Disclaimer: If I owned FMA, Ed would be allowed to make Roy uncomfortable sometimes.. He isn't. And I'm dreadfully curious to see what would happen if the Colonel were uncomfortable. In any case: I obviously don't own FMA.

Chapter 2

It had taken some time, but Al had persuaded Ed that it was worth it. Besides, if they lost the tournament, the deal was off; Fuery knew Ed wasn't allowed to keep pets any more than he was. And then Armstrong, experienced haggler that he was, just had to break in and say they had to find homes for the parrot, chinchilla, and eldest kitten first.

Ed had found a way out. He'd released the parrot into the forest for some lucky child to find, the rodent into Mustang's room (with much whispering, metallic tiptoes, and giggling), and found a nurse who was won over at discovering a kitten on her stomach when she woke up. So he was practicing.

It was too bad he was an alchemist, for the controls were constantly the focus of Ed's vented wrath. And then again, it was a good thing he was an alchemist, for if he weren't, he'd have spent more time repairing than playing, although perhaps this would have taught him a bit of level-headedness, Mustang reflected.

Mustang was officially not practicing. Behind closed doors, however –this being his closet, which Fuery, who had stumbled in on it one day, found scarily large and neat for being a secret – he had set up a gaming system. He had also coerced Fuery into teaching him to play. He had gotten far further than Fullmetal.

"Having difficulties?" He drawled. "It must be hard to hit that orc, seeing as you're a third of his size."

Despite this being a reference to his pixels' height (the character was, after all, a dwarf; rather tall for a dwarf, actually), Ed exploded in typical Ed fashion. Al held him back until he calmed down enough to properly reshape the walls of the room. Most of the other officers practicing remained oblivious to this event.

"All right, Colonel." Ed tried not to sneer. "I challenge you." He gestured to the screen, where – oops, his character was dead. Mustang smirked.

"Very well." He conceded, accepting controls from Armstrong.

Ed won the battle, Roy decided as he fled the gaming room, but the war was not yet over.

It wasn't his fault he wasn't stupid enough to start the game on Nightmarish Viciously Hair-Curling Bloody Hard.

"They're going to hurt themselves." Al murmured worriedly to Fuery, his gaze fixed on the way Ed and Mustang, at their third battle this week, were pounding at the controls. "Ed already has bruised thumbs."

Fuery gently smuggled a third kitten into Al's stomach. "They'll be fine." He assured the giant robot.

"I don't know about that." Al replied. It was, after all, their third battle, and Mustang had won the second. "Ed has to win this one."

Fuery, who was training mustang, found himself disagreeing. "No, Mustang will. He's gotten better – you saw he beat Ed last time."

"But that made Ed practice harder." Al countered. "Mustang will – see? Ed won points for a special move."

"Mustang's already got one he's saving up." Fuery defended.

"Mustang's a conservationist coward." Al explained. "He'll save it until it's too late. Thinks he can win with regular attacks."

"But Ed wastes the things. Look, Mustang's defending. And there it goes." The two watched in brain-dead awe as a flash of colorful light indicated Ed wasting his special attack. "See, I told you." Fuery added as the fight continued.

"If they were smart, they'd use their specials when the other one was leaping. As then." Armstrong rumbled.

"They have no technique." Fuery agreed.

"Yet." Al defended.

Pokepokepokepokepokepoke! Ed wished he could actually hit Mustang. He'd worked all the way up to that special to have Mustang waste it. But he was still winning; Mustang was low on health and didn't look like he had any healing potions left. Ed had two, and a bit more health than Mustang.

Using a racial special ability, Ed (screen name ) leaped to the top of a rock pile. After Mustang's dig at his dwarven height, Ed had switched to playing barbarians, which were tall. And now he had the advantage. Mustang's scurrying little Dark Elf figure was racing for the steps – he could climb the pile, but that would expose him to attack. Not that he wasn't already exposed; he'd fallen right into Ed's trap.

Bangbangbangbangbangbang. The gaming maintenance team had insisted Ed switch his automail arm to a more specialized clay one, after he'd torn apart three controllers. Waste of alchemical talent, they'd said, but they meant they were having more trouble tearing Ed away from the screen to fix them.

Ed's barbarian leaped down at Roy's figure, his axe held high above his head, and swung.

"Should have used a smaller axe and a shield down below." Armstrong rumbled from behind a door. He was right; Roy had apparently taken Armstrong's inaudible advice from before, and his character had stealthily drawn a Dark Elven crossbow.

Flashflashflashflash! Thwock! Mustang's special ability killed Ed's character before Ed could heal.

"Beep!" Ed cursed, throwing his controller down in disgust.

"Had enough yet, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, falsely arrogant. Ed had really shaken him.

"Look at the screen." Ed sulked exultantly. UFB took everything into account, and though the Colonel's blow had killed his character, the corpse remained falling, and flattened the immobile Dark Elf below.

"Beep!" Mustang cursed. However, not being childish like Ed, he did not throw his controller down. He incinerated it.