Redemption, Pt 1

by Mr. TipTopLilyFop

The atrocities committed at Ishval come with a price and those who commit them must find a way to atone for their sins, even if it takes years. The first part in an epic story, this fanfiction features a new and unique character that shares a special bond with the ones we already know and love with a few alterations of the original plot for the sake of artistic license. Enjoy!

Redemption

PART I

A Fullmetal Alchemist Fanfiction

By Mr. TipTopLilyFop

Chapter One: The Guilty

"When atrocities are committed, those with the power to act but choose not to are just as guilty as those who commit the evil in the first place. All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing."

South Eastern Amestris, the Final Moments of the Eastern Civil War

It was night. Mortars boomed and rockets screamed like wounded animals through the dry air, detonating in huge flashes of light and heat, launching bodies and large chunks of debris into the streets of a large desert city. Screams of terror and shouts of angry rebels were silenced by gunfire and the sounds of massacre were muffled by continuous salvos of field artillery. Each exploding shell shook the earth. Bullets flew past like windswept grains of dirt in a storm, coming from every direction, fired from military carbines and rebel rifles alike.

A man ran urgently through a darkened street between collapsed buildings made of clay brick and granite from the surrounding landscape. He leaped over corpses and dived behind walls as shrapnel from the latest explosions embedded itself into nearby stone. He wore a blue military field jacket caked with blood and dirt. A silver pocket watch embossed with a rearing dragon surrounded by a seven pointed star dangled from his waste, clinking haphazardly on its chain as he hurdled over piles of rubble. His boots kicked up sand and dust each time his feet struck the hard ground.

As he passed a burning kiosk in an abandoned marketplace, the light of the flames cast long shadows, revealing the features of the man's face. He was young, barely more than a boy. He couldn't have been older than 18. Yet his face was gaunt and carved with lines of weariness and the fatigue from three years of war and hardship. His hair was a black and disheveled mess and his strong cheekbones were plastered with the filth of battle. His mouth was fixed in a determined grimace and his eyes had a piercing gaze but darted around anxiously, searching.

As he approached the end of the street, the sound of shouts and gunfire grew louder. He came to an intersection and saw a platoon of men in blue coats like his advancing in the street, marching towards a mob of rebels. Firing their carbines, they were organized and unwavering as they were shot at by their enemy, who, by contrast, were disorganized and seemed frightened by the display of discipline. Another blast lit up the night sky. By its light you could see the rebels' dark complexion. Hatred and fear burned in eyes with red irises.

The blast had been created by a shirtless man with a ponytail. Two strands of black hair dangled in front of his forehead. He was leading the soldiers through the street. A silver pocket watch like the other man's dangled at his waist. As bullets flew past him and grenades and mortars detonated all around, a sadistic smile formed on his face. The young man hesitated, fearing to run directly into the firefight.

He watched the man who began to laugh as he raised his arms and held them outstretched. The palms of his right and left hands were tattooed with odd symbols: a unique array that featured a circle enclosing a triangle with a dot and crescent in the middle. They were transmutation circles. The means by which Alchemists controlled the flow of energy as they understood the make-up of matter, broke it down, and reconstructed it as something else.

The man brought his arms down and clapped his hands together. Bolts of crimson light shot out from him, colliding with two rebel soldiers in a group of twenty five, fifty yards away. They froze as their flesh turned into a gray stone-like substance and then they began to writhe and scream in pain helplessly as their allies stood next to them watching with horrified expressions. In the blink of an eye the two men exploded, their bodies having been transmuted into living bombs. The blast's fireballs disintegrated any of their allies who were within a ten-foot radius, and the resulting shock wave shattered skulls and the steel of guns alike. The sheer amount of heat generated peeled and blackened flesh as their bodies were flung outward by the concussive force of the blast. None survived.

"Ha! Hahahahahaa! Isn't it glorious!? The fireworks are amazing tonight!" yelled the alchemist with the pony-tail. He laughed like a deranged lunatic, mad with the the horrors of war and the thrill of power. He clapped his hands together a second time. Again an arc of light shot out from him. His target: a shop at the end of the street where another group of the dark-skinned, red-eyed rebels were waiting in ambush. The shop burst into a fireball a hundred feet across. The man who was off to the side clenched his gloved fists.

He's having fun. The mad bastard is having fun! the young man realized with disgust.

All of a sudden a scream pierced the night air. A woman stood outside of an abandoned butcher shop, her face warped in horror as she cradled her baby son against her chest. Only, it wasn't abandoned. The light of raging fires illuminated the faces twenty or so more women and children in hiding, gazing like frightened sheep at the wolves outside. The woman was staring where the rebels had been destroyed seconds ago. One of her loved ones must have been caught in the explosion.

Damn! the young man thought. The stupid woman! She's compromised herself.

Scowling, the pony-tailed alchemist clapped his hands together a third time. The woman knew what was about to happen and with her infant son in her arms, she turned on her heels to run back inside. But it was too late; the arc of red light caught her baby just as she crossed into the threshold. Her subsequent scream was cut short by a blast that tore apart the stone structure, obliterating all who were inside.

The Crimson Alchemist began to cackle. And the man in the shadows cringed with disgust.

"Kimblee!" he shouted. "You bastard! What the hell have you just done!? Those were women and children! And you just slaughtered them all!"

Whipping around and searching for who had called his name, the Crimson Alchemist, Solf J. Kimblee yelled, "Yes and it was beautiful! Did you see the way they died! The blast sounded amazing! A perfect concerto to our lovely symphony."

"Damn that bastard!" cursed the man from the shadows. "He's gone mad. Truly mad." Instead of answering Kimblee, he simply sprinted across the intersection and into the street beyond. It wasn't the first time innocents had been slaughtered by a sociopathic fiend in this conflict and it sure as hell won't be the last. He heard Kimblee yell something behind him and a subsequent explosion but he paid no heed to it. He had to keep going.

Almost there. He thought as another bomb lit up the night sky. They'll be fine, I'm sure of it! I'll get them to safety and keep Grand or anyone else away from them! I promised them, didn't I?

His self-reassurances did little to ease the sense of foreboding that gnawed away at his insides.

He started to run even faster. Each lunging step he took shook his joints and his breathing became ragged. He found himself in the eastern part of the city. It was mostly abandoned. He was close now. Looking for a long, low building, he scanned his surroundings for any familiar landmark that might indicate the direction of his query.

There! He saw the remnants of a fountain that had once stood proudly in the street adjacent to the building he sought. Fires blazed all around him as he once again picked up his pace.

Maneuvering through an alleyway filled with rubble, he saw the school-turned-hospital. He ran inside through a back entrance that was covered only with a red veil. He was in one of its many dark hallways but he knew where he had to go. He took a left, and then a right.

The classrooms had been transformed into hospital wards and injured soldiers and rebels were lying all around him, slouched against the walls or sprawled out on the ground. Some were missing limbs, others had areas of their bodies wrapped with linen bandages. Many were in pain and many were unconscious. Some were probably dead. He probably could have helped some, but he disregarded them and continued running. He found himself racing down the length of another hallway. He took a right, another right, and then a left into yet another hallway, but he was almost there. He saw a room with light emanating from its open doorway at the far end. He could see shadows cast upon the walls and hear angry shouting inside.

"There are no sides! There are only patients!" shouted a voice earnestly.

That's him! he thought with joy. They're here! Oh, thank Hermes!

It belonged to one of the two people that the young man sought after. He sprinted towards the room. It was a matter of seconds before he crossed the threshold, his heart pounding.

"Stop right there, Dancing Thunder Alchemist! That's an order!" shouted a gravelly voice, calling the young man by his State Alchemist designation.

He froze in his tracks. It was Basque Grand, the Iron Blood Alchemist and a Colonel in the Amestrian Military. But it wasn't the orders of his commanding officer that made him hesitate. What joy at hearing his friend's voice curdled into an icy dread as he quickly took measure of the scene he burst in on. The room was lit only by a wall torch and a few candles resting on a wood table covered in medical tools and supplies. Save for the table and the people inside, the room was empty. In the far corner to the right stood Tim Marcoh. The older State Alchemist had his head bowed and eyes locked onto the sandstone ground, blocking the young man from seeing his aged face. To his immediate right stood Grand. He was a large, bald man that towered over his subordinates. A black, pointed handlebar mustache adorned his face. In the darkness, a man might mistake his darker complexion for one of the rebels if it wasn't for the blue coat and silver State Alchemist pocket watch he wore.

Directly in front of him stood a man with a military-issued semi-automatic pistol raised and pointed at two figures huddling together on the floor. They were a man and his wife. They both had blond hair and the woman was clutching a square object close to her, the nature of which couldn't be discerned in the dim light.

The man with blonde hair looked up at his friend. He was a doctor no older than 33, his young face dominated by fear and confused anger. Tears were streaming from his blue eyes as he embraced his wife. He was the one who had been shouting. The young man looked him straight in the eye, adopting the same expression of fear, anger, and confusion.

The younger one hesitated again, afraid to act and turned to looked at Grand, who shouted, "Do it! They are enemies of the State!"

The man with the gun was quivering. He had the same piercing eyes and dark unkempt hair as the younger one. Though his face had more boyish features, it was clear that he was older. It seems he had been able to keep his uniform relatively spotless in the chaos. He too had a silver State Alchemist pocket watch. On his right hand he wore a white glove made of a unique fabric that sported a transmutation circle in red stitching. On any other day, he would have carried himself proudly and well, but now his body shook with violent tremors as he lowered the gun to the man in front of him, tears streaking down his face.

"Do it, Mustang!" shouted Grand.

The young man finally perked up. Reaching out to Mustang he shouted, "Roy! Don't–!"

