Retribution for the Wronged

by GreenAppleIce

AU. There once was a shadow house in the forest. Five people went in...and five people stayed in. M for some violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.
A/N: I know it's late, but happy anniversary, Lava Alchemist, you totally awesome person you ^.^
WARNINGS: Aside from being an AU, this fic contains some goriness and character deaths. Happy reading!

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"Heads up!" roared Roy Mustang, straining to be heard over the deafening cacophony of blasts and shouting. The men and women around him immediately hunched down even further into the trench, pressing close against the hard dirt walls to make some room for the Colonel. Mustang raised his right arm as high as he dared, not wanting some wayward bullet to blow off his limbs. The more pressing matter was flying through the air straight towards the trench. Keeping his eyes fixed upon the incoming high explosive shell, Mustang extended his fingers. Immediately, flames shot out of his fingertips, streaked upwards, and then engulfed the shell in a furious inferno at the clenching of his fist. The shell exploded in the sky, far away from its intended target.

Mustang wiped off some of the sweat gathered on his forehead, his eyes constantly scanning what horizon and sky could be seen over the top of the trench for any impeding threats. Yet, even while being so vigilant, Mustang could not block out the screams of soldiers- the wounded cries of good men and women fighting tooth and nail for their country. It pained Mustang to hear his soldiers come to an untimely death even though he knew that they had understood what they were getting themselves into.

War. It was probably the closest thing to hell Mustang had ever experienced. With the people he knew falling left and right, the stress of always being in danger, the hasty and barely adequate living conditions, the agony from various injuries, and a million other things, it was a wonder that Mustang hadn't gone completely off his rocket by now. Then again, war did have a funny way of hardening those not shipped off to the loony bin.

Perhaps Mustang hadn't totally lost his mind after so many trips to the battlefield, but it didn't mean that the nonstop violence had left him untouched. After all, how else could he explain the fact that he was somewhat glad to be where he was? A lot of that had to do with his comrades, reasoned Mustang as he sent out his flames once more to destroy yet another missile. Given the choice, if he had to die from causes other than old age and sickness (something that he wasn't planning to do anytime soon), he would rather die fighting alongside his most trusted subordinates and friends. With the ones he could always depend on and entrust his life to, maybe dying wouldn't be so bad.

A stray bullet from behind whizzed past him, grazing his cheek and narrowly missing his eye. "Hey, careful with that!" he yelled over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving the situation in the front. His ears picked up the faint mumbles of a quick apology, so Mustang redirected his full attention ahead. He wasn't mad; everyone was bound to make a mistake sometime, and engaging in petty squabbles and grudges would only ensure a quick death due to lack of concentration. Mustang believed that regardless of what happened on the battlefield, the bonds between him and his comrades would never change. Armstrong, Breda, Falman, Fury, Havoc, Hawkeye, Hughes- they were going to stick by him for eternity and longer, and he was glad to return the favor.

Perched precariously on top of a tree branch, the dark figure observed the group of five through a set of high-tech binoculars. "All of you have become so careless," he muttered, shaking his head slightly in disappointment. He twiddled with the knob on the side of the ocular device until the image came into sharp focus. "Just because I have powers doesn't mean that I need to use them for every little thing." The corner of his lips turned up in a smirk. Perhaps his abilities weren't necessary for everything, but they certainly did make his life much simpler. For example, take the gentleman from whom he had received the binoculars. The elderly shopkeeper had, for some inexplicable reason, refused to peacefully hand over the device. As a result, he had no choice but to resort to more…persuasive measures. Shifting on the branch, the enigmatic figure dismissed the memory of the old man. Someone would've found the body by now.

He returned to the task at hand, one which was growing more and more tedious by the second. He couldn't make out their voices at this distance, but, from the serious expressions and staring as the oldest member of the group doodled on the forest ground, he guessed (and his guesses were nearly always spot on) that they were going over last-minutes strategies on how to infiltrate the enormous structure standing meters ahead of them. "Why," he wondered out loud to no human in particular, "must you go explore that place? There's nothing of importance there at the moment." The group obviously couldn't hear his one-sided objections, so they carried on with their quaint little plan-making. As such, the hushed stirring of the shadows escaped their normally diligent notice.

The one sitting in a tree, on the other hand, brightened up considerably upon sensing the minor disquietude. "There you are," he cooed happily, arm automatically reaching out. The shadows on the tree branch peeled itself from the bark and surged towards him, twining around his hand and snaking up his arm. "Hey, that tickles," he giggled, using his free hand to pet the creature in the proximity of what could currently be called its head. It butted his palm dotingly, feeling both solid and wispy, before flowing further up to wrap around his shoulders like a cloak just as a chilly breeze swept past. He hummed appreciatively, basking in the unexpected warmth of darkness that never ceased to amaze him. His eyelids slid closed for a few blissful seconds. Then, they snapped back open to reveal large, round, pitch-black pupils guaranteed to creep the living daylights out of any unsuspecting passerby.

"I'm tired," he complained to the indefinite shape presently serving as his makeshift cloak, voice tinged with a childish petulance. He squirmed uncomfortably. "And this branch is making me itch," he added, declaration accompanied by a mild sulk. The ever-fluid darkness shifted outwards, tenderly enveloping his body completely. It slowly lifted him into the air and floated down to the leaf-covered ground where it carefully set him on his feet. It retreated slightly from his form, hovering here and there as it awaited further instructions. "Thank you," he said politely, patting his spotless clothes free of imaginary flecks of dust. He beckoned his head down toward a trapdoor well concealed by the thick foliage. The shadows eased through the cracks in the wood, lifting the cover with ease to unearth a long tunnel. "Come. We have better things to do than sit around watching those incompetent fools play treasure hunt."

"It's okay," whispered Alphonse Elric to the precious cutie cradled in his arms. She stared up at him adoringly with wide eyes- eyes that Al hoped would never lose their innocence. "Big Brother didn't mean all that stuff about you being evil. He just doesn't know you that well," he apologized. Ed's exact words were "the incarnation of Lucifer himself and all of Hell combined," but Al didn't feel that she needed to hear the phrase (he'd covered her ears while his brother was ranting). Such cruel words were unbefitting of one as adorable as her. "But don't worry. No matter what he says, I definitely won't abandon you, May," he vowed as he stroked the top of her head comfortingly.

After looking around to make sure that a certain short (he didn't even dare to think the word in front of Ed) older brother was nowhere in sight, Al produced a small metal key from his pocket and inserted it into the door's keyhole. Twisting the key induced the clicking of a lock being open. Al checked behind him one more time (just in case) and waved the oak door open. He was greeted by no less than ten furry little bodies, meowing their salutations and clamoring for his attention. Al broke into a huge grin. "Hey, everyone." He knelt down slowly, taking care not to crush the kittens rubbing against his ankles, and lowered the little one in his arms to the floor. "I brought home a new friend for you. Her name's May Chang." The kittens all move closer, curiously examining the newcomer. May regally sat under their scrutiny with her head held high. After a while, one of the older kittens, the red-eyed one named Scar, padded forward and gave May a small lick of approval. May purred happily, and the kittens moved off to play.

Satisfied that May was going to fit in perfectly fine, Al stood back up. A quick glance at his watch showed that it was about time for lunch, so he made his way across the room to fetch the cat food, avoiding any scampering kittens in his path. As usual, the kitten called Ling was camped out in front of cupboard, staring intently at the door as though hoping it would magically unlock itself and hand over its contents. "Just hold on a little longer, Ling," Al assured as he nudged the kitten out of the way with his way. "The food will be coming in a moment." Ling meowed as though in protest of the thirty second delay, but moved to wait with Lan Fan and Fu. Al spun the dial on the combination lock. He used to just leave the door closed, but Ling would always find a way in. Not that Ling was giving up just because Al interfered. Al could see a number of scratches and bite marks all around the lock and the door, approximately the amount of damage three kittens could inflict on a piece of furniture.

