A/N: Ha ha, wow. I'm attempting to write a crossover fic. It appears my friends' suspicions about my sanity were true.

Anime: Yu-Gi-Oh, Naruto, Fullmetal Alchemist

Rated: T for language, violence, possibility of mild sexual situations and maybe shonen-ai (none of which really applies to this chapter).

Disclaimer: The likelihood of me owning Yu-Gi-Oh, Naruto, and Fullmetal Alchemist is roughly the same as the likelihood of the French president suddenly turning into a pink elephant that carries a polka-dotted umbrella and speaks fluent Arabic.

Warning: This story contains major spoilers for Naruto and Yu-Gi-Oh. If you have never heard of Akatsuki or don't know who Kisara is, I suggest you don't read unless spoilers don't bother you. However, you don't need to have expert knowledge of all three series in order to follow the story.

It's important to note that I am strictly a mangaverse writer; this is especially important in the case of Fullmetal Alchemist, where the manga and the anime diverge into two different storylines about halfway through. I do, however, use "Ishballan" instead of "Ishvarlan" (because I think it sounds better) and "Fuhrer" instead of "President" (because I think Fuhrer is a more appropriate title for the leader of a military dictatorship). If you're unsure about the differences, I suggest you google "Fullmetal Alchemist manga." I've found some good comparisons that way.

That aside, I am not saying that my knowledge of any of the above series is perfect. If you find something that you think is a mistake, please let me know.

Ooh, I forgot to mention: Miho is an actual Yu-Gi-Oh character. She appears in the last chapter of the first volume of the manga. Also, as Amestris has a distinctly European flavor, all characters that come from there have names in the Western order (i.e., Seto Kaiba instead of Kaiba Seto). Characters from the shinobi villages will still have Asian-style name orders (last name first).

Anyway, enjoy, and please review! Constructive criticism makes my day.

Chapter One: Assumptions Overturned

The Crescent Moon Inn was two miles off the highway, half a mile outside Resembool, and about as close to Nowhere as you could get in an age of high-speed Internet connections and cell phones the size of credit cards. The building used to be a house and was nearly a hundred years old, which meant it would have been brand new around the time the Elric brothers left the small town. Although its current owners worked hard to keep up with the times – all the rooms had wireless Internet service – the actual structure was starting to show its age. The porch creaked beneath the newcomer's heavy boots, and paint flakes came off on his gloves when he pushed open the door.

One thing the residents of Resembool could count on was that the Crescent Moon was stable. By that they meant that nothing unexpected ever happened. There was always a handful of tourists eager to visit the birthplace of the controversial Elric brothers, but no one ever came from far-away, exotic places like the Wind Country an hour's train ride to the north. The tourists were always predictable, ordinary people, more sight-seers than alchemy researchers. But aside from the city-bred vacationers, the Crescent Moon also attracted its share of boozehounds who were looking for an escape from the policemen who patrolled the town proper. Occasionally the proprietor would throw out one or two of the boozers, but the townspeople expected that. Nothing exciting ever happened down at the Crescent Moon, oh no. But if you had told that to the boy who stood in the doorway wiping paint flakes off his otherwise immaculate gloves, he wouldn't have believed you. He had walked into the middle of a drunken fistfight.

"Take it back!"

"I ain't takin' back a word of it! It's the truth an' you know it."

Both men were on their feet, hands latched onto each other's sweaty collars. One was bleeding from a small cut on his cheek, where the other had thrown a beer bottle at him moments before. The bottle was now in pieces on the floor, old-fashioned ale darkening the floorboards like an oil slick. The teenage girl behind the bar had frozen with a clean glass and a drying rag in her hands.

The bleeding man threw a wobbly right hook at his adversary's nose, but thanks to the three beers in his system, the punch landed closer to his rival's shoulder. The other man was slim but strong, and not quite as drunk as his opponent. In seconds he had the man pinned against the bar and began jabbing at his beer-swollen gut. The counter shook with their struggle, and the teenage bartender shrieked as some wine glasses fell from a high shelf, narrowly missing her and shattering against the antiquated soda machine.

That was when the newcomer sprang forward, clapped his hands once, and slammed his palms down on the hardwood floor. His long overcoat swirled around him, and a flash of light briefly illuminated the room, dying down as quickly as it had come to reveal that both men had vanished. Their groans and irritated yelps still hung in the air, as if they were echoing up from whatever abyss the drunken pair had been banished to.

The newcomer straightened, crossed to the bar, and peered over the counter.

"Are you all right, miss?"

The girl, who had instinctively ducked, looked up and tried to respond but found herself rendered mute. The sunlight from the open door was at the back of the person leaning over her, casting his face in shadow; the spots swimming before her eyes from the sudden flash of light weren't helping either. Blinking furiously, she realized that he was holding a hand out to help her up. With his support, she regained her footing, stumbled around the bar, and sank onto the closest bench.

"What did you – How did – You can do alchemy!"

