AN-- The last major original character is introduced in this chapter. Michael isn't as important as General Raskoph, however.

Oh look! Winry and Al! They wormed their way into this fic as well, go figure. Hopefully they're in character, neither writer has much (any?) experience with them.

This chapter would seem at first to go off in a different direction, but all subplots will be tied together soon, promise. Reviews are loved!

Chapter three

The Envies of Youth

Winry Rockbell and Den the dog ran down the porch steps at the Rockbell residence, the girl's eyes bright as she looked out over the sunny fields of Resembool. Alphonse Elric looked up from where he sat on the side of a grassy hill, noting the clicking of Den's automail limb. No automail for Al: he sat and felt the sun on his real skin and wondered whether metal heated faster than skin, whether it retained the warmth. His thoughts often migrated to science lately. It was simpler than conversation.

"Al!" Winry called. The dog circled around her like the waves in a whirlpool, grass shushing beneath his feet. Al turned and looked up as the girl approached. "It's time for lunch."

Al pushed off from the ground and walked over to her, but was halted in his trek toward the house by Winry dodging in front of him with a serious expression. "What are the properties of magnesium?"

"Ah…" He remembered this one. It was important to both automail work and alchemy…he had read about this yesterday…

"What was the alchemic symbol for fire?" Winry barked.

"I don't know! You have to give me some time."

Winry sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Winry had been trying to jog his memory unsuccessfully ever since…whatever had happened to erase it had happened. No matter what science and alchemy Al had supposedly once known, it was all gone now, as gone as Brother, that shadowy figure whom Al would search for tirelessly once he had enough skill to make his own way in the world. Because Brother would be grown now, older than Al, even though Al's memories of him were from when they both were children. The younger Elric was still in that awkward stage where he seemed to grow taller with every forkful of food he pushed into his mouth, but Ed… So much had happened that he did not know what kind of man he would encounter when he did find his brother.

People tried to help him, to jog his memory. People who Winry said he knew, people in uniforms. He recognized what they meant—the military—but not who they were.

He remembered some things about alchemy from the time when he and Ed had been trying to revive their mother. Those were complex arrays too, those which dealt with the myriad of chemicals and energies which held a human body together. It was the simple things he had trouble remembering now, the quick and functional ones.

Winry continued to speak as she preceded him into the house. Light streamed in to the dining room, making it almost as bright inside as out. She said, "Magnesium is a very flammable metal, and its symbol is incorporated into the alchemic array that creates fire. I thought you were studying this? It's not like I know much about alchemy; I have to read the books too to help you."

"I'll remember now," Al said. "I just have trouble focusing sometimes. I just have to rest my brain and watch the trains go by sometimes."

Winry sighed. "You're such a boy."

Al blanched. "I think I am, Winry, I'd rather not suddenly be something else…"

"Never mind."

Michael Adler envied no one.

What freedom could rival that of the thief? What power could rival that of the alchemist? What pride was more deserved than that borne of the delightful mélange of rumor and truth?

They called him the fire-bringer, because the first place he stole from was a library, and when it locked its doors against him he burnt it down. Books were easy to steal, at first, because although locked, bookstores were not equipped like jewelry stores or banks; no one expected anyone to covet books like so many coveted gold. Libraries argued that books were free, and at first Michael simply kept them until the letters about overdue books and late fees stopped coming.

He had begun to steal books in his early teenage years, almost by accident. His first few attempts at making sense of the strange symbols all around him—for Michael had reached puberty without knowing how to read—had been made out of a genuine interest…but booksellers, especially those who catered to the rich, did not trust a lanky, greasy-haired, accusing-eyed boy who sat in the children's section because he could sound out all the words. Michael did not fail to notice this; being the child of petty thieves had given him, along with a lack of literacy, a glowering distrust for the distrustful, a prideful hatred of those above.

And so he took the books, to read them in secret. Sometimes he returned them, and sometimes he horded them instead. Either way, his book thievery was only partially out of interest now: mingled with a desire to read was a desire to lash back at every snobby bookseller and librarian he knew. For all the strangeness of his chosen targets, Michael Adler still stole mostly out of spite.

Libraries learned to put up precautions to dissuade him, but they were nothing compared to what his other haunts (the homes of the rich) were. For several years, his 'collection' grew.