Bang! Bang!

Gore splattered the walls behind the man and woman. They slouched and their lifeless bodies that once embraced each other fell to the floor as the object the woman held clattered to the ground.

The young man stood frozen and in shock, unable to move. It was a full minute before anyone said anything.

"Are you happy now?" It was Marcoh who spoke. His weathered and veined hands were crumpled into shaking fists. "You've killed two innocent people! Doctors who didn't distinguish between their patients! They were -" His voice choked with emotion. He brought his hand up to wipe away tears.

"Good people" he finished quietly.

Turning to look at Marcoh, Basque Grand said, "Do not think to lecture me, Crystal Alchemist. They were offering medical aid to Ishvalan rebels. Rebels who were coming back to murder my men!"

"Spare me!" spat Marcoh, shoving his finger into the Colonel's face. "They saved your life! This was uncalled for and you know it! This entire mess is your fault! It's because of your incompetence that this whole uprising has degenerated into a massacre – into genocide! If not for you, the Fuhrer would never had needed to call us in, and thousands of people would still be— oohhff!"

Marcoh was cut short from finishing, for at that moment Basque Grand struck him in the gut with a gauntlet-covered fist, causing him to double over in pain.

"You forget your place, Marcoh," said Grand striking the older man again, this time in the head. "I've had enough of your preaching. You are hereby under strict probation and I order you to return to your quarters where you will await a full court martial. You will hand over what Philosopher Stones you have and your research notes to the military. I have tolerated your insubordination for the last time.

"And as for you, Dancing Thunder Alchemist," he said turning to the young man. "You will return to your quarters as well. You need time to think about the consequences of going against your commanding officer. You were ordered to destroy the rebel headquarters at the Temple and wipe out all who were stationed there. By your presence here, I assume you have disobeyed that order. You have cost us a valuable and strategic advantage in the War effort."

"No." said the young man staring at the floor. His shoulders trembled as he took slow deep shaky breaths. A few wet drops darkened the ground at his feet.

"What was that?" spat Grand. He narrowed his eyes. "Choose your next words carefully, boy."

Mustering all his self-control, the young man took another deep breath.

"No. I didn't disobey your orders," he said looking up to face Grand with clenched fists. His eyes were wet. "I found the rebel headquarters and I destroyed it and killed all who were stationed there, as you ordered."

"Impossible! Even with Marcoh's augmented Philosopher Stones, you couldn't have done it in so little time. Intelligence reported two hundred men, fully armed, stationed there."

"No. It's possible," said the Dancing Thunder Alchemist. "And I didn't use your vile Stone."

"Then how?" demanded Grand. "Give me a full debriefing, now!."

"I took a leaf out of Kimblee's book," he explained. "As much as it disgusts me to copy that freak, I transmuted structurally key areas of the building into highly volatile elements." He paused, surprised at the way he spoke: coldly and evenly with a detached tone that belied the emotional maelstrom roaring inside of him.

"Go one," Grand ordered.

Coming to, he continued. "Slowly reacting with the oxygen in the air, these areas were turned into chunks of solid explosive material. With a quick electric charge I detonated them and the whole place collapsed in on itself. There might have been some survivors, but no one's going to be fishing them out."

"You had better not be lying," Grand warned squinting his eyes, as if by doing so he could better discern the young man's conscience.

"I warned you not to underestimate me," said the Dancing Thunder Alchemist threateningly. "And if you still don't believe me then you can go look for yourself."

During all of this, Roy Mustang hadn't moved. He was still holding the gun in the same spot. His body shook even more violently than before as tears continued to stream down his cheeks.

The young man, the Dancing Thunder Alchemist, slouched in resignation and defeat, as if he took the weight of this entire war upon his shoulders. He looked at the fallen pair.

Dead, he thought. After I promised to protect them, they're dead.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks as well, marking only the second time he shed them throughout the course of this entire three year conflict.

He had seen children disemboweled, wives cradle the remains of their charred husbands, and grown men cry in terror as he transmuted them into living lightning rods, always looking them in the eyes, as he called forth a bolt of thunder from the heavens, killing them with his State-weaponized Alchemy. He had had cut short the lives of boys in battle who were barely older than he was. He had executed prisoners of war, cooking them alive as bolts of electricity shot from his hands to their bodies. That was his trademark in battle. He had earned the nickname Storm Fist. In his research for the State, he had discovered a way of moving the air and particles in it to create friction, generating a static charge. It wasn't too different from the way Roy transmuted air into pure oxygen and then lit it with a spark. Of course, the State Military didn't fail to see its applications.

For three years he had a front row seat to the carnage and chaos that sprung up in Eastern Amestris. And after all he had seen and committed, none of it bothered him as much as seeing the bodies of those two doctors lie on the floor in a pool of their own blood.

He recalled the last time he had let his emotions get away from him. Or more appropriately put, the first. He had cried like a baby at the time. And it happened in the very room that he was standing in now, three years ago. He had been shot in the arm and shrapnel from a grenade tore open his leg, but it wasn't the pain that made him cry. At least not the pain from his arm and leg.

It was well into the fourth month that he had been stationed there and the beginning of the first of many violent uprisings. The military had been sent out to put a stop to the rallies and silence the dissenting Ishvalans that called for secession and war. He was one of three State Alchemists, the infamous dogs of the military, along with Basque Grand and another who had been called in to aid the suppression of these dissenters.

He had been a boy of fifteen: young, idealistic, and naïve like most his age. He was the youngest State Alchemist there had been in fifty years. A natural prodigy, he had passed the State Alchemy exam with flying colors. He had joined the military primarily as a means aid people through scientific advancement. He was had a vicious curiosity and his lust for knowledge fueled his decisions. He had hoped to use his large research grants and access to invaluable resources for humanitarian efforts and to further this quest for knowledge. It was a combination of his natural talent, genius, unique abilities and the attention he was attracting that made him both proud and arrogant.

Sporting the Alchemist's motto, Be thou for the People, like his own personal creed, he had come in expecting little resistance, thinking that all grievances could be resolved for the sake of peace and that he could get on with his scientific pursuits. On the thirteenth day of the fourth month after his arrival in Ishval, there had been a rally at the Temple lead by one of the city's more active and extreme elders.

There had always been tensions between the Ishvalans and Amestris, especialy since Ishval had been annexed into the country, and every now and then there would be times like these that threatened the already fragile peace, but always they were able to quiet things down peacefully. This rally was different, however, and with over one thousand people in attendance, things began to get out of hand.

Grand, having been put in charge of this small campaign as a Colonel, had upset many of the Ishvalans by immediately suppressing the people with ample use of military force. Instead of attempting to address the grievances of the Ishvalans he threw away all pretenses of a peaceful suppression. When word of this rally had reached him, he had ordered the young State Alchemist to go and confront the elders who were leading the rally and arrest them.

He had protested saying that if he went, his presence would only cause more trouble and perhaps even spark a violent reaction. But when Grand didn't waver, he had insisted that if he confront the elders, then he do it privately afterwards, as they would most likely use a public arrest to their advantage, furthering their political agenda. But as he only held the rank of Major, like all State Alchemists, Grand outranked him and despite his efforts, he couldn't ignore a direct order and still hope to keep his State Alchemist Designation.

He ended up bringing a number of soldiers with him to the Temple to make sure things didn't go sour. But, as he predicted, the Ishvalans were enraged at his presence and he was forced to use alchemy as a non-lethal form of crowd control, creating barriers of stone. That's when the violence erupted.

For Ishvalans, alchemy is an evil practice that perverts the world their god, Ishvallah created. They believed that in an act of hubris, the alchemist rejects the world god has created, and substitutes their own by understanding the make-up of matter, breaking it down, and creating something else, a process known as transmutation, core to the practice of Alchemy. To use such a devilish practice on the sacred grounds of the Holy Temple of Ishvallah was the most blasphemous thing a person could do. So the Ishvalans began to riot. And after he ordered them to hold their fire, one of his soldiers had caved under fear and fired into the crowd. Her bullet hit and killed an Ishvalan child. Then all hell broke loose.

Within seconds the crowd of Ishvalans crowd had washed over them. Forced to fight his way out, he was separated from his men. He heard gunshots. The Ishvalans dispersed into the city. Many going home home to grab weapons, anything they could get their hands on. He had been able to stop a good number, but most had gotten away. Once armed, they stormed the military's encampment taking them by surprise. They stole a good number of munitions and explosives and began to kill many. The entire thing had been too organized and smoothly executed to be spur of the moment. The Dancing Thunder Alchemist later deduced that the leaders of this movement had been planning this for a long time and the events at the Temple were the catalyst they had been waiting for. That night he was forced to kill many people, both young and old. He began break down from all the carnage he was forced to witness, endure, and even cause, and was wounded in a moment of hesitation.

He had wound up at the school, which had been quickly transformed into a medical station after the hospital had been filled to its functioning capacity. The military encampment had been utterly destroyed and the city hospital so quickly overwhelmed that the medics were forced to improvise.

It was the female doctor and her husband that treated him. He kept seeing the faces his victims and he was haunted by nightmarish scenes of warfare. He had cried and screamed like a newborn and several other people were forced to restrain him. Even after he had been operated on he continued to break down. The female doctor had pitied him for the child he still was and she cradled his head in her lap as he lay on the hard ground. She sang to him, humming a lullaby to calm him. Eventually he succumbed to exhaustion.

After that whole fiasco, more soldiers were called in. He was temporarily discharged by Grand for his wounds but he was called back months later when the conflict had spread over into the Eastern part of the nation, sparking a civil war. To make things worse, the nation that bordered Amestris to the south, Aerugo, fueled the conflict by supplying arms to the Ishvalan rebels under the guise of sympathy so that they could weaken Amestris' southern borders for their own gains. This had stretched out the conflict even longer and made things a lot worse.