"I hope you're happy with yourselves," he admonished them, sliding the lock free of the metal hooks and crooking his finger. The wooden door swung out smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Al reached in and hoisted up a large bag of cat food; he also grabbed a few bowls with his free hand. Crouching down, he laid the bowls out in a row, evenly spaced apart. Afterwards, he ripped open the bag (incidentally tearing off half the face of a cartoon cat advertising "Meow-tastic Kitty Mix Delight") and shook it over each bowl, supposedly nutritious feline food tumbling out of the opening and into the ceramic dishes with a clatter. The next thing he knew, Al was surrounded by a mass of hungry fluff balls that attacked their meals with relish. "Whoa, easy," he winced as one enthusiastic kitten, Xiao-Mei, accidentally bit him. He extracted himself from the wriggling bodies and sat back to watch them eat. It really was a shame that his big brother couldn't appreciate how cute they were.

Ed grabbed the lapels of his black jacket and pulled it tighter around himself to retain some body heat. "Don't we have better things to do than sit around and play treasure hunt?" grumbled Ed. It wasn't as cold as some of the other places they'd gone to for missions, but neither was it weather suited for the Caribbean. Actually, a trip to the Caribbean Islands didn't sound so bad. Maybe he could go there with Winry after this. "It's freezing."

Al laid a hand on Ed's shoulder. "I'm sure that Dad has his reasons for bringing us all out here," he rationalized. Extreme weather didn't bother him too much, a trait that he was quite grateful for and which came in handy during their expeditions in Antarctica and the Sahara Desert. It had been rather brutal even for him, and he could only imagine what it must've been like for the rest of them.

Military clothes, Mustang decided, were better than no clothes at all (and he had been there). "Well, whatever those reasons are," he forced through chattering teeth, "they had better not be something like 'Oh, I just didn't want to go alone, and I thought that we could all go for dinner later.'" Unfortunately, Mustang had a nagging suspicion that those were the exact reasons why he was freezing his butt off instead of training newbies with Hawkeye.

Izumi rocked back and forth. Squatting down in house slippers wasn't the most comfortable position, but at least she'd coerced Ed into lending her his blessedly warm cloak. "Or we could just ask the boss himself," she suggested- the sooner they wrapped this up, the sooner she could go back home. After so many years of fighting, she'd gotten used to the team's company, but things just didn't feel the same when her dear Sig and Mason weren't around.

The four turned to look at the boss in question. Hohenheim was sketching diligently on the forest floor by using an index finger to direct the soil into place, intense focus lining the creases in his face. Hohenheim's eyebrows drew together, and he scratched his head thoughtfully before sweeping his hand above the dirt to blur the lines he'd just etched in the ground.

"He's probably drawing up some more strategy plans," offered Al. The other three nodded and went back to picking at stray twigs, none of them having the heart to break their leader's concentration.

Several minutes passed before Hohenheim straightened up, appearing quite pleased with himself. "Finished," he announced as he guided the last bits of dirt into position with a flick of his fingertips. Upon receiving no explanation, the four leaned forward, only to see that, instead of last-minute tactics, Hohenheim had drawn...

"Mom?" asked Ed disbelievingly. He and Al gaped at the startling likeness of Trisha Elric. There was no denying their mother's kind eyes, gentle smile, and ponytail…or their father's artistic abilities which neither of them, Ed in particular, seemed to have inherited.

"You made us wait so that you could draw a portrait of your wife," deadpanned Mustang, eyes running over the admittedly good image. Next to him, Izumi rubbed at her temples where a headache was starting to grow. Of all the times to be romantic and cheesy…

Hohenheim stood up akimbo. "Yup. Isn't she gorgeous?" He beamed proudly at his rendition of his lovely Trisha. "Of course, this doesn't do her beauty much justice," he confessed, somewhat saddened. "I didn't have enough time to add in all the details..."

"Achoo!" sneezed Izumi Curtis. Shaking her head good-naturedly, she stretched over to snag a soft, white tissue from the box sitting on the table set up within reaching distance of her couch. Now she knew for sure that someone was talking about her. "Shouldn't you two be paying attention to the customers instead of gossiping about me when you think I can't hear you?" she called, voice carrying through the crack in the partially shut door leading to the shop. There was awkward coughing as her words struck home, and much rustling as her husband and his assistant bustled back to work. Satisfied that things were back in order, Izumi laid back down on the couch. She couldn't blame them for talking though. After all, it wasn't everyday their family was expecting a baby.

Yes, the baby. Izumi smiled down at her pregnant belly, rubbing it tenderly. It had taken many years and more than one heartbroken visit to the hospital, but she and Sig had finally been able to conceive a child. The doctors couldn't believe it either. 'It was a miracle,' they proclaimed, 'an absolute miracle.' Izumi could care less whether it was because of magic or so many failed attempts, just that it happened and that the baby was due in a matter of weeks. There was an air of excitement in every corner of the house and shop, and the family (she and her husband had long since viewed Mason as one of their own) found it very difficult to conceal their joy. Mustang, Hohenheim, Ed, and Al teased her (though not too much since her short temper was still intact) for smiling so often. In the butcher shop, one could nearly always find Sig merrily hacking away at the meat and Mason spontaneously skipping and singing lullabies. For the first couple weeks, the customers were absolutely terrified, but they eventually got used to things.

Izumi and Sig hadn't decided what to call their child yet, but if it was a boy, there was no way she was naming it after any of her teammates, as fond as she was of them. Izumi had a theory that naming something after someone would cause a transfer of that someone's personality traits, including the negative ones. If she called the baby Roy, the real Mustang would most likely try to teach her kid the ways of the military before he could even walk. A childhood involving disarming rifles and battle tactics was a definite no. Being Hohenheim's first student, she supposed she could bestow her mentor's name upon her baby, but Hohenheim was absentminded and sentimental far too often for her liking. As for Edward and Alphonse, there was no telling what kind of trouble her darling would get into. She'd only trained them at their father's request (darn that Mustang for conveniently being on vacation), and she'd never encountered two people so prone to danger as the brothers.

As though to second her verdict, the unborn child in Izumi's womb lashed out with a sturdy kick. "Unh," she gasped, arms curving around her belly. Izumi inhaled deeply. "You're a strong one, aren't you? Just like your parents." Once she caught her breath, she slowly lifted herself up to a sitting position, leaning against the arm of the sofa. The water pitcher on the table was empty, and it seemed like the shop had some customers, so Izumi placed her palm over the drinking glass beside the pitcher. A stream of fresh water poured in, filling it up to just below the rim. Izumi picked up the glass and sipped at the refreshing liquid. Only a few more weeks left until they welcomed a new member into the family.

Rolling his eyes, Ed planted both hands on his knees and pushed himself up. "That's great, Dad," he interjected midway through Hohenheim's passionate extolling of his wife's features. Ed brushed off the seat of his pants, grimacing at what he touched in the process. He did not want to know what that oozing gunk was. "We all understand that you love Mom, but why are we here?"

"Don't be rude, Big Brother." Al got up and just so happened to tread on Ed's foot in the process, eliciting an incoherent curse from the latter. Al smiled innocently in response to his brother's pointed glare before facing his father. "But yeah, Dad, why did you gather the Elementals today?" The wooden shack that he'd raised to shelter his stray kittens was warm enough, but what if one of them had wandered out through the cat flap?

Hohenheim opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted. "Oh great, Al. Now you're also using that lame nickname," groaned Mustang, left hand on his hip and right palm against his forehead above his closed eyes. "It's bad enough that everyone knows us by that, but for us to be using it as well? That's just a whole new level of low," he lamented.

"Really? I thought it sounded cute," defended Hohenheim. As the person who'd come up with the moniker currently being assaulted, he couldn't help but feel slightly crushed. "And it describes us too." To his dismay, no one offered up more support, not even Al who appeared to regret ever saying the name. "So…you guys don't like it?" he asked, crestfallen.

"Sorry, Hohenheim." Izumi patted their dejected leader sympathetically on the back. "It's nothing personal," she reassured him, "just that 'Elementals' is borderline corny.' Hohenheim didn't look the least bit comforted, so she quickly changed the subject. "It would be nice to know what the heck we're doing in the middle of a forest though."

Sighing, Hohenheim shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and began strolling in a westward direction. The other four fanned out behind him and followed in step. "The house we're going to was one of the hideouts for the shadow demons," he explained. "I know," he raised his voice as the younger members began speaking simultaneously, "that we defeated the lot of them. Excellent job, by the way." Hohenheim turned around just as the house came into view. "But," he said seriously, "there were rumors that the demons were developing some kind of new drug. I want to see if we can find anything relating to that."