"A little," he admitted, scuffing a foot across the worn floor. "I'm a student." He reached towards her hesitantly, as if he wanted to take her hand and beg for forgiveness. "I can get them out, if you'd like, and fix the floor. Or you could call the police and let them deal with it."

For a split second the girl didn't understand, until she looked down and realized that the groans and yelps really were echoing up from the abyss; the newcomer had opened a pit in the floor, and the two men had fallen into it. They were collapsed in a drunken heap on top of each other, dazed but still coherent enough to shoot obscenities at each other and the pit. A mixture of relief and disbelief washed over the young bartender, and she turned to face the alchemist.

From his voice she had guessed that he was roughly her age, but his hair had already gone white, almost silver. It had been unevenly cropped to near shoulder-length and hung untidily in his face, dropping shadows like a curtain over his eyes. His youthful features revealed her guess to be correct despite his misleading hair color, and at the moment those features were twisted into an odd expression, a strange mixture of amusement and apology.

That look turned out to be the last straw. Suddenly the sheer absurdity of the situation broke over the bartender, and she started to giggle uncontrollably, pressing her apron over her face to hide the tears of mirth that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

All hints of apology vanished from the young alchemist's face, and he shot a small, pleased smile at the pit.

"So… shall I get them out?"

"What? Oh, yes. The police – I'm sorry." The girl couldn't hold back her laughter long enough to finish the sentence. She took a few deep breaths and tried to force her expression into a state of composure.

"The police don't need to get involved. We get beer-suckers like them every few days or so. Just… just kick them out."

She hiccupped twice and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a thin trail of mascara across the side of her face.

The alchemist stood, clapped his hands again, and pressed his palms to the floorboards without the urgency of before. The planks re-formed themselves, lifting the two dazed men back to ground level. They scrambled to their feet with an agility that was surprising, considering how drunk they were.

"What the hell…?" the man with a cut on his face slurred. "Where in blazes – blast – bloody hell, where did that hole come from?"

The other man snickered. "You're so fat… so… so heavy – you busted that hole in the floor!" He threw his head back and howled with laughter, slapping his leg with an unsteady hand.

"What! You… You… Bloody hell… Bastard!"

Suddenly both of them were at it again, fists swinging jerkily. The alchemist ducked an ill-aimed punch, clapped for the third time, and planted his hands on either side of the puddle of beer. Swearing, both men slipped and fell, this time too dazed to return to their feet. The puddle had grown to twice the size of before, conveniently spreading underfoot until the floor was too slick to stand on.

Together the bartender and the alchemist dragged the two men out to the front porch, where they rolled the drunkards down the steps and left them to regain their wits on the sidewalk. The bartender fetched a bucket and mop to wipe up the spilled alcohol.

"So…" the alchemist began hesitantly, plucking bits of broken glass from the floorboards, "do you always run a restaurant by yourself?"

The bartender flushed a little and concentrated on wringing out the mop.

"My father's usually here with me, but he had to go pick up an order at the grocery store. He and I – oh!"

She straightened up, leaned the mop against a bar stool, and stuck out a hand.

"I'm sorry, I didn't bother to introduce myself. My name's Miho Nosaka."

The alchemist ducked beneath her extended arm, repaired the beer bottle with a quick alchemic reaction, shoved the bottle into her outstretched hand, and retreated to a table.

"Nice to meet you, Miho."

Miho looked from him to the bottle in her hand and back again. He had assumed a cross-legged position on the long bench, back resting against the edge of the table, and was inspecting the palms of his gloves as if something were written there. His skinny frame was draped in a long, crimson overcoat with a pair of white stripes running along the hems. The outfit underneath was mostly covered by the coat but seemed to consist of thick-soled boots and a lot of black leather. He rested his elbows on the table behind him and met her gaze.

"I'd like to rent a room, please."

Miho realized that she had been staring and snapped back into businesswoman mode. Slipping behind the counter, she tossed the beer bottle in the trash and opened a thick ledger, which she propped against the coffee machine.

"For how long?"

He chewed on his lower lip, dark eyes darting across the floor. "Erm… three days should do it."

"What shall I put your name as?"

"Ryou Bakura."

For a long moment the restaurant was silent except for the scribbling of Miho's ballpoint pen. A thin shower of dust fell from the ceiling as someone walked by on the floor above.

Miho triple-checked her addition and, satisfied, opened her mouth to give him the price, but the sentence died before it had even begun, drowned out by a door swinging open next to the soda machine. A thin, balding man in a business suit with worn patches on the elbows entered the space behind the counter, laden down with grocery bags.

"Daddy!" Miho dropped the pen and flitted around her father like a moth around a light. "Let me help you with those."

"No, sweetheart, I'm all right."

Her father gave her a gentle but tired smile that accentuated the lines around his mouth and eyes. He dumped the bags on the counter and opened a small refrigerator, shifting a few boxes inside to make room for more.

