A/N: Hello, there! This is my first FanFic, but I'm not going to beg you to be nice. I hope you enjoy this! Just one thing before you start, though: I'm not used to the formatting yet, so there might be a few weird spacing issues and such.

Thanks,

~InkRoze

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, but I do own my OCs.

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"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

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So, this is where I'm supposed to be, Ishvala? The people here are crazy, money-loving hounds, that will break people's limbs just to fix them again. Are you sure you're omniscient? Asher Reed thought somewhat sacrilegiously, as he surveyed the dusty landscape through his dark-tinted goggles. He had been nearly everywhere possible in his nineteen, almost twenty years of life, from Central and East City to Xing and Drachma, but he'd never felt as at home as he did here. Rush Valley, the Boom Town of the Broken Down. He grinned as he took in more of the scenery. One of the things he loved about traveling was seeing how places differed over time. Rush Valley had changed a lot in the five-plus years since he'd been there. Some buildings had been renovated, there looked to be more people, and the number of automail shops had increased at least twofold.

Even in his hometown of West City, Asher had never fit anywhere. The closest he had ever felt to belonging, was here, where no one judged you for your race, your past, your gender, or even for your missing limbs. All types were welcomed, as long as you had money. Inwardly sighing, he stepped off of the train platform and toward the small town, rubbing the crick in his neck. Asher might have loved traveling, but when it came to transportation...

He hated trains.

It felt like his entire life was spent either walking, or on grimy, uncomfortable seats. He figured by the time he was thirty, he'd have a permanent mark on his cheek from falling asleep against the train windows. Shifting his worn briefcase to his other hand, Asher shook his shoulders and set off for the centre of town. He passed countless automail shops, some for repair, some for spare parts, and some for the surgery in the first place; that particular trade declared by the red cross painted on their doors.

Locke's, Kelly's Automail, Rockbell Automail Repair, Blood and Guts Automail Fitting, Last Hope Spares, the list went on and on. But none of these shops were the one he was looking for. He turned down yet another street, ignoring the stares his odd appearance attracted. His stark white hair that stood out against his tanned skin, his long white coat with a high collar that nearly covered his mouth, and tinted goggles completed the odd ensemble. It wasn't just his clothes, or the way his hair was spiked, or the little bit of metal poking out from underneath his unusual eyewear. It wasn't because of his insignia, which appeared on various parts of his jacket. It was because, even with the precaution of wearing goggles, they knew his eyes were red.

Geez, you'd think these people had never seen an Ishvalan before, he thought, honestly indifferent. He didn't care if someone, or even a lot of someones, stared. His people had all but died, and only recently was seeing Ishvalans a semi-regular occurrence. He smirked inwardly as another thought hit him, the urge to let it show causing a corner of his mouth to twitch. He wasn't a true Ishvalan. He only looked like them, and believed in the same god. Maybe those people had a right to stare.

Asher dragged himself out of his thoughts when he noticed the store in front of him. There was no sign on the small shop, except for a card reading, '"Closed" in the front window. A large picture window showed nothing but a shelf with parts and gears and half-made models stacked haphazardly on it, and only darkness beyond that. The teenager was surprised that he was able to find it without getting lost, with all the changes made to the town; but he was never lost, his keen sense of direction a useful tool in his travels. Ignoring the closed sign, Asher pushed on the door, mildly surprised that it wasn't locked.

"Hello?" he called, not so much cautious as he was hesitant. He hadn't been back in more than five years. No phone calls, no letters, not even a representative to say he was still alive. Even though he wasn't the kind of person to keep in contact- ever- Asher was toast, to put it kindly. His own nervousness made him uneasy.

"Who's there?" came a gruff female voice from further into the store, "Can't you read? We're closed!" A small, aging woman appeared from behind a stack of metal scrap, a frown causing the creases in her face to deepen. Asher was hit with a wave of remorse as he took in her long gray hair with streaks of stark white pulled back into a ponytail, her faded green eyes flashing in anger at the supposed intrusion. She halted when she noticed Asher. He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with her shocked gaze.

"Hey, Krystal. It's me. I... kinda need a tune up," Asher said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Reed?" She asked, confirming his last name, her voice still stern but now carried a tone of surprise. Asher was about to reply, when she spoke again, grinding her words out through gritted teeth.

"It's Miss Gardener to you, Reed," she hissed, advancing on him with a deadly-looking screwdriver clasped in her right fist. "You only now come back? You've neglected maintenance for five years and seven months? I bet you didn't even oil it like I told you to! I bet the only reason you even set foot in here was because something's wrong with it!" Asher backed into the closed door, eyeing the sharp screwdriver. He wasn't intimidated by the older woman, but he knew her potential for violence, and working with metal her whole life certainly strengthened her arms. Despite her short stature, she was probably almost stronger than he was.

"You kept track of the months?" he wondered aloud.

"Of course I did! It was my best work! I'd like to see those newborns manage that kind of detail!" she barked.

