Current Status
Damon Pythias: Working at Curtis Meats in Dublith and staying with Izumi and Sig Curtis.
Jason Pelion: Staying at the Devil's Nest in Dublith with Greed and various chimeras.
Lorelei Clemens: Staying at the Hughes's house in Central, about to go to the Tucker household at East City to pose as a student interested in bio-alchemy.
Part One: The Introduction
Chapter Four – When In Doubt
"Things seem so hallucinating; in the corners of my mind they scare me. I know ya never meant to desert me, just like you never really meant to hurt me."
Sabrina Severn
"Why, hello there!"
I open my eyes slowly to find myself in an empty white space that seems to go on forever. Huh, I think I'd remember ending up here.
"There are nicer things to look at than a hollow void, you know." The voice comes from a place behind me, so I turn around to see a strange thing standing in front of me. It looks like a person but it doesn't seem to be more than a simple silhouette, the same shade of white as everything else in this weird place.
I stare at it in disbelief and shake my head, closing my eyes. When I open them again, nothing has changed. "Who're you?"
"I am called by many names. I am the world. I am the universe. I am God. I am Truth. I am all. I am one. And I am also you." Many Names grins at me as it points directly at my face. I don't remember it having a mouth.
This must be some sort of strange dream. That's the only reasonable explanation.
"I can assure you that you're not dreaming, Sabrina. This is most truly real life." It widens its smile until it seems like it's threatening to break its whole face in half. "Well, that isn't the best way to describe it. Real life and Fullmetal Alchemist is more accurate."
Fullmetal Alchemist? But that's fictional. I can't be in a fictional universe, that's not possible. "If that's true, then why don't I recognize you? Shouldn't everyone I meet be from it? You're not from it."
Many Names – I guess that's what I've officially decided to call it – shrugs. "The version you've seen is a different one than the one I am from, which is unfortunate for you. While some of the aspects of what you know are the same in this universe, many things are changed."
Great, it just has to be difficult, doesn't it? "Can you at least tell me what's been changed, to be fair?"
If it says everything, I'm going to scream; but, seeing as I kinda will scream anyway…
"Fine," it sighs after thinking for a moment, "I did tell your friend I would be fair. Aside from changes that simply have to do with lack of time, the plot diverges after episode twenty-five."
"By the bitterness in your voice, I'm guessing you were one of those changes that they made."
Nodding, Many Names continues, "The entire ending, along with the villain, is different, and new characters are added in. Certain ones have completely different personalities. Homunculi are created in a different way, and there's a new Sloth. There is a new Pride, since the Pride from your series is now Wrath. And the Gate does not lead to Earth."
Wow, there really were a lot of changes made by the adaptation. "Okay," I say hesitantly. "You have something else you want to tell me, don't you?"
Its grin returns, twice as demonic, and it gives me a mockery of a thumbs-up. "You'll also have a power of sorts, as requested by your friend. To preserve your puny little life, you will be able to heal people simply by using fluids from your body." It probably would blink if it had eyes, but since it doesn't, it settles for exuding the aura of blinking. "Seeing as that might sound wrong in some minds, I shall explain in better detail. Spit from your mouth will be able to heal people if it comes into contact with their skin."
"So I have to spit on them to heal them? Can't there be a less-gross way?"
"You don't have to necessarily spit on them, per se. You could lick your hand, or lick them, if that's what you're into, or simply make out. That's what your world refers to it as, right?"
I stare at it in disbelief, and Many Names groans loudly, running its hand over the back of its head. "Okay, okay, I get it! You can heal people without spitting on them, but by shrieking Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of your lungs like a seasick whale."
"What?"
"No, you can heal people by simply touching them, but your spit will make your ability stronger, since your healing sort of works through water particles in the air. Are you happy now?"
Are you fricking kidding me? This is the superpower you picked, you bastard?
That has got to be the lamest, and the most confusing, superpower I have ever even heard of in my entire life. Did it look through a lame-superpowers guidebook and pick the lamest one? "Sure," I lie unconvincingly, "sounds great."
It sees through my façade in approximately half of a second, which, considering it probably can read minds, it isn't too embarrassing. "I will admit that you get stuck with the short end of the stick in comparison to the four other people I brought over."
"There are more?" Then this means it's not a coincidence that I'm here. I must be here for a reason, which is easily ten times scarier.
Many Names nods enthusiastically, quite a feat for a creature simply comprised of a silhouette of a body and a creepy grin. "You're the fourth," it says, its smile practically pouring out of its voice. "Since your power is lame, as the kids call it these days, I'll also give you a bonus of sorts. One that will move you forward on the chessboard," it concludes, tilting its head to the side in a parody of the gesture a human would make.
I don't want anything to do with whatever it considers a bonus. There isn't any possibility that I would agree that it's a good thing. "Why are you doing this?"
It asks, "The bonus or the whole dragging-five-people-into-Amestris thing?"
"The whole thing about dragging five people into Amestris," I answer.
It shrugs and says, "I got bored of watching the same thing happen over and over again, with only three variations. There's the original manga, the first anime, and then the second. So I decided to shake it up a bit by throwing five people into the mix. As for the bonus, it's mainly due to pity."
I ignore the fact that what it just said could be considered extremely rude. "What exactly are you planning to give me?"
"Not a what, but a who," it corrects, waving its hand in the air lazily.
A Gate – I have to capitalize the first letter – appears out of nowhere right after; it's so sudden that it can't be a coincidence. Its doors open slowly and with an ominous creak, and out falls a boy. Literally falls out, as if he had been dropped from a great height and just happened to fall through the door into this white expanse of space.
He crashes to the ground with a vaguely metallic bang as he lands on his hands and knees – I see that his left arm is automail. Otherwise, I have no idea who the hell he is.
"Who're you?" He asks, slightly confused. "I know the Truth, but I haven't seen you here at all. Or are you another person that's stuck in here?"
I'm about to reply when the Truth, as he called it, interrupts. "I don't have all day to listen to you two play your get-to-know you game. This is where I bid you adieu, and where both of you enter into Amestris and the fight for your lives begins." It claps its hands. The white landscape vanishes and I crash to the ground.
My first clue that something is wrong is the fact that there is a gigantic rock digging into my side that is incredibly sharp.