"Anything happen while I was gone? The smoothie machine didn't start leaking again, did it? I called Mark about that, and he said he'd come by to take a look at it."

"We had two customers start a fight. Watch out, Daddy; two of the wineglasses broke."

The alchemist jumped up and perched on his knees on a barstool, reaching over the counter for the shattered glass.

"Give it here. I can fix it for you."

Mr. Nosaka, who had turned around to stare incredulously at his daughter, glanced at Ryou and did a double take. His eyebrows shot up towards his receding hairline, and his mouth hung open a little, tongue working to form the appropriate words. Ryou shrank back slightly, sinking lower on the stool's padded seat.

"It's okay, Daddy. No one got hurt. They'd had a little too much to drink, that's all; I think they brought more beer from home to get around the two-drink limit. Ryou got rid of them." Miho made a vague gesture in Ryou's direction, shooting a worried look first at him and then at her father.

Mr. Nosaka visibly relaxed. "Oh, all right then." The smile reappeared, still tired-looking but sincerely grateful. Like his daughter, he stuck out a hand for Ryou to shake.

"Thank you… was it Ryou?"

Ryou bobbed his head; his expression was still nervous, and he didn't accept the man's proffered hand. "Ryou Bakura."

Miho bustled around her father, sweeping up the bits of glass with a broom and an old metal dustpan. A few locks of brown hair had escaped from her ponytail, and she paused every few seconds to brush them out of her face before finally setting down the dustpan and re-doing the ponytail, unknotting the yellow ribbon that secured it. Ryou leaned so far over the countertop that he was practically lying on top of it, reaching for the pan full of broken glass.

"Please, I can fix them."

Mr. Nosaka laid a hand on the boy's arm. "It's all right. You've done enough already."

"No, Daddy, he really can fix them." Miho lifted the dustpan up to Ryou's questing hands. "Watch what he does."

Ryou arranged the bits of glass along the countertop, clapped his hands, and held his palms directly above the scattered shards; light flickered briefly, and the wineglasses repaired themselves, sparkling in the muted glow from the overhead lights.

Mr. Nosaka pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and picked up first one glass, then the other, running his fingers all over their smooth surfaces as if he didn't trust his vision.

"That's incredible." He shook his head in wonder, muttering jumbled words of praise. "Just… incredible. Amazing. Where did you learn alchemy, son?"

Ryou gave them a thin, enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Miho thought she detected a speck of bitterness in his tone as he replied, "Well… I've had several teachers. I travel quite a bit."

Both Nosakas stared at him for a moment, silently imploring him to continue, but he returned to scrutinizing his gloves in a manner that effectively closed the conversation.

Mr. Nosaka opened the kitchen door and stepped out, shaking his head one more time. "Simply amazing."

"Mmmm-hmmm," a new voice drawled from the front of the room. "Very impressive and all, but while you're sitting around chatting about beginner's alchemy, the other customers are going without service."

The words had an edge to them, the result of an accent Miho couldn't place. They had come from a young man who was lounging in a rickety wooden chair next to the open door, feet propped up on the closest table and arms folded across his chest. A patched, torn, purple cloak fell off his shoulders, fastened at his collarbones by a round pin engraved with an odd, hourglass-like symbol. The rest of his clothes were in a similar state of disrepair, but the gold bands that climbed his wrists and neck were polished; they caught the light when he shifted his position, forcing Miho to look away.

Ryou slid forward on his stool, pressing his chest against the edge of the counter. Beneath the tight buckles of his leather jacket and the cotton shirt underneath that, a little shiver of pain ran through his torso, and the cold metal of his pendant grew warm against his skin. The stranger reeked of something Ryou had only felt once before – it was a smell, but it wasn't; it was a vibration in the air, but it wasn't. On some level, imperceptible to everything except the golden tines twitching against his chest, the other boy stood out like a brush fire on a darkened plain. Even if he hadn't heard the footsteps striding heavily across the floorboards behind him, Ryou would have known that the stranger was approaching the bar.

The strange boy shot the pale-haired alchemist a cursory glance and leaned on the counter, coming face-to-face with Miho.

"Seriously, what does a weary traveler have to do to get service around here?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Miho stammered. Her fingers fumbled for a glass. "Could I get you something to drink?"

"Ice water. Some for him, too." The boy jerked his head at a tall, broad-shouldered man who had just come in from the porch, lugging a heavy suitcase under each arm.

Miho raced over to the fridge and jammed both glasses into the dispenser, one under the ice chute and the other under water. The tall man, who had an angular, tattooed face half-hidden by the hood of a loose cloak, didn't frighten her nearly half as much as the boy did. There was something about the boy's eyes that was unsettling; they were an unnatural color, an odd lavender hue that seemed tainted by something darker. Something dangerous.

The strange boy was so close to Ryou that their shoulders were practically touching. At this proximity, the sensation Ryou was receiving from his pendant was so strong that his breath caught in his chest. Swallowing hard against the nausea clawing up his throat, he slid to the next bar stool and released a pent-up sigh as the dizzying vibes ebbed.