Soon, Fuhrer King Bradley, the Head of State and the supreme commander of the Amestrian military issued Order 3066, which sent State Alchemists to the front lines as human weapons. He was called back to service because of his initial involvement in the situation and because of his talents as an alchemist. He had ridden the train to East Amestris with seven other State Alchemists and it was there he decided that he wasn't going to let himself be taken over by his emotions again while on the field of battle. But he swore to himself also that he wouldn't emotionally detach himself during the conflict, despite the psychological damage it might cause. In all the battles he was going to fight, he never wanted to forget that he was killing humans like himself. He wanted to remember that peace, as with everything, came with a price. That was Equivalent Exchange after all, upheld by Alchemists above all else, the first of thirty three natural laws inscribed upon the Ancient Emerald Tablet of Thoth Hermes Trismegistus, the father of natural science, the progenitor of all Alchemy:

Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.

The only trick is that what is gained isn't always what you wanted or even expected. And what is sacrificed isn't always what you intended to lose. And often you don't pay the price or receive your end of the bargain for a long time.

There had been times when his self-control almost failed, but by reminding himself of this truth, he was able to swallow his emotions and he plowed through the mayhem. With the State Alchemists, the battles ended decisively, and although it took over two years to undo damage that had been done in a matter of months, they slowly worked to advance the front lines back to Ishval. At some point along the way, he had been reunited with the two doctors. They had often been a source of life and joy in the otherwise horrific campaign, always maintaining a positive outlook as well as laughing and joking with the soldiers and State Alchemists. They were loved by almost all and they didn't judge the soldiers for doing what they were ordered to do.

In all that happened, they became his dear friends. He would spend time with them when he wasn't busy fighting and often found their company soothing when he was on the verge of breaking down again. They always made time for him and made him feel welcome. Fearing what might happen to them in the chaos of war, the Dancing Thunder Alchemist swore he would protect them at all costs.

"Dancing Thunder Alchemist," Grand said stirring him from his troubled reverie "I order you to – "

'"No."

"What?!"

"No," was all the boy could say as he began to cry.

He walked over to the bodies of the man and woman, their blood pooling at his and Roy Mustang's feet. He bent down to the object that had fallen from the woman's grasp. It was a picture frame, already slick with blood. He grabbed it and then he bolted out of the room.

"Dancing Thun – " Grand began to shout after him. His voice was cut off as he sprinted down the hallway.

"No!" he shouted again.

No. No! No! NO! NO! NOOOO!

The young man ran and ran paying no attention to where he was going until he collapsed underneath the weight of his grief. His vision began to blur as the dam of tears he was holding back burst. He cried and cried and the rage inside him grew and grew until the fires of his hatred eventually burned away all his tears. His body shook and trembled. He hated Grand for ordering the execution.

I swear I'll make him pay! He'll pay for this! I'll kill him! I'll make him suffer and when he begs for death I'll grant it to him!

He banged his fist against a stony wall over and over again and he swore and he cursed. But then he froze and a horrified expression came to his face. A fleeting thought had struck him and he felt as if he were sinking as his blood froze with a sudden realization. He was pulled down and down into a black pit of despair as the truth dawned on him.

"What have I done?" It started as a low moan and then escaped behind clenched teeth as a roaring howl. "I could've stopped it," he realized. "I could've stopped it. There was time but I hesitated! I could've killed Grand but –" he choked, losing the ability to speak.

He stared up at the sky. Through the billowing smoke, the stars shone like the color of burning nations.

What have I done? he asked himself silently.

But he already knew the answer: he had done his duty. Both as a soldier and as a State Alchemist. And he couldn't imagine why.

He then did the only thing that he could to do to adequately express his anguish. Roaring into the night, he tore at his hair and his clothes in frenzy. His eyes were red and wild as he beat his breast like a drum. The realization that he was as much to blame as Grand for the death of the doctors swept over him like an uncontrollable force of nature. He tasted bile rising and he leaned over and retched onto the sandy ground. His body was rocked with uncontrollable sobs. Drowning in his grief, he lost all awareness of the world around him.

When he woke, he found himself on the streets in a back alleyway. The light of the soon to be rising sun was beginning to paint the eastern sky a deep red hue. The boy began to cry again. It was hours before he calmed down enough to regain his composure.

The sun was at its climax in the sky by the time he rose, empty and defeated, and started walking back to base. The sounds of the conflict had ended and a thousand different pillars of smoke billowed all around the city as if signaling the locations of a thousand different funeral pyres, rising high into the empty annihilating sky.

When he got back to his quarters, he was finally able to bring himself to look at the picture the woman had dropped. He stared down into the bright face of a smiling young girl with the same blonde hair as his friends. She had the same blue eyes as her mother, who she favored, but she had the same strong-willed expression of her father. She couldn't have been more than ten at the time but the boy knew the photo was taken three years ago. She was blissfully unaware that her clothes and the ground around her feet were covered with the blood of her parents from the night before. She stood next to her pet dog outside a rural home on a path that lead to the surrounding countryside. In the background, attached to the porch of the house, you could see a sign that read "Auto Mail."

Chapter 2: Whether We Be Kings

"Alas, Posthumous, Posthumous, the fleeting years slip away, Nor will piety bring delay to wrinkles, to menacing old age, and to indomitable death. Not even if you sacrifice three hundred bulls a day for however many days go by, my friend, will you placate ruthless Pluto who restrains thrice-ampled Geryon and Tityon by that sad stream that must be crossed by all who partake of the gifts of the Earth…"

The Dancing Thunder Alchemist traipsed through the streets of the ruined city of Ishval. The city, built in a wide gorge between the cliffs of a large plateau on the north and the roots of a mountain on the south, showed as much signs of life as the Eastern Desert wastes that surrounded it. Every other building was burnt, collapsed, or damaged in some way that either rendered it inoperable or inhabitable.

The foul stench of death hung in the air, trapped and exacerbated by the oppressive heat of a burning sun. Flocks of carrion birds glided on columns of warm air, flying in circles high above the city descending to feast on the large piles of bodies that were stacked on every street corner whenever their appetites obliged them.

Walking to the nearest pile, the Dancing Thunder Alchemist slid off the black gloves that covered his right and left hands. The sweat inside caused the leather material of the glove's fingers to stick to the tips of his. He shoved the gloves in the right pocket of his blue Amestrian military field jacket and held his hands out in front of him, fingers pointed up. Tattoos of transmutation circles adorned each palm. Clasping them together he formed a complete array and willed the flow of energy out from him towards the pile of bodies. With a loud Woosh and a flash of light, the pile of dead in front of him ignited.

A wave of heat and the smell of burning flesh washed over him. He stood there unmoving with a flat expression as he watched the conflagration consume the corpses. The flame on one side began to eat away at the exposed face and chest of a dead Ishvalan child. The hair on its head singed and retreated back into a blackening scalp while his flesh shrank and withered away, as if it were a membrane being stretched over a surface too large for itself. It blackened and cracked, stratifying like the surface of a dried lake bed until the sides curled up and it began to burn away completely, revealing the muscle and bone beneath. Within minutes the remains of the boy had been charred beyond recognition, making it identical to the others in the pile.

How quaint, he thought, staring at the burning bodies. At the end of the day, all the pieces on the chessboard go back into the same box. I guess I knew this already but I never really gave much thought to it. But how appropriate it now seems that no matter who we are in life, each one of us must cross the sad river of death, whether we be kings or whether we be poor farmers.

"I am Death, who makes all men equal," he said to himself out loud, quoting an old children's fable. The carrion crows squawked in reply.

When he was sure that any possible agent for disease or plague had been burned away, the Dancing Thunder Alchemist continued to trudge through the city, slowly completing the task he had given himself and making his way to his destination.

It had been three days since the death of Sara and Urey Rockbell, the two doctors that had become his dear friends over the course of the Ishvalan Civil War. He was still coming to terms and coping with what had happened, blaming both himself for hesitating to act and Basque Grand for giving the order. He had avoided contact with his comrades and made an extra effort to avoid Grand himself; fearing that his anger and rage would boil over and that he would lose control.

He wanted so much to make Grand pay for what he did. And then try to atone for his own actions, or rather, lack thereof. But now that the conflict had mostly ended, the higher-ups from Central command would have already made their way to the East, making his death far more difficult to engineer than it would have been during the chaos and fighting three days ago.

Perhaps it's better this way, he thought to himself. Maybe I'll just let him get his just desserts through some other means. No one escapes Equivalent Exchange, after all.

In the meantime, he just occupied himself with working to clean up all the dead bodies, which gave him ample opportunity to think things over and come to certain conclusions for what he should do next. He definitely wanted to go away. Far away. Far enough away so that the military couldn't use him as a human weapon the way they had for the past three years. But he also didn't want to give up his State Alchemist certification, fearing that it might still be useful later on.

He also wanted to shift his focus as a scientist from electrophysics to medical research in bio-alchemy in homage to his fallen friends, the Rockbells. Maybe he could work at atoning for what he had done by furthering medical science. But being that his area of expertise was electricity, he feared he would only be able to do so much. Still though, all he really must to do is think outside the box so that he may forge new avenues of discovery and innovation. Easier said than done, of course, but it wouldn't be his first time. He recalled the day of his State Alchemist Exam. For the practical portion, he had graced the Fuhrer and his entourage with a remarkable invention that would go on to benefit the entire country. He remembered clearly their impressed expressions and astonishment.