If I were Lorelei, I'd say something like how I only wake up with gigantic dull rocks digging into my side, but I'm not, so I won't. Though technically, I just did, but whatever.
I open my eyes and find myself inside an alcove along the wall of a building that forms a narrow street that's more like an alleyway than an actual street. I'm pretty sure that made no sense at all, but I get it, and that's all that really matters right now.
For a moment, I don't remember how I ended up here and my unusual conversation with Ma – the Truth.
By the amount of light in the sky, I'd say it's almost dawn, so around three in the morning.
There's a shuffling from the opposite side of the street, and the boy comes and sits right next to me. "Where are we?" He asks, his voice shaking slightly.
"By what the Truth said, we're probably in Amestris. I'm Sabrina, by the way."
"My name's Tristan." He runs his automail fingers through the pebbles on the ground.
Seems I did something right, seeing as he hasn't tried to kill me yet.
I glance down at my clothes, trying to see if they would attract attention for not fitting in. Blue collared shirt, khakis, and sneakers; I shouldn't get any stares from wearing this. Tristan's just wearing an overlarge shirt, pants, and boots. He should be fine, if nobody questions automail.
I'm not sure how to reply, so I choose to change the subject. "We should probably cut your hair so people don't think you're a hobo." My choice of words is, as always, impeccable and slightly offensive.
"What's a hobo?"
I had forgotten about words being different where he is from. "A homeless person," I explain, not bothering to say anything else.
He pulls out a knife unquestioningly from his boot. "The Truth gave it to me." With one stroke, he slices off his hair a little above the shoulders in a way that shouldn't be neat, but is. It leaves him with dark hair shorter than mine, but still covering most of his face.
I don't bother to wonder why the Truth would give a boy a knife. "Do you want me to braid it?" I ask, because braids always make anything better. Always, trust me. He nods; I start braiding with focus I previously hadn't known I'd possessed.
Behind me, a noise sounds from the end of the street and I pause, looking over my shoulder. A crash comes from the opposite end, and I hear Tristan inhale sharply.
"You are the Shock Alchemist." The voice that echoes from where I'm squinting at places a slight emphasis on the first word. It's not a question.
I freeze when I recognize the speaker as he steps into the light. It's everyone's favorite serial killer, Scar.
"Congratulations, you have eyes." This mocking voice comes from the other end of the street, and I swivel around to see who it is. Dark skin that almost blends in with the night sky is the only thing that catches my attention. "Guess what? I have eyes too. You're the serial killer who's been targeting State Alchemists."
Scar curls his fingers inwards, a small smile adorning his face. "That is correct."
They seem too focused on each other to notice us. I shrink against the building, and Tristan does the same, watching them with wide eyes.
Sparky – that is my new nickname for the Shock Alchemist, deal with it – steps forward. "Not even bothering to deny it, are you?"
"You're not either."
I can swear Scar glances at us after he speaks, but his face remains unchanged.
"Do you at least have a name?" The alchemist reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a pair of jet black gloves. He slips them on as he says, "Because I do. I want to see how dissimilar we are before fighting."
"I have forsaken my name."
"Have you? That's interesting. The name's Larkin Astor, by the way, signed up after Ishval."
Really, I don't know who I should be rooting for. Scar is Scar, a serial killer with a single-minded determination on one thing and one thing alone. This other guy, he's definitely more polite, I'll give him that, but something about him seems off. It's like he's putting up a front, hiding some sort of secret.
Larkin smirks lopsidedly, tilting his head to one side. "Did I strike a nerve? Could you perhaps be Ishvalan?" He looks delighted, clasping his hands together and running a finger along the fabric of one of his gloves. He must've noticed something that I missed. Then again, I already knew Scar was Ishvalan.
"I get bored of talking," Scar says. "So why not fight?"
"You never were this friendly with your other victims. Why start now?" Despite still talking, he clenches both of his hands into fists.
"Maybe it's because you're so polite." With this, Scar gestures widely. "Do you want to start?" His voice betrays his annoyance.
I guess expecting a serial killer to be all buddy-buddy with his next victim is too optimistic.
Larkin shrugs and his gloves start to light up. No, they're still black – it's more like they pull in light from the air around them. "Really, it's a pity that we have to meet like this. I think, if we met under different circumstances, we could've gotten along." Bright white radiates around his hands, like it's engulfing them. He lifts one arm up and a portion of the light shoots out from his hand. It hits the opposite wall and scrapes along the brick until it dies out.
I push Tristan further back into the alcove so that I'm between him and the fight.
Scar doesn't even bother to dodge; instead, he stands, unmoving, like a stone. "How does your alchemy work?" If anything, he sounds like he's trying to have a conversation.
I know what he's trying to do. Figuring it out is a lot less easy than asking.
By his expression, Larkin's onto him as well, but doesn't care. Waving his left hand, he says, "This glove allows me to absorb electricity from the air. The other one lets me expel it. Well, that's the simple version, at least. It gets a bit more complicated than that. Care to tell me how yours works?"
Scar narrows his eyes. "It's not alchemy."
"Quite honestly, you're acting like a kid who tells himself that the monsters under his bed can't be real if he can't see them. But we know who the real monsters are. They don't hide in the shadows or under the bed. They're us. We humans, we're the real monsters." His glove has gone back to its former brightness, and a ghost of a smile haunts his face. "The question is if you realize that."
"I've known that since Ishval." Scar sees the next bolt and dodges it by pressing himself against the nearest wall. He pushes himself off of it with his arm-of-destruction and it shatters, bricks collapsing inwards, not on the street.
"Who do we want to win?" Behind me, Tristan's voice doesn't even qualify as a whisper.
I'm about to reply when I realize that I have no idea. "I – I don't know."
Without warning, Scar charges forward, ducking under the shot that's fired at him. He tilts his right arm so that his hand collides with Larkin's left glove, and I can tell what he's going to do before he does it.
He ignores the fact that the light is traveling up his arm and doesn't move until there's a strong smell of what I'm pretty sure is burnt… flesh.
Oh, that's just fricking peachy. Lovely, lovely, lovely, burnt flesh is absolutely lovely. My urge to shriek at the top of my lungs suddenly quadruples.