His movement and erratic breathing attracted the strange boy's attention. Flicking untidy, khaki-colored hair out of his face, he turned his disconcerting gaze on Ryou. For a moment his lavender eyes met Ryou's deep brown ones, but they didn't rest in one place for long, taking in Ryou's pale skin, white hair, and crimson cloak. Ryou similarly studied him, noting the metallic plates that guarded the backs of his hands and the bulging pockets of his leather vest. The strange boy had the kind of exotic looks that Ryou felt sure the girls back home would have loved; he had the dark skin of an Ishbalan, but not the red eyes. Kohl lay thick on his eyelids and snaked along his cheekbones, tapering to a fine point halfway across his cheeks. As the two boys observed each other, the dark-skinned boy's thin lips slowly curved into a wicked smirk.

"You're lucky that girl and her father don't know more about alchemy." His voice had dropped in volume, but Ryou had no trouble hearing it even over the racket of the ice dispenser. "You'd cause quite a stir around here if the locals found out you don't need transmutation circles."

Ryou's nerves had been rattled enough without an observation like that, especially since the stranger's sly grin widened when he saw the look of horror that spread across the young alchemist's face. In a panic, Ryou jumped up from his stool. His elbow knocked one of the newly repaired wineglasses to the floor, shattering it again. Both boys turned towards Miho; she was rummaging through a cupboard at the far end of the bar and apparently hadn't heard the crash. The strange boy winked at Ryou, pushed away from the counter, and knelt on the floor.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, ghost-boy."

Eyes never leaving Ryou's face, he clapped his hands once and almost lazily laid his palms on the floorboards to either side of the shards of glass. Jagged flickers of light danced between his hands; Ryou blinked, and the wineglass was whole again. The strange boy straightened and handed the glass to him.

"Try not to break it again, will you?" He smirked again, flashing Ryou a glimpse of even white teeth. His expression quickly slid into a pout as he leaned back on the counter. "Will you hurry up?"

Miho dashed over, almost tripping on the broom in her hurry. She plunked two large glasses of ice water – complete with bendy straws – on the countertop, pulled out her ledger, and flipped it open to a blank page.

"Will you be staying with us tonight? You and the… er… other gentleman back there?"

The boy glanced over his shoulder at the tall, cloaked man, who had dumped the suitcases in a booth and was holding a newspaper upside down. Turning back to Miho, he sighed with the mock-exhausted air of someone who blows mild inconveniences into dire sufferings.

"Yes, him too."

"So you'll want Room Two. It's the only room left with… two… single… beds…" Her voice trailed off, and she rapidly flipped through the first few pages of the ledger. "Ryou…" She looked up at him and gnawed on her lower lip for a moment before speaking again. "We're… we're booked up. Would it be all right if you took the attic room? I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, of course. It's got air conditioning and all the other features. It's just… a little hard to get to."

Ryou shrugged. "Well, I… As long as it's cheap." He managed a small smile for Miho's benefit and was gratified to see her shoulders relax.

"Okay. Well, then everything's all set. What shall I put your name as, sir?"

The stranger bowed his head to inspect his hand guards and pretended he hadn't heard her, though Ryou saw his eyes flick in her direction twice. He looked up right as Miho opened her mouth to ask the question again.

"What, were you talking to me?"

Miho tilted her head, frowning slightly. "…Yes."

The boy stared at her for a moment longer, mouth open a little, then ducked his head again and scratched a fingernail along the gold bands on his wrist. "Put my name down as Namu."

"Namu what?"

"Just Namu." He rested his chin on his hand and scanned the menu above the bar. "And I'll have two orders of whatever can be cooked the fastest."

Room Two was at the end of the hallway closest to the stairs, across from a storage room. When Miho opened the door, both light bulbs simultaneously fizzled out.

"Sorry about that." She shot her guests an apologetic grin and slipped under the tall man's arm, fumbling through her pockets until she found the storage room key.

The tall man lugged the suitcases into the room while Namu made himself comfortable on one of the single beds, not bothering to kick off his sneakers. He watched Miho scramble back and forth across the hallway, bringing in light bulbs and a stepladder, taking the stepladder back once she had changed the bulb in the ceiling light, discovering that the other bulb wasn't the right wattage and returning it to storage. Once she had found the correct bulb, she insisted on checking the lights by flicking them on and off several times, much to Namu's displeasure. Finally the tall man placed a gentle but firm hand on Miho's back and steered her out of the room.

"We'll be all right, miss. You should go; don't you have other customers waiting?"

His voice was deep and could easily have been intimidating, but it was laced with a gentleness that his teenage partner's tone lacked. Miho pointed out a card detailing the numbers to call for room service and then finally left. Namu let his head drop back onto the threadbare comforter, rolling his eyes up to stare at the ceiling.

