored little brother with his gauntlets placed on his hips. An aroma that floats about the air gives you a sense of deja vu.

Winry appears in the doorway behind Al, carrying a tray full of food. "Finally! It's about time. Welcome to the land of the living," she greets crossly.

You groan and lean back into your pillow, moving your flesh arm over your eyes. You don't appreciate the brightness of the room or the loud voices. "What time is it?"

"10:45, Brother. Nearly midday."

"Yeah bonehead, we were nice to let you sleep in today, but now it's time to get up," Winry chides.

"And you should put something in your empty belly, too."

"Ugh," you grunt, feeling as if your automail put on a few pounds in the night-then animated itself and punched you repeatedly in the face. Al assists you in sitting up; a slow and agonizing process.

Winry settles the tray over your lap. "Well, I hope you're happy Edward. Breakfast is cold," she sniffs. "And to think I spent all that time slaving over it."

You lift your right hand, feel a flash of pain, grunt, and pick up your fork awkwardly in your left hand. You poke at a grape, watching it roll around your plate. The events from the other day are coming back to you now, even as every ache and discomfort rages against your consciousness for your attention.

"Brother, you shouldn't toy with your food," Al says quietly. Beginning to wake, the worry rimming his voice does not go over your head. You spear the grape and pop it into your mouth.

After you swallow, you shoot a grin at Al. "What do you think? At this point, should we call it breaklunch or lunfast?"

Winry swats your head playfully. "Idiot. The correct term is brunch." She jabs a finger at you severely. "Now you eat everything on that tray or you'll be eating nothing but dog food from here on out!"

"Hey!" you yelp indignantly.

"I don't know Winry, what will Den have then?" Al says.

"You're right, Al. The way he's eating, we might as well just give him bird seeds. And milk."

Al sends you a glance. You quickly take a big, disgusting bite out of your banana. You scowl at Winry, chewing. "No mi'k! Ev'l! Dn't oo haff anyfin' be'er oo do Winwy?"

Somehow, she manages to decipher your speech. "As a matter of fact, I do," she says, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. "I have some automail I need to touch up for a customer." She strides toward the door, turning to look at you just as she reaches it. She smiles. "Try to get your strength up, okay? Take it easy for once." With these words, she disappears around the doorway.

You stare after her for a moment before summoning back your scowl. "Whatever."

After your stomach starts shifting and convulsing, Al asks "How are you feeling today, Brother?"

You immediately turn from your food and give him your full attention. "I'm okay, Al. Tired 's all."

"Does anything hurt? How's your arm?" Al presses. You relent with a sigh. He won't stop peppering you with questions unless you let him know how you really feel; which is like city roadkill.

"To tell the truth, I'm completely exhausted from yesterday. But I have to keep going," you respond.

Al hums in discontentment. "But Brother, if you're hurting too much then you should let your body rest!"

"Yeah, I know," you wave your brother off. "I promise to take it easy, okay?"

How Al manages to look skeptical without any control over his facial features is a mystery to you. "Alright Brother, but..." his eyes narrow to slits. You can feel a dark aura emanating from Al and you subconsciously lean away from him. "...If you die I will pull your soul back through the gate and re-bond it to your body so I can kill you myself!"

"Don't be silly, Al," you chuckle nervously. "I won't die! What would give you that idea?"

Al looms over your bedded form. "Brother, Winry and I found you collapsed by the river yesterday after an hour of searching. You didn't have the strength to walk back to the house; I had to carry you. Don't overwork yourself."

Al's protective side is, for lack of a better word, scary. He's like your mother in that aspect. You nod. "Okay, Al. Whatever you say."

Al then reverts back to his sweet, innocent self faster than you can flip a light switch. "Great! Are Winry's pancakes as good as she says?"

You blink dully at his sudden change in attitude, then blanch when you register his words. "Wait—she really made this stuff?"

"Yep! That's what she said, right? She made all of it."

"Um...yeah." You regard your tray with suspicion, lifting up your pancake to inspect the underside. "I just never knew she could cook."

"Neither did I. But she looked like she knew what she was doing this morning."

"Oh."

Al watches in silence as you slowly and meticulously cut your pancake into pieces with a knife in your clumsy left hand, and a fork to hold it down in your shaking automail hand. At some point your automail slips, causing you to growl and clutch at your port in pain. "Dangit," you mutter.