It had been a clear day, the sky was a deep blue and only a few clouds hung high above. He was in the courtyard of the Amestrian Command Fortress which also served as the capitol building and nexus for government activity in Central City. The people overseeing the exam had provided the examinees with an incredible amount of raw materials, which consisted of every element found on the periodic table that occurred in nature.

With these materials and through Alchemy he had created and transmuted a turbine generator that effectively produced and carried an alternating current of electricity. Previous attempts at creating alternating current were too ineffective to be efficient, although alternating current was in itself more efficient and effective than the currently utilized direct current.

His ingenious idea to strap a magnet and a copper wire coil to the end of the rotating axle of a turbine, fueled by wind, flowing water, or steam was the result of thinking outside of the box. The north and south poles of the magnet rotating inside the coil produced the alternating current cleanly and efficiently.

But he hadn't stopped there. In order to show and demonstrate that the electric current he was producing was, indeed, alternating, he led the copper wire into a large glass globe that he transmuted from sand and wrapped it up inside a small copper rod. Quickly making a vacuum inside the globe and sealing it off, hundreds of arcs of blue electricity began to shoot out from the rod and onto the sides of the globe, fluctuating and frisking about in unpredictable yet mesmerizing patterns that stole the attention of those around him.

And so in an act that simultaneously demonstrated a perfect balance of artistic flare and scientific genius, which so many others try to obtain, he had created his generator. He was accepted into the Amestrian Military and given the State Alchemist Designation of "Dancing Thunder" by Fuhrer King Bradley on account of the dancing arcs of electricity in his "plasma globe."

He had also given the designs for his turbine electric generator over to the military on condition that he be allowed certain special privileges and that it be used for the public good and be made available to them at an affordable rate. The military saw the opportunity of a power and utilities monopoly as too great to pass up and they easily consented to his requests, eager for both the revenue and whatever else the young prodigy might develop for them.

It was for times like that, the opportunity to benefit humanity as a whole, even if it meant playing to the greed of others, that he became a scientist and enlisted in the first place. That and the opportunity to sate his incredible sense of curiosity for the world around him, which fueled almost every choice he made. He had often told his peers that his thirst for knowledge rivaled the hunger of a glutton. And that desire to serve and work for the good of everybody still hadn't changed; though perhaps his resolve to do so had become even stronger.

Yes, he needed to leave. Expatriate himself, even. Perhaps he could go to Xing. The rumor's he's heard of their Alkahestry could perhaps guide him in his search to apply his knowledge of electricity to medicine. He had heard many things about them from the vast network of informants he had built up over the past few years. Alkahestry was what the Xingese called Alchemy, but its practice mostly thrived in the medical professions. But before he could do that he would also need permission from his commanding officer if he wanted to go on leave, which meant he would have to face Grand. And he doubted the Iron Blood Alchemist would be so forgiving and understanding. A man who specialized in weapons Alchemy, Grand tended to be as unforgiving and unyielding towards those who've challenged him as he is to the enemies who get caught in his cross-hairs.

I'll need some leverage. I'll have to check with some of my informants to see if there's some dirt I can dig up on him. Surely there is something. We all have our skeletons we want to keep hidden.

He continued to think as he made his way towards a group of residential tenements that had become the barracks for the Amestrian soldiers. Most of the buildings were low rectangular sandstone structures that faced the south. These housed the lower ranking soldiers. But there were also a few of the buildings that stood taller than the rest and were more luxuriously constructed. Though they were still nothing fancy, the original designs intended for their residents to live with a semblance of comfort. These housed the State Alchemists and the other high ranking officers.

There were only a few signs of life but as he walked towards the one he was stationed at, he noticed a person sitting in between two adjacent housing units. She was a woman in her early twenties who had short blonde hair and broad shoulders. Her muscular and curvaceous build was the direct result of her military training. Her brown eyes looked down to her lap where she had taken apart her pistol for cleaning. The many parts of her gun rested on a sand colored trench coat. Next to her, propped up against the wall, stood a bolt action sniper rifle with a walnut stock and the top of her blue Amestrian military field uniform was folded beside her.

The Dancing Thunder Alchemist watched her from a distance. Once she was finished rubbing oil on the parts of her pistol, she pulled out a brass pocket watch. She set it on the ground and waited. The Dancing Thunder Alchemist pulled out his and stared at the time. It was three sixteen. When the second hands of both their watches hit the 12, the woman picked up the casing of her pistol, in a flash she put the spring, the barrel and a few other smaller parts unidentifiable at this range in their respective places. Then, picking up the slide she placed it on its line and pulled it back to its original position. She picked up a full clip, thrust it into the handle, cocked the gun and aimed somewhere off into the distance at some unseen target, ready to fire. She completed the whole process in less than nine seconds.

Looking down at her watch, she was displeased with her time. She pressed the release button and the clip slid out of the handle. Pulling the slide back, she ejected the round that she had chambered and reloaded it into her magazine. Then she put the magazine back into the pistol and clicked the safety on and holstered it.

"You know," said the young man approaching her. "Human hands can only go so fast, you shouldn't be that hard on yourself."

Startled at hearing his voice, she whipped her head up to see who had spoken to her. When she saw who it the voice belonged to she jumped to her feet, letting the tan trench coat fall to the ground. Keeping her legs tight together, she brought her right hand up to her brow in a salute.

"Major! I didn't see you. Forgive me," she said. She had bags under her eyes and she seemed weary. Her gaze was fierce but her eyes revealed a deep sadness induced by the tragedies of war.

"At ease, Hawkeye," he said, looking at his childhood friend. "You don't have to be so formal with me."

Riza Hawkeye was a sniper in the army. Her sharp reflexes and dead-eye talents with just about any firearm she laid hands on had earned her the moniker "The Hawk's Eye," a pun on her last name. She was the Dancing Thunder Alchemist's oldest friend, except, perhaps, for Roy Mustang, though he wondered if "friend" was a title that could be properly given to him. His relationship with Roy was something else entirely.

"Yes, sir. Sorry," she said, still retaining her formality.

"Not only that," he continued but it's weird hearing you call me that, especially since you're several years my senior."

In truth, it had once pleased him to hear his friend refer to him as her superior. But that was a long time ago. Before the chaos of the war stripped away what little joviality there was to be found in the military.

They both stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. He sighed and exhaled and stared off into the distance. "Walk with me?" he asked cocking his head up sideways, looking towards her.

"Uh, yes sir," she said and followed him after gathering her things.

He had hoped that her company would help alleviate the emotional turmoil he was feeling. Perhaps if they shared a few warm words with each other, he might be granted some clarity in thought. But as they walked side by side in silence through the barracks for a while, he found it difficult to initiate conversation and the only sound made between the two were their footsteps crunching on the hard ground.

Growing up, he had always harbored feelings for Hawkeye. And when she went off to join the military, he had been genuinely hurt, though he knew the gap in their ages would prevent any form of romance from developing for a long time, if such a thing was ever even likely.

The day he became a State Alchemist, he couldn't wait to see her reaction. When he eventually did see her, he was disappointed to say the least. Expecting her to be proud, Hawkeye had confronted him in private, and scolded him for his decision. Having already been privy to the military's operations and aware of what State Alchemists were required to do, she chastised him for making a reckless decision.

His pride flaring up he told her that he had his own reasons for joining and that she was one to talk because the only reasoned she joined was that she wanted to follow their other friend, Roy Mustang, whom she had strong feelings for.

I know now that the reason she had been upset with me was that she thought I made the same reckless decision she did, he thought to himself. I was glad I eventually proved her wrong.

In spite of what he had been feeling over the past few days, he did find her presence soothing. Being close to her brought back memories of the times the three of them had spent together as a child.

Turning to look at him, Hawkeye said timidly, "Major, if I can ask you a question?" She could tell something was wrong, and his protracted silence worried her.

"Ask away," he said, keeping his gaze locked in front of him, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, sir. Where have you been? People have been looking all over for you. The Colonel said you disobeyed him and when you didn't come back he told us not to bother with finding you. We thought maybe something could have happened. Were you AWOL?"

"I was there for a little bit," he answered. "But I'm here for now and that's what matters, right?"

"I doubt Grand will see it that way," she said, looking down.

"Grand is a fool," he snapped at her a little too harshly. "And it's not your place to worry about your superiors, Sergeant," he said a little too harshly.

She was a little shocked by the fact that he would so openly bash a commanding officer and she looked a little hurt after being shot down. Seeing this, he acted quickly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have..." he trailed off. "Where's Roy?" he asked changing the subject to their mutual friend.

"He's shut away in his room," she said. "He's been like that for the past three days now and hasn't come out yet."

This bit of news caught him off guard though he figured it shouldn't surprise him.

"And Marcoh?"

"The same."

"I see."

There were another few moments of silence.

"What happened?" she asked softy. "This behavior isn't like you two."

Stopping in his tracks, he looked down at the ground. They were in another alleyway formed by two of the housing units. Again he stared off into the distance, not really looking at anything.

"Ask me again some other time," he said.

She was silent. Her friend had always exhibited strength in the course of the conflict. She had watched him lead and guide soldiers for a more than two years now and Hawkeye had often forgotten his age. He had always been tall and large of stature which fueled the illusion that he was her elder. When things got really rough, there had even been times when she leaned on him to help guide her through the atrocities they were forced to endure. If there was anything that she would take away from the war it would be respect and admiration for him. But to see him troubled like this upset her and it shattered that illusion. Suddenly she remembered his youth and vulnerability.

She took a few steps closer to him. "You shouldn't do that. Keep things bottled up like that. It isn't good for you." She reached out to him with genuine concern.

"I've always coped like this and it hasn't yet caused me any trouble," he said looking at her.