"Close the door, will you, Rishid?"

But the door swung shut before the tall man could reach it, pushed by a dark-skinned hand protruding from the loose sleeve of flowing, cream-colored robes.

Namu bolted to his feet. "Who the hell are you?"

The man fixed Namu with a piercing gaze, his kohl-ringed eyes and narrow face completely emotionless. He made no attempt to move further into the room, choosing to remain where the lamplight caught the golden ankh around his neck and deepened the shadows cast over his face by his turban.

"I asked who the hell you are."

"That is not important." The man's voice was oddly flat despite it being more deeply accented than Namu's or Rishid's. "I am merely a messenger, bearing news for the weary traveler from the Wind Country. Shall I call you Namu?" Here he paused, eyes sweeping meaningfully over the boy's blond hair. "Or would you prefer Malik Ishtar?"

"Get out." Malik's hand strayed to something beneath his cloak. "And tell the rest of those damned Tombkeepers that not even the Wind Country's entire shinobi army can bring me back! I'd sooner be speared by a thousand kunai knives than rot in that hellhole, serving a king who died three thousand years ago!"

The man's impassive pale eyes met Malik's incensed lavender ones. When he spoke, it was in no more than a whisper, but Malik heard every word as clearly as if it had been shouted into his ear.

"There are rumors in the Wind Country of a new king, set to officially take the throne in thirty days. Few people have seen him. But the ones who have say that he has strange eyes like you do, that his appearance brings to mind the pharaohs of legend."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"They say that he wears a golden pendant around his neck. A pendant…" He paused again and lowered his head, though his eyes never left Malik's. "…that bears the Eye of Horus."

Malik yanked a golden scepter from his belt and thrust it towards the turbaned man, feeling the metal heat up in response to his call for its power. It was a skill he had taught himself; the sheer force of his will, coupled with the magic his clan commanded, would override the man's mental defenses and leave him in a state of total surrender. Behind him, Rishid lifted a hand as if to stop his young companion.

"Master Malik, you mustn't…"

Malik was keenly aware of the blood racing through his veins. His heartbeat had sped up, and his vision was starting to blur. For the briefest instant, he saw himself through the other man's eyes, standing mere feet away with arms and legs tensed, but then something hit him like a high-speed train and sent his mental self reeling. Of course the man would know how to defend himself from an assault on his free will; he was one of the Tombkeepers, after all. Malik gathered his senses, imagining himself as a cobra coiled and ready to strike, and lashed out again with every ounce of mental strength he possessed. This time the man didn't raise his defenses fast enough, and Malik shoved his way through.

Rishid saw his master's expression of triumph quickly twist into one of astonishment, then pain. He stepped forward, caught Malik as he fell backwards, and guided him to the bed.

Clinging to Rishid's arm, Malik sat down heavily on the end of the mattress. The golden scepter almost slipped from his hands as he met the eyes of the turbaned man and thought he detected a hint of a smile playing across the man's face.

"I am not to be taken lightly, Rod-keeper. Neither is the storm brewing on the horizon. The winds are swift; it will not be long before foul weather catches up to you."

Malik lowered his gaze and did not respond. Rishid watched him, brow furrowed in concern. The turbaned man allowed the smile to grace his lips without restraint, and his eyes flashed a hint of bitter amusement.

"The boy in the attic… he brings to mind the legends of old as well, does he not? White hair and a crimson cloak…"

"I don't want anything to do with him!" Malik burst out. "Or your false king!"

The man opened the door but didn't make any motion to leave the room. "I think you do. Why else would you have shown him that you too can perform alchemy without an array? The boy does not know what power he wields. If you could sway him… influence him… it would provide an extra barrier for those who would hunt you down."

"Look, I didn't know he'd be here. I didn't even know the Ring had found a bearer."

Malik met the man's eyes for the first time since their mental struggle, but the teenager almost immediately looked away, scanning the room with a deliberate air, as if he were frightened but forcing himself to keep a calm front. Rishid's concern grew to alarm, and he stood, prepared to move between his master and the man who was distressing him so.

Seeing Rishid's motion, the turbaned man took a backward step into the doorway.

"You cannot run from your destiny, Malik Ishtar."

And then he was gone, closing the door lightly behind him.

Malik rested his elbows on his thighs and pressed his face into his upturned hands.

"Rishid."

"Yes, master Malik?"

"You can see him too, right? The man in the turban?"

"Yes, master."

"Good." Malik lifted his head and stared at the window, though it was obvious from his pensive expression that his mind was anywhere but the view of the street that stretched past the inn. "I… thought maybe… Wouldn't like to find out that I'm crazier than I already am."

"That reminds me, master." Rishid crossed to one of the suitcases and slipped a small, black pouch out of an inner pocket. "You should take your medicine."

Malik absentmindedly accepted the pair of white pills Rishid offered him and swallowed them without water. He continued to stare off into the middle distance, tossing the golden scepter between his hands.