Al looks like he wants to help, but he doesn't offer. You suddenly realize that you will have to take at least a day to rest before you can continue with your automail rehabilitation exercises, if cutting a pancake is difficult for you. Doing menial tasks that require precision motor skills has been the hardest thing for you to master so far, but it shouldn't be this hard. But you can't just sit in bed all day; that would accomplish nothing. As you continue to cut your pancake, an idea strikes you. "Hey, Al," you say, setting your fork and knife down.

Al startles out of some meditative state. "Huh? What's that?"

"We're going to be living on our own for a little while when we go to find this Colonel guy in East City. At least one of us is gonna have to learn how to cook, unless you want to starve. Oh, well, I mean, if I wanna starve," you backtrack, turning red.

Ever the good brother, Al pardons your blunder. "Hmm. We may be able to get food elsewhere, but it would be good to know how to cook if we're short on money. Oh, I'd be a terrible cook, I just know it..." he suddenly laments, a very un-Al-like thing to do.

"What's with the gloom? Trying to sneak away before everyone sees what monstrosity you can cook up in the kitchen?" you tease.

"Oh stop it, Ed. I'm serious! I've never cooked anything in my life...well, unless you count that peanut butter casserole we made when we were kids..."

"Which was awesome, and you know it!" you laugh. You actually can't remember this particular event very well. All you can recall is your father dumping it out the window for an old, fat cat to eat before your mother could see it.

"It made Sherman throw up," Al deadpans. Sherman. Figures Al would name the stray.

"Cats can't eat people food," you point out. "He'd barf if we fed him Mom's peach cobbler." You wave your flesh hand nonchalantly. "Don't stress it, Al. No one will care if you're a bad cook your first attempt at it. Just don't burn the house down and we'll forgive you."

If anything, this last statement only causes Al to go into a more dejected state. "Ohhhh..." he moans with his head down.

You push your tray away—half eaten—and stand up before Al can reach out to help you. Your leg pulses with pain and you can feel your right arm digging into your ribs and collar bone. It feels like your bones are actually bending under the weight. You are exhausted. "Come on, Al," you grunt. "Let's get going."

You forgo the crutch you use only sometimes these days, and begin moving at what feels like less than a snail's pace, restraining yourself from grabbing onto the wall for support. Al is inching along behind you, keeping up a steady conversation. You know that he's poised to catch you in event of a fall, and is trying to hide most of his concern for the sake of you dignity. A pleasant wave of gratitude for your little brother washes over you.

The stairs are difficult to navigate, and you are forced to hold to the railing as you descend them. Your leg shakes and wants to smash through each step like an anchor; you have to work hard to lower it slowly. Both of your automail limbs tremble and are hard to maneuver. Finally, after longer than you would like to admit, you make it to the bottom.

Granny Pinako is sitting in the entrance room in a rocking chair, smoking her pipe. She greets you as you arrive at the bottom of the stairs. "Ah, Ed. Good to see you finally awake."

"Morning Granny," you greet.

"Off to do your morning exercises? You should have Winry there to supervise, you know. She's the automail expert here."

"Uh, no, we're going to the kitchen. Ed wants to learn how to cook," Al chirps. Heat rises to your face at Pinako's look of surprise, and your face reddens further as she begins to laugh.

"Oh really? Never thought I'd see the day that you would willingly learn a housewife's trade, Ed! Well, you certainly have the hair going for you."

"Shut up!" you complain. You know your hair is long, now reaching to just above your shoulders. It's the fault of the barber who cracked a short joke and nearly cost you an ear; actually, come to think of it he was probably just asking how short you wanted your hair. But it doesn't matter because you look pretty rad with long hair.

"Might want to tie that up while you're in there," Pinako says.

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter darkly, trudging towards the kitchen door, "Old hag." You say these last words to yourself, so your Granny can't hear. Al's hearing is better than Granny's, and he huffs that little sigh of his that lets you know he's exasperated, but far too used to your snarking to say anything.

"So, Al," Pinako addresses your brother before he can follow you. "Who's going to be your teacher?"

"Umm..." Al rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "I guess no one. Winry's busy right now, but I watched her make breakfast earlier and I think I know what to do. Um, I think."

"Hmm." Pinako taps the end of her pipe against the chair arm with a small, knowing smirk. "Well don't expect any help from me. I'm far past the days where I can stand in a hot kitchen for longer than necessary."