"You can't say that for sure," she argued. "If it's what you've always done, you wouldn't know anything different."

She was silent for a few seconds; then, "Was it something specific that happened or a combination of everything? You can talk to me. You know I care. You know you can trust me."

He looked at her again and stared into her brown eyes. He couldn't argue with her logic. Plus she was being earnest with him and she wore that expression she always wore at times like these. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he quickly turned his face away from her.

When he looked back, he had tears in his eyes. "Oh, Riza. I just – I just don't have the strength anymore! I didn't become a State Alchemist so I could bloody my hands like this! I thought I would be an instrument for change, not this madness." He leaned against a wall, supporting himself with an arm outstretched against the bricks, wrestling to rein in his emotions yet again.

Taken aback at seeing him, one of her commanding officers, in such a vulnerable state, Hawkeye was at a loss for what to do. "What happened? Please, talk to me," she begged.

"It's Sara and Urey," he said, but he couldn't say more for fear of losing his grasp again.

Hearing him speak the the names of his close friends and knowing the state he was in was enough to give Riza some clue as to what happened.

"Were they..?" she asked, letting the last word hang unspoken.

Unable to speak, he just nodded his head. Hawkeye had never been close to them like he was, but hearing that the two had become casualties in the latest battle still wounded her.

"And it was us," he said, his voice full of emotion.

A sense of dread washed over her and she began to understand. The Rockbell's had been reprimanded many times for offering medical aid to the Ishvalans as well as Amestrian soldiers. But they were both very stubborn people. It wouldn't have been that outlandish if one the CO's had apprehended them for offering medical relief to the Ishvalan's again, but she shuddered to think that they were actually –

"It's my fault, Riza," he said interrupting her thoughts and choking back tears. "I was on my way to get them to safety and when I got there, Grand had just ordered Roy to kill them. I didn't know what to do at first, I hesitated more than once. I even looked Urey in the eye but I froze! And Roy, Roy, he—agh dammit— Roy pulled the trigger but I could've stopped it! I could've killed Grand right there if I wanted to, no one there would have missed him. But I was too much of a coward to act and now, my friends are dead!"

Riza was shocked. He had always been strong; even during the war, he never showed signs of weakness. She couldn't begin to imagine what he must be going through. Doing the only thing that she thought might help, she wrapped her arms around him.

He was surprised at this, Riza always put her sense of military propriety above all else, but he welcomed the change and he hugged her. He took deep breaths and tried to regain control of himself. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose, filling his nostrils with Riza's fragrance. Her aroma calmed him and once again brought back memories of the times she, him, and Roy spent together growing up.

Wiping his eyes dry, he stood up straighter, still embracing Hawkeye. "I'm sorry, Riza. I've been a huge mess the past few days. I'm sorry for being weak. It's selfish of me to unload my burdens on you."

"No," she said looking up at him. "I'm sorry you and Roy were forced to go through that. This explains a lot. You shouldn't blame yourself. It was Grand who gave the order and as soldiers, our orders are what we live by. It wasn't you who caused their deaths."

"But it was me." he insisted. "Those with the power to act and don't are just as guilty as those who commit evil in the first place! Now Roy thinks he's to blame and Marcoh's no different. . . ." he trailed off again, looking away.

When he spoke again, he had regained his composure.

"Things have changed so much, Riza. I'm still practically a kid. It was only five years ago that Roy completed his studies under your father. Then the two of you enlisted. And I followed not long after.

"But before that, we would have spent our days like we always used to: Roy would finish up with your old man by mid afternoon and then we probably would've run down to the river near your house or one of our other favorite spots."

"I remember" she said with a sad smile.

"At first, you would always act as if you were more mature than me," he said wistfuly. "But after watching me have so much fun, you would always soon follow, and Roy wouldn't be able to resist either. We would spend hours laughing and playing until we were exhausted."

Riza smiled as he brought back to life some of the most precious memories they shared with each other. She too recalled the times they spent together years ago. It was hard for her to believe that the man she now embraced was once such a small and carefree child.

"You remember, don't you?" he asked looking down into her face.

"Yes, I remember," she said as she rested her head against his chest.

"Is it childish to crave such happiness?"

"No, it's not. But you have to remember," she said stepping away and looking up at him. "You made the decision to become an adult the moment you became a State Alchemist, three years ago. You came of age that night when you took the lives of others for the sake of something you believed to be greater."

"I didn't know what to believe back then," he said. "I was fooled by naïve idealism and delusions of grandeur."

She brought her hands up to either side of his face and looked him in the eyes.

"I have so much respect for you. As our resolve faded, you were the only person who people could look to for strength in this damnable war, and you were just a kid. Not once did you ever let yourself become cold and detached. You constantly reminded yourself and the others that who we were fighting against were people just like us, and despite the differences in our ideologies, they had family and loved ones waiting back home for them, just like we did."

She started speaking softly but the strength and the urgency in her voice grew.

"You always said we should honor their sacrifices just as much as we honored ours. You never took the easy way out; you never once began to hate them, even when our brothers in arms were taken from us. I don't know how you did it; it must've tore you apart. But because of that, you are loved and respected by us. Roy admires you for it, though he'd never admit it to your face and the Rockbells loved you because of it, and I know in my heart that they wouldn't blame you for what happened to them! So why the hell should you blame yourself?"

Her voice filled with emotion, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears as horrible memories of the war came flooding back. He just stared at her and said nothing. After she calmed down a bit, Riza spoke softly. "These things happen in war, as you well know. But please, for my sake if not yours, don't blame yourself."

"Riza I can't, I would be lying if I didn't assume responsibility."

She exhaled, resigning herself to let him believe what he would for now. "You are as stubborn as Roy."

"We are just as much alike as we are different," he said. "You said he's in his room?"

"Yes," she said. "He hasn't been out since... well, you know."

"Thanks," he said placing his hand on her shoulder and giving her a reassuring smile. "I'm glad you still care enough to show concern for me. Don't worry about me too much. I'm going to keep moving forward as always. But for now, I need to talk to Roy."

She nodded at his words and stepped back in silence. He left her there and walked back the way they had come.

Arriving at the unit where he and the other State Alchemists were quartered, he quickly made his way inside. Walking down the first floor hallway, he passed his own room. The hallway resounded with a low thud whenever he brought his foot down onto the stone floor. Making his way to the far end of the building he stopped outside a closed oak door.

Pausing, he inhaled deeply trying to prepare himself for his talk with Roy. He placed his hand on the brass knob and turned it. Opening the door, he walked in.

The room was dark and in a huge mess. Papers and various items were scattered all over the floor and the walls were covered in writing and various alchemical arrays and symbols adorned their surface. Roy was sitting on a stool, holding his pistol up to his head. His finger was on the trigger.

His eyes grew wide in horror as panic threatened to overwhelm him. For a split second Roy had froze also from surprise. There was no hesitation this time. Lunging forward, he launched himself towards Roy, grabbing his wrist. Before Mustang could even act, he had knocked him to the ground and whisked the pistol away from him in an instant. While he was still on top of Roy, he quickly disarmed the gun, throwing away its clip and ejecting the chambered round.

"Get off me, dammit!" growled Roy, but he just elbowed him in the gut as hard as he could before rolling over and sitting up.

"What the hell was that!?" he shouted angrily, scarcely believing what he had just witnessed.

Roy, still coughing from his gut shot, didn't say anything. He straightened himself up and leaned against the desk near where had sat. His eyes looked raw and black bags hung underneath them. He had spent several nights without sleeping. Stubble lined his chin and his jaw.

Rising to stand on his feet, the young man said, "I asked you a question!"

Looking up at him, Roy just stared with an empty expression, looking but not really seeing. His hair was a mess and filth still plastered his face.

"I – ," he began but seemed to be struggling for the right words. Then resigning himself to his situation he said bluntly "I was going to kill myself."

One long stride closed the gap between the two, bringing him close enough to stand over him. He punched him in the face. Roy didn't react; in fact he seemed to welcome it. Infuriated by this, he hit him again.

"What the hell for?" he asked, kneeling beside him.

Roy looked at him and said harshly, astounded and angered that he could even ask such a question "You know damn well what for."

"No!" he said harshly and punched him again. "No! You are not the one to blame for that!" Tears began to well up in his eyes as his grief and frustration surfaced yet again.

Roy just looked at him incredulously. "How am I not?" He asked him. "How can you not blame me for killing them? I pulled the trigger! They were innocent and I took their lives from them!" He grabbed the young alchemist by the collar. "Can you not see that Sara and Urey are dead?"

Lowering himself to the ground once more, he sat next to Roy. He exhaled a long, slow, sigh. "Of course I do," he said sniffing. "But it wasn't you who killed them."

"Where do you get off in saying that," Roy snorted.

He turned to look Roy in the eye. "You may have pulled the trigger, but it was Grand who gave the order, and I who hesitated to act."

Looking down at the ground between his outstretched legs, Roy said, "That still doesn't change anything. I'm still the one who pulled the trigger."

His hands shaking with anger, grief and frustration, he tried to remain calm. "No, Roy, it changes everything. You were just following orders. That's what you're supposed to do. You've always been more of a soldier than I have, willing to give up the ability to question things that come your way. I'm the one who could've stopped it and didn't. I could've killed Grand after I ran in but didn't. I was too weak to act and now two of my closest friends are lying six feet under and there's a young girl in Resembool who's waiting for parents that she'll never see again."

At this, Roy seemed to lose it. His face became warped and twisted with anguish and his hands curled up into fists. "How can I ever atone for what I've done?" It wasn't just the memory of a few nights ago that tormented him, but the thought of each death that he had wrought at the snap of his fingers.