That's when I notice that Larkin's left hand is gone, along with his entire arm. The fragments of his glove twirl to the ground lifelessly, and the light around his other hand dies out. He stares at it and, completely deadpan, says, "I would clap, but you kind of destroyed my arm."
Scar doesn't seem to regard the armless man as a threat anymore. "You're calm for a person who is about to die," he comments, backing up a step as if in preparation for charging again.
Larkin shrugs – at least, I think that's a shrug – and shifts his gaze to him. "Yes, I suppose I am. I guess I have no qualms–" He stops talking in the middle of his sentence, instead ramming into Scar and using the motion to push himself in the opposite direction.
Of course, this takes him straight towards me, which seems to be his intention. He pulls me up and into the street by my hair – ouch – single-handedly. "–About drawing energy from people instead," he says, wrapping his arm around my throat. "I know it's a brutal method that was retired last century for being inhumane. I've only gotten to try it out for myself on a number of small animals, but I suspect that this'll be much more fun."
Scar makes a growling noise in the back of his throat but doesn't say anything.
"See, the glove you destroyed allowed me to take in electricity from the air. The one that I still have lets me take it from living things, along with the other abilities I said, but I didn't think it necessary to mention it."
I keep my arms glued to my side, thankful that he's wearing his military uniform. The last thing I want to do is accidentally heal him.
Lowering his hand slowly, Scar asks, "What do you want?"
Larkin's grip on my neck tightens. "Oh, you seem to think that I'll let her go if you give me what I want! That's too cliché for my likings. No, I think I'll just take her energy and kill you; then I'll be regarded as a hero."
I hear a noise from behind me, but I can't turn my head to see what it is.
"Let her go." Tristan's voice is deadly quiet, but it shakes with rage.
"Huh, you don't want her to die. Would you rather I kill you instead?" Larkin shrugs, pushing me away from him. I stumble to a stop in front of Scar, and turn around. "You're even more pathetic than she is."
"You're not gonna kill anyone."
Larkin raises his eyebrows skeptically. "And who are you to decide that?"
Tristan smirks. "No one, really," he says, seconds before sending his automail arm straight through Larkin's chest. "He was going to kill you. I decided I didn't want him to win." He pulls his arm out of the now-lifeless corpse and lets the body fall to the ground.
Scar inhales sharply and breathes, "Automail?"
"Yeah," Tristan says. "My leg, too; I got them from an accident." Apparently, he has decided to trust Scar, seeing as he wasn't the one who tried to kill us.
Well, he's not lying, I guess.
"He said your name is, uh, Scar?" Tristan asks.
"Yes," Scar says after a pause, "that's correct. And yours?" He addresses the both of us.
Tristan glances towards me, so I decide to answer. "Sabrina Severn and Tristan Severn," I say.
If Tristan questions the fact that I said we were siblings, he doesn't voice it. Instead, he nods as if in approval.
And if Scar questions it – probably because we look nothing alike – he doesn't voice it either. In fact, his silence is what makes me turn to him and notice that his right hand is literally smoking.
"Your hand is smoking."
He looks down at his hand in dull surprise. "Yes, I suppose it is. It's probably from destroying the Shock Alchemist's arm when he was using his alchemy."
"Can I see it?" I ask, not caring that it makes me sound like a stalker.
He stares at me but lets me bring his arm up to my face. I'm sure the only reason he's doing it is because he could destroy me in a second.
If he decides to blow me up, there'll be little pieces of Sabrina floating through the air forever. Whoop-de-fricking-doo, that's just wonderful.
Holding his arm up at the wrist, I examine his hand intently. It looks like the top layer of skin has been fried off, for lack of a better word. Remembering what the Truth said – something about me healing through water particles, whatever that means – I lick a finger on my free hand and poke his knuckle with it.
He hisses and rips his hand out of mine. "What the hell are you doing?" He growls, but even as he speaks, his skin is repairing itself until it's exactly the same as it was before. "What the hell did you do? Is it alchemy?"
Right, he has a vendetta against alchemy; I shake my head. "I'm a healer. Not an alchemist."
"I have pieces of dismembered flesh stuck in my arm," Tristan says with eerie calmness. Staring down at his blood-spattered automail, he tightens his fingers into a fist. "It still works, though."
Hell, I am not ready to deal with this. Getting sucked into another universe, I can handle that. Almost getting killed by a State Alchemist is fine by me. I'm fine with being face-to-face with a serial killer. But no, it's the pieces of skin falling off of Tristan's arm that make me want to pass out.
I open my mouth and then close it. "Do you know how to clean your arm?" Please say yes, oh please say yes…
Tristan shakes his head and says, "Not really."
Oh, that's just great! Why don't we march up to the nearest automail engineer and have them fix you right up. Just ignore the dripping pieces of human, please.
I bite down on my tongue to keep these words from spilling out. "And what are we supposed to do about it?"
He shrugs, which causes more fragments to fall off of his arm and flutter to the ground slowly. I watch, both fascinated and repelled by the fact that they used to make up part of a live human. "I can deal with it," he says, "given a towel. I'm just glad that my arm didn't break. And also a little bit surprised, really; automail isn't usually able to punch through people."
"Do you know where we can find a towel, or some abandoned clothes?"
Scar glances down at the dead body and then back up. He nods stiffly. "Come with me." He walks to one end of the street and motions for us to follow him once he deems it save.
I do as he says, noting the gradually brightening sky. It must be nearly dawn; people should be out soon. Tristan trails behind me while running a hand through his hair, undoing the braid I hadn't gotten to complete.
We look like the circus has come for a visit, I'm sure of it. First there is Scar, who storms down the street and totally owns the serial-killer look of utter serial-killer-ness. I'm next, with clothes that probably are too modern and an expression of utter monotony. Lastly is Tristan, with long – longish – hair that makes him look like a girl, not to mention his bloody fake arm.
All we need is a clown car and people will start throwing rotten apples at us.
The first person we pass is an older man relying heavily on a nearly-broken walking stick. He gives us a curious look, but nothing more. Guess we already seem suspicious. And he probably couldn't even see the pieces of ugh still lodged in Tristan's arm.
We keep walking, not seeing anyone else until I see a man in a military uniform. He's about to walk past us when he squints at me. "Hey, it's a little early to be strolling around," he remarks.