"Of course!" Al affirms like he hadn't even considered asking her for help.

"There are some recipe books by the breadbox that you can use. The ones on the left are the easiest to follow in my opinion."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Al says, trotting into the kitchen after you.

"Don't burn the house down!"

"So. What do we need to do first?" you ask, standing by the counter uselessly—having absolutely no clue where to start.

Al approaches a line of side-by-side books and carefully inspects their titles before selecting one. "We'll need to pick a recipe first. Oh, and..." he glances around the kitchen and spots something hanging on the wall by a nail. He removes it and hands it to you. "Put this on to protect your clothes, Brother."

You accept it from him and shake it out—making a face when you realize it's an apron; a bright yellow and white checkered apron with a purple flower embroidered on the pocket. You toss it backhanded out the open window while Al searches through the cupboards, vowing to transmute Winry and Granny Pinako a better one later. You watch with mild amusement as the apron catches on the wind and flutters off like a magic carpet. So worth it.

Al sets a mixing bowl and a few cooking utensils on the counter. "Okay, what do you want to try making?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Whatever you want to do is fine," you shrug.

"Hmmm." Al flips through the recipe book thoughtfully. "...I've never heard of a lot of these things."

More minutes of searching later than you care to count, you have reached the end of your patience. You snatch the book out of Al's hands, rapidly turning through the pages. "You had your chance little brother—now we're making whatever's on page fifty-five."

"Brother!" Al yips, then reads over your shoulder "...Choose-a-Flavor Float?"

"What the heck kind of food is that?" you wonder.

"One half cup desired ice cream or sherbert...two-thirds to three-thirds cup desired carbonated beverage, chilled. Those are the only ingredients. Brother, making a drink like this isn't cooking."

"Well it would take more skill to hash together than either of us have. Would you rather make...Orange Breakfast Nog?" you ask, snickering.

"Let's find something not in the drinks section," Al says.

"Fine. I saw cookies somewhere in here." You flip through the pages again. "Hey—look, Jelly Muffins! And...Corny Corn Bread." You almost lose your page when you fall over laughing, but Al saves the book.

"Let's make the Jelly Muffins," Al chuckles, watching you roll around on the floor. "Let's see...we'll need flour, sugar, baking powder, one egg, milk, and cooking oil. We should have all that already."

"Do-don't f-forget the jelly," you gasp as your laughs peter out.

"Oh yeah; it's on the next page. Why don't you get the eggs and milk from the fridge, and see if there's any jelly in there?"

You rise from the floor (some difficulty involved in the task) and open the fridge door, glancing around, purposefully ignoring the milk. "Nah...there's no jelly in here. Or eggs. Winry must have used them all."

Al dogears your page in the recipe book, placing it on the counter. "I guess I'll have to make a trip into town then. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, brush your hair and tie it back, and where did your apron go?"

"Hey, who's the older brother here?" you pout.

"Who acts like the older brother?" Al replies cheekily as he slips past you and opens the door to the back porch. "Tell Granny and Winry where I went if they ask?"

"My beautiful hair and I say get out of here already," you say, straightening out our antenna with a smirk.

"Please. Your hair has nothing on mine. And you're sparkling," Al replies as he slips out the door.

You turn to the porcelain lamb-shaped cookie jar next to you. "He was just kidding," you say to it. "And I do not sparkle."

Five minutes later you are examining your distorted reflection in the toaster—purely out of boredom, of course—when your stomach gurgles. You grab a slice of bread from the fridge and pop it in the toaster, pushing the big lever down. However, the lever instantly springs back up. "Hey, stay down," you command it and try again, with the same results. You growl at it, and bring your fist down in anger—your automail fist. You yelp and clutch your port, sending a resentful glare at the squashed little silver box with wires and bits of metal protruding from it. "Ggh! Darn you...defective contraption...I guess I should fix you, but I hope you've suffered like I have."

You engage the toaster in an intense staring match for about thirty seconds. "...but the chalk is way upstairs," you moan dejectedly, bowing your head in defeat. You'll be shaky and sweating by the time you make it back to the kitchen!