"I apologise, Kry- Miss Gardener. I meant to come back sooner-"

"No you didn't," she muttered, her voice softening slightly. "Don't bother lying to an old woman. I don't have the patience for it." She stared at him for a while longer, neither saying a word.

"Alright," she said, breaking the silence. "Have a seat in the back. But one smart word from you, and you're out on the street, begging for an engineer with even half my talent." No one ever said she wasn't proud of her profession, Asher thought, nearly scurrying to the back room. Asher Reed never scurried, but in her case- he'd make an exception. He sat on a discarded chair, making room for himself by shoving some papers and metal bits onto the room's only table.

Krystal Gardener gathered some of her smaller tools with the ghost of a grin on her face. She had missed the half-Ishvalan, and hadn't realised how much. Five years. Five long years of her waiting. Krystal had kept all the emotions plaguing her from her face; the shock, the affection, the anger, and finally, the hurt. He hadn't even called once. Now, he was back, in a white coat and outlandish goggles, of all things. She straightened out her mouth, and entered the small examining room turned storage room. He was waiting, playing with his fingers in a peculiar fashion, almost as if he was tracing shapes on them. She remembered the habit from when he was younger. He must have never grown out of it, she thought.

Krystal set the tools down on the now crowded table with a dull thunk, and faced Asher. He looked up at her. She clicked her tongue, and the young man carefully pulled his goggles off, the action almost rusty, like he hadn't removed his eyewear for a long, long time. He set the goggles in his lap, and revealed his haunting, blood-red eyes, or eye, to be more accurate. Krystal ignored the unusual iris colour of his right eye, and instead, focused on his left eye. Or lack of one. The dull metal shine of automail flashed back at her, shining even in the dull light. She examined it closely. The glowing red "iris" seemed a little faded, but the quarter-mask-like plate of metal surrounding it was gleaming as if it were new. The metal mesh that replaced the "white" of his automail eye looked a little blackened. He had been oiling it. The automail engineer bit back a pleased grin and continued her inspection, prodding a screw here and there.

"You've taken pretty good care of it, I'll admit," she muttered gruffly, "But what else have you been doing? This mechanism is all out of whack, like it's been modified..." She stopped, giving him a hard look. "You haven't been seeing another mechanic, have you?" Her aura darkened. Asher's eyes- automail and all- widened, eliciting a soft series of clicks from the mechanics.

"No! I wouldn't trust anyone else with this. I... Well... I... Oh, Ishvala!" he sighed, annoyed at his stuttering. Under Krystal's watchful eye, Asher shrugged off his coat while lifting an object out of his pocket. Silver flashed in his hand, offset by his dark skin. Krystal blinked, looking at it impassively.

"So. You finally did it. I figured it would never happen. I figured someone would stop you," she said almost dully. Asher fingered the silver pocketwatch and then returned it to his pocket.

"I thought so too. But for some reason... I was let in. They accepted me. I believe it was the Furher's doing."

"A State Alchemist. I knew it was you, Asher Reed. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, I hear things. An Ishvalan State Alchemist; the first, and more than likely the last," Krystal said in a dry tone. "You caused quite the stir, but for some reason, no one will talk about it. No one's ever seen much of you. Now lean over, and let me adjust this." Asher complied, wincing at the sharp sting and sudden blindness on his left side as she removed his "eye". He was left with a metal socket and some hanging wires.

"Well, most full-blooded Ishvalans that find out don't approve," Asher conceded, still playing with his fingers. "They make it quite clear, that someone with Ishvalan roots- even a half-breed- shouldn't perform alchemy. They say..." he paused, and attempted to stifle the wave of rage that rose up in him. "They say that I'm a disgrace, a dishonor, blasphemous, and worse, even." He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "But I know better. It's the disregard of my faith that really gets to me, not the insults. I figured, after so much time, Ishvalans would be at least a little more accepting of alchemy. The fact that the Furher has been so slow in making progress probably doesn't help much, though." Krystal remained quiet throughout his mini-tirade. She just listened. To her, it seemed that he was letting out over five years of pent-up frustration. It was true, however. The Furher previous to Mustang had more pressing things on his mind than Ishval; such as cleansing the military of traitors and rebels, repairing the damage caused by the "Uprising" as it was now called, trying to remedy the recession that the Uprising had caused, and repelling invaders from Arugo and Creta that had tried to take advantage of Amestris's state of confusion.

Ishval just sort of... faded into the background. Until four years ago, when Mustang took office after Grumman's retirement, the Ishval situation had been put on a sort of hold, with only a few changes, including herding all of the refugee Ishvalans back to the deserted Ishval. The situation, however good the intentions might have been at first, hadn't helped Ishval's animosity toward the military in the least. The Ishvalan nation was simultaneously young, weathered, peaceful, and vengeful; full of either bitter Ishvalans who had been hardened by the Massacre, or young, inexperienced youth, brought up in a time of oppressed hardship. There was an age gap between the two, with hardly any Ishvalans between the ages of thirty and fifty-five. Now, with all other pressing matters addressed, Furher Mustang had been scrambling to make things right since his inauguration. But Krystal couldn't help but wonder; was it too late?