It was in his mid teens, when he had graduated to the adult shelves but still liked books with some pictures, that he discovered alchemy.

Locks did not need to be picked if they were instead transformed into puddles of molten metal, and so his parents supported his new hobby much more than they had his reading. For a time, alchemy overshadowed everything else in his life. It was not that he was particularly powerful as far as alchemy was concerned—the State never lifted its hands to either arrest or license him—but he was too young to know what he could not do. He devoured alchemic information with abandon, and his book stealing began to taper off. Libraries breathed a sigh of relief as Michael instead focused his efforts on deciphering the arrays in basic alchemy primers.

But when he reemerged from his studies, he was proud with power and began to make trouble even for booksellers who made none for him. Not only did he steal as he was used to, but he no longer stole subtly. He threatened shopkeepers and customers with sourceless explosions and conversions, until his robberies were almost holdups.

The door crackled down the center and melted. As it peeled apart like skin from an orange Andy Barlo could see the tangles and sweeps of neon light emblazoning the opposite side of the door. Then the symbols fell into chips of glowing material, and a man stepped through the crumbling door, a book in one pale hand, the other slipping into a pocket of his greatcoat to place the stick of chalk there.

Barlo, proprietor of the most prestigious used-and-rare bookstore in Eastern City, recognized the thief-alchemist immediately. He fumbled for the telephone set on the counter beside him, but he had barely poked the numbers and turned the dial three times when the alchemist strode in. He stopped next to the counter, narrowly glaring.

He said, "You are going to stay right there, and I am going to take whatever I want."

Barlo was not a brave man, but he knew the value of the books he had. "Don't be stupid. There's a security system protecting the books you want—"

The alchemist raised the hand that held the green-bound book and pointed it at the proprietor. The other hand took the chalk and drew a perfect circle on the book's cover.

Alchemy! Fear of what this madman might do took over. Barlo's hands and arms felt limp, out of his control. He formed words with difficulty. "Fine. Do whatever you want."

The alchemist brushed the fresh lines off the book, and Barlo half expected the chalk to steam when it hit the floor.

Michael sat surrounded by books older than any family member he knew. He had rummaged through the most thoroughly protected shelves, discarding the alchemy texts too complex or too subtle for him to understand. The bookseller stood near him in a corner, staring disdainfully, as if Michael were the weak one…

Diagrams of animal bones, of astrological symbols, of circles and triangles, flashed before Michael's eyes as he flipped through the books, hurrying to find the ones that would serve him best. The police would come soon. Here: some symbols he recognized, ones which were both simple and useful…some new ones as well, but he could decipher them.

With violent gestures he rifled through the chaotic pile of volumes to find the other two books which matched the one he held—Amestris' Finest Alchemies, Part II. One was tented, and he flipped it over, revealing an array that caught his eye with its aesthetic swirls and slashes. He marked the place with his finger and stood up, turning to the shopkeeper aggressively, his face twisting. "Now, should I kill you so you can't tell on me…?"

The bookseller's face blanched with fear, and it gave him an idea. Fear was so addicting.

He drew the new array on the bookstore's door, while car engines growled on nearby streets. He didn't know what it did: fate would decide this man's fate, a grimly amusing judgment that made up for the fact that the bookseller might survive it. No matter—Michael would just have to be sure that no one who saw him after this lived to compare descriptions with the police. He added a sign that would delay the alchemy's activation for a few moments, completed the scrape of the chalk across the wood, turned, and ran.

He stopped in a nearby, dusty alley, flushed with happiness and the breathlessness of the run, the three books tucked under his arms and digging into his sides.

A fireball, sounding like one of Michael's own breaths amplified thousandfold, exploded into the air from the direction of the bookstore. The thief unconsciously stepped backward, eyes wide, surprised that the alchemic array had proven to be so dramatic. Flaming brands that had once been walls plummeted around him.

He bowed his head to look at Amestris' Finest Alchemies, Part I.

This was power, what he was holding here. This could take him from 'petty thief' to 'crime lord'.

But to keep from the eyes of the police and to practice this new power in a larger venue, he would have to get out of this town.

As far as new stomping grounds went, Central would be best.