So, yes. A modern AU. I am resurrecting as many of the dead canon characters as I can squeeze in because it would be fun. Some will just be cameos because I can only devote myself to so many meaningful plot lines. There will be no alchemy or automail (the characters are well-rounded enough without it) and the history and political situation will be somewhat different. I will also be tweaking names and family relationships a bit.

Although it may seem like it, I'm not trying to do just a modern AU of Sons of the Desert. But for the sake of convenience, since this is a Scar-centric story, I will be using my established Ishvalan vocabulary, some of the customs, and the names I created. I will also be recycling one, maybe two or three, of my OCs for a major plot device.

If my presentation of high school life comes across as less than authentic, I apologize. Apart from being a student (a long time ago), the closest I got to being on the inside was working at an elementary/middle school cafeteria (yeah, I was a lunch lady), as well as being a parent of three students.

This is by way of being a preview/rough draft. I just felt like running it up the flagpole. Stuff might change.

Chapter 1

"So, what's the new guy like?"

Olivier Armstrong lifted an eyebrow at her colleague and fellow assistant principal Solf Kimblee, who was something of a new guy himself. He'd only been here for a year. She had been with the school district for most of her professional life, practically straight from her masters program. Solf's credentials were less impressive, but his father swung a certain amount of influence. Her own father was rich and influential, but she never took advantage of that. Some people got where they were by hard work and dedication.

"He's not the new guy yet," she said. "He's in with Principal Bradley right now."

"Ah." Kimblee smirked a little. "King's giving him the evil eye test, huh?"

Olivier's lips twitched in a small frown. For someone who had been here for a relatively short time, Mr. Kimblee was far too familiar with his superiors. She didn't care if Principal Bradley and Mr. Kimblee Senior were golf/drinking buddies. When you were on the job, you were on the job.

Still, what he said was probably true. She had seen more than one teacher, not to mention many a student, quail under the principal's scrutiny.

"Well, I expect Mr. Ruhad will pass muster," Olivier remarked.

"Oh, yeah! He's Ishvalan, isn't he?" Kimblee asked.

"And he's highly qualified," Olivier added stiffly. "He was a teacher for a number of years in Ishval. I understand that his brother teaches at the university."

"Uh-huh." Like he cared, apparently. "Seriously, though. What's he like?"

Olivier thought she was being nothing but serious. And she was not about to satisfy what she felt was Kimblee's unseemly curiosity. She was not one to stand around the office hallways and gossip, not even with people she liked.

"He'll be a fine addition to our school," was all she said before heading back to her office.

She sat down at her desk and contemplated the empty chair that had, just about twenty minutes ago, been occupied by a potential candidate for the teaching staff.

"So, why math?" She liked to ask teachers what drew them to a particular subject. To some, it was simply what they were good at, for others, it was a passion.

The Ishvalan gentleman replied readily. "It's certain. It's black and white. One and one equals two, and that's it." His expression, intent enough to start with, darkened just a little. "There is no controversy. There is no time wasted on differing opinions or interpretations."

"I see." She had passed by classrooms where history or literature were being taught and would sometimes catch a bit of debate, which could be disruptive. She knew that teaching methods in Ishvalan schools were a bit stricter than here, and students were better disciplined. So what made this man leave that environment for an Amestrian school?

There was something about him that Olivier couldn't quite place. He seemed to emanate something. It might have been a kind of discomfort. It might just have been the fact that he was obviously not used to wearing a suit and tie, but that wasn't it. He wasn't nervous. He didn't shift around in his seat. He sat quite still, as a matter of fact, almost like he was holding himself in.

She was trying to decide how she felt about that scar on his face, too. According to his background check, he had been injured nearly two years ago in an explosion set off by the IPA, the Ishvalan People's Advocacy, a nice name for a small but problematic separatist movement that reared its head every now and then. A number of people had died in that tragedy, and the ring leaders had been arrested. It seemed as though Mr. Ruhad had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She particularly wondered how the students might react to the scar. Some of them could be such little turds.

She moved on with the interview. "Tell me about this twelve-month period of unemployment." She frowned a little at the resume in front of her. "If you don't mind me asking, what is a surgun?"

He stirred, just the tiniest bit. Did she hit a nerve? "It is a period of…exile," he explained. "A sort of purification process."

"Is this a common practice in Ishval?" Olivier asked.

"No. It's very old, though," he explained, which was an interesting bit of information but neither here nor there.

Olivier nodded. "Did it have to do with your recovery from your injury?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Indirectly," he said, then added, "It was a personal decision."

That really didn't answer her question, but she got the impression that it was a religious thing, and that wasn't something she was supposed to discuss. If it was personal, it was personal, and that was all there was to it.

Principal Bradley asked him roughly the same questions that Assistant Principal Armstrong did, so he was somewhat better prepared. Armstrong had maintained a businesslike detachment throughout the interview, something he approved of. Bradley came across as a benign patriarch, cordial and smiling, up until the moment his face went grave and his eye turned cold with menace. It was a subtle change, but noticeable enough. His other eye was covered with a patch so the effect that two eyes would have manifested were concentrated into one.

Andakar had gazed into his own private hell, so if this display was meant to be disquieting, it fell short.

Bradley seemed impressed and a smile reappeared. "Well, Andakar." He consulted the file in front of him. "Based on the results of your background check…" His tone sounded almost noncommittal and Andakar nearly gave in to an expectation of defeat. "…and on the strength of your letters of recommendation…" Bradley raised his head and beamed. "Let me be the first to welcome you to the halls of Central East."

He extended his hand across the desk, and for an instant, Andakar wasn't sure how to interpret the gesture. He collected himself quickly and stood up to shake the principal's hand. "Thank you, sir!"

He did not show just how deeply relieved he was. He had failed at so much already. But as significant an obstacle as this was, he knew it paled beside what was to come.

This was not a good idea, but Mattas knew it wouldn't make any difference to say so. As he passed by the bathroom door, he found his brother still messing with his tie. He paused outside the door.

"If you just stuck with the polo shirt, you wouldn't have to worry about that," he remarked.

Andakar stubbornly pulled the end of the tie through the knot. "Tomorrow, perhaps. It's the first day. I need to establish myself."

If he was wound up any tighter, his mainspring would snap. Mattas tried not to roll his eyes.

It was too soon. He should have waited. Mother thought so, too. When her younger son had returned from his surgun, even after he'd shaved off his year-old beard and cut his hair, she still almost didn't recognize him. What he had faced out in the desert, all by himself, might not have been pleasant.

That was Andakar's problem. He always had a tendency to overdo things. It was either all or nothing.

Mattas lifted his phone and tapped the screen. The clock said 6:30. This was going to happen every day. He sighed.

Andakar glanced at him. "I said I would take the bus."

Mattas shook his head. "No, it's okay. Didn't I say it would be okay?"

Andakar stepped back from the mirror and scowled at his reflection, and judging by the angle of his eyes it wasn't his tie-tying skills he was considering. The scar that stretched across his forehead puckered slightly. Mattas' stomach sank just a little. The scar wasn't just a reminder of an injury. It was a symbol of how his kid brother's life had spun out of control. Maybe it would mellow him out a little. Make him consider slacking off every now and then. Just sit down and surf the tv or the internet. Have some pizza, maybe a bag of chips and a couple of beers while he was at it. Tone the hell down.

Unlikely.