"It's been hard, Krystal," Asher continued, pulling Krystal from her thoughts, "Harder than I ever thought it would be. But... it's worth it. I have a few regrets, but in all, I'm confident in the path I took." Krystal didn't bother to correct him, and instead, gave him a hard look.

"What's your alias? Who are you working under? And how in the world did you manage to get time off to come here? Hang on, I need to... Ah." With a sharp twist of her screwdriver, the half-mask plate of metal came free.

"Ow!" Asher exclaimed, jerking back a bit.

"Quit being such a baby," Krystal huffed, and went back to fiddling with his automail eye. "Whatever you've done to it- which I assume is alchemy- you've messed up the alignment. Your vision has probably been off by a few millimetres. I'm surprised you can walk straight. Now answer my questions."

"My alias is the Scarlet Shadow Alchemist. A bit flashy for me, but it fits. I'm working directly under the Furher, but I'm not based in only one Headquarters. I actually have to report to him in two days. As for the time off? My situation is... special. I don't fit in at the office, normal civilians don't trust me, and the Furher participated in the Ishvalan Massacre. So, I travel. I do the dirty work. I'm given the cases that no one wants, from inspecting caverns at Briggs, to going after Arugian terrorists; anything that keeps me as far away from the military as possible. To be more specific, I am in the military without actually having much contact with it."

"And what does the Military get from this? It seems like you get the better part of the deal. The Furher is an Alchemist; he believes in equivalent exchange." Krystal looked Asher in his eye, cutting right to the heart of the problem. Asher was quiet for a long while, regarding her pale green irises.

"Besides the fact that he's trying to establish trust between Ishvalans and the Military, I do have my perks," he said with a slight grin, "Even though my alchemy isn't combat-based. But I think an Ishvalan State Alchemist isn't really the best way to inspire trust, considering their view of Alchemy. But as much as I can't stand him, I trust him. He knows what he's doing. Even now, over three decades after the Massacre, he's still trying to correct his mistakes. I admire that." Krystal didn't comment. She could tell he was hiding something from her. Something important. But she only narrowed her eyes for a second before she continued to work on his automail in silence.

Asher noted her suspicious glance, and kept his face emotionless. Talking about his position in the Amestrian Military always made him uncomfortable. He waited patiently as Krystal finished repairing his automail. She meticulously replaced the parts, ignoring his flinching when she returned his eye to its rightful place and screwed in the metal mesh. The engineer finished by polishing the metal with an oily cloth. She took her time, a feeling of foreboding creeping up on her. Asher shifted slightly, itching to get going. He was never one to stay in one place for too long.

"Well. There you are, Asher Reed. All fixed," she said in a gruff bark, all traces of her serious side vanishing. "If you use your alchemy on it too much, you'll have to drag your rear end back here in two years or so. I would be impressed that it lasted that long, but it is my work after all." Asher couldn't help but smile at his automail mechanic.

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a salute.

"Don't get smart with me, young man." Asher stood, donned his jacket, and made his way to the front of the shop. The alchemist put his hand on the door before he stopped, and turned around.

"I almost forgot," he said sheepishly, digging back into his pocket. Asher came out with a book, a couple of folded bits of paper, and finally, a bag of cens. "Payment. How much do I owe?"

"38,000 cens. A special deal, just for you," the mechanic said without missing a beat. He handed the correct amount over, and replaced the items in his jacket.

"Thanks, Krystal. I'll- I missed you," he said. Krystal noticed his slip.

"Don't forget to call. And you visit again soon, you hear?"

"I... I will," he said, smiling. Krystal approached him, and in a rare gesture of affection, reached up to the full extent of her five-foot-two frame, and placed a hand on his cheek.

"I told you, Reed. Don't bother lying to an old woman." With that, she turned and entered her shop, her gray and white-streaked ponytail swinging behind her. The door shut with a bang, and the "closed" sign swayed.

That was the last time Asher ever saw the mechanic.

With a sad, crooked smile, Asher turned his back on the unnamed shop, and headed for his second destination. The State Alchemist wasn't just in Rush Valley for a tune-up. In fact, he hadn't even planned on it in the first place. But Ishvala had managed to work Krystal into Asher's busy schedule, and for that he was grateful. It was nice to see her again. The feeling was foreign to Asher, but he admitted that he didn't mind it. Turning his thoughts to his mission, the young alchemist set off down the street. A contact of his in Central had revealed the location of an alchemy-based gold-smuggling ring in Rush Valley. Asher smirked in anticipation.

He trusted his contact. In the State Alchemist's many years of traveling, the contact was the only person Asher ever kept in constant touch with, besides the Furher; and in those many years, the contact had never been wrong.

Not even once.

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