"Rishid, the day my father –"

Rishid waited, but Malik didn't complete the sentence, shaking his head fiercely instead. A few minutes passed in total silence; Rishid, assuming there was no more to be said, stood and turned to begin unpacking the suitcases.

"That man… His mind was so… vast. There was so much there that I couldn't… I had to withdraw. I don't think the Millennium Rod could have found the bottom."

Malik rolled the scepter between his palms, stopping every now and then to uneasily run his thumb across the Eye of Horus carved on the head.

As soon as Miho opened the storage room door, Ryou could see why she had called the attic room "hard to get to." An obstacle course of cardboard boxes, bed sheets sealed in plastic packaging, and discarded scraps of bubble wrap spread across the uncarpeted floor, like the remnants of a train wreck. Miho grabbed a large broom and began plowing through the mess.

"I'm really sorry, Ryou. No one's stayed in the attic room for a while… I mean, we go up there to clean it sometimes, of course, but we haven't organized the storage room since our last bulk buy of bathroom towels…"

Ryou helped her wrestle a heavy box onto one of the high shelves. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see that she was watching him closely, only looking away for a couple seconds at a time to pick up a box or package.

Once they had cleared a path down the middle of the storage room, Miho leaned the broom against the back wall and began jumping up and down, arms stretched above her head as if she were a toddler reaching for a toy dangled just out of her grasp. Ryou stood back and watched her uncertainly. On the fourth jump she caught hold of a cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled; a panel swung open and a metal staircase unfolded itself with a reluctant screech, extending from a space just above the ceiling to the storage room floor. Miho dusted her hands off on her skirt.

"There you go. The room's right at the top of the stairs. No door up there, but you can lock the storage room door at night for privacy."

Ryou eyed the staircase apprehensively. It was obviously as old as the rest of the inn – so much of the paint had flaked off that bare metal was in the majority – and he had serious doubts about whether or not it would support his weight. He gingerly placed a foot on the lowest step and applied as much pressure as he could; the stairs creaked, but nothing snapped off or collapsed. Praying for the sudden, miraculous appearance of a handrail, he scrambled upwards and hauled himself with both hands onto the stable hardwood floor at the top.

"The restaurant closes at ten o'clock," Miho called from below. "Before then you're welcome to come down if you need anything." She waved and walked out of his line of vision, only to reappear seconds later. "Oh, I forgot. There's no bathroom up there, so you'll need to come down and use the one in the restaurant. I'll leave it unlocked."

He flashed her the thumbs-up sign, which she returned before stepping out of sight for good.

Ryou stood and paced back and forth in the small landing, testing the effects of his heavy boots against the floorboards. Nothing buckled or broke, and it didn't take him long to gain sufficient confidence to stride the length of the room without testing where he was going to step first. The stairwell – if you could call it that – was hidden from the rest of the room by a waist-high divider, which also supported two nightstands and the headboard of a single bed. The wall across from the bed sported a built-in desk covered in dusty travel magazines. Two armchairs swathed in dust covers crouched beneath a floor lamp, surrounding a small table tucked under the wall-mounted TV. Three of the walls bowed inward at chest height to accommodate the slant of the roof. One corner was partitioned off to create a separate room roughly the size of a typical hotel bathroom, and despite Miho's earlier claim, Ryou assumed that was what it was. But upon opening the door, he discovered that it was really a walk-in closet with a handful of clothes hangers dangling forlornly over a small heap of mothballs and a few dead cockroaches.

As he stepped back and made to close the door, a glint caught his eye and stopped him. A frameless full-length mirror had been mounted on the back of the door, and Ryou, who rarely paid attention to his appearance, cracked a rueful smile at what he saw. The heat had made his hair limp, and it clung to his forehead and the sides of his face. His pale skin was accentuated all the more by the dark leather he wore beneath the red cloak; it was little wonder the stranger in the restaurant had called him "ghost-boy."

The recollection of the word "ghost" made Ryou's smile fade. Rubbing idly at a small splotch of dirt on the glass, he let his gaze wander across everything else reflected in the mirror. Nothing seemed to be out of place, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief – which was abruptly cut short when a second person stepped into the reflection, standing just behind Ryou's right shoulder. The young alchemist didn't dare turn around. Hard experience had taught him that it was actually easier to see this person in reflective surfaces, and he wanted to keep an eye on his visitor's every move.

The two of them could have passed as twins; the resemblance was uncanny, down to the identical small tears in the hems of their matching overcoats. A trained eye might notice that the second person's pale hair was a little wilder, his facial features a little sharper, but the real difference lay in their eyes: Ryou's were soft and revealed a gentle nature that the other person entirely lacked, his eyes glinting instead with an eerie spark of crimson. Seeing Ryou's shoulders stiffen, the wraith's thin lips pulled back from his teeth, exposing elongated canines.

"And how does the evening find my host?"

The voice was different from Ryou's too, deeper and raspier. Even when he spoke, his lips never lost the shape of their disconcerting smirk.