"I've been asking myself the same question."

Taking in a sharp and jagged breath, Roy tried to keep his composure. "How can you say that? I could've just as easily turned the gun on Grand. I could've done something too, but I didn't!"

"It still doesn't change anything," he said flatly, seemingly ignoring reason, but slave to some logic that he alone considered. "You weren't the one's who promised to keep them safe. You weren't as close to them as I was. They were my friends, not yours!"

"They were all our friends" Roy interjected.

"Then if you really want to honor them then do something about it!"

"I tried! For three days have I've locked myself in here without food or water, trying to work up the courage to pull the trigger! But I was too much of a coward to give up the one thing that could've atoned for what I did. And in my hesitation you stopped me."

"Oh, please!" he said looking at Roy with contempt. "You're not thinking straight. How can your death make things any better? Have you thought about Riza? What would she think if it it had been her that walked in on you? Have you thought about Hughes? Have you given thought to anybody beside yourself? Have you thought about what you'd be leaving behind?"

Roy just looked the other way and remained silent. He didn't even know why he was talking to him.

"No. I thought not. You're not a coward, Roy, but killing yourself would make you one – No! Listen." He said after Roy began to speak up. "What's more cowardly than running away? Hm? That's what you'd be doing. You'd be running away from the problems at hand instead of facing them and working to solve them! If you really want to atone for what happened, then get up and use what you've been given to move forward and bring about change so that things like this never happen again. So that people like Sara and Urey never have to be murdered in damnable wars like this one and entire races of people won't be slaughtered for nothing. If you truly felt sorry for what happened," he said bringing a pointing finger into Roy's face, "Then you'd work to bring change to this entire country. And work to restore the damage that we've caused."

"Listen to yourself," Roy said disdainfully, shaking his head. "You've always been like this. To be able to say things like that without giving any thought to the consequences of what those actions would bring. Do you realize that if I, or anybody, were to bring about change on that level, then they'd have to become the Fuhrer?"

"So? Then be the Fuhrer, if that's what it takes? You can do that. You may not be as smart as I am, but you're clever." He said cheekily but still completely serious.

"Shut up, this is no time for your smart ass remarks," Roy said but he thought about what was said.

"And this is no time to be sulking around in a pointless depression."

They were silent again and the young Alchemist's words began to creep into Roy's head. Was he really serious? Could he really become the Fuhrer? Roy considered what that would mean and what it would take. It was reasonable to assume that he could reach the top. With the actions he had taken in this war he was one of the very few who could claim to have obtained victory almost singlehandedly, right along with his friend beside him and Kimblee. He would be welcomed back to Central as a hero. With that influence he could easily start to climb his way to the top. It would take time, of course, but he could do it.

Then for the first time in a very long time, Roy was given something the war had stripped away from him. He was given a sense of direction. Of purpose. No more would his soldier's sense of duty be the only driving force behind his actions. He realized that he could be the one to bring stability to Amestris and work to rebuild and atone for the many atrocities he had committed. And this gave him hope. But he still had his doubts.

"If you've got this all figured out then what do you plan to do?" Roy asked pointedly. "If you're the one to blame for this, like you say, then how can you ever repay for what you've done?"

Turning away from Roy, he stared at a spot on the wall where Roy had written some sort of alchemic encryption.

"I'm going to go away."

"What?"

"I'm leaving."

"Oh, and please explain to me how that's any different from running away?" Roy said curtly

"Because I plan to devote myself to the study of medicinal alchemy" he said sternly. "I'm going to further science and medicine with my alchemy in homage to Sara and Urey," he explained. "They would want that. I know it. As doctors themselves, I know they would appreciate the discoveries I could bring to people."

Hearing this, Roy laughed at him, much to his chagrin. "You're still as naïve as ever. But I suppose you've got the right idea," he conceded.

Do I? the young man thought to himself. What he said was true, he knew his course of action would be appreciated by Sara and Urey. But in his heart it still felt like he was running away. Running from his mistakes. Running from that little girl whose parents were now dead. The little girl whose smiling face has haunted his dreams for the past three nights. A girl whose bright face would be warped by anguish in his nightmares and who speaks to him in Sara's voice, accusing him of his failure.

They continued to sit there in silence for a good long while. He didn't want to say anything that might interrupt Roy as he was processing what he had said. He hoped that he would come to the same conclusion that he had about moving forward. After almost a full hour had passed, he was fiddling on the ground with a bit of paper and he spoke.

"Roy, you are my older brother," he said acknowledging their relationship for the first time in a long while. "Despite whatever I've said in the past, I've always looked up to you. Sure you have a lot of faults, but there are certain things about you that I wish I could call my own."

Roy saw the sincerity in his brother's face as he turned to look at him. He recalled their childhood, growing up together in a foster home and how they had always looked out for each other. He resolved himself to actually do something to atone for his actions as his younger brother suggested.

"Like Hawkeye's affections?" he said a little cheekily, smirking at his younger brother.

Realizing that he'd finally gotten through to him, he smiled back. "Yes. That especially."

"Now that we're being honest with each other, you know I could say the same thing about you," Roy said.

"About what?"

"As much as it kills me to admit it, there are certain traits you have that I wish I had."

"Hm? Like what?" he asked a little skeptical.

"Like I'd ever tell you," he said, punching him on the shoulder. "Is it not enough to just know that there are some areas in life where you have the upper hand on your older brother?"

"It's never enough to just know what. And please, I've always had the upper hand," he said arrogantly. "But, whatever. It doesn't matter. You just know that there are people who need you. Myself and Riza foremost among them."

"Yeah," Roy said bringing his legs up and wrapping his arms around him and lowering his chin to rest on his knees. "I know."

"And you know you'll always have people supporting you, pushing you forward, like Hughes."

"Yeah."

"And you're not gonna try to kill yourself again are you?"

"No," he said solemnly. "No, I'll do something about it, like you said. And if that means I've gotta become the Fuhrer, then I'll become the Fuhrer. I'll just have to give it a little more thought."

Nodding his assent, he said "Glad to hear it." Rising to his feet, he held his hand out to Roy, who grabbed it and lifted himself up off the ground.

"And in the meantime, I'll be off on some damned fool idealistic pilgrimage. I think I'll head to Xing to study Alkahestry for a bit. That should be a good starting point for me."

"So far away? You really mean to go through with it then?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "Several years at the very least."

Realizing that this could be very well be the last time he would speak with his brother for a very long time, Roy walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Take care of yourself." he said.

"You do the same. And you take care of Riza, too. I think I'm going to miss her the most. She loves you, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

He simply looked at Roy, expecting him to say something more, but he didn't. He brought his hand up and Roy clasped it in his.

"Brother," he said.

"Brother," Roy said. And with their hands still clasped they embraced each other for a brief moment.

Stepping away, he turned to leave but he paused at the door. "Don't worry," he said, looking at his brother. "I'll be fine and it'll still be some time before I can leave. I still have to get my request for leave approved, and then I'm going to go find a bar in this ruined city and get drunk. Then I'll head out."

Roy gave him a look of disapproval. "You're too young to be drinking to forget."

"Not to forget, Roy, but to remember. You can join me if you want."

And with that he closed the door behind him. He walked back down the hall to his room. When he had locked the door, he leaned into it and slid down onto the hard ground. He let the strong façade melt away and his grief and anger washed over him once again. When he was incapable of crying anymore, he felt empty and hollow. He eventually fell into a troubled sleep.

Chapter 3: What Can Never Be

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them."

"Absolutely not!" shouted Grand, banging his fist on a wooden desk. "If you think I'm going to allow you to have something so outrageously unheard of as a period of indefinite leave after your acts of insubordination, you've got another thing coming, Dancing Thunder! You're still facing disciplinary action, if you haven't already forgotten!"

He was standing inside a large bedroom that had been transformed into an office space. Colonel Basque Grand, the Commanding Officer to whom he had been assigned, had used the room the past few days after the conflict where he signed paperwork, coordinated logistics, and performed a variety of other official duties, cleaning up the aftermath of the war. He found it hard to keep calm in front of a man he so strongly hated. Gripping the wooden armrests of the chair he was seated in until his knuckles turned white, he took slow, deep breaths. He reminded himself of his decision to leave Grand to to the whims of Equivalent Exchange.

"If you remember, sir," he said looking Grand in the eye. "My commission has a clause outlining special privileges. Periods of indefinite leave are included provided that I use them to further my research to benefit both the people of Amestris and its State Military, which, as I've already explained to you, is what I'd be doing."

"Privileges can be taken away, boy. You disobeyed a direct order from your superior. That's grounds enough to keep you here with us."

He could almost feel the fabric of his self-control tear with new strains of frustration.

"Have we not already been over this?" He asked incredulously. "I didn't disobey your orders. I went to the Temple and I destroyed it, as you commanded! It was because of my actions that the leadership of the rebellion was eliminated. Not only that, but when the rebels saw that their beloved temple reduced to rubble, they gave up almost immediately afterwards, completely demoralized."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Grand said. "The words 'Dancing Thunder, I order you' were scarcely out of my mouth, when you shouted 'No!' and bolted out of that forsaken classroom like some pathetic child. Do you recall the penalty for disobeying an order during combat?" He said "It's forty-lashes and a court martial!"

"We weren't in combat!" the young Alchemist yelled. "We were well away from any enemy combatants."

"Those doctors were our enemy!" Grand spat.

"Shut up!" He shouted, rising to his feet. His limit had been reached. A red haze began to cloud his vision and his heartbeat spiked rapidly. His anger and rage came boiling to the surface and what little control he still exercised over his emotions, slipped away. "They were our friends and you killed them, you bastard! They weren't dangerous! But because your goddamned head is too thick to comprehend anything other than orders, two innocent people were killed!"