I wave my hand and give an obviously fake half-hearted laugh. "My brother likes to watch the sunrise, so I go out with him."
The man turns his gaze to Tristan and asks, "Brother?"
"Yes. Is there a problem, officer?"
"And who're you?" He asks, suspicion creeping into his voice as he addresses Scar.
"Our father," I answer before Scar can.
It's a completely ridiculous theory, and I know it. Scar's an Ishvalan that could be the model for a workout magazine; with white hair, red eyes, absolutely huge. Though I'm normal height, I'm nowhere near as fit as he is, and obviously Asian, or at least whatever passes for it in this world. Which means black hair, slanted black eyes, and skin more olive than dark. There's also Tristan, who is midget-sized, extremely pale, has brown hair, and automail.
Calling the circus? I think you lost a bunch of freaks?
The officer looks down at me and asks, "Your father?"
"Technically, he's our adopted father, if you get my drift." I hope that this is enough for him, and that he won't perceive the tension and anxiety in my voice.
He turns to Scar and narrows his eyes. "Huh, you look sort of familiar. Have we met before?"
Inwardly, I'm begging that he ignores the obvious urge to blow the man's brains out. Instead, he stays silent. I'm not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
However, the officer notices something else. "Is that blood on your arm?" He asks Tristan.
Scar apparently decides that enough is enough. He does, in fact, put his hand-of-destruction over the man's face and explode it.
Tristan jumps back and raises his automail arm in a defensive position, as if he expects Scar to attack him next. "What did you do that for?"
"He would have found out eventually." Scar kneels next to the fallen body and takes off the jacket. "Now you can clean your arm." He hands it to me and continues, "So it's time for us to part ways." I shove the jacket at Tristan.
Oh, he is not going to leave us alone with no idea where we are. "No."
He turns to me, scowling, and I remember he's just killed a man. "What?"
Tristan sees the look on my face and decides to answer for me. "We have no idea where we are, so we're sticking with you for a while." His voice manages not to shake, and I see he puts all of his determination into the words.
Scar stares down at him in a combination between disbelief and disapproval. "How do I know the military didn't send you out here to gain my trust?"
"Yeah, because the military's preferred tactic is totally sending out children." I roll my eyes.
"You want to travel with a serial killer who goes around killing State Alchemists?"
"From what I've seen, State Alchemists aren't that nice in the first place."
He shakes his head at our stupidity and says, "No." With that, he stalks away down the street, leaving us standing next to the dead body.
I hadn't imagined he would be so utterly insistent. "Oh, hell no," I say, running after him. "We just saved your life, you bastard. Why not give us some credit here?"
"I said no."
"We don't need you to say yes," Tristan says. "We'll just follow you anyway." He starts to rub the jacket against his arm to clean it. By the flecks of something falling off, I can assume that it works.
Ugh. I really don't want to think about what that something is, but it's too late. The image of Tristan's arm stabbing through Larkin's chest replays in my mind with a sick sort of vengeance. "And we will keep following you until you relent. Unless you outrun us, of course, but then how could you know we wouldn't go directly to the military?" Not that we'd actually go to there; he doesn't have to know that, of course.
Scar narrows his eyes and sighs quietly. "I might kill you and dump your bodies where no one could find them. How would you react to that?"
Tristan doesn't waste time beating around the bush. "I'd kill you," he says, and I don't doubt it. "I'd kill you before you kill us." If anyone else said it, it would sound like a thoughtless threat, but since it's him, it comes off as genuine, because he really would.
Before the conversation could go any further, there's a shout from somewhere behind us. "It's him, the serial killer who's been targeting State Alchemists!"
Oh hell. It's just our luck to be caught by the police before spending an hour in this godforsaken country.
I whip my head around and see a force of multiple policemen running towards us. Tristan sees them too, and he whips the coat on just as Scar bellows, "Run!" I'm certainly not gonna argue with that, even if he had threatened to kill us.
Gunfire sounds and I resist the urge to fall to the ground. Instead, I keep on running after Scar, who veers onto another street. "I hope you know where you're going!" My voice comes out as a mix between a pant and a shout.
He nods at me stiffly. "I have some idea, yes."
That is not reassuring in the slightest. Though it betrays my unease, I manage to ask, "Some idea?"
"Yes," he growls, "some idea." He blasts open a hole in the side of a building and ducks through it, saying, "In here."
"Yeah, like we're going to stop following you." Tristan rolls his eyes and pushes the sleeves of his jacket up. "With the police chasing us and everything; what kind of idiots do you think we are?"
Scar gives the barest of shrugs that he can give while running through an abandoned building. "You are children, after all."
I dig my nails into my hand but resist commenting that sixteen years old is hardly a child, this world especially. Tristan, however, doesn't bother to resist. "I'm not a child!" He yells after ducking under a stray pipe jutting out of the wall. "I'm already – already – already." His voice fades away as he contemplates something. "I don't know how old I am." He's lost all of his former hostility.
That is unfortunate. Living in a weird mysterious gate for who-knows-how-long must've sucked.
"Save your self-evaluation for later," Scar snaps as he doesn't slow down to avoid crashing into the wall dead ahead. He simply sticks out his arm. Wall goes boom. Having that arm will prove to be handy.
I hope, anyway.
"Are we just going to outrun the cops?" I yell at him. Another sudden turn and I'm forced to push off the side of a building to right my path.
"That's the plan."
"That's the plan?!" Tristan practically shrieks. "We outrun them and hope that they don't see us? And then what?" If anything, his voice is getting louder as he continues to talk – yell, really. It's practically like a beacon signaling all military officers in our direction.
That building in the distance looks vaguely familiar. I stare at it as we draw closer. Then it hits me. "In here," I say, running up to the front door and yanking it open. I hope that my suspicion is right.
Hell. It's not right, but it'll do. I don't even remember why it seemed familiar to me, or what it reminded me of. It's an apartment building – thankfully empty – with a staircase visible down the hallway. Looks kind of like my own, which might be why I noticed it.
Once I'm inside, I dart out of view of the windows and hiss, "Close the door."
Tristan glances at me in confusion but does what I say.
I put a finger to my lips and creep forward down the hallway until I reach the stairs.