"What do you want?" Ryou asked with uncharacteristic coldness.

The other person shrugged and crossed to the bed, moving out of the mirror's range and forcing Ryou to turn and look at him. Moonlight from the window above the stairs passed right through him and fell uninterrupted on the floor. Ryou could see the nightstand through the chest of his ghostly visitor.

The spirit spoke again. "I'm merely checking up on my landlord, that's all." He stretched like a cat, gloved hand passing right through the edge of the bed, and then turned to gaze out the window. "So this town is the origin of those brothers you speak of."

Ryou closed the closet door, took off his coat, and draped it over the back of an armchair, never taking his eyes off the spirit.

"Yes, the Elric brothers."

"The ones who found the Philosopher's Stone."

"No," Ryou corrected. "Well… maybe. No one knows what really happened – except the brothers, of course, but they're dead – "

The spirit snickered. "I suppose that means they didn't know how to use the Stone properly."

"We don't know if they found it."

"The younger one retrieved his body from the Gate."

"…Maybe there's a way to do that with some other type of magic." The spirit hated being challenged, which meant Ryou was treading dangerous ground, but his ghostly counterpart seemed to be in a stable mood – for now.

The spirit shot Ryou a dangerous glare, making the boy cringe, but the angry gleam in his eyes subsided with unusual speed.

"If there were another way, I would have found it by now."

Ryou fidgeted. "There are… there are stories about what happens if you use the Philosopher's Stone…"

"…Yes?"

"…There are… side effects."

"And you think I care? I've already died once, boy. There's nothing that could be worse than what I've seen."

Silence spread over the room like storm clouds rolling in to cover the sky. The boy and the ghost remained perfectly still until Ryou finally couldn't stand it any longer and stepped forward to collapse on the bed, unfastening his leather jacket. The spirit watched him grope for the string around his neck and draw a golden pendant from beneath his undershirt, holding it up to the moonlight like an offering to the gods. True to its name, the pendant was in the shape of a ring, with five tines dangling from the outer edge and a triangular piece carved with the Eye of Horus in the center. In the silver half-light the eye almost seemed to be moving, shifting its gaze from Ryou to the ghost and back again.

"…Spirit?"

"What, host?"

"What about that boy in the restaurant? He could do alchemy without a circle." When the spirit didn't answer, Ryou pressed on. "He had the same… vibe as that man we saw in Central."

"We'll have to keep on eye on him, but we'll have to make sure he doesn't get suspicious." The spirit turned away so Ryou wouldn't catch the smirk that played across his face. "Can't risk any damage to you… either physically or mentally."

Ryou considered asking questions but almost immediately decided against it. Against his better judgment, his eyelids were drooping so low that only a sliver of his brown irises could be seen and the spirit's translucent image was made blurry by his eyelashes. Ryou blinked, and the ghost vanished altogether, though his presence still hung in the room like a faint whiff of cigar smoke.

Several minutes passed before the spirit's hoarse voice floated out of the darkness again.

"Get some sleep, host. You'll need it." His tone left no room for protest. "Tomorrow we will not rest until answers are found."

The crescent moon on the inn's neon sign flickered, alternately illuminating and throwing into shadow the moths that hovered nearby. It was a poor imitation of the real thing, which sagged low over the roofs of Resembool in the distance. Shadows hung from the porch-roof eaves like cobwebs; along the walls they clustered in bunches so thick that the girl sliding through them didn't bother to use any kind of cloaking jutsu.

She paused before rounding the corner and pressed an ear to the wall, but heard nothing save for the soft buzz of electric current running to the neon sign. All the windows were darkened, and a quick peek showed that the restaurant was deserted. The front door was locked, but a small detail like that had never stopped a shinobi before.

She crept through the restaurant and up the stairs, keeping close to the wall where the worn boards were less likely to creak. The floor in the upstairs hallway was carpeted, softening her steps, and it was the work of mere seconds to pick the lock on the door of Room Two.

Both occupants were sprawled on top of the sheets – the tall, muscular one was in the bed furthest from the door, which worked out nicely; he was a secondary target. The kunoichi positioned herself at the bedside of her primary concern, keeping away from the window so her shadow would not fall across him. The moonlight seeping through the Venetian blinds highlighted the golden bands around his neck and the kohl he had not bothered to wash off, and for a moment she hesitated, eyes lingering on his youthful face and tousled hair. Suddenly one arm twitched, fingers lifting a little as if grasping for an unseen object, and he muttered something indistinct before falling still again. The kunoichi shook herself. Gripping a kunai handle in her teeth, she placed a hand on his wrist, applying the lightest touch possible, ready to restrain his arm if need be. Her free hand snaked over his chest and groped for the golden scepter cradled in the crook of his other arm.