Slamming his fists together Grand, created an alchemical array using the circles inscribed on his transmutation gauntlets. Energy manifested itself as blue arcs that sped from Grand to the ground before the young man's feet. Immediately the stone under him began to flow as if it were liquid, and a large hole, at least ten feet deep, opened,gaping, underneath him. Grand was too quick for him to react. He fell, landing on the chair with a grunt as it shattered beneath his weight. A sharp pain shot through his ankles.

Quickly coming to his senses, he looked up to see Grand standing over up above him, having walked around to the front of his desk. In a flash he tore off his gloves, exposing the transmutation circles tattooed on his hands. He placed his right hand onto the rough stone next to him and the power flowed through him. A slice of the stone became a vein of copper that snaked up through the ground towards Grand, wrapping itself around his left leg. Then he sent the charge. Grand was trapped as ten thousand volts of pure electrical energy coursed through him. Pain was all the Colonel knew as he collapsed backwards, stunned, onto his desk.

Clapping his hands together and placing them on the floor, the Dancing Thunder Alchemist raised the floor of the pit he was standing in like an elevator. After his head had cleared and his feet were level with the ground he stepped forward towards Grand. Grasping him by the collar of his uniform, he disposed of all caution.

"I told myself I wasn't going to dirty my hands with your blood," he said, "But I think I'll make an exception."

Grand opened his eyes, breathing uneven, still very weak, to a fist crashing into his nose. He felt the cartilage break as a warm fountain of blood erupted underneath the young Alchemist's clenched fingers. The young man raised his fist again and brought it down even harder a second time. He continued to bloody Grand's face letting go of all his emotional constraints, assaulting the Colonel in a wild frenzy.

Hearing now the commotion of the brawl, a group of others burst into the office, fearing an attack by some rebel remnant. The handful of soldiers and a few high ranking officers immediately raised their weapons at him. One of the officers shouted, "Freeze, Dancing Thunder Alchemist, or we will shoot you." Kimblee, who had come in last, looked at the scene with an eager anticipation, a smile playing on his lips.

It was Brigadier General Fessler, Grand's Commanding Officer, who gave the warning. He was a short plump man with black hair. He had a square head and cleft chin. If there was any other man the soldiers hated more than Grand, it was him.

A petty and ignorant man, Fessler had always been more concerned with enhancing his own reputation than with the lives of his subordinates. In his obsession with clearing out his assigned regions of conflict before the other officers, he made a number of hasty decisions which resulted in many casualties. At least Grand recognized the value of his soldiers' lives. But as Grand was hated because of his blind obedience to his orders, Fessler was despised because it was he who usually gave them.

"What do you think a sociopathic freak, a couple of bullets and pig like you, Fessler, could ever do to me?" he said challenging them.

"Don't be a fool," said Kimblee with a smirk. "A wise man knows when to exercise restraint. And there's no reason to be rude."

This sent him over the edge again. "Fuck you, Kimblee! You sick freak!" he shouted. "How dare you lecture me when you so readily slaughter the innocent! How dare you talk about restraint when you work yourself up into a frenzy wherever you go blow something up."

Kimblee frowned, and walked towards him. He let go of Grand and faced him, preparing for a fight. The others kept the sights of their pistols locked onto him.

"Innocence is life's greatest illusion," he said. "Tell me, young Mustang, who taught you how to lie? To steal?"

"What are you playing at?" He didn't know what Kimblee was doing, but for some reason his words made him to hesitate.

"C'mon, surely someone as smart as you can see the point I'm trying to make." Kimblee continued with a mocking tone. "Nobody taught you how to do something wrong. You see, no one is truly innocent. Depravity is ingrained within us at birth. So how can you say that those people I killed were innocent?"

He was done. He prepared himself to attack, but before he could make his move, a blunt and heavy force struck him in the back of the head. He saw the ground meet his face and then knew only darkness.

It was Grand, who seized the opportunity to strike while the young man was emotionally compromised.

After some indiscernible period of time, he came to. He found himself lying on the hard ground. His hands were fastened by chains to crossbeams on an iron post. He felt a warm, dry breeze caress the flesh of his back as he realized his shirt had been torn off. The base of his skull felt as if a hammer pounded on it continuously. With each beat of his heart, his head throbbed. He looked around him to try to figure out where he was. The sun was beginning its decline in the west and he saw the barracks about a hundred yards off to the north.

"Do you know why you're here?" said a cold voice behind him.

He strained to look over his shoulder. He saw a man in his mid to late fifties with a full head of black hair and a black mustache. He wore a large patch over his left eye and a sword was sheathed at his side.

When he recognized the man, a sense of impending doom filled him.

Fuhrer Bradley had arrived from Central earlier that day. He wore a blue military uniform decorated heavily with medals, accolades and other important regalia identifying him for his rank and the many accomplishments he has performed as leader of the country. Behind him stood Grand, his face covered in purple and black bruises, Fessler, a group of other high-ranking officers and host of maybe twenty others. Among them he spotted Hawkeye, to his dismay, and also Maes Hughes. Hawkeye was looking off to his side somewhere, avoiding eye contact but she did seem distraught. Hughes, a tall and lean man in his mid-twenties with spiked hair, scruffy beard and hazel eyes shook his head ever so slightly at him: a silent display of disapproval. He didn't see Roy among them.

What have I gotten myself into?

Sighing, he answered the Fuhrer. "Yes, your excellency."

"It enrages me to find that one of my officers has behaved in such a way. It brings dishonor to State Alchemists and the Amestrian State Military." He paused to let his words sink in. On any other day, the Fuhrer's voice would sound warm and welcoming, but today it was almost menacing. Indeed, many did not expect the unassuming demeanor to come from someone so tall and imposing, with a reputation for ruthlessness.

"Grand explained to me the situation. He told me how you had become emotionally compromised since the deaths of these two doctors. Tragic, perhaps, but death is a part of war. And those who aid the enemy shall not go unpunished. And nothing - absolutely nothing - justifies the behavior that you expressed today to your commanding officers."

His voice remained even and calm the entire time, which only emphasized the gravity of the situation. The young Alchemist was angry with himself. He lost control. He showed weakness. This was compounded with self-loathing and disappointment. If there was one person in all the Military that he respected, it was Bradley. He was a more than competent leader with a pleasant disposition. He seemed to truly care for those serving underneath him.

Though it was he who had signed Order 3066, sending State Alchemists to the front lines, he had only done so as a last resort and was only forced to because Basque Grand and General Fessler had let the Ishvalan conflict get out of hand. The young man hated that he had put himself in a position where the Fuhrer looked down on him for his actions.

"If you were any other person," Bradley continued, "I would have you court martialed and dishonorably discharged. But given your dedication to Amestris and your achievements throughout this conflict and before, the scientific advancements you have brought to our people, I have found it within myself to let you off lightly," the Fuhrer explained. "After your punishment today, you will be granted the period of indefinite leave that you requested, and you will use that time to further your research. You will report to me, and only me, once a year as you normally would with your annual assessments. If I deem your research in any way subpar, then I will strip you of your State Alchemist designation and throw you in a prison for as long as I see fit. But more than this, you will leave Amestris and you will not return until I say otherwise. If I fail to hear from you by the designated time, then I will assume that you have gone AWOL and will name you traitor to the State. Do I make myself clear, Dancing Thunder Alchemist?"

He understood now why his sentence was so light. The Fuhrer knew all too well what a valuable asset he was to the State, but he couldn't just let his actions go unpunished, as severe as they were. Accepting his fate, he thought it best not to say anything at all that might worsen the situation. After all, he was getting what he wanted.

"Yes, Fuhrer King. Your mercy is unwarranted. Thank you."

"Very well," the Fuhrer said. "Looking behind him he shouted at Grand. "Colonel. Forty lashes be owed to this man. How will you proceed?"

"My subordinate, the Crimson Alchemist will be the one to enact the punishment," answered Grand.

At this Kimblee stepped forward and without a second's hesitation clapped his hands together. An arc of light shot forth and struck him on the back. A thin strip of his flesh was instantly transmuted into a substance that reacted with the oxygen and exploded outward. A thin layer of blood wet the ground and he immediately cried out as a wave of blinding pain washed over him.

Before he could recover, Kimblee clapped his hands again and the pain seared across his back. Ignoring the stares of the onlookers, he did his best to endure the pain while retaining as much of his dignity as he could. Thirty-eight more times felt strips of flesh on his back bursting into oblivion with a sound like a cracking whip. Thirty-eight more times he was subjected to pain so intense that it could cripple the strongest of men. But he took his punishment without complaint and in fact, he welcomed it. It distracted him from the pain of his failure and his loss.

"This pain is nothing," he said as Kimblee continued to strike him. For despite all of his strong talk to Riza and Roy, he truly felt he deserved each strip of his flesh blasted off of him.

It was over in a matter of minutes. His back was a raw and bloody mess, caked with bits of burnt flesh and dirt. He bled profusely as a white puss gathered at the edges of his wounds. The pain was so great that he lost all awareness.

They dragged him to the medic's outpost and threw him onto a cot. He faded in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the medical team scrubbing his back to clean away all the dead and burnt skin. He couldn't remember when they disinfected and bandaged him or when they confined him to a bed, where he laid on his stomach for two days straight.

On orders, they gave him nothing for his pain and came to him only a few times a day, to give him food and switch out his bandages for clean ones. His only anodyne was sleep, turbulent and nightmarish, filled with terrible images of the Rockbell gir, accusing him with Sara's voice. He spent another number of days in the medical tent. He used the time to plan his next move and cope with the emotional pain of his loss.