They follow me – if a bit unsurely – to the next floor and then to the next. We don't pass any people, seeing as they're all probably asleep or getting ready for work. Or school, if Amestris even has schools.
"What are you looking for?" Tristan whispers, watching me as I scan the area.
Instead of glaring at him like I should have, I reply, "A bathroom, an attic, or any empty space we can utilize. I'm not very fond of running about in the open."
A door opens and a man steps out, obviously dressed for work. Judging by his military uniform, he's an officer of some kind. He pauses and turns, and I can see his face. Hughes. "And what can you be here for at this time?" He asks. It sounds friendly, but there's definitely suspicion.
I realize how strange this must look, especially from his point of view. We probably look like a little trio of unhappiness.
Given the chance, Scar would blow Hughes's head up. Tristan would repeat the Larkin incident in a heartbeat if I asked him too. I'll have to take command of the situation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, did we wake you?" I ask.
He shakes his head, though traces of the unease still remain. "No, I was just about to head out to Central Command. And you are?"
Think of aliases, think of aliases. Sabrina Severn, you are going to think of aliases or else you'll die. "The Weasleys," I say, "Ginny, Fred, and George Weasley." Hell. "Someone told us about an open house today? Well, an open apartment, really," I correct.
Oh. Bloody hell, I did not just introduce us as three of the Weasleys from Harry Potter. Please tell me I did not.
I did.
Hughes narrows his eyes slightly and then widens them. "You mean the empty apartment? It's down a level. I'd be happy to show you it, though."
"You would?" I paste a smile onto my face. "Thanks so much!" After he nods and turns to go, I whip my head around to face Scar and Tristan, pointing at my grin and mouthing, "Smile."
As Hughes reaches the stairwell, he looks over his shoulder to check that we're following and then notices something. "Is that a military jacket?" He asks Tristan.
"Yeah, it is. Little Freddy has always wanted to join the military once he was old enough. Didn't you?" I turn to 'Freddy' and ruffle his hair.
To his credit, Tristan manages to look suitably uncomfortable by blushing up a storm. "Stop it, Mommy, you're embarrassing me!"
No, he could not have said that.
Hughes seems incredibly confused, as he should be, and asks, "Mom?"
Crap. Holy hell, he did say that.
"Yes?" That's more of a question than an explanation. "I'm his adopted mom, of course." I see the unasked question in his eyes. "I'm older than I look. A lot older, really."
His smile returns, albeit more uneasy, and he starts to walk down the stairs. He doesn't press the issue, though I can tell he wants to. "And what exactly drew you to this apartment complex in particular?"
"It seemed like a nice neighborhood," I comment blandly, shrugging.
I try to ignore the obvious fact that he thinks I'm Tristan's adoptive mother. More importantly, I try to ignore the extremely awkward fact that he thinks Scar and I are… together. A thing, an item, doing the do, married? But it would be worse if he thought we weren't married. So I do not know what to make of this situation.
Scar is – I don't know how old Scar is. All I know is that I'm closer to Tristan's age than to him.
With further conversation disappearing down the drain, I follow Hughes down the stairs and glance behind me to see how the dynamic duo is… doing. Tristan is wearing an expression of utter terror. He has stuffed his hands into his pockets, which disguises the fact that he has automail. Scar is staring off into the distance like he's in shock or something. It's fantastic.
"Here it is," Hughes announces, standing in front of a nondescript door in a nondescript hallway in a nondescript apartment building in an entirely remarkable world. "Strange, I thought some person would be here to at least welcome you."
"They must be running late or have lost tract of the time. We can wait out here until they get here, it's no big deal. Thanks for showing us where it is!"
He returns my smile and gives a joking salute before heading down the other flight of stairs. "No problem," he calls. "Hope to see you around here soon."
Yeah, like that's ever going to happen. As soon as he's out of sight, I want to collapse like a broken puppet, but that's going to have to wait until we get into the apartment.
Scar is ready to blow the lock off, and Tristan looks like he's about to use his automail again.
I have a different approach in mind. "Why don't we test to see if the door is unlocked before undoing whatever we just did?" I go up to the door and turn the handle. Lo and behold, it opens. With enough squeaking to wake the whole building, but still, it opens. Giving them a glance that means I told you so, I tiptoe in to find it's empty.
Right after the door closes, I collapse against the nearest wall like a broken puppet.
"What good is this going to do us?" Scar asks a few moments later. I look up at him in surprise. He seems very fixated on staring at the tattoo on his right arm. "We're safe for what, a day or two at most? Then what are we going to do?"
He said we, not I. This is progress, even if miniscule. "It buys us time to think of what to do," I snap. Perhaps I'm being mean, but I don't care. "Which, by the way, it beats your escape plan." Hey, he wanted to outrun the cops.
"Sabrina?" Tristan asks, taking his hands out of his pockets and showing their contents to me. "What are these?" It's a mix of paper bills and coins.
"Money would be my best bet," I say. I'm unfamiliar with Amestrian currency. "Scar knows more about it than I do. Show it to him."
Scar looks up from his arm and down at it and says, "Cenz, and a lot of them."
"Define a lot," I say skeptically.
"Enough to buy three train tickets to East City and leave us with change."
I have no idea what this East City place is or where it's located, but I'm not going to tell him that since it would ruin my already shoddy cover. Actually, I never told him a cover story, therefore I wouldn't have one to ruin.
"That's good, right?" Tristan asks. "That way, we can get out of here?"
Scar nods slightly and says, "Yes. But we should wait until the manhunt dies down before we head out."
"And we should leave separately, or as close to it as we can. They're either looking for just one person or three people. Not two and one. Order tickets separately to be safe as well." That is the only improvement I can make to the plan. "The police are definitely searching for you," I say to Scar, "so either Tristan or I will have to be with you at all times."
It's best if I'm the one on my own. I've already proven myself to be capable of lying on the spot – and apparently, quite convincingly. I'm pretty sure Tristan would stare at people instead of replying to them if he needed to make conversation. Scar being alone is off-limits.
Together, they could hopefully come up with a decent cover story without attacking people.
I place a strong emphasis on the hopefully.