Suddenly his limbs jerked and instinctively curled into the fetal position, trapping the scepter's handle beneath his body. The kunoichi sprang backwards and took up a defensive position near the foot of the bed, but the boy's only action was to mumble something that sounded like a child's whine. She relaxed; he was dreaming. Fingers loosely closed around his wrist, she leaned over him, grasped the head of the scepter, and began to ease it out from beneath him.

Malik was dimly aware of an uncomfortable pressure on his ribcage, as if he were lying on top of something hard; that tended to happen when one slept in one's clothes. It might not have been enough to wake him if the pressure hadn't suddenly changed, completely disappearing from one area and growing stronger in another directly to the side. Whatever he was lying on was steadily moving out from underneath him.

Groggily, he started to reach across his chest to pull the object out and toss it aside, but something clamped down on his wrist, restraining his arm. Jarred awake, Malik automatically lashed out with his three free limbs, knocking away the arm of someone who was leaning over him as if reaching for the Millennium Rod. Immediately the stranger shoved his head back onto the pillow and twisted the captured arm behind his back, but Malik had a grip on the Rod's handle. He swung it upwards, smashing it into his attacker's face. The person released him, and he heard something strike the floor as if the assailant had landed a jump. He shoved himself up into a sitting position, trying to get his feet underneath him, and quickly had to duck two shuriken that slashed past his shoulders. His attacker had sprung out of his reach and assumed a battle pose near the wardrobe, hands bristling with knives and throwing stars. The darkness made it difficult to see details, but the figure was obviously female, and she had what appeared to be a large box slung across her back. Malik mentally reached for the Millennium Rod's power. There was certainly a weapon in that box, and he didn't want to give her the chance to use it.

The kunoichi saw him begin to raise the scepter and, with a flick of her wrist, skimmed two shuriken over his knuckles. The boy swore and rolled sideways off the bed, but did not loosen his grip on the Rod. She waited for him to leap to his feet; as if sensing her intentions, he remained crouched behind the bed, where she couldn't see him. Kunai raised, she edged forward.

Then something tugged at the edge of her thoughts, pulling them away from physical combat. At first she identified it as a nagging feeling of forgetfulness, as if she had neglected something vital to the mission, but as it wormed its way inward, a gasp escaped both her mental and physical selves. Another presence had invaded her mind, scattering coherent thoughts left and right as it plowed through her free will, bringing with it the acrid smell of corruption. Faintly she could hear metallic clatters as her fingers went limp and weapons dropped to the floor. She had been warned about this. She had been warned…

A boy's voice, words lilted with the accent of one bred in the Wind Country, reverberated through the vast empty space where all thoughts of combat and the mission had been.

"Hmm, so I'm now listed as an S-class criminal? Important enough to merit a call to the ninja village, am I?" Grating laughter. "Here's some advice: Never accept a mission unless you know what you're dealing with."

The last thing the kunoichi saw was a sudden explosion of stars that cartwheeled before her eyes, and then everything – the lights, the room, the harsh laughter – was swallowed up by darkness.

Rishid shifted his gaze from the girl prone on the floor to the lamp he had struck her with, still clasped in his large hands.

"Master Malik…?"

Malik came around the bed and rolled the girl onto her side, squinting in the darkness to see if he recognized her face.

"Get some rope."

"We don't have any, master Malik."

"Then get some tape or some bed sheets! Anything we can use to restrain her."

Those who called the Crescent Moon Inn "stable" had been proven very, very wrong.

Notes, Homages, and General Ramblings:

1) First off, the title of this section is modified from a segment Scribbler often puts at the ends of her stories called "Side-Flings, Homages, and Downright Rip-Offs." If you're a Yu-Gi-Oh, X-Men, Teen Titans, Sonic the Hedgehog, or Xaolin Showdown buff, I suggest you go check out her stuff. She's brilliant.

2) The Crescent Moon Inn is named after the Crescent Moon Motel in a wonderful book called "Faith, Hope, and Chicken Feathers" by Andrea Wyman. (It was one of my favorites as a kid.)

3) "The younger one retrieved his body from the gate."

Since the FMA manga hasn't ended, I had to come up with my own conclusion. Apparently Al's body was alive at the Gate in a recent manga chapter that I haven't seen yet, and I'm a sucker for happy endings, so I decided that my dear Al would get his body back. You got a problem with that? XD

A/N: Bwahaha, I'm so excited. I've been working hard on this story.

Anyway, I would really appreciate it if you would hit the review button and drop me a little note pointing out anything you think could be improved. The last two scenes in particular were difficult for me to write, and I think they still need a little work. But please do not complain about the length of the chapters (as my cousin has been doing) or how long it takes me to update. I'm not going to sacrifice writing quality just so I can post the chapters faster.

Okay, these author's notes are making me sound nitpicky and mean, but I'm not, I promise. I'm really a nice person; don't be afraid to ask me questions or point out things that confuse you.

Next chapter: Ryou heads off to the museum, Miho embarrasses herself, and Rishid is stuck with guard duty.

Please check my bio page for updates!