Mustang cleared his throat. "Rumors could just be rumors, you know," he pointed out realistically. "That clan of shadow demons was the largest we've ever faced." His scars from that particular final battle had yet to fade. Mustang pressed on, "For all we know, this could be a trap." He glowered fiercely at an innocent looking bunch of lilies growing off to the side.

Hohenheim waved aside Mustang's concerns and marched right up to the front door. "No worries. Not a single creature has come down this way or any other path leading to the house since we defeated that group of demons."

"And you know this how?" questioned Ed, arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised. He didn't like the looks of the place- too much wood and not enough metal. It was fine for Al, but not so much for himself.

Hohenheim paused to squat down and give the earth a friendly pat. "I had a little chat with Mother Nature, of course." His smile had a faint smudge of slyness about it. "You didn't think I had us stop for half an hour just so I could draw in the dirt, did you?"

Exhaling in exasperation, Izumi wormed around Hohenheim and came face to face with the entrance. "You boys going to finish yapping anytime today?" she asked. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and yanked the door open. "We have a hideout to explore."

"Winry?" Edward Elric started. He didn't think that anyone would be around. Ed took a quick peek out the windows; the sun was high in the sky, having stayed relatively in the same position since he'd last checked. It was about 10 AM, he guessed, a time during which doctors were supposed to be tending to their patients, not wandering around hospital wings that were still under construction. "What are you doing…" His voice trailed off as it dawned on him that Winry didn't have on her usual doctor's garb. He rephrased the question. "What in the world are you wearing?" he spluttered in incredulity.

On one of his birthdays, he'd jokingly expressed his desire to see Winry in a nurse's outfit; she'd laughed and then proceeded to slap him into next week. Attempts to hide the resulting hand-shaped bruise failed miserably. Right now, Ed had no idea what caused Winry to change her mind, but he wasn't about to question it too deeply. He reached out for her. "Winry-"

Giggling, she slipped from his grasp, spinning around and running down the nearly completed hallway. She rounded the far corner and disappeared in a flash of white. Taking the hard-to-get route, now was she? Ed grinned and followed in pursuit. Two could play at that. Besides, he doubted that she could get very far on patent leather Mary Janes.

She wasn't in sight, but Ed managed to spot the nurse's cap perched dauntingly on the top of her head turning into another hallway. He went after her. It was a nice change to be doing the chasing for once instead of the other way around. Their games (if one could call it a game) of tag always occurred on the days that the Elementals completed their missions and visited the hospital to get patched up. Patients and staff members affectionately referred to the little tradition as Ed and Winry being lovey-dovey. Mustang had another word for it: whipped.

"Why the heck do you keep on trying to kill me?" he'd screeched over her threats of putting him to sleep permanently during one especially frenzied romp through the hospital halls. Ed leapt over a wheelchair-ridden patient and ducked to avoid the container of hydrogen peroxide whizzing through the air at his cranium.

Winry paused halfway through one-handedly hoisting up a spare IV drip. She pouted and averted her eyes to the side, a gesture Ed normally would've found cute had he not been warily eyeing the foot-long needle on the syringe she clasped in her other hand. "Because," she said huffily, a blush prettily staining her cheeks, "you gave me half of your life, so you should take better care of the half that you still have!" She set the IV drip down, causing the stethoscope around her neck to shift aside and reveal that her metal nametag had been corrected with a piece of paper that read "Dr. Winry Elric." While Ed gaped at her like a fish, Winry took the opportunity to nail him in the forehead with a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Ed stopped at the start of another hallway. His gut was telling him that Winry was hiding nearby. Taking a deep breath, Ed cleared his mind and mentally touched each of the steel doorknobs. He got a hit almost immediately- the second knob to his right radiated Winry's presence. Grinning, Ed twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open…and almost fell down the side of the hospital. "Whoa, whoa!" he cried, frantically pinwheeling his arms. His flailing limbs caught hold of the doorframe, so he pushed himself backwards, landing ungracefully on his butt.

Obviously the construction workers hadn't finished building all the rooms yet. A giggle from the far end of the hallway caught his attention. Winry popped out from behind a plastic trash can and took off. Ed hoisted himself onto his feet and started running again. "Wait up!" he called after her, the shock from his close call melting away in the face of the anticipation of catching Winry. He fought shadow demons practically everyday; what was another minor near death experience to him?

They were attacked by a cloud of ferocious dust bunnies.

Al sneezed three times in succession. "I think it's safe to say that no one's cleaned this place since it was built," he choked out, waving a hand in front of his face. He scrubbed at his watery eyes using the heel of his palm and sneezed one more time for good measure. Icy winds and boiling heat he could tolerate, but dust bunnies were in their own category of viciousness.

The others weren't so quick to recover like the team's youngest member. Succumbing to the wrath of the evil filth, they coughed, sneezed, or did both for a good several minutes before any of them could draw in a gasp of dusty air without hacking out their lungs. Izumi, who had entered first, was having difficulty regaining her breath, so Hohenheim pulled a canteen of water out from his coat and graciously offered it to her. Izumi gratefully accepted the canteen and took several swigs of water. Done drinking her fill, she passed her hand over the mouthpiece, refilling it with water, and handed it around to the rest of the team.

Hohenheim finished the last of the water and stuffed the container back into his pocket. He glanced upward and let out a low whistle. "It's a lot bigger than it seems from the outside," he observed. The other Elementals followed his line of vision. In the dim lighting, they could see walkways and railings hugging the walls of the house with staircases situated at opposite sides on each floor. The result was a wide open space stretching from the ground all the way up to the ceiling, where one could make out a crystal chandelier of all things.

"Classy demons," Izumi noted sarcastically. She squinted up at the chandelier. If those were actual diamonds dangling from the intricate metal arms, then to the right person, it could be sold for quite a hefty price. The Elementals' cause might be noble, but it sure didn't pay nearly as well.

"Not classy enough to invest in better construction, apparently," grumbled Ed. "I mean, who builds houses out of wood these days?" He added as an afterthought, "No offense, Al."

"None taken," Al replied genially.

Mustang smirked at the elder of the Elric brothers. "Looks like you're just going to be a waste of space today," he needled in a singsong voice.

Fuming, Ed stomped up to the older male. He would've stuck his face in Mustang's if the latter wasn't so freakishly tall. "Shut up, Colonel Useless-in-the-rain Mustang," he retorted.

Scowling, they crossed their arms over their chests, jutted out their chins, and glared daggers at each other, electricity zapping through their eyes. They would've continued this staring contest until it was time for a bathroom break, but Izumi grabbed their ears and tugged sharply. "Stop fighting, kids," she chided as Mustang and Ed squawked indignantly, "there's work to do."

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Hohenheim cleared his throat. "So I guess we'll be splitting up here." He addressed his youngest son, "Al, how large is this place exactly?"

Al rested his palm against the solid wood of the nearest wall and concentrated. "It's pretty large, seeing as it's a five-story place," he assessed. After a while, he removed his hand from the wall. "There're a lot of rooms, but it's about the same number on each floor."

"Five-story," Hohenheim repeated, "So one floor for each person then." He stroked his beard pensively, calculating who would be best suited for which location. "Okay," he decided. "Mustang, you take the top level. Al gets the fourth floor. Izumi, you're on the third. Ed will cover the second story, and I'll search here." He glanced around affectionately at his team as they nodded and began to disperse. "We'll meet back here in an hour."

"Oh god," Van Hohenheim breathed out. His eyes widened, unable to believe what they were seeing. Surely his glasses were playing tricks on him- they were an extremely old pair after all, and ancient things usually didn't function properly. However, as much as he would like to blame his glasses or even his own age (which his team enjoyed rubbing in his face on a daily basis), there really wasn't anything to explain the inconceivableness of what he was looking at.

His hand unconsciously gripped the back of the sleek recliner chair at his side. His fingers dug into the backrest. On any other chair, his action probably would left some semi-permanent indentations, but the smooth black leather covering the armchair was such good quality that it was unlikely Hohenheim would've made any marks. There was a table beside the recliner. A tub filled with salted popcorn sat on the table, its mouthwatering buttery scent wafting through the air. A small ice bucket full of chilled, sweating beer bottles was also present.

Next to the food and drink was a rectangular shaped object- a picture frame. The wires that made up the frame had been meticulously shaped to form delicate swirls that curved elegantly around the edges of the glass. The wires supported small, polished wooden beads which were sprouting green sprigs of baby leaves. Behind the glass was a photo of the Elric family. It was taken on Hohenheim and Trisha's wedding anniversary, back when Ed had yet to develop a height complex and Al hadn't become a kitten-kleptomaniac. In the photo, Trisha had Al in her arms while Hohenheim held up Ed, tears of sheer happiness running down the man's face. The picture frame was a collective Father's Day gift from his family years ago- Ed formed the wires, Al crafted the beads, and Trisha provided the glass and photograph. One could say that it was Hohenheim's most precious possession.

Hohenheim paid no heed to the chair, the concession, or his treasured belonging though; his attention was focused in front of him. Mounted on the wall were not one, but four gigantic flat-screen televisions. There were two TVs on top and two on the bottom, forming an enormous rectangular expanse of digital goodness that covered the entire wall. The TVs had been turned on, and there was something different playing on each one. The visual quality was possibly the best Hohenheim had ever seen, although his missions with the Elementals didn't allow for much time to watch TV. Even so, the high definition of the images was irrefutably impressive. Some sort of surround sound system must've been set up because Hohenheim could hear the noise even though there were no speakers in sight. Similar to the visuals, the audio quality of sound was second to none.

Hohenheim moved forward shakily, face turbulent with emotion. He only managed a few steps before his trembling legs gave out and he collapsed to his hands and knees. "Oh god," he said again, his voice wavering. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the TVs. "No, this can't be happening." On the screens, the video clips finished playing and started up again after a brief interlude. Hohenheim curled his fingers into fists against the cold, hard concrete floor. "Oh god, what have I done?" he whispered in horror.

Trudging up the last set of stairs, Mustang finally set foot on the fifth floor, hardly even winded from his long climb. One of the nicer benefits of serving in the military was being physically fit. For Mustang, climbing up four flights of stairs was, energy-wise, as demanding as walking across the street. Unfortunately, being in shape couldn't exactly aid him in navigating through complete darkness.

Mustang let out a sigh. Blindly groping his way through the dark wasn't a new experience, but neither was it one of his favorite pastimes. "Some night-vision goggles would be nice about now," he mused. Since said night-vision goggles were highly unlikely to magically appear, he made do with what he did have. Mustang snapped his fingers, and a miniature flame sparked to life. Uncurling his fingers lightly, Mustang coaxed the tiny flame to grow into a glowing orb of fire that hovered obediently over his palm. It was preferable to having nothing.

As loathe as he was to admit, the midget had a point in wanting the house to include more metal. Metal wouldn't melt so easily and nor would it readily catch on fire and burn up like wood did. "Hopefully, Al won't have my head this time," he prayed to himself. In their early days of working together, he and the Elric brothers had gotten themselves into a fight at a wooden bar. One bold shadow demon had smashed Mustang over the head with a tankard, rendering him unconscious and causing him to lose control of the fireball forming at his hand. Long story short, the bar burned down since Hohenheim and Izumi were on the other side of town. The normally easy going Al gave him the cold shoulder for days.

Coming up to the first room, Mustang cautiously pushed open the door and sent in his globe of fire. It lit up a completely empty room. What a surprise. Unperturbed, Mustang pulled his head back out, shut the door, and moved onto the next room, and the next room, and the next room, until he'd explored every single nook and cranny on the floor. The only thing he had to show for his efforts was a splinter. Mustang jerked his hand off the windowsill and removed the offending sliver of wood by blowing a gust of hot air to reduce it into ashes.

Reaching into an inner pocket in his jacket, Mustang brought out a silver pocket watch, flipping open the engraved cover to check the time. Surprisingly, nearly an hour had passed since he'd started searching. He should start heading back downstairs. Right as he was about to do so, a wave of nausea suddenly came over him. Mustang staggered into the doorway and nearly dropped his fire orb, but fortunately regained his composure at the last second. Must be from lack of food, he deduced, shaking his head to clear it. The flickering light at the edge of his vision wasn't helping… Mustang froze. Light? He whipped his head in the direction of where it came from, eyes darting every which way. The only illumination should've been from his fire. But wait, there was the glint again. Mustang cautiously moved closer to the doorframe, and the sparkle grew more intense as he moved closer. Not a sparkle, he realized, but a reflection of the orb in his hand. He fingered the small, circular piece of glass, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Was this…a camera? A sense of foreboding crashed over him. He had to inform Hohenheim immediately. Mustang spun around, but stopped when he saw what was rushing through the air towards him.

"Heads up!"

No sooner has he thought that bit about his comrades, another bullet whistled past the other side of his face. It didn't hit him this time, but Mustang could nevertheless feel the heat prickling his skin, and spotted a lock of his hair being swept away by the wind. "Watch it!" he barked. There was another garbled apology. Mustang briefly wondered if perhaps his soldiers were exhausted somehow, which would explain their appalling lack of aim.

But that lead to another puzzling issue. Assuming that the soldiers did have abysmally poor aim, just how did they manage to hit him in the first place? The only way the shots could've come from behind and traveled in a straight line parallel to the ground was if someone had backed up to the far side of the trench and purposely aimed at him.

The next thing he knew, a white hot pain flared up in his bicep. Mustang hissed, tearing his eyes away from the battlefield to examine the injury. It wasn't life-threatening, but it wasn't shallow either. Mustang turned his head and saw the handle of Hughes' small throwing knife buried in the trench wall- Hughes, who was supposed to be back at the base.

Mustang whipped around. Sure enough, Hughes was right there, arms folded cockily over his chest with several more throwing knives nestled between his fingers. Hughes wasn't the only one present. All of Mustang's subordinates and friends were lined up against the trench, amused smirks painting their lips. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, more baffled than angry, "We have a war to fight!" But even as he spoke, the raucous roars and explosions faded away into an eerie dead silence. In fact, the only thing Mustang could hear was his own breathing.

Hawkeye casually strolled up to him. Mustang glared at her, silently commanding her to provide an explanation for her presence. Hawkeye merely smiled reassuringly. Then, she dug her nails into the cut on his arm, gripped hard, and tore out a good portion of his bicep.

Mustang screamed, collapsing to one knee with a loud thud, patella colliding with the wooden floor. Wooden? Mustang vaguely registered the sudden change in the ground's material. "What are you playing at?" he growled, staggering to his feet and clutching at the wound. Blood trickled through his fingers and down the back of his hand, sticky and disturbingly warm. He stumbled away from Hawkeye, who continued to smile angelically.

Then, it was Havoc that approached him, the chain smoker's guns strapped uselessly to his belt. Mustang lunged to the side in an attempt to escape, but rebounded when he ran headfirst into a solid wooden wall that had not been there five seconds ago. He felt Havoc's fingers sink deep into his calf and rip away another chunk of flesh, incidentally also severing the tendons in the back of his knee. Mustang howled in pain again.

"Dammit!" he cursed amid his labored panting. "I don't know what's going on," he snarled, eyes narrowing warningly, "and I don't want to hurt you, but I have no choice." He flung a bloodied hand in front of him with the intent of sending out flames large enough to knock out his comrades until he could get help- any help. However, the only things that attacked them were the droplets of blood he'd splattered when he threw up his hand. "What the-" he muttered, as he tried to block out the intense stinging from his arm and leg. He snapped his fingers again and again. No fire.

"No," he whispered, an unfamiliar panic welling up inside. "No, no, NO!" Armstrong, or more accurately, the thing that looked like Armstrong, helped itself to one of Hughes' knives and flung it with deadly accuracy. The blade pierced through Mustang's palm and pinned his hand to the wall, drawing another cry from the Colonel.

With blood pouring from his wounds and no weapon in sight, Mustang could only stare in dismay as the group converged on him, their faces and bodies gruesomely distorting into shadowy forms with clawed hands. Where the hell were his real comrades?

Upon reaching his floor, Al nodded at Mustang and turned right while the older man pressed on upward. Al trailed his fingers lightly over the carved surface of the railing. Before the shadow demons had taken residence, the house must have been one beautiful place. Perhaps a hotel, Al theorized, based on the large open spaces, plentiful rooms, and the slightly out of place chandelier. But Al wasn't here to appreciate the house's historical significance, so he reluctantly dropped his hand back to his side.

Stepping up to door number one, Al paused to admire the sight. Crafted from a sturdy mahogany, the door solemnly guarded the room's contents. Al rapped it lightly with the back of his knuckles, impressed by the sound produced. Someone had made a big effort to ensure that the door would stand strong and firm throughout the years, and Al had an inkling that it would take more than one strike to kick down the door.

Fortunately, the door was unlocked, so Al just pushed it open and strolled inside. He quickly ran his eyes around the four corners of the room; it seemed pretty empty to him. But of course, as the cliché went, looks could be deceiving. Al kneeled down and rubbed his hands together. He closed his eyes and placed his palms against the floor, nudging the wood's consciousness with his own mind. The wood briefly protested at being disturbed after so many decades of slumber, but eventually yielded to Al's gentle probing.

He exhaled calmly and sent his power streaming through every single wooden surface on the fourth floor, completing his search in less than five minutes. It sure beat having to walk around and look through every single room, Al reckoned dizzily through the slight wave of overwhelming as his power returned to him all at once. He sat back on his heels and sorted through the information he'd gathered. It was mostly what he'd expected- completely vacant rooms that hadn't been occupied ever since the Elementals had defeated that insanely huge group of shadow demons. However…

Al frowned. Something was off. He'd sensed it earlier downstairs when he'd checked to see how big the house was. Before, he'd attributed the feeling to the house's age, but now he was more certain- the wood was different somehow. To make sure, Al hopped to his feet and trotted into a room a few doors away. He repeated the same procedure. There it was again- that prickling at the back of his mind. Al blew out a frustrated breath. He couldn't identify it, nor could he put a finger (either mentally or physically) on it, but something was definitely weird.

Then, the nagging poking in his brain abruptly exploded into a full-blown headache. "Ugh!" he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his palms against his temples. He was about to get up and move somewhere more comfortable, but the headache disappeared as quickly as it hit.

Sagging, Al leaned forward to rest his forehead against the cool wooden floor, breathing in the slight tang of kerosene. Al jerked up. Kerosene? Slapping his palms against the floor in his haste, Al bent down and took another good whiff of the floorboards. His nose wasn't deceiving him- there was no mistaking the pungent odor of the flammable oil. It was incredibly faint, but since Al was in tuned with the wood, he was able to smell it.

So that's what the strange feeling was, Al realized as he stood up. The entire place had been soaked in kerosene from who knew how many years ago. 'I have to warn Mustang,' Al thought, rushing at the door. 'One misplaced fireball and the whole place could blow up!'

But Al didn't even make it out of the room. A loud thumping caught his attention, and then a wrapped package fell down from somewhere above. Blinking in surprise, Al instinctively reached out and caught it, bending his knees slightly to absorb the shock. Al stared down at the bundle. Then, his eyes softened and he smiled in a paternal manner.

"It's okay."

Al absently wore a goofy smile as his kittens gobbled down the last bits of the Meow-tastic Kitty Mix Delight. When they finished, Yoki slunk up to him and pawed at his shin, yowling pitifully all the while. "You poor thing," he chuckled sympathetically. Al scooped the kitten up into his arms and skritch-scratched behind the furry ears. "Did Ling steal your food again?" Yoki moped in confirmation. "Alright, let's get you something to eat," said Al. He was about to stand up when Marcoh padded over. Al was pleasantly surprised. The roughened-up kitten, while clearly fond of his rescuer, usually kept to himself and didn't interact too much with Al or the other kittens. "Ling got you too?" questioned Al, not really expecting a response. He was going to have to schedule a nice long chat slash disciplinary session with the little food thief.

Al extended a hand to pet Marcoh. Marcoh nosed Al's hand softly and opened his tiny mouth as though in a huge yawn. Then, the kitten chomped down hard on Al's index finger, teeth biting clean through skin and muscle before breaking the bone with a sickening snap.

Al let out a shout, more from surprise than anything else. He jerkily retracted his injured hand as fast as he could and cradled it against his chest, staring wide-eyed at the normally benevolent kitten. Said kitten stared back with what Al could've sworn were amused eyes, and spat the severed digit onto the floor where it rolled some centimeters before coming to a rest at Al's feet, leaving behind a thin ribbon-like trail of blood. Marcoh licked his paw and used the limb to lazily swipe at his dirtied muzzle, looking straight at Al all the while.

There was a light pressure against his forearms, and then Yoki leapt out of Al's arms and landed gracefully next to Al's finger. Running a pink tongue over his fangs, Yoki lowered his head and messily snapped up the finger, teeth flashing as they crunched the bone between them. Miniscule bits of skin sprayed onto the floor, only to be licked up diligently by Darius, Heinkel, Jerso, and Zampano, who'd previously been lounging off to the side. Once they finished, they all turned to face Al, their muzzles speckled with blood.

Al stumbled to his feet and sprinted for the door. In his hurry, he ran right into Scar, who was sitting directly in his path. Despite his predicament, Al couldn't help but hope that he didn't kick the kitten too badly. However, Scar didn't budge as Al thought he would, and so it was Al that flew through the air, slamming hard against the far side of the shelter.

Biting back some choice cuss words that even Ed would raise an eyebrow to, Al reached over his head and groped for the doorknob. His hand met only smooth wall. Bewildered, Al pushed himself up from his sprawled position on the floor. The door was completely gone, replaced by a uniform expanse of wall.

He threw a glance over his shoulder. The kittens had grouped together and were making their way toward him. "Stay back!" he yelled at them. He pushed his hands against the wood, staining it with blood, and willed it to open a passageway. To his shock, the wall remained solid; there wasn't even a crack. "Come on," he whimpered, frenetically pounding on the wood, ignoring the jolts of pain running down the stub of his finger.

A heavy weight landed on his shoulder. Al froze and slowly turned his head to the side. May purred cheerfully, gazing at him with pupil-less black eyes, her body rippling and growing larger with each passing second. Al stood paralyzed while she opened her mouth impossibly wide, razor-sharp fangs glistening and dripping with saliva. Al cried out in pain a second time when she bit off his ear. The rest of the disfigured creatures pounced on him with fangs bared, and Al could only pray that his actual kittens were alright wherever they were.

Izumi wrenched the door open, one hand armed with a swirling orb of water prepared to drown any demons that she might encounter. The most threatening item in the closet was the rod stretched across to hang one's clothes on. Izumi sighed and pushed the door shut. It complied with a rusty squeak that reverberated throughout the room. She winced. That was sure to have alerted any lingering creatures that hadn't been already notified by the group's noisy arrival.

Izumi marched out of the bare room, house slippers lightly slapping against her heels with each step. She still held the water globe before her at the ready. Hohenheim might have said that no one had walked down the paths for some time, and she trusted his judgment, but that didn't mean that there weren't alternative methods to enter and exit the building.

While it didn't hurt to be on one's guard, Izumi had to admit after the fourth vacant room that it really seemed like the Elementals were the only living beings in the house. Her floor was safe at least. She hadn't spotted any signs of danger, and the water molecules floating in the air reported no suspicious movements aside from their investigation.

Izumi opened the next door down the hallway and was promptly greeted by a blast of cold air. She bristled against the sudden change in temperature. "Wonderful," she uttered sarcastically, "Now we can freeze our butts off indoors as well." It was mild compared to the truly icy winds she'd braved during her training in the Briggs Mountains, but that didn't make her like it any better.

She strode up to the source of the breeze- a large square window that was crudely boarded up. Izumi raised her arms straight out, approximately shoulder-width apart and with palms facing each other, and gradually drew her hands together. The air flexed as the water molecules bobbed to her bidding. They congregated, droplet by droplet, until a paper-thin sheet of water covered the window, effectively sealing it off. Izumi lowered her arms, content with her work. Not only did the barrier serve to block the wind, but should anyone or anything try to penetrate it, Izumi would know instantly.

Izumi searched through the remaining rooms, occasionally pausing to cover up any open windows. Once she completed her round, she inattentively wiped her hands against the edge of her shirt to free them of the dust accumulated during her rummaging. That was, the gesture would've cleaned her hands had there been any dirt to knock off. Pursing her lips, Izumi brought her hands up to eye level to examine. No matter which way she turned them, she couldn't deny that they were as dust-free as when she entered the house.

She looked up and sent her eyeballs whirling in all directions. She hadn't noticed due to the poor lighting, but there was not a single speck of dust anywhere- no layer of grime obscuring the carpet and railing, no cobwebs strung up in the corners of the ceiling, nothing. The place was clean. "Too clean," she corrected herself, suspicions growing. If everywhere was immaculate, then why was it so filthy when they walked in? She scowled. She might be paranoid, but if her years of fighting had taught her something, it was that there was no such thing as coincidence in the world. She was going to have to take another look at the entrance.

Right when she reached the top of the stairs, the migraine struck. She clutched at her temples and stepped backwards. Her groan turning into a yelp as her foot encountered something solid, causing her to fall onto her back, hair whipping over her face. After a few seconds that seemed like hours, the migraine ebbed away. 'What was that?' Izumi wondered, disconcerted. She was about to push herself into a sitting position, but the movement jostled a stray piece of hair stuck to her upper lip. Her nose scrunched up at the tickling, and pretty soon, Izumi was on the verge of sneezing.

"Achoo!"

The baby kicked again, more insistent this time. Izumi swallowed her mouthful of water too fast and coughed when it went down the wrong pipe. The glass in her hand tilted precariously, but she hurriedly set it on the table before it could spill its contents. "I take that back," she said wetly, dabbing at her damp chin with a tissue. "I think you might be stronger than either of us."

Izumi took deep breaths and massaged her belly with her fingertips. She had learned the trick from Trisha Elric when the latter came into the shop to buy meat a few months back. "It also helps if you talk to the baby," Trisha advised, pulling up a chair next to Izumi's couch. Hohenheim's wife leaned in. "I did that a lot when I was pregnant with Al," she disclosed, her eyes twinkling, "He might not look like it, but he was a real kicker." The two women shared a quiet laugh until Sig finished Trisha's order.

"Easy there, tiger," she soothed. "You'll come out soon enough, and then you'll grow up and make us proud." She patted her stomach. "So until then, you can relax and not hit Mommy so often, okay?" There was a brief lull as the baby appeared to consider her request. Then, it kicked out as hard as it could, and Izumi's body emitted a loud crack.

She gasped, head jerking forward as she did so. She gingerly pressed a hand against her side and immediately regretted it. 'Broken ribs,' she diagnosed. Izumi turned to call for her husband, but to her astonishment, he and Mason were already in the room, leaning against the wall and gazing at her. "Good timing," she panted, brushing away a strand of hair plastered to her cheek. "Junior here broke one of my ribs, so I probably should go to the hospital." She reached for the phone as she spoke.

Unfortunately, the phone and the table it had been resting on just moments ago had disappeared. Consequently, Izumi lost her balance and plummeted off the couch and down a flight of stairs before she could even question where the stairs suddenly came from. She moaned when she finally rolled to a stop, so concentrated on protecting her unborn child that she'd sprained her wrist and acquired several bruises in the process.

However, she didn't have time to assess her injuries because a severe pain flared up from inside, searing from the top of her abdomen to the bottom. Izumi bit her lip until blood welled up under her teeth. With trembling hands, she grasped the bottom of her shirt and pulled up, and stifled a horrified shriek.

Three reddish splotchy lines ran down her body as though she'd been scratched from within. Her stomach no longer swelled with pregnancy, but the misshapen surface undulated and bulged, like something- maybe the something that had scratched her- was trying to escape. Izumi gaped at her rippling stomach. Then, a tiny black fist punched through the skin.

Izumi shrieked in pain, nails clawing hysterically at the wooden floorboards. "You're not my baby," she hissed through teeth clenched in agony. She forced her hands with their bloodied fingernails to the sides of her deformed abdomen and pushed with her power as hard as she could, trying to draw out all the oxygen in the fluids within her belly in order to suffocate the creature. It didn't work. She desperately attempted to draw on her power again, only to come to the same result.

"What's going on?" she choked out, body convulsing as whatever was inside clawed through the lining of her stomach again. Off to the side, Izumi could see her husband and his assistant- no, the creatures posing as them- observing the spectacle with detached expressions, and instinctively knew that there was no use pleading for help. The last thing running through her mind before another small obsidian hand tore its way to freedom was that she should have known it was all too good to be true.

Ed drew his newly returned cloak around himself as he patrolled the second floor. It was because of the cold, Ed justified, not because of the uneasiness of being surrounded on all four sides by wood, with hardly a scrap of metal to be found. A shiver ran up Ed's spine, and he vigorously rubbed his hands against his upper arms. Who was he kidding? The place gave him the willies. Ed prodded gingerly at the nearest railing. It creaked loudly. See? One little poke and the entire place sounded like it was going fall apart any second. Ed knew a run-down pile of sticks when he saw one and this definitely qualified.

Ed had to admit that being here did put things in perspective though. The group generally dealt with demons that wrecked havoc in the urban parts of town, so he'd taken the metal-lined structures for granted. Now that he stopped to think, it wasn't really nice of him to ridicule Al whenever they entered a steel-enforced building and his little brother turned slightly green around the gills. Ed checked his gag reflex- all normal. At least he wasn't about to puke his guts out like Al did that one time they had to investigate a prison.

Luckily for Ed, this junk heap wasn't completely devoid of metal. Ed dropped to his hands and knees at the base of a wall. He smirked. As he thought, the floorboards weren't held together with superglue. Ed cupped a palm over a section on the floor. Allowing a sliver of power to spread down his arm, Ed raised his hand up, lifting the nail along with it. He floated it into his other palm and fingered the thin iron object. Rusty, but usable, he determined. He set off to find more.

When he finished combing through his assigned area, Ed had collected a good couple of handfuls of nails. He didn't dare use his abilities to pull out any more lest the entire second floor collapse and leave the three wandering about upstairs stranded. That would be quite the field day.

Ed stood up and arched his back, wincing. His palms and knees ached from crawling around (an embarrassing feat that he fervently hoped no one witnessed), but he had something to defend himself with, so it was worth it even if his pants were totally wrinkled. With a crook of his finger, the small mounds of nails he'd stacked on the floor glided upward and hovered by his side, pointy ends to the front.

Something dark darted past the corner of his eye. Ed whirled around with his arm outstretched, ready to skewer the intruder. His head swiveled from side to side, and his army of iron quivered excitedly, but the hallway was empty. "Huh," he snorted, dropping his hand, "That was weird." He turned around, and came face to face with the shadowy creature.

It flitted down the hallway, slow enough to taunt him. "Stop!" he hollered, sprinting after it while trying to recover from his mini heart attack. Actually, he didn't know why he bothered saying that- no one ever stopped just because he told them to do so.

Ed took another step and swayed sideways when his vision abruptly went haywire. "Whoa." He slumped against the nearest wall in a dazed stupor, watching as the floor and ceiling switched places. After a few woozy moments, the world eventually righted itself. Ed shook his head and shoved himself away from the wall just in time to see a door at the end of the hallway open and slam shut.

"Geez, you couldn't have chosen somewhere less obvious to hide?" He rolled his eyes, secretly glad that the creature would be so easy to corner. He ran up to the door, flung it open, and barreled in, making sure to send his nails in first. Ed skidded to a halt once he saw the figure standing in the middle of the room. His mind went momentarily blank and the nails clattered to the floor.

"Winry?"

Positively wheezing, Ed was forced to jog to a stop to regain his breath. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees, gulping down some much needed oxygen. While Ed knew that Winry kept herself in shape, he didn't know that she was this fast. Once his heart slowed down to a more normal rate, Ed straightened up and glanced around to see where Winry had gotten to. 'Wait a minute,' he thought, taking in his surroundings, 'This seems familiar.' He racked his brain, and finally identified the place as where he and Winry had started their chase. Odd. Drawing in one last huge breath, Ed retraced his steps, keeping a sharp lookout for Winry or her nurse's cap.

He didn't have to go very far because she stood in front of an open door some feet away. He sighed and headed her way, but stopped short. He recognized the area where Winry was loitering- it was the entry that led outside the hospital. Ed's stomach plummeted as he became aware of the peril Winry was in. "Winry," he said slowly, keeping his voice calm. He took a few deliberately measured steps. "You have to get away from that spot now. It's dangerous," he insisted.

Winry let out a peal of tinkling laughter right before she confidently stepped back into thin air. "No!" Ed yelled in panic. He hurtled himself through the door, desperately grabbing for Winry, only to find that she was nowhere in sight and that he was falling to his death. Something hard and long slammed into his stomach, almost breaking his fall, but shattered due to his momentum.

Ed's brain automatically switched to survival mode, running through all the possible means of surviving a four-story drop despite the slim chances. However, before he could even consider the first method, he crashed into a wooden surface and dislocated his shoulder. Ed groaned and rolled onto his back. A heavy weight landed on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He wrenched his eyes open to see Winry- miraculously whole- straddling him. "Winry?" he coughed dryly, gawking bewilderedly at her. "I thought that you-"

That was all he got out before a sharp pain blossomed in his dislocated shoulder. Ed automatically clenched his teeth, biting back the urge to cry out. Ed twisted his head to examine his shoulder. "What the hell?" He squinted. There was an honest-to-god nail protruding from his shoulder. He turned back to the girl sitting on top of him.

Winry had another nail balanced on her fingertip. When Ed attempted to speak, Winry placed a slender finger to his lips, and any question he might've asked died on his tongue. Winking, she crawled backwards until she was sitting on his knees. Then, she placed the tip of the nail on his leg and slammed her palm down on the nail's head, pounding it into Ed's thigh.

Ed threw his head back and shouted as the nail somehow continued to travel through flesh, scratch the bone, and emerge from the back of his thigh, half of it embedded in the wooden floor and the other half remaining in his leg.

"Winry, you don't want to do this," he tried to reason with her, wary of the handful of nails cupped between her palms. In response, a nail floated out of the pile and shot towards Ed's stomach. He drew forth his power as quickly as possible, ignoring his throbbing body, and ordered the metal object to change trajectory and implant itself into the floor. However, the nail ignored the command and instead punctured Ed's side, narrowly missing any vital points.

He screamed again, and through the haze of pain, he could see the skin on Winry's face sagging and then slowly and grotesquely melting off to reveal patches of black shadow. She grinned maniacally, the corners of her mouth stretching up and up and up still until she looked absolutely demented, but Ed didn't find it the least bit funny. 'That's not Winry,' he realized far too late, just before the creature drove the fourth nail into his eyeball. 'That's not my Winry.'

Hohenheim sighed as he watched the Elementals walk away from him, their backs straight, shoulders squared, and certainty in their steps. How the time passed by. He stroked his beard again, feeling the lines of age beneath the bristles. His beloved Trisha assured him that he looked as handsome and distinguished as when she fell in love with him. Nonetheless, he knew he was getting old, but he took pride in the fact that he could still keep up with the youngsters.

The head of the Elric family smiled nostalgically. It had been decades since he'd discovered his powers as a lad of 14. Being blessed with the gift of moving and communicating with the earth and having no one to guide him was scary, but he bid Resembool farewell and set off on a journey. It took a good decade or so for him to fully get the hang of his abilities.

During his ninth year trekking across the country, he stopped by a small town located by a river. A rainstorm hit during the night and caused the river to overflow. That was when a young Izumi Harnet used her powers for the first time to divert the flooded waters onto a different course. Hohenheim took her under his wing and they traveled together for the next seven years.

In that period, sometime after their training in the Briggs Mountains (Hohenheim was hoping to catch a glimpse of the polar bears), they stopped to rest for the night in the country's capital. A fire broke out in the police department, and when Hohenheim and Izumi rushed to the scene, they found that the blaze had been quelled by a very astounded Roy Mustang, one of the army's new recruits. And so, Mustang put his military career on hold to go with them and hone his powers.

Eventually, having gained complete control over their abilities, Izumi left the road to exchange vows with Dublith's local butcher's son and Mustang returned to Central City. Hohenheim spent a couple more lonely years journeying the world before going back to Resembool, and it was love at first sight upon meeting Trisha Elric. Imagine his surprise when both of his sons turned out to have elemental powers just like him. By then, the shadow demons began surfacing, so he'd asked Izumi to look over their training while he scoped out the situation.

And now, the five of them ran around fighting for truth, justice, and pizza. Hoheheim completed his trip down memory lane along with his search of the first floor, and he had zilch to show for his efforts. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hohenheim leaned against a wall. Maybe he should take Mustang's advice and stop putting stock in ridiculous rumors.

That was when the wall opened up and deposited him unceremoniously on his back. "Oof!" he grumbled, ego bruised more than his butt. He flopped over onto his stomach and pushed himself up with a huff. Dusting his hands, Hohenheim scrutinized the gaping maw of a tunnel entrance before him. "Now that's something you don't see every day." Hohenheim rested a hand against the tunnel wall, encountering something cold and solid. Concrete. He raised an eyebrow. That would explain why he hadn't sensed it when he had his little heart to heart with the earth before they came into the house. Glancing over his shoulder briefly, Hohenheim made his way down the tunnel.

Too soon, he encountered what apparently was a dead end. Hohenheim hummed, running his hands over the smooth surface. "Aha!" he exclaimed when his fingertips found purchase in a narrow groove off to the side. He wrapped his fingers around the makeshift handle and, planting his heels, hauled the heavy door open. "Huh, kind of dark in here," noted Hohenheim, peeking around the slab of concrete. "Place could use a few light bulbs."

He squeezed through the crack, stepping in. Because of the gloomy lighting, Hohenheim could barely even see his hand in front of his face, much less what was inside the room. As his eyes adjusted though, he could make out what appeared to be an armchair randomly positioned in the middle of the floor. Hohenheim approached the chair carefully from the side, but the chair was empty. The table on the other side of the chair was not- it held a tub of popcorn, a bucket of beer, and a picture of his family.

Hohenheim did a double take. Steadying himself on the back of the recliner, he leaned closer and squinted. It was indeed a wire and wood picture frame containing a portrait of all the Elrics- the exact same one that was supposed to be sitting on top of his desk back home.

Before Hohenheim could do anything more than pick his jaw off the floor, the entire wall in front of him flickered to life. Hohenheim covered his face, blinking rapidly to get rid of the spots dancing in his eyes. He ultimately lowered his arms to discover his team featured on the TVs, one person on each screen. And then, he discerned what was happening to them.

"Oh god."

From behind the wall of TV screens, a tiny figure stepped out and leisurely ambled over to the distraught Hohenheim. "What you have done," Selim Bradley supplied helpfully when he saw that Hohenheim couldn't answer his own question, "is send each one of your teammates to their deaths." Selim halted in his walking to give Hohenheim a standing ovation. The older man stiffened. "Great job, Hohenheim," Selim cheered, applauding zealously. "I've seen my share of stupid actions, but this," he shook his head in amazement, "this takes the cake. You really shouldn't have come here. You might've gotten to live a while longer if you hadn't been so nosy."

Hohenheim's pupils narrowed in recognition. "You!" he rumbled, jabbing an accusing finger at one that went by the alias of Pride. "You're supposed to be dead!" He'd witnessed it with his own eyes when they blew up the den containing the remaining shadow demons from that absurdly large group- Pride, trapped alongside the wailing demons, eyes hard and livid, but unable to retaliate.

The little boy stared down at himself, patting his own body and making small noises of mock surprise. He looked up and beamed impishly. "Guess not," he said cheekily. He clasped his hands behind him and rocked back on his heels. "Word of advice? Make sure the person you're trying to kill is actually pushing daisies before you pronounce them dead." Selim nodded sagely. "That's the problem with you 'good guys.'" He brought his hands up to make air quotes. "You never finish the job, and then you act all taken aback when we show up again."

Selim smiled wryly. "Buuuuut," he drawled, dragging out the vowel, "enough about me." He nodded towards the TVs. "I think you should probably be more concerned about your team at the moment." Selim puckered his lips contemplatively. "Well, whatever's left of them, anyway," he amended.

Throwing a fleeting look at the screens, Hohenheim could feel the blood draining away from his face again, the adrenaline from seeing a supposedly dead enemy fading rapidly. "What did you do?" he asked. On the upper left screen, Mustang crouched beneath a window sill, bobbing up and down from time to time with his arm raised.

Selim chuckled in delight. "I'm so glad you asked," he preened. On the monitor to the right of Mustang's, Al snuck into a room and trotted back and forth from a bare closet. Selim laced his fingers and lowered his voice in conspiracy. "I'll give you a hint: the entrance you guys came through was spotless up until yesterday."

Hohenheim's gaze fixed briefly on the television below the one exhibiting Mustang, where Izumi was lying at the top of a flight of stairs, hands stroking her flat stomach. A spark of understanding flashed in his eyes. "The dust," he intoned. It was a statement, not a question. "That's the drug you guys were working on."

Selim gave Hohenheim a pair of thumbs up. "Aaaaand someone give the big man a prize!" he sang. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Though to be fair, you can't really call it a drug anymore once you give it a little magical boost." On the lower right monitor, Ed ran laps around the second floor, occasionally zigzagging around invisible obstacles.

"I don't care what you call it," Hohenheim snapped, losing his composure, "but you are going to fix what you did to my team." He threw himself at Selim, hands aiming for the boy's neck. That was what he intended to do, at least. "What the-" He attempted to wrench his body out of his kneeling position, but his limbs remained unresponsive.

The boy clucked his tongue. "You are really getting senile, Hohenheim," he ribbed, eyes full of mirth. "Did you forget already? You breathed in the dust too."

Hohenheim glared daggers at the chuckling boy. "Answer me, you brat," he barked, still struggling against his paralysis. "What. Did. You. Do?"

Pride shuddered in exaggeration. "If looks could kill, Hohenheim," he snickered, shaking his head in amusement. "I'll answer your question anyway." He held up a finger. "But for simplicity's sake, let's call my little project a 'drug,' shall we?" He continued without waiting for an answer.

"I suppose you can say that the drug is a sort of hallucinogen." Selim paused. "You do know what that is, right?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Something that makes you kind of cuckoo and see things?" He twirled a finger near his temple.

"I know," Hohenheim ground out. "Finish your damn story already." Up on the screens, Mustang, gripping his arm, stood up from beneath the window and dove headlong into a corner.

Gasping, Selim clapped his hands over his ears. "Language, Hohenheim," he scolded. "I'm still a child. You're being a bad influence on me when you talk like that."

"You don't need me to be a bad influence on you," Hohenheim retorted, voice dripping with scorn. "You're already one messed up monster."

Selim scrunched his face up, considering Hohenheim's insult. "True," he owned up, grinning widely. "But I'm one smart messed up monster." The footage played on, showing Al futilely beating his fists against a solid wall.

"Anyways," Selim carried on in a singsong tone. "As I was saying, I took this hallucinogen thing and I added some of my own power to it." He flung out his arms as though requesting a hug. "Thiiiiis much power," he clarified. "So instead of just getting a bunch of crazy illusions, whoever has the drug in their system gets a temporary mental shutdown so that they can't move or use their powers." He shrugged modestly. "Though since you've had your powers the longest, it probably skipped to the not-moving part."

"How temporary is 'temporary?' Hohenheim grunted, thrashing as much as he could. His arms and legs stubbornly refused to budge.

"Maybe a couple days at the least?" estimated Selim, counting his fingers. "Oh, I almost forgot." He smacked a fist into his palm in remembrance. "Since Izumi was first to come in, she might have also inhaled some shadow demon spawn."

"She what?" shouted Hohenheim, momentarily suspending his resistance. He stared aghast at the TV screen on which Izumi was tumbling down from the third level. He flinched each time she collided with sharp edges of the stairs.

"Yup," Selim confirmed merrily. "Aren't you glad you weren't the first to enter?" The small boy giggled as Ed leapt off the second floor and crashed through the wooden railing on the fourth monitor.

Hohenheim stared in disbelief at Selim, unable to comprehend how such a tiny body was capable of wielding so much power and evil. Back then, he couldn't believe that the notorious and unfathomable master of the shadows was but a mere child, and even now, he wouldn't have believed it had not seen firsthand the boy commit a number of atrocious acts right under the noses of the Elementals and get away with it. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded, trying and failing to ignore the recordings of his tortured and battered team.

Selim stopped laughing. "Why am I doing this?" he echoed incredulously. He scoffed derisively. "Hohenheim, you really have to ask?" When Hohenheim did not reply, the little boy rolled his eyes. "Decrepit old men," he muttered.

Rising up to his tiptoes, Selim tottered around, arms spread wide. He pitter-pattered to Hohenheim on a meandering path, dipping side to side and making airplane noises as he did so. "Vroom vroom," he droned, circling the bigger man. He ended his run by hopping on both feet.

"You really want to know?" he challenged, dangerously quiet. He stared up into Hohenheim's eyes. Even though he was kneeling, the leader of the Elementals had a good several inches on the boy. "Okay then." Selim tilted his head forward as though divulging some big secret. "You know that big group of demons you annihilated? During that time when you thought you killed me?" Selim's eyes flashed. "They were my family."

The boy cracked up at Hohenheim's flabbergast expression. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?" he crowed. Undergoing yet another mood swing, Selim sharply cut off his chortling. "My family," he repeated softly, "and you murdered them."

"You have…a family?" croaked Hohenheim, spectacles slipping down his sweaty nose.

"Surprisingly enough, yes," Selim revealed with a flourish. He obligingly pushed Hohenheim's glasses back up. "I may be 'evil,'" he did the air quotes again, "but I want to be loved like any other person."

"But I thought that you were an orphan," Hohenheim uttered, befuddled by the turn of events, still trying to process the idea that the sadistic and malevolent child was even capable of an emotion like love.

"Technicalities." Selim waved his hand airily. "My biological parents died a long time ago, as you very well know." He smirked. "You did fail to save them, after all." Hohenheim balked. The memory of a blood-splattered six-year old Selim Bradley, before he'd adopted the mantle of Pride, standing coolly over his dead parents with black fog swirling behind him was still vivid in Hohenheim's mind.

Selim opened his arms. "I'm talking about my other family." The shadows in the room elongated and rose out of the surfaces, flocking to their commander. "My real family- the one I became united with when my abilities surfaced."

"That's preposterous," stuttered Hohenheim. He drew away as one of the creatures swooped by too close.

The boy sniffed. "Well, you're not the one who can control the shadows," he shot back, pouting cutely. "And you're interrupting again."

He turned his back on Hohenheim, a childish maneuver that had the older man straining his ears to catch Selim's words. "I admit, I've asked my siblings and relatives to do a lot of…questionably moral things. But even though their deaths made me sad, you did have the right to protect your people."

He spun around, eyes blazing. "However," he said, radiating a cold fury unlike any Hohenheim had ever seen, "my parents never harmed anybody. They loved me and cared for me like any normal parents would." Selim's lower lip trembled. "And you took them away from me, them and my baby brothers and sisters. They never did anything wrong, but you massacred them anyway."

Hohenheim squeezed his eyes shut. "If I had known-"

"You would've done the exact same thing just in case they became threats later on," Selim finished easily. "Spare me the theatrics." He laid a hand on Hohenheim's shoulder and dug his nails in hard, drawing blood. To Hohenheim's credit, even though his eyes shot open, he didn't make a sound.

Leaning up, Selim placed his lips right next to the shell of Hohenheim's ear. "You killed my loved ones," he whispered vindictively, "and so I've killed yours." Selim didn't need to look up at the TV screens to see the demise of the Elementals- Roy Mustang, ripped apart; Alphonse Elric, eaten alive; Izumi Curtis, torn open; Edward Elric, stabbed to death.

Selim pulled back. "I think that's an equivalent exchange of justice, don't you?" he asked brightly. He patted the distraught man amiably on the head. "So goodbye, Van Hohenheim. I'll see you in Hell."

He addressed the closest shadow demon. "Do what you want with him," Selim instructed. "When you're done, bring him upstairs with the others and burn the place down." He made to leave, but turned back at the last second. "Oh yeah, and don't forget to collapse the entrances afterwards. We wouldn't want to leave behind any evidence."

With Hohenheim's screams ringing melodiously in his ears, his older brother- the one that had met up with him in the forest just a few hours ago- scooped him up and swept him through and out of the concrete tunnel, soaring high up in the air. From there, Selim abided with baited breath until he spotted plumes of smoke spiraling from the windows of the wooden structure. Within minutes, the entire place was ablaze, flames shooting high towards the clouds and embers flying everywhere. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

"That's for my family," he spat, curling into his older brother's comforting embrace. He watched the house burn for a while more, and then he smiled wickedly. "Let's go," Selim Bradley commanded, eyes gleaming. His brothers and sisters answered his call, surging up from what would soon be a pile of ashes, and merging into a large cloud of pure darkness. "We've got places to conquer and people to crush. This world is ours."

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A/N: Whew. That took forever to write. To those who made it all the way through, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it :) So, how was my first attempt at FMA/supernatural/horror/psychological/tragedy?