When he was finally able to move without reopening his wounds, he was ordered to take his leave. It still caused him a great deal of agony to move, so when the nurse had stepped out, he swiped two small glass vials the size of plums from the supply cabinet. They were filled with a thick white liquid, labeled "Milk of the Poppy," an unrefined version of the pain killing drug morphine, from the supply cabinet. Morphine had been in short supply towards the end of the war and its prices had gone up. Milk of the poppy was less potent and more likely to ensnare a user with its addictive qualities, but it was cheaper to make and easier to come by for the military.

Walking back to his room that evening, he waited until he was behind closed doors before taking out one of the vials. The opiate could either be ingested to ease pain or it could be directly applied to a wound where it would act as a pain killing salve. Thinking the more direct approach would be best, he held the cold brown glass in his hand as he uncorked it and poured a small amount into his palm. He kneeled before his cot, onto which he had gathered up most of his belongings and supplies for the journey into his backpack days before.

The thick liquid was warm on his fingers as it oozed out of the vial. Almost immediately he could feel a slight numbness setting in on his hand and he realized he'd have to act quickly. Reaching down beside him, he pulled at the knot that tied his linen bandages together. Once undone, he tensed and spasmed in pain as the fabric, feeling as course as sandpaper, slid off his back.

Once he recovered he reached behind his head and began to slowly and gently rub it into his wounds. The resulting relief in pain was soothing beyond belief. He was about to pour more onto his hand, when he was startled by a knock at the door.

Shouting "Who is it?" he quickly rushed to conceal the analgesic he had stolen in his backpack, accidentally scattering a few of his belongings onto the floor when his quick and sudden movements had triggered another spasm of pain.

Gritting his teeth and gripping the rails of his cot, he tried to stay silent. No matter who it was, he didn't want to give whoever may be at the door any reason to think he was in a weak and vulnerable state.

"It's me," said a familiar voice. "Can I come in?"

He waited until the pain had subsided before answering with his consent.

When Riza walked in, he told her to lock the door behind her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I don't want to be bothered by anyone," he said, avoiding looking her in the eye.

"Oh," she said softly. "Should I leave then?"

"No, no," he said reaching again for the Milk of the Poppy. He didn't worry if Riza saw. He knew she wouldn't tell anyone.

"I heard something fall. What were you doing?" she asked. Seeing how every other movement caused him pain, she walked over to him and knelt beside him, looking for some way to aid him. When she saw him grab the vial of the Milk of the Poppy, pour some of it into his palm, and begin to rub it on his back, she took the vial from his hand and said, "Here, let me help you."

Feeling a little embarrassed, but realizing that she could apply the medicine more effectively, he stayed silent. She began to rub the liquid onto the wounded regions of his bare back.

"Agh, gently" he said after she went over a particularly sensitive spot

"Sorry," she apologized. She was obviously trying to avoid bringing up his whipping. So, they sat there in silence as she finished applying the medicine to the last bits of his back. When she was done, she corked the vial and set it down. After they had put his bandages back on and he clothed himself with his military garb, she broke the silence by asking the question he had known was on her mind the entire time.

"What do you plan to do?"

Feeling that he wasn't going to be able to keep it from her, he rose to his feet and sighed.

"I'm going to go away. Far away," he explained to her. "Somewhere outside of Amestris where the military can't reach me until I'm ready to come back. I want to find a way to apply my knowledge of electricity to medicine and atone for my cowardice and honor Sara and Urey."

She had become rigid as he confirmed her fears. She rose and stepped back from him, looking at him with wide eyes.

Seeing this, he tried to reassure her. "Don't worry," he said reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. "It's what I want."

"Are you serious?" She seemed incredulous. "You can't! What about Roy and me? And Hughes? He's just as much as your best friend as he is Roy's? You're just going to leave all that – all of us – behind? Don't you wanna go home? Don't you want things to go back the way they were?" She seemed as if she too were struggling to maintain control.

Nevertheless, he still responded forcefully.

"Things will never go back to the way they were, Riza!" he raised his voice. "Forty thousand people have died in this conflict. Forty thousand! And we've sold our souls to the State, how can things ever go back to the way they were? Will you ever be able to look at some things the same way again? Whenever I see a doctor, how will my mind not wander to Sara and Urey? How can I ever listen to a thunderstorm or look at bolts of lightning flash on the distant horizon and not think of the things I've done? Do you think Roy will ever be able to relax beside a fireplace on a cold winter's night and not see the faces of the men he's burnt alive in the flames? Or what about you? Will you ever be able to look down the sights of a rifle and expect anything other than an enemy to be on the other side? Riza, I need to get out of here, for the good of myself and those around me."

"No. No. Don't do this to yourself. Please, stay." She became almost frantic as she pleaded with him. "You don't have to— "

"You're right!" he said cutting her off. "I don't have to do anything. I could just stay here and resign myself to being a dog of the military, to be called into war as a weapon of destruction using a science that ought to be a pillar of truth for all civilization, but instead would be used to destroy it. I don't want that. I need to move forward and do something meaningful so I can atone!"

Hawkeye stepped in close to him again, her face inches from his. Bringing her hands to the side of his face, she stared into his eyes, searching. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. He had been her strength through the war. Her resolve. How could she ever hope to piece herself back together if he was gone? Sure she had Roy, and she did feel strongly for him, but he was cold. And never had he returned any of her feelings. But, he, the one in front of her, was the one who had always her support. She felt like the ground beneath her was shrinking away and soon she would be falling, falling into a deep dark pit. He was the one who she truly. . . . Truly what? she asked herself, but she had no answer. Didn't she?

"You've done nothing wrong!" she pleaded with him, bringing her train of thought to a halt. Did she really want to acknowledge something like that? Now that all hope was about to fade from her life "Please, I, I— "

She couldn't finish, instead she just looked at him, meeting his hard gaze with her soft, desperate one, her heart pounding and her breathing heavy. Then she did something that surprised even her. Closing her eyes, she relaxed her face and pulled him down to her. She brought her mouth to his. Their lips met and she began to kiss him. Fiercely. Passionately. Pouring all of her unspoken thoughts and emotions into that kiss, she hoped it would somehow convey to him the feelings that were going through her, that it could tell him just how important he was to her, how she needed him.

He kissed her back molding his mouth to her soft lips, letting their tongues meet and their breath become one. He tried to savor every aspect of it: her taste, her touch, everything. But ultimately, he knew what she was trying to do, and he wouldn't let it stop him. He brought his arms up and placed his left hand on the side of her soft cheek and he placed his right in the small of her back. He kept his lips on hers for a few moments longer before pulling away. They rested their foreheads against each other.

"Won't you stay for me?" she said after a few seconds. "Don't you care about my happiness?" Was she really being that selfish?

"Riza, please. Don't make this harder than it should be."

"But, I lov- "

"No, don't say that, you don't," he said looking at her with sad eyes.

But could he be wrong, she thought.

"Please don't do this to me. You've known how I've felt about you for a long time. And I know for a fact that whatever feelings you may have for me are far eclipsed by your feelings for Roy."

Were they? everything to her now seemed so uncertain. Her world was crashing down on her.

"But that could change! I don't want you to go." And she meant it, too. The warmth that blossomed inside her as she kissed her dearest friend was very real. She just couldn't bring herself to let him go.

"That's what I told you when you left to follow Roy, yet you went anyways," he said it curtly, bringing up a foul memory of a bad parting. The words stung her. She was speechless.

Growing up he had always felt strongly for Hawkeye, but it was always Roy that she loved, not him, and he wouldn't stay for a love that had never been there. Even if, as she said, she grew to love him more, he still wouldn't be at ease with himself. No, it was like he said, he had to find some way to atone and his current plan of action was the best course of action.

He looked at her again and she looked at him with a pitiful expression. Taking her hand in his, he said "For what it's worth, this wasn't an easy decision. You were probably the biggest threat to my resolve. But you have to understand, I need to do this."

She was about to say You don't need to do anything but he anticipated her response and he took the opportunity to take her into his arms and kiss her one more time. She responded with as much passion as before and was disappointed when he finally pulled away. For one, she didn't want to let him go, of course, and she wanted to make use of anything she could to keep him with her as long as possible. But when he held her and kissed her, she felt a sense of safety and of warmth that blossomed into something that she had only ever felt when she thought of Roy. It was almost painful. She looked at him as if he was going to leave her forever, and the sadness that shone through her eyes tore him apart.

"It's not like I'll be gone forever." He said this to reassure her as much as he did to reassure himself. "I'll come back at some point and re-assume my duties. If you want me to, I'll make sure you're the first person who sees me."

"That would be nice," she said smiling to herself. She tried hard to focus on that reunion instead of the impending separation.

"Alright then, it's a date," he said cheekily and she smiled wiping away a tear. "Listen, you have to be strong for Roy," he told her. "We have a plan. He has a plan. And he'll need you. More than you know. There's not much I can say at the moment, but he'll come for you."

He tried to give her this one last hope to hold onto before he left.

"You know I'll do my best," she promised.

"I know." He quickly picked up the things he'd scattered onto the floor and shoved them into his backpack.

Before grabbing his bag, he hugged her one last time and kissed her brow. She placed her hand on his cheek and she leaned forward and put her lips to his for one final kiss that melted his resolve.

He looked her in the eye once more and what he saw almost made him rethink his entire decision, but then he thought of Sara and Urey, and their young daughter and all hesitation and doubt was swept clean away and his resolve became as strong as steel once again. Picking up his bag, he walked out into the hallway, out into the ruined city and out to the Eastern Desert wastes toward Xing and beyond.