"You guys should go together. I can handle myself on my own," I say. "I hope that, in being together, you'll be able to talk your way out of a situation instead of attack." I recognize that is a low blow, but I don't care. "Now, if we want to eat today, I'll need to take some of the money and get food. I'll also map out the best route to the train station and see when the best time is, unless you want to improvise."
Tristan passes me all of the money and I frown at it. "How much should I need?"
"Thirty thousand should be fine," Scar says without looking up. Like I'm supposed to know how to count out thirty thousand, which I suppose I am.
I sigh loudly, getting up and walking over to him, waving the money in his face. "Which is how much?"
He takes it from my hand. "This much," he says, giving me three bills and returning my death glare.
I tilt my mouth up in what could qualify as a smile but more so as a sneer. "Thanks," I say in a clearly mocking tone, "what could I ever do without you?" I turn to go out the door and then remember something. "Remember, none of you goes out until I get back. And don't make any noise if you don't want the cops here."
"Yes, Mommy," Tristan mutters sarcastically, sitting against the wall and drawing his knees to his chest.
"Love you too, dearie. And I mean what I say about not making any sound whatsoever. Do you want to be execution for treason?"
I roll my eyes and shove my annoyance back down before I open the door a crack, checking to see if anyone was out. Nobody is, so I sneak out and quietly shut the door behind me. It's all quiet, thankfully. Everyone has probably already left for work by now.
I walk down the flight of stairs to the main floor and then out the door. Outside, there remains no trace of the search this morning. Maybe the officers hadn't realized we ducked into here, or even got at all to this part of town. Hey, I can certainly hope that this is the case, and they've focused their attention elsewhere.
Once my foot has hit the pavement, I realize that I have no idea where I am going, or where the train station is located. It's probably best to find the station before getting food. I'll have to ask somebody where it is, the horror.
Except that nobody is on the street at all, let alone a random person heading my way. I should find a direction and head that way. But which way is the question. The right seems to lead to a more promising area, so I head there.
There's one person out, a nice-looking lady who's perfectly willing to give me clear directions to the station. I manage to find my way there in less than ten minutes, which is impressive, seeing as it's my first day in Central, and Amestris in general. Aside from the chugging of the train, it's quiet inside.
I locate the nearest worker, who's sitting behind a booth, and walk up to him.
"Can I help you?" He asks politely. No, I've just decided to stand in front of you because I liked the view, you moron.
"Yeah," I answer, nodding, "would it be possible for you to tell me the times that a train to East City is leaving tomorrow? I'm planning on visiting family there." Seems like I'm already starting to develop into a fluent liar; I'm not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.
He nods and asks, "Can you hold on a second?" When I nod back, he stands up and retrieves a large binder from a drawer, sitting back down. He flips to a page that, to me, looks random, but surely isn't. "Hmm," he says, dragging his finger along the laminated page. "Trains leave for there at nine, noon, three, and seven. Does that help?"
"Yes," I say, putting as much enthusiasm in my voice as I possibly can. "Thank you so much!"
He smiles at me, and I go back out of the train station. I guess it's time to find a shop that's not ridiculously expensive. Scar had said that thirty thousand… cenz would be plenty, and I suppose he qualifies as a hobo, but I don't want to use it all up at one place.
I spot a rather boring sandwich-shop type place and decide that it couldn't hurt to scope it out. Surprisingly, it's not empty; a few people are waiting in line and others are sitting in booths.
Chalkboards line the walls, with the daily specials written in white chalk. The names of all the orders are underlined, which only emphasizes the fact that they are extremely weird. Oh well, it's not too different than the ones in America. This still doesn't incline me to want to order any of them, though.
One of the customers walks forward and I see there's a refrigerator by the counter, filled with sandwiches and glass bottles of water and juice. Now I know where I'm headed. I walk forward until I'm at the fridge, and I look into it. Thankfully, everything has a price tag written on a tag.
It seems that the sandwiches are four hundred cenz each, and the waters one hundred. That'll give us enough to buy six of both the former and the latter. After a few failed attempts, all of what I need has been picked up. I manage to carefully walk to the end of the line, ending up behind a morbidly obese man. If that was rude to think, I normally would care, but I currently don't have the time to.
Eventually, the line shrinks enough until it's my turn. I'm struck with a blinding realization.
What if there's tax? I'll have to put one of the waters out. Crap.
The cashier raises an eyebrow at my armload of stuff. "That will be thirty thousand cenz," she says in a clipped voice once I've deposited everything on the counter. I pass her the money and she flips through it before opening the register. "Would you like a bag?"
I nod gratefully and say, "Yes, please." She stacks everything in a plastic bag and double-bags it – just in case, she says – then hands it to me. I thank her and then am about to leave when the door barges open. It's an officer, one I don't know this time, but I freeze anyway before quickly recovering.
Everyone in the store is looking directly at the policeman. He waves his hand like it's a dismissal and they return to what they were doing. "Simply a routine checkup," he calls to the cashier. "To see if anyone recognizes any of the criminals who are on our most wanted list. It's more of a precaution than anything else." He scans the room before his eyes land on me, ready to go. "Excuse me; miss, would you mind examining some pictures? I can hold your bag."
I can't give a flat refusal as an answer, so I say, "Sure," and let him take the bag, which he holds with one hand. He passes me a thin stack of papers, and I take a look at the one on the top.
State Alchemist Serial Killer is below a likeness of Scar, and although the clothes and hair need refining, I can automatically tell it's him, mostly due to the deadly accurate expression. There's a WANTED printed above him. Under his official nickname, someone has scrawled details on why he's wanted – as if 'serial killer' isn't reason enough – and then instructions to contact your local Command Center in case you have seen him.
I shake my head. "Do you know his name?"
"Not yet. We're calling him Scar, due to the scar on his face." He motions for me to move on.
Under a new WANTED, there's a drawing of a flustered-looking man in a military uniform with a thin, weedy mustache and not much hair to speak of. Found in Possession of Army Funds. The general warning is the same, though the explanation is different. On second thought, he kinda looks like Yoki. Not that I've seen him around here or anything.
"Is that Lieutenant Yoki?" I ask, showing him the picture.
He nods. "Have you seen him recently?"
The more pressing question is if I have seen him at all, which would obviously be a no.