But then, something you will never be able to explain to anyone but Teacher occurs. A tiny voice in your head whispers that you don't need the chalk. There are many ways to create a circle; you just need to form an energy source into a flowing circle of deconstruction, and reconstruction, and then alchemy is possible, right? So if you imagine yourself as a circle...that didn't make any sense, did it? You push these thoughts aside and act purely on instinct, closing your eyes and bringing your focus within yourself, picturing the energy inside you ebbing and flowing like the tide. You coax this tide into a powerful wave, then form it into a ring. You conjure up an image of the broken toaster in the center of it, mentally breaking down its composition, removing parts and replacing them where they should go and smoothing out dents, until you have a perfectly working toaster. You bring your hands together with a resounding clap.

Blue alchemic light sparks beyond your closed eyelids. When you open them, the toaster looks brand new, with some minor stylish adjustments. You gape in amazement at your hands. "Whoa, awesome!"

A mischievous grin alights on your face. You turn it on the lamb cookie jar. It's an ugly thing, you think, with a dumb expression on its face, what with its eyes pointing in two different directions. With every good intention in mind (or not) you clap your hands together and press them to the lamb. A flash of alchemic light later...it is transformed into a deformed porcelain mass. You blink, then scowl. "Hey, what was that?"

"Edward, Alphonse, what have I told you about alchemy in the house? Go outside if you want to practice," Granny Pinako calls from the other room.

"Uh, sorry Granny," you shout. You move to go outside, but almost fall over when you feel a solid tug on your automail arm. "Gaah! What now—huh?" You almost burst into frantic tears when you see that your arm has become a part of the no-longer-a-lamb mass. Winry will kill you! Well, at least your flesh arm survived the transmutation. But more importantly, Winry is going to murder you, probably with her favorite wrench.

You tuck the not-a-lamb under your left arm and move to the door. With some fumbling, you manage to get the door open, and step outside. You place the not-a-lamb on the grass, crouching beside it. "Alright, let's try this again."

The closest you can get to clapping is touching the tips of your fingers together, but this seems to suffice, as alchemic light sparks once more. You have a porcelain skull envisioned in your mind (one that is not attached to your person), and pray it comes out right.

A moment later, you gape in dismay at your newest catastrophe. The not-a-lamb is now seeping up your arm and into the cracks of your automail, brushing against your port.

"Ghhhh!" you scream, flailing your flesh arm in frustration. "What is wrong with me? I was never this bad at alchemy before! Maybe chalk is just easier to use. But it's still upstairs!"

Something catches the corner of your eye, and you look up to see a big gray blob in the distance. It's Al, back from the market. You redouble your efforts to fix your arm, no longer caring whether or not the not-a-lamb is ugly.

"Okay, this worked the first time. What did I do the first time? Uh...umm...gah! I can't remember—wait a minute! Hah, got it." You take a deep breath and close your eyes, forcing your agitated feelings to calm. You imagine an ocean of energy within you. It's blue-ish green, for some reason; everything beyond it is black. But suddenly, the background doesn't want to be black anymore. It's transforms into white, reminding you instantly of the Truth. You scowl as you remember what it felt like to be there. You focus back on the ocean, coaxing it to ebb and flow until it becomes a great force, then mentally shape it into a circle. You bring your hands together.

When the light from the alchemic reaction dims, you open your eyes. "Ha!" you laugh triumphantly. You point a finger at the not-a-lamb. "Not so tough now, huh sucke-" you cut your laughter off abruptly and frown deeply at the not-a-lamb that is once again, a lamb. It sits innocently in the grass, staring in two different directions.

This is how Al finds you when he arrives. He stops, glancing from the frowning you to the lamb. You. The lamb. You. The lamb. "Uh...brother? Did you, uh, want a cookie?"

"No," you deadpan.

"...Okay."

A fluttering sound, like a flag, draws both of your attention. A yellow thing flies in on the wind, catching on Alphonse's head. He peels it off and holds it out in front of him. What he sees makes him become stern as he places his giant hands on his hips. "Brother, why is the apron I gave you floating in the wind?"

"'Cause I put it there," you reply petulantly.

Al sighs, shaking his head. "This is why you're always dirty."

You're about to make a really great argument, like "Am not!", but before you can, you are blinded by the brightest light you have ever seen; literally blinded. Your eyesight lasts long enough to see that the light is a giant white square that has appeared between you and Al, and then everything is dark. You haven't fainted, though, and are completely aware of yourself; which is why you notice when the grass disappears from under you and it feels like you're floating in midair. Well, more like mid-void. You aren't quite sure how to react, until Al screams.