Chapter 1
The terrible news that Leaf is destroyed by the Akatsuki arrives just as this joint team trudge to the walls of Sand. By the significant drooping in their shoulders, he can see that the genin of both villages are greatly saddened at the awful news. The six young ones bravely face the Kazekage as he looks over them from the great tower's balcony.
The report of the successful raid in his hand, he reads what the team leaders, both jonin, have to say of the bandit stronghold they discovered at the border. His face is as ever an expressionless mask, but even he despises what the bandits really were: slave traders.
It doesn't take him long to reach the village hospital that the group is heading to.
He watches with his arms folded over his chest as the large scroll in unrolled onto the hospital tile. The calloused hand of the lead jonin smacks onto the seal, and as the sudden poof of smoke slowly disperses, the first thing he notes is the fact that the wrists of this liberated slave are chained with a bar between, keeping the hands well apart.
He eyes the thin shivering form of a pale long haired boy dressed in a ragged pair of breaches, and he carefully notes at the many tiny, round intricate tattoos that vaguely remind him of seals.
"We found him this way, Kazekage."
Gaara nods. He can see with his own eyes why the jonin considered the boy a possible missing nin. Gaara mind whirls, assessing the dangers to Sand that this skeletal boy represents.
"Extremely low chakra." The Leaf jonin adds in a dull tone. "we suspect certain narcotics are in his blood stream, but further tests will need to be done to verify this."
"I think he struggled mightily before he was overwhelmed.." One of the genin supplies.
"Or he was tortured." Another says darkly.
Gaara narrows his eyes, watching as the boy jerks his arms forward hard as if unaware, or uncaring, that they are bound behind his back. The genin gasp, and there is a flurry of hand signs.
He watches the lids of the boy rise, revealing irises of shocking gold. No, he corrects himself, fever bright and highly unfocused.
Before any jutsu takes effect, the boy arches his back and kicks out, rolling heedlessly upon his bound limbs onto his back for a sweeps his legs at them all in a wild sort of taijustu, and all the genin, being the ones nearest, just manage to dodge out of the way of the mad strike. The boy's left foot breaks uselessly through a sturdy wall.
"Low chakra." Repeats the jonin. Gaara moves on as the mednin descend on the feverish boy. Even with his foot stuck in the wall, it takes ten to pin him. Once immobile, two attempt to tend to the limb jammed in the wall. As they pull the foot free, the dull shine of metal glints in the hospital light.
The boy struggles so wildly, so blindly, that it takes even more to move him to a proper bed for any sort of treatment. Gaara wonders if the boy has entirely lost his wits as he sees the many scars about the boy's torso. Who knew how long the slavers had him.
Gaara listens to whispers as the mednins list off the many challenges to the boy's well-being: Severely infected gashes. Puncture wounds. It takes a day for medical nins to successfully reverse the poison they had found coating a sebon embedded in a particularly long scar that snakes it's way around the right shoulder. They stab many needles into his arms, dripping charka stabilizing solutions into his bloodstream. Gaara approves of all the measures taken, knowing that they are necessary if they are to please whatever village the boy calls home.
Days pass. Gaara paces restlessly, absently reading through a chart that says the boy's chakra never seems to rise very far, as if the body is burning chakra as fast as it develops. The head mednin speculates that perhaps the boy is dying. Gaara nods and trusts them with their task.
He considers the boy a threat no longer, and he has paperwork awaiting his signature back in his tower. The village has done all that could be expected of it for such a situation.
Days later, Gaara reaches a lull in the mounds of papers. He long since assumed the boy had passed on, but could not suppress the urge to go for a simple walk. He relishes in the warm desert breeze that brushes his skin. It is one of many feelings he has now that Shukaku was violently taken from him.
The imposing building which holds the hospital goes nearly unnoticed in his pondering, and before long, Gaara wanders by the boy's door. He widens his eyes slightly at the crashing sound within.
With a glance, he sees the boy is still alive. The dripping of tubes on the floor set off all sorts of screeching alarms and ringing bells. As the red light above the bed flashes, the hall fills with the pounding of sandaled feet. Several mednins rush by Gaara, and he realizes he is staring at the spectacle.
As he watches, the blond struggles upright, working his scrawny neck and jerking halfway out of the bed in spite of the fact sturdy leather straps lie across his torso. Or rather, used to, as the boy is so thin that Gaara can see he has managed to slip from under them. Progress is only halted by the remaining tubing stuck in his arms. The boy rather resembles a proper puppet he thinks, dangling over the floor for a few breathless moments before the golden head wobbles about with a face contorted in confusion. Boney hands paw at the many tubes at first, and then one hand firmly grabs with a white knuckled fist. The mouth grimaces, and the lanky arm yanks hard.
"Oh! Lord Gaara.. Kazekage..!" Gaara gives a small wave to calm the girl who stumbled into him in her rush to help the other mednins.
"The boy lives.." Gaara prompts.
"Y-yes." The mednin stutters. "It seems that.. Um. E-even without chakra, he's stronger than he looks."
Gaara lifts is gaze to the boy. Long golden hair is dulled down to brown, and slicked down. His sweat covered face is red and twisted in fury as the boy yells out things that Gaara doesn't recognize.
The mednins yell back.
"Shut up!"
"Stop that!"
"Idiot!"
Fever bright golden eyes slide about. The boy pants. A heartbeat later he yells out something else.. vowels harsh and a great mouthful to his ears. Another language Gaara supposes.
Three mednins pin down the left leg, and Gaara hears the chilling rattle of chains, perhaps slipping under the warm blankets. The boy arches his back and squirms under the grasp of the med-nins once more as he is manhandled back under the leather straps.
During a fleeting, lucid moment, Gaara strides into the human maelstrom to stand before the foot of the bed. It takes a few moments, but the boy's bright gaze settles warily upon him, and the wildly swinging limbs slow. The mednins snap down a new strap across the boy's bandaged chest, and tentatively lift their hands. The boy scowls down at the restraint, and pants from his enormous, ultimately useless struggles. He then glares at Gaara, and waits.
The mednins back away, stepping to the wall. Some flinch as if expecting Gaara to lash out in anger with his sand, even though he is plainly not angry in the least.
"You do not understand what I am saying, do you?" Gaara says emotionlessly, arms folded across his chest.
The boy continues to glare, but Gaara watches the flickering expressions on the boy's face. Distrust wars openly with confusion and, yes, more than a bit of fear. Gaara can work with fear.
Gaara then gestures to himself, and says "Gaara."
The stranger's golden eyes focus slightly, and Gaara supposes they linger on the Kanji, "love", carved onto his forehead. With a nearly unnoticeable jerk of his chin, the boy says, "Ghaaahaaarha." As if tasting the word.
Gaara replaces his arm into his fold, and stares at the boy in expectation.
The boy swallows, and pants a few more times before passing his glare about the room with an air of displeasure. He then glares back at the Kazekage, and in a huff, grunts something the sounds like "id."
"Id-" Gaara says experimentally, adding the affectionate"- kun" to the end. It was a strange name, if it was a name.
The boy shakes his head slightly. Gaara wonders if that's a no.
"Ed." The boy says firmly.
Gaara nods.
00000
Freezing hotly so hard he shivers. The deep aches in his port cry out, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight against the onslaught of infinite knowledge spilling through his mind. Gripping grasping black hands of the gate hold him, wrap around him uncomfortably tight, and he struggles and squirms. The noise of all languages roars his ears full, but he understands none of it. It scours away who he is and he's afraid.
Alone. So alone.
Stray hands, no fists, struck the side of his face hard, and he landed on something so solid he's breathless.
Wait. This isn't right...this isn't..
This isn't that place.
He breathes in. Breathes out. Cracks open his eyes. He is in the world, he can see that. But something's not right. A fuzzy white haze creeps into his vision.
There was a boot near his face, and he followed it upwards to the face of the bald man speaking the nonsense. Why was he speaking nonsense? There was another beside the man, one with longer hair, and he decided he didn't much like the look of that leering smile.
He hears the clinking rattle of metal on metal as he tries to curl in on himself, but something prevents him. A piece of himself rises to the muddy soup of his mind, and he briefly sees the beauty of the shining blue pattern that appeared before devastation came to the world at his command.
The earth rose in great towering spikes, and dust billowed. He couldn't see his two attackers, but he felt the single pinprick at his right shoulder before darkness took the world away. Soupy mottled gray wisps of garbed language blend with shifting lyrical voices.
He dragged his feet as he was pushed along roughly from his left shoulder, his arms prickly numb and bound apart behind his back. He can't remember ever hitting the ground, but he figures that at some point he had to have. His mouth is full of what feels like cotton.
Where?
He doesn't want to think of how much time has.. has he lost? For some reason, time seems terribly important, and his breath catches in his throat. He shifts his pounding head against the soft.
Pillow?
Light stabs pounding pain into his eyes, and he does his best to swing mad vengeance at the world. One of his fists connect with something soft, and the other strikes some thin sort of metal pole. There is a clatter he registers distantly, then a definite pounding on hard tile. Ringing bells and alarms attack his ears. He swoons his way upright anyway. Soon after, unwelcome grasping hands pin him to the board of the mattress, and he snarls his displeasure.
Swirling vertigo jumbles colors together much like a garbled language, and solidifies into a pattern of red bloody scars. The expressionless face of a boy wavers into his sight. He doesn't remember learning to read exactly, but he knows the crude tattoo on the forehead says "love". He thinks it looks very weird, and it strikes him that it's an odd thing to have carved into ones skin.
Another piece of himself rises in his exhaustion. He can't move much beyond shivering at this point, but he knows now that he has a name. It is Edward Elric.
The "love" carved "Gahraah" lingers in the room, but Ed drifts off uneasily into muddled slumber in spite of his tremendous effort to keep his eye lids open.
Days pass, marked by the rising and setting of a golden light he can see through the tiny squares high up on the thick wall. Little disturbs him here. It is peaceful and warm.
He hears and understands a few words. "Slave" seems familiar as the cotton wool of his mind knits itself into a semblance of order, and Ed mulls through what he has experienced upon returning to the world as he stares listlessly at the unkind intrusion of tubes and needles in his bound arms.
He breathes in the antiseptic smell that identifies this place as a sort of hospital, but beyond that..? Hazy recollections of the bare wood of the stage he stumbled upon, and the striking sound of the gavel give rise to a nagging horror.
That was a market. A slave market. He must have been sold as a slave. The more he thinks of it, the more it rings true. He feels the deep rage rise from his belly at the sheer indignity of not being in control over his own self.
He clenches his hands.
He watches the pattern flow around him to pass the time. The metal of the headband seems to be the only identifying real feature of any kind uniform here, and people have it on in the oddest of places while fluttering in and out of his room. Sometimes it's tied about their heads as the things was clearly intended, sometimes draped upon a belt, or wrapped about a wrist.
A girl enters the room, carrying a tray of broth. His stomach recoils from the beefy smell. He eyes her loose sleeve, and notices how oddly rigid the cotton looks. It reminds him of something, a memory of someone that is frustratingly just out of reach. He pathetically presses himself back into the furthest corner of the bed as she sets the tray on the nearby table with a falsely kind smile stretching her lips.
Like with the red scar, he doesn't know how he knows. Visions of a sharp knife, or more likely many knives, rise from the murky depths of his unconsciousness as he eyes that sleeve. That such sharp deadly things are kept handy, and well hidden upon her body while she works at hospital of all places disturbs his sensibilities. Over the hours of quietly watching, he finds that she is not the only one with such devices.
He duly notes the threat for what it is, and coolly calculates that he is too weak to try for a go. The fever has him shivering again, and he impatiently clenches his teeth to wait until the time is right.
He will not be anyone's slave. At least not for long.
00000
Gaara sits at the large round table and folds his hands before him as his most trusted advisors speak.
"On the matter of the freed nin, I believe the language barrier to be nothing but an act." The older council man says solemnly as he flips through the mednin's report. "That left leg is very like what the Village Hidden in Sound had installed in their chunin."
Gaara listens, and nods before he slides his eyes to Temari.
"Golden eyes are very rare, and the only nin known to have had them was the Snake Sannin." She says with a narrowed gaze. "Perhaps he is related in some way.."
"..or he was experimented on. Orochimaru was well known for his body modification techniques. If this child is a missing nin from there, then he would be a valuable commodity..." Interrupts their old teacher.
Gaara is expressionless as he rises to his feet, and shoulders his gourd.
"As always, I will take your concerns under advisement. " Gaara says and lifts his gaze to Kankuro. "However this matter can wait until after the Kage Summit is over."
"Yeah, I suppose that you're right. Even after all the drugs they've pumped into him, he has next to no chakra." Kankuro says with a confident shrug. "What kind of damage could he do if that poison's left him too weak to even stand, much less gather chakra?"
Gaara turns from the table, a silent action which wordlessly adjourns the meeting. He entrusts the council with the protection of the village as he accompanies his siblings to the balcony, and with chakra enhanced strength, leaps off the edge into the setting sun.
00000
His nose itches, and Ed wrinkles it up in a feeble attempt to stop the incessant tickle. By instinct his muscles twitch, and to his astonishment, his fingers scratch his irritated skin.
He awakes to dull darkness, and mindful of the many tubes in the tender skin, carefully rubs his right wrist with his left hand in wonder. He feels the rough binding on his arms, but the straps that were looped to the bedside hang loose.
He listens to the silence, and idly watches a leaf of paper fluttering on the bedside table. The paper looks anointed with many mysterious markings, and he reaches for it. His blood pounds in his ears as he lifts it to his face. In the shadows, he can make out the stained rings from someone's beverage on the forgotten sheet, but the orderly scribbles remain a mystery.
He pulls himself up to sit, and not unexpectedly, the world spins. The alarms remain silent, and the halls beyond his closed door whisper quiet nothings. With a determined grimace, he tries to swing his feet over to stand.
He tugs against something, and hears the muffled clinking of metal beneath the sheets as he scowls. He lifts the bedding and scoots down to the end. His ankles are bound, but the knots about the living flesh of his right are easy enough to untie. He then turns his attention to the chain, feels the structure with his bare hands, and looks deeper.
"Simple ...iron and aluminum.." He mutters, and touches his fingers together.
The pattern shines brightly in his mind and the tiny crackle of the discharge as he cut through the metal lights up the room for a heartbeat. He holds his breath at looks to the door.
He has no idea what time it is, but judges it is late enough to be past the night watch's last round. He grasps an irritating tube, and gently pulls the dripping needle free. By the forth one, his clumsy fingers fumble at the terrifying sight. His breath quickens as he continues the horrible, necessary task. Needles... Why always needles..?
An alarm rings out and he hunches down. He grabs a handful, just yanks, and slides to his wobbly feet. He sways as the world pounds and spins at once. He takes one step on the cold tile. Then another. The world tilts, and he bangs hard against the side table.
His gut freezes as he hears a click of metal at the door, and leans on his hands as he blearily watches the plane of wood on the wall swing inwards.
He takes a breath, slaps his hands together, and with a wild guess, slams both palms against the nearest wall. The pattern shines so brightly in his head that he grins. He has guessed correctly.
An eldritch wind rises up from below and blows his long curtain of golden hair clear off his neck. Flashes of blue lightening dance through the air, and he sees panicked faces looking on past the door. He no longer has to worry much about not being able to stand. The floor beneath him rumbles and shifts, and like a tidal wave, envelope him in the cool darkness of his own making, tunneling his way downward, towards his freedom.
00000
Baki shakes his head in dismay as he reads through the report, and then raises his gaze to the genin before him. He keeps his face still, like an unreadable stone, as he watches the young man. Baki can see the sweat beading on the smooth brow as the silence bloats the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room to intolerable levels for the young mednin currently under hard scrutiny.
"...and then he.. He just melted the wall.." The genin completes, then studies his toes sticking out of his sandals with great interest.
"Sensor nins have been searching the hospital grounds for the small golden one since his medical equipment set off alarms a day ago." One of the council members provides. "He could be out of the village by now."
Baki graces the man with a cursory glance with his one visible eye, but turns his full attention back on the young mednin.
"Is that all..?"
"..um y-yeah."
"Thank you." Baki says firmly. "You may go."
As the council door swings closed with the nin's departure, the incessant buzzing of worried whispers fills the room.
"I've seen the surveillance tapes. It looked like Lord Gaara's sand technique except for all the lightening..." A council member supplies.
"A lightening technique that manipulates sand..?" Baki hears another say incredulously. He chews his bottom lip as he considers the implications of such a notion. None of them are very good.
"So he is a missing nin after all." Baki says gravely, and feels the weight of eyes as the council's attention settles upon him. He allows the silence to stretch a few breaths as he slides his eye about the room, then folds his hands before his chin.
"To be able to combine those two elements, I think perhaps he possesses a kekkei genkai that interested Orochimaru at one time. To have the skill to hide his true chakra amounts so well as to fool even the most experienced mednin, the boy is obviously a highly skilled nin. Likely a jonin."
"A Sound jonin? I've never heard the like." On council member comments.
"Whatever he is, I for one consider him a huge security risk to the village that we can't afford to have. He needs to be found and detained. Immediately." Another says with a pounding fist on the table.
"What is your decision, acting Kazekage?"
Baki rises to his feet and says.
"I will alert the hunter nin."
00000
In an empty heartbeat, Ed starts, and jerks awake. He listens to his own panting breath, and widens his eyes to warm velvety darkness. Slowly, he works out what happened, and finds he is glad he has no eyes on him. No one needs to know that he passed out while in the midst of a dramatic escape.
His stomach knaws his spine, sending queasy dizziness to his pounding temples as he tries to move within his small... SMALL?.. Not small!.. chamber. He created it for himself, he knows. It does not make it small.
Of course you passed out. Idiot. You haven't eaten for..! How long? The answer flutters from his grasp on butterfly wings. How much time has passed anyway?
He wrinkles his nose in disgust at himself. Fool! All transmutations take their toll on the body! What use will you be for.. For...
His spinning thoughts come to an abrupt halt, grasping the name that feels as important.. No.. More important. Than even his very selfhood.
Al. Alphonse. He fists his shaking hands, forcing them to be still. The name tastes sweet on his tongue.
Where is he..?
Where am I?
He mentally kicks himself to his unsteady feet, and breathes in fresh air as he sways. He marvels that he managed to make an air hole before the embarrassing black out. It's within easy reach, as wide as two of his knuckles, and he sees light shining like a small star from it. He holds his breath and presses one of his eyes close to the life-giving opening.
All is still in the room beyond, and he can clearly see a draping cloth hanging from what looks like a hook on a smooth wall. He sniffs in the air experimentally, analyzing it carefully for any clues. He exhales his disappointment at the antiseptically clean odor.
Still in that damned hospital, then. Can't do anything right, can I?
With a self-deriding snort, he eyes the rooms beyond carefully.
His patience thins as his quivering straining muscles force him to lean on the curve of the rough sandstone ..no ..Transmuted.. sandstone wall. He sees no movement in the room, and grits his teeth to steel himself. He has no choice but to chance it, and hopes he doesn't faint from the strain of the reaction this time.
He touches his palms together, and presses his hands against the rough stone. Warmth fills his being, and the bright discharge dances harmlessly up his arms, momentarily blinding him. He holds his breath as he hurriedly blinks away the afterglow.
Icy fear grips him for a breath, and his shaking muscles tense. He darts his eyes around.
He sees a closed door in the far wall, and realizes his luck is holding. He tilts his head in silent observation of the room: smooth sticks attached to stringy masses; more draping cloth, hanging upon hooks; the odd empty bucket; bottle after bottle capped on the floor. He reasons why he is alone in this room, and allows a corner of his mouth to lift.
After all, in a hospital, who would bother to occupy a supply closet?
He shambles unsteadily towards the welcome door, but leans heavily on a wall before he turns the knob. He looks down at his hospital garments then considers the cloth hanging on the wall at his side.
They will likely be looking for a patient, he reasons, and narrows his eyes. It's best that I don't look like one. He recalls the loosely fitting garments of his captors, and pulls down a long tunic off the hook with clumsy fingers. He judges he can figure out how the strange clothes should go together.
As he peels off his thin hospital shirt, he winces at the twinge he feels throughout his right shoulder and arm. He glances down, and widens his eyes at the seeping dark stain on the large white bandages taped to his skin.
"What the shit happened to me..?" He says softly.
00000
Ed cracks the door open, and let his gaze sweep the hall beyond. He coolly observes the ebb and flow of people dressed in shades of tan and brown clustering here and there within his limited range of vision. He notes a great many gather about what looks to be a desk at the end.
He widens his eyes at weird headbands upon the foreheads of those suddenly rounding the corner, and eases himself back into the closet. A few heat beats later, he hears the rustle of paper and catches a bare glimpse of rather hurried strides. He lets out a breath.
Good. He thinks. They didn't notice me.
He swallows his bile and tastes a supremely awful flavor. He makes a face. His mind helpfully supplies that the nastiness in his mouth is from one thing. He wrinkles his nose and reasons that the tube in his nose had to have been filled with the stuff, especially if he hadn't been eating for a while. It's only logical, he thinks. Feed someone milk when they've been starved.
But... Cow juice? They fed me cow juice for how long..?
He spits the flavor out and shudders, roughly pushing the thought away as too nasty to think about. He then leans the back of his head back to rest on the wall, and winces at the painful complaint of his many wounds.
The sound of metal shattering to a hallow nothing where he feels the very real solidness of his right arm fills his ears with a ghostly whisper. He flexes his right hand and feels his nails bite into his palm over and over. Faint visions of unkind metal rods sticking through his left bicep follow, and he finds he can't breathe. As though he is pinned down, his heart flutters, then pounds in his chest, and he longs to just-move!
He takes in a startled breath at the phantom sensation of the stabbing, restraining, pain, and with a feral growl, pushes his arms free away from the flat surface at his back.
He stumbles, kicking a metal pail with an unfeeling left toe. The empty container clangs noisily against the wall, and in his panic, he backpedals past the unresisting door.
Stunned at his own stupidity, he barely manages to stay upright on his wobbly legs in the hall. He peers about its brightness with hutched shoulders. He sees startled eyes rising to meet his. The one behind the desk only lifts his gaze slightly before taking another sheet from a great pile set before him and looking to the group standing there with a blithely bored expression on his face.
He glances at his unfeeling left leg, searching the dead limb for any hint of the shine of metal through the bloody bandages. Finding none, one corner of his mouth rises.
"Bakka."
He stiffens at the venom of the tone more than the unfamiliar word.
He darts his eyes to the voice and sees a girl sitting on a bench. Her dark eyes flare coldly as she folds her arms, and she leans back against the bench. He's watching her familiar mouth frown, allows his shoulders to relax slightly. His mind supplies a name for her, and he narrows his eyes as he tilts his head.
"Sheska..?"
She says something he can't decipher- Quite a lot of something actually, said in a hushed angry whisper. He thins his lips in a brief friendly gesture and slides eyes across the weird headband tied at her neck, and feels ice wrap about his stomach. He shakes his head slightly at the nonsense filling his ears, and raises a clumsy hand to his head to adjust the draping head piece he had found in the closet back over his scalp. He breathes in, getting a nose full of the alcoholic reek soaking his own garments.
"Matsuri desu..!" She finished at last in a hiss, and he turned his attention back to the girl. He shrugs and waves a hand over his shoulder as he turns.
He is awarded with an immediate unladylike snort. By the corner of his eye, he sees the girl turn her head away and return her attention to the papers on her lap.
Satisfied with the strength of his disguise, he raises his eyes and reads the scribbles at the top of the arch down the hall. With a lurching sort of stumble worthy of a drunkard, he makes his way to the promising warmth beyond the egress.
00000
Matsuri grumbles to herself in irritation, scratching the pen hard against the visitation papers as she wrinkles her nose in disgust. She watched the weaving strides of the departing blond. Not only was the boy obviously staggering about, but his forehead protector cloth wasn't even folded properly. Instead, it was stupidly draped over the boy's head, nearly obscuring a loosely bound, long blond pony-tail.
The nerve of some nins, she thinks, falling into the vices at so young an age!
Finally, the last of the forms filled in, she rises to her feet with a great cleansing breath.
"Can't be helped. I suppose there's no man like Lord Gaara." She says softly in admiration of her teacher.
She dutifully hands the forms to the mednin at the desk as the need to report the drunkard burns hot in her belly. She schools her face into a polite smile, putting a tight rein on her raging emotions. She knows the mednin doesn't want to deal with her irate mood, and besides, she is here to cheer up her injured friend with a surprise visit.
"What room is Sari in?" She asks.
"Room 156" comes the reply.
"Thanks."
She is halfway down the hall when she realizes she can't really place where she has seen the offensive drunkard nin before. Matsuri knows very well that Hidden Sand is not that big of a place, having lived within it all of her short life. She certainly has not met all the nins residing in the village personally, as she is only a genin, but she is sure she should know the boy somehow. She puzzles over the enigma, mind turning in slow circles which revolve about the boy's briefly seen, yet distinctive features.
A step away from her recovering comrade's door, she stops with a sudden burst clarity. She takes in a sharp breath as she turns to look over her shoulder, back to where the drunkard had gone.
"Golden irises.. " She breathes. "He had golden irises...!"
00000
Icy fingers brush down his arms and tap-dance down his spine. He repeats a series of numbers in his head, followed by names that form the basis of all reality.
Twenty. Calcium...twenty steps. Ed shivers, feeling the sweat dribbling down like tears on his cheek.
Twenty one. Scandium ..steps ..of alchemy... He clutches the dull brown tunic he wears a little tighter about his body. He blinks the stabbing brightness away from within the folds of his stolen-no, borrowed- headpiece. First step.. Understanding..
A little girl, feet bare skin, quickly dances her way across his path and into the shade provided by a smooth round awning. The shrill cries of a colicky baby in a cooing mother's bare arms. Round buildings like sculpted beehives.
A desert. He's in a desert, and dully aware that he shouldn't be this cold, shivering on such an obviously warm day, in a place filled with hot sand that he can feel beneath the thin layers of cloth wrapping his right sole.
He gasps as his shoulder roughly brushes the sandstone wall on his right, and suddenly numb fingers drop the cloth. Funny bone, he thinks, as he looks down and flexes his unfeeling fingers. It's oddly comforting to not feel them. He thinks. He places his hand against the friendly warm wall, and pushes himself more upright.
Thirty four. Thirty five..
It's far easier to make his way with his hand there to steady himself, and he glances about once more, curious.
This place is utterly unfamiliar- from the people to the style of buildings to the very smell of the street food sizzling in the air.
He senses rather than sees movement along the arcing towering wall across the way, and by instinct darts his eyes at the slight movement. He expects a chance observation- the passing flight a strange bird, or perhaps even a variety of cat he has never seen leaping upon its chosen prey..
(Oh how his Al would love the soft purrs of a cat!)
He widens his eyes in alarm at the unexpected shape of the dark shadow splayed against the blazing orange of the distant rock: Outstretched arms well behind the upright torso held aloft by pumping legs.
Eyes locked to the incredible sight of a person blithely running UP the distant great wall, his heart pounds against his ribs when he sees a glint of metal on the tiny forehead.
Ed stumbles forward hurriedly and scrambles around the rounding wall. His unfeeling left foot slips on a rolling something he somehow knows is glass, and his legs give way from beneath him. He tumbles hard, breathless, landing solidly on his back.
Head pounding in time with his racing heart, he sees more of the head banded people- this time slowly WALKING up a nearby round building.
His pride balks at the strewn refuse about him, but he drags himself behind the scant shelter from view offered. He hears the wafting of their voices, and, by the way they gesture, he concludes they are in deep discussion over something. Since there are no shouts or grabbing hands directed his way, he breathes out a breath that the something they discuss is not himself.
"What the shit.. Kind of alchemy...?" He mutters, pulling up his legs to his chest. Or is it alchemy at all? The thought winds its way through his pounding skull, and in time he owlishly watches more people wander up and down the round walls as though it was a completely natural form of travel.
"Am I in Xing..?"
Ed feels his stomach gnaw incessantly on his spine, rousing his nose to search past the miasma of old piss, puke, rotting food, and stale alcohol filling his hiding place. Wafting in with that breath, something delicious and brimming with salt and grease and oh..my..
...is that beef?
His mouth waters in eagerness as he shifts his weight. He pauses as he hears the pounding of sandaled feet, and glances behind him. A girl runs off along the street in the normal sort of way, but he waits an uncertain moment. His mind spins through the many many unknown variables to this Xing place- that gravity defying mode of transport is likely the just the tip of what he hasn't seen of what his new owners are capable of. He hazily recalls two, no three, people he is sure are from this Xing, whose faces linger just beyond the grasp of his memory, and would find him with maddening ease.
His stomach grinds painfully about his middle enough that he presses his right down to quiet it. He has to eat. He has to eat. He grits his teeth and frowns. It may mean a chance of recapture, but he has to eat.
The sky glows a cheery orange when he shifts woozily back to his bandaged feet, and leaning one hand against the curved wall to hold himself properly upright, he shuffles further down the corridor. He hopes it is away from possible view.
With each step, the noise of joyful chatter fill his ears, and he widens his eyes at the crossroads of sorts that the alley's end. Brightly colored flags with bold blocky print drape over wheeled carts and wagons lined up on either side of the wide curving street. One man dressed in what looks to be a blue bathrobe hands over colorful paper notes, and a heaping plate of steaming dumplings graces his empty hands from the one with a white apron standing within the spare shelter offered by a wagon.
It is an ordinary and familiar pattern: the way of the world. Ed sighs out a breath quickly works out what is happening; equivalent exchange in action. This must be a merchant district, he reasons, and watches the thick crowd of people bumble past.
"Fast food." Ed breathes hungrily and quickly checks the buildings for the "weird" walkers before stumbling forward into the press of bodies.
One vendor drops something on his left with a harsh tone of phrase. He hears the distinct sizzling of fat on hot grills, and eyes the sudden flames flaring up, along with the hateful scowl of the man that shakes a reddening hand. He mentally notes those words down, not entire sure just what they are but liking sentiment alone.
He eyes the lettering on the flapping fabric around him and, although it is completely unfamiliar, finds he can read it.
"Shibu shibu.." He says as he stumbles to a halt, and the sizzling beef smell jumbles the words' meaning. He wonders a moment if his frequent trips through.. Something dark. Horrible. he can't.. won't ...recall.. He shakes his head and stumbles on. Maybe he's screwed. Maybe he scrambled up his mind so much that language is beyond him now. Not that it matters much.. His palms pat the no pockets at his hips, the thin hospital bloomers hiding nothing.
The fingers of his left twitch as if expecting something heavy to be chained there.. But the fact is fact: no money means he can't buy any food. That fact floating in his brain brings up a whole new problem.
The crowd pushes him along, and he scowls up at them, noticing for the first time that most tower over him by at least a foot. He pushes past at group of such freakishly tall girls at a hearty stumble, and finds himself at wagon sagging to one side. He works out that one wheeled wooden rim shattered on a rock on the furthest side.
Ed narrows his eyes at the signs which proclaim "first comfort famous ramen", and then watches the sullen looking balding vendor dressed in a white apron and paper hat as the fellow pulls down a shade that says "closed. please come again".
Wheels are broken. His mind echoes, swirling about the fluctuations of equivalent exchange and by his calculations, he may be able to make a trade for a single serving of whatever this "ramen" is. He stumbles to the wagon to stand at the vendor's side. The vendor glares down in displeasure.
The vendor says something.
Ed points to a big bowl, and because of it supposes "ramen" is a sort of soup.
The vendor repeats the same something. Ed folds his arms and makes sure he glares right back, then darts his eyes to the crowd flowing by with a raised eyebrow.
The vendor reaches for the second blind and Ed reaches up to stop him. Ed then stretches to the tips of his toes and peers over into the open flat of the wagon. This close to the inside, he can see another- yet bigger problem- likely the true reason the vendor is closing on such a busy street.
The boxy metal stove, much like the ones each of the other wagons sport, sits away in the corner, only its shape bows outward in a no longer quite boxy manner. An obvious, gaping wound on the roundest bit splays jagged metal, and finger like shards stick into the wood just below his gaze.
Ed thins his lips and slides his eyes slyly back to the vendor, jutting his chin once more towards the large bowl.
The vendor lowers his face so that his nose touches Ed's, and he growls that same phrase that Ed is now sure means something close to "go away you fool idiot".
Ed lowers his brows, and says in a low voice.
"Alchemy."
He clamors into the wagon, squirming past the vendor's reaching hands. Kneeling before the former stove, hands pressed together as if in prayer, he juts his chin firmly again towards the bowl.
The vender's brows rise as Ed splays his fingers before the blasted metal. And rise to his hairline as the light of the reaction sparks a furious blue.
0000
Matsuri adjusts the ear piece of her radio as she half jogs down the street just beyond the hospital's entrance. Eyes darting about searchingly for the unkempt long brown tunic moving amongst the milling civilians, she then grips the rope of her only weapon. The golden eyed boy is a jonin, she reminds herself, and chews her bottom lip. What chance do I have against the likes of him? I'm only a genin...
As she expected, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes dart upwards to the tops of the surrounding buildings and she sighs at the leaping nins that walk up and down the walls in such a casual ease. And waste of chakra. She knew well that her own pool of chakra was pathetically low, and her chakra control wasn't exactly considered adequate.
If I were a jonin...why would I ever bother staying on the ground. She thinks bitterly, and let her eyes sweep the street in defeat.
A glint low to the ground catches her eye, and she lowers her brows. She rushes over to the spot, staring in disbelief.
Oh..
A nin's forehead protector, and rather than being folded properly at all, it drapes on the ground like a discarded rag. She darts her eyes about, knowing it could only be very forehead protector the boy jonin had on when she had last seen him. An empty glass bottle of sake slowly rolls out from the dark alley she is standing in front of, clinking to a stop against a wall.
So he went this way? She thinks, and peers into the alley. Nothing moves amongst the strewn garbage for several heartbeats. Or this way..? She looks up and down the street. Did he use a time-space justu or maybe used a jutsu to jump...
As her thoughts whir through all the jonin jutsu possibilities, she carefully scoops up the discarded forehead protector, and attaches it to her belt. She then hurries off down the street to a corner where she could eye the alley entrance.
...or is this a genjutsu he cast and I'm caught in..?
With that horrifying thought, she squints her eyes closed and concentrates, focusing on the flow of chakra through her body. She takes a deep breath, and says, "Release!"
She feels her muscles shudder in protest from the disrupted chakra, but nothing changes. The street remains a street. The garbage strewn alley remains a lifeless garbage strewn alley.
"Squad leader, I think I have something." She says into the radio.
"Copy." Comes the brisk reply.
"That's...! Squad Leader!" Matsuri hears over the radio in her ear, and lowers her brows as she takes in a startled breath. "Squad Leader..!"
"Go."
"Food court! He's in food court!"
"What that close..? The hell..?" Matsuri silently agrees with the sentiment as she glowers at the lifeless alley she is watching. Just the street over..? What kind of jonin does that..? "Team check in at position one! Now."
"Where?" Matsuri hears and shakes her head in disbelief. Even though she is a lowly genin, she knows where position one is at least. Gaara, the Kage himself, had assigned numbers to all the basic landmarks of Sand years ago, for the betterment of organized defense of the village, and those same numbers were drilled into all Sand academy students.
"Sigh. Hospital roof. " Comes the reply, and Mature thinks she could hear the speaker's eyes rolling. "Newbies."
"Oh.. Shut it.. Just say what it is next time ok.! Enroute."
"Enroute." Matsuri says and gathers her chakra to the bottoms of her feet. As she sprints to the top of the hospital wall as quickly as she can, she frowns. Too slow, again! she thinks as she sees the dark forms of the hastily assigned squad squat low on the flat surface, stark against the orange light of the setting sun. She wonders briefly if they have been there for hours, and counts three: two males, one female. One of the males, curiously, wears a dark green Leaf flak jacket and forehead protector.
"Explains much." Remembering the odd question she heard. Leaf nins certainly wouldn't know Sand's defensive arrangements any more than Sand knows Leaf's. She wonders why this Leaf nin is even here, considering that Leaf was destroyed a few weeks ago. Didn't they recall all their people to help rebuild?
The woman leans low by the edge, elbow on her knees with a pair of binoculars affixed to her face. Matsuri is startled to find she wears a porcelain mask, shaped to resemble a green, snarling, saw-toothed demon with a pair of sharp horns draping down from the forehead. Such a mask, she knows, is assigned to those who specialize in the violent disposing of people. Matsuri swallows a sudden lump in her throat.
She despises violence. Greatly.
"That him..? Is that the target..?" Matsuri hears the leader say over the radio as she winds the rope of her weapon, a johyo, back into place.
"Stand by." Replies the masked woman. "The light show's definitely like what was on the vid, but.."
"But what?"
"Could be nothing. It's from that soup wagon that had the explosion this morning... The one from Leaf. The merchant might just be making repairs."
"Copy." the leader squawks over the radio. "Don't want an international incident. Get a firm visual before proceeding."
"Copy." The masked woman says, "that makes this difficult." She turns the horrible mask Matsuri's way, and Matsuri swears she is being judged under her weighty gaze. She struggles to school her face into the sturdy expression a nin should have, regardless of rank.
"Matsuri!" The woman calls out.
"Hai!"
"You were the last to see him.." The masked woman begins as she rises to her feet. Matsuri tries not to look at the unnerving porcelain mask too closely, and focuses her eyes upon the woman's forehead protector tied about her neck.
"Yes." She says.
"You reported that he called you by another name, then turned away, correct?" Before Matsuri can nod, the woman says,
"Good. We have to do this quiet."
00000
I have something to do. I did something unforgivable. It's all my fault, and it's my duty to fix it.
Ed scowls as he feels a meaty hand grasp his right shoulder. He jerks his head up off the wall, and lifts his heavy eyelids. He sees a low table before him, and frowns in his confusion. When did he ever sit down? He slides his eyes to the helpful wall that had supported his head, dully recognizing its composition as wood.
He hears a male voice grumble nearby, but fumbles the meaning of the words. Groggily, he traces the sound to its source: a man dressed in a white apron and paper hat standing before the most awesome stove he has ever seen.
Overall humanoid in form, its hunched shoulders tower over the vendor. Many spikes protrude from the back, and Ed surmises they are functional smoke stacks. He watches the vendor tentatively turn one of the ten eye-like dials on the sculpted face looming above his head, moving with care to avoid touching the jagged teeth within the gaping maw, and sharply tap a ladle against the side of a great pot. The corners of Ed's mouth tug upwards as his foggy brain recalls that the demonic metal box is his handiwork.
His hands are still free. He is still free. He lets his shoulders relax. His brother Al..
He recalls golden eyes trapped in a bony thin frame.. Brother.. No..
Before he can move, a great steaming bowl filled to the brim with slices of meat, long noodles, and a delicious smelling thin broth is set before his nose.
His gamble has paid off.
He owlishly drools in delight as his stomach roars in eagerness, and, hands on either side of the soup, darts his eyes around for silverware. Finding none, his brows meet at the bridge of his nose.
"Are you supposed to eat this with your hands..?" Ed says softly at the tasty looking puzzle. Unsurprisingly, the great bowl does not reply.
Impatiently, he picks up a slice of hot! meat with his fingertips, and just as he brings the morsel to his lips, the man loudly yells out. Ed glares at the thin pair of sticks roughly shoved into his free hand, and turns the gaze to the scowl of the vendor.
The vendor says an incomprehensible mouthful as he jabs his finger at Ed's chest. Ed frowns, turns his gaze to the sticks in his hand, and narrows his eyes.
Of course. I'm in Xing. Xingese eat with sticks. Somehow. Ed thinks, and nods once at the angry vendor as he awkwardly arranges the sticks between his clumsy fingers. I wish I learned how to use these stupid things earlier.
"Ah well." Ed mutters in a grumble of his own. "Can't be helped."
A/N: . I am llothcat, btw, but unfortunately, I can't log on to my account to update any of my stories. By the wisdom of those who keep this archive, I have this new account. Anyhow. This posting is a revision of sorts, and apologies for that. I made minor changes to this work from the original, and I think it makes a better read with less typos and all. The result is topping 8000 words! omg! Working on the continuation from here, because when I reread some of the old material, I cringed when I did not get the characters right. If you know anything about me as a writer, I'm all about characters! I even made Gaara nice! Yikes!