"No. I visited… the coal mine that he used to run while he was still there. He stood out to me as being incredibly pretentious. I tend to remember a face once I've seen it." Once he nods at me, I go to the one after him.
Yet another WANTED, but this one is followed by a picture of a grinning man with spiky hair and shark-like teeth, wearing what looks like a pimp jacket. I wonder for a second how it is possible for a person to grin that widely, and then look down at the text below. Dangerous Organization
Institution, it reads. Unless that organization in question is a prostitution ring or a brothel, I do not have a clue what it could be. Oh wait, that's Greed, isn't it? The exaggerated mix between a leer and a grin mixed me up.
"Nope," I say, letting him look at it before moving on to the next one. "Let me guess, you don't have a name for him either?"
The officer sighs. "No, but he calls himself one of the seven deadly sins. I don't recall which."
"Well, there's Pride, Lust, Envy, Greed, Gluttony, Sloth, and Wrath." For once, I'm glad Lorelei had a weird obsession with listing them, and that it had been passed down to me.
His eyes light up slightly as he says, "Greed, that's it. His 'business' associates seem to think it's his name."
I put it at the bottom of the stack and stare at the next one. Tristan glares back at me from the paper, or at least a bad interpretation of him. He looks more like a girl than a boy, but I think that's a good thing. Underneath it is stenciled Seen with the State Alchemist Serial Killer.
I shake my head again and flip to the one beneath it. Well, I thought I was horrible at art, but I guess I was wrong.
This time, it's like staring at a bad rendition of me, like a self-portrait gone terribly wrong. It's confusing, seeing how the officer doesn't realize that I'm standing right here. The words below my picture are exactly the same as Tristan's. I blink at myself, pondering how that expression is even realistic.
"That's it," I say, handing the papers back to him and accepting my bag back. "Sorry I wasn't much of a help."
He gives a half-shrug and says, "Usually, nobody is. Thanks for your time."
I walk out and give a sigh of relief that I wasn't recognized. I should go back to the apartment now, seeing as it's just my luck to have someone point me out after seeing my wanted poster.
I make my way back to the complex and check to see if anybody is around before I slip into the doorway.
"You're back," Tristan comments; he's still sitting against the wall. "And you bought stuff."
I nod and deposit the bag on the floor, suddenly reminded that technically, I haven't eaten in I-don't-know-how-long. "Did you honestly expect that I'd use the money to buy new shoes and leave you guys in the dust?"
"Yes," Scar says simply, "I did."
Your faith in me is astounding. I'm more of the type to buy new scarves, but he wouldn't know that, would he?
I suppress an eye roll and settle for simply dropping to sit on the wall next to Tristan. "Then you really need to know me better." A thought occurs to me. "About how long would the train ride from here to East City be?"
"Don't know," he says, shrugging slightly in that infuriating way of his. "I haven't gone on it at all."
That is maddeningly annoying. "The best time that a train is leaving is at nine in the morning. The station would be the most empty then." I point at the bag on the ground, which somehow looks deflated, even though it's full. "I got sandwiches and water bottles at a store; they should hold us over until we have to go."
Scar blinks in acknowledgement of what I said.
"They were showing wanted posters in the store to see if people recognized any of them. We were all there," I say, forcing my voice to have a conversational undertone. "I told the officer I didn't know anyone. For the most part, the drawings were horrible. I could barely tell that it was supposed to represent us." Except Scar; I could recognize his glowering portrayal if a cop asked a toddler to draw it.
Tristan hisses out a curse and slams his automail fist into the ground. "First day here and they already are looking for us."
"But they're looking for three of us, Scar in particular. Like I said earlier, they won't expect two people." I sigh and close my eyes. "We can meet up after the train lands in East City. Until that point, you two will stick together and I'll stay by myself, absolutely no interaction between us at all, understand. Does this sound okay?"
They seem to be in a general consensus of agreement. "So you're the leader now?" Scar asks, annoyance dripping into his voice.
"If you mean I'm the only one who can talk to strangers without first going to kill them, then I am the leader, yes. It's not like I volunteered to lead two people with raging fists of justice."
That sounds like a bad action movie. Raging Fists of Justice is coming soon to theaters.
"It's probably best for somebody to keep watch the entire time," Tristan says softly. "Especially on the train and at the station; they're more likely to keep watch there."
"Good point. By the way, the train leaves at nine, but I'm tired as hell, so I'm taking a nap." I turn away from them, determined to ignore any protests or attempts at conversation. It turns out I don't need to. I'm clearly the one talker in this messed-up trio of sorts. With that, I'm out like a light, even though I don't have a clue what that means.
I finally open my eyes when someone nudges me – and hard. It turns out that it's Tristan, like I suspected. "It's time to leave to go to the station," he says.
"What?" I explode. "You didn't, you know, wake me?"
"Scar tried last night and you smacked him in the face and went back to sleep." He shrugs and gives a conspiracy-laden grin. "And he told me that it was my responsibility to get you up, and I thought it best not to wake you until I had to."
Very smart kid, he is.
"That was a good idea," I say, leaning on the wall to help myself stand up. "Where is Scar?" My luck, he's right behind me –
"I'm right here," Scar drawls, crossing his arms once he sees that I've spotted him. "Will you go or not?" He hands me a couple of bills and says, "This is enough for a ticket."
I roll my eyes and snap, "Rude much?"
I'm so unbelievably glad I won't be the one paired up with him. He and Tristan will somehow connect due to their solitude and tendency towards violence, I know it. They'll become bros or man-buds – despite being cross-generational – and then I'll be left as that awkward third wheel. It's practically written in the stars, it's so obvious.
"You guys leave first," I say. "I'll start heading out in five."
They nod and go out, thankfully quietly, and leave the plastic bag of food with me. Being the mature adolescent I am I poke it. There are two of both the sandwiches and the water bottles left. I sling the bag over my arm and take one of the sandwiches out, unwrapping it and stuffing the foil in my pocket. Hey, I'm not a litterer, though I've illegally resided in an empty apartment and am an accomplice of a serial killer.
But littering is so much worse than aiding and abetting a murderer, of course. I may be bad but I do have some shards of my morality left.
Once five minutes have passed and all traces of my sandwich have vanished, I slip out and head toward the station. I guess it is empty hour again, seeing how I walk past nobody at all. Even once I go in, there's barely anybody there. I can easily see Scar and Tristan ordering tickets.
I can also see that they're ordering tickets extremely awkwardly, which is unsurprising. The duo of the raging fists of justice is unskilled in the area of holding a conversation.
I pretend to be very absorbed in reading a sign until they sit down. Then I stroll up to the same spot I did yesterday and peer into the booth. A different person is there, which is probably for the best. "Hi, can I have one ticket for the train to East City at nine?"
"Sure. That'll be forty thousand cenz." I hand her the money, she gives me my ticket, and I go to the first seat I see that's sufficiently far enough from Scar and Tristan.
The train pulls in about ten minutes later. I board after they do and look to find a seat; I don't look at them as I walk by them. Well, okay, I try not to, but I glance over my shoulder at them. Tristan is drinking out of a water bottle and staring out the window. Scar is staring back at me with a weird expression, a cross between brooding and outright hostility.
I eventually make my way to an empty seat and slide over to be next to the window. It's a few seats away from where they're sitting, but it's the best I'm going to find. I tap my fingers on the windowsill and lean my head against the glass before I remember that I don't even remember how long it's been since I've had a drink, and not the alcoholic kind. I pull one of the waters out from the bag – which I've placed next to me – and down it all before putting it back.
Now I can rest again. I don't know how long the train ride's supposed to be, but I suspect it will take a lot longer than it does in America.
But if I managed to sleep for about a full day earlier, then how can I expect to sleep for the next week? And aren't I supposed to stay awake in case the cops show up?
Of course, this doesn't end up mattering, as I fall asleep instantly after closing my eyes. Must be something in the air, because I don't know what else it could possibly be.
"What are you implying?"
I suppress a sigh at being awoken to loud talking. The people around me are beginning to sneak glances at one end of the train, where the obvious argument is coming from. I rub a hand over my eyes and turn to see who's causing all of the commotion.
My heart sinks and I resist the urge to slam my head against the back of my seat.
It's Scar arguing with a seedy-looking man in a uniform who's pointing directly at Tristan. Both are practically screaming at each other, which is what allows the whole train to hear them.
"What I'm saying is that you and your companion look suspiciously similar to wanted criminals." The officer himself looks suspiciously similar to a 1920s mobster dressing up as a cop, accent and everything. He seems to be the one who's losing his temper, more so than Scar, which is a rarity.
Tristan clenches his automail hand into a fist, though the sleeves of his overlarge jacket cover the movement. "What criminals?" He asks with his voice extremely tight.
"A serial killer who's been going around murdering State Alchemists and anyone involved in the military."
I pray that both Scar and Tristan avoid starting a physical alteration. It's already nasty.
"That's one," Scar growls, rocking slightly on his heels, "and there are two of us."
Oh yay, he can count! An image of him dressed as the Count from Sesame Street pops into my head uninvited, and I shudder. One dead State Alchemist, two dead State Alchemists and three dead State Alchemists… That's completely horrifying.
The man glares at him with enough force to burn a hole through ten steel bunkers as he intones with an utterly deadpan nature, "Really? I hadn't noticed. Thanks for telling me that. Actually, this killer was seen yesterday morning with two children, one of whom your accomplice bears a striking resemblance to."
Well, that is unfortunate.
Okay, that's enough waiting around for me. Al Capone here might discover something useful if he steps back and stops screaming his opinions out for the world to hear.
I push myself off of the seat, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and walk forward until I'm behind the detective guy. "Would it be possible for you to keep it down? I'd prefer it for my headache to start during my family reunion, not before."
Al Capone – it's kinda difficult, seeing as he looks like a gangster but dresses like a cop – whirls around to give me a stare worthy of obliterating the Death Star. He grabs the plastic bag from me and paws through it.
"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, just about as rudely as he acted.
"You also look suspiciously similar to the serial killer's other partner."
"And you're looking through my stuff? Don't you need a warrant or something to do that?"
He holds up one of the water bottles and grabs an identical one from beside Tristan. "See? It's the same brand and style." That's your evidence? Bottled fricking water? Have I been dragged to the Stone Age or something?
I raise my eyebrows, letting all of my skepticism shine through. "Yeah, it looks like we buy the same brand of water. Do you want to arrest me or what?" I hold out my fists mockingly.
Pulling out the uneaten sandwich, he gestures to the one resting on the bench, also right next to Tristan. "Same type of sandwich wrapper!"
"So we went to the same sandwich shop before going on the train. Doesn't mean we plot to kill State Alchemists and overthrow the government together." I roll my eyes and ignore the sharp prick of a headache that's rising to the surface. "It looks to me like you're scrounging for scraps of evidence to please your boss."
Capone glowers at me, shoves my bag back into my arms, and turns around to face Scar. "How do you two know each other, anyway?" Guess he's ignoring the situation and hoping I stomp back to my seat. It's not going to happen, buddy.
Scar's gaze meets mine before he replies automatically, "He's my son."
"Doesn't look like it," the cop comments while smirking. "Tell the truth, and it'll be easier on you and your buddy here." That's a bold-faced lie and we all know it.
Scar glances up, and it looks like he's praying to the heavens for tolerance for the stupid. With a half-shrug, he sits back down on the bench and crosses his arms. "Okay. I guess it's time to come clean."
The man's smirk grows even broader, giving me a sick reminder of a cat that's caught a canary.
"He's adopted," Scar says, which makes everybody important – me, Tristan, and the cop – give him a strange look. This was definitely not what I was expecting.
Tristan seems to take the cue and act like a temperamental teenager throwing a tantrum while freshly off of a sugar high. "What?" He shrieks, jumping to his feet. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Scar looks like he wants to roll his eyes. "Is that enough havoc to cause here, officer?" He yells over the cries of outrage.
Fed up with the noise, Capone slaps Tristan, effectively ending it, and then stalks out of sight.
I look down at them before I turn to go back to my seat. Now that he's silent, Tristan has a very mischievous look in his eye, and I have to wonder if he planned the whole reaction.
I wouldn't put it past him. I go back to the bench I was before and sit down, pressing my head against the window again. But this time, I don't sleep.
The rest of the ride passes in three hours of blissful silence. By the time the train jerks to a halt, I've gone through the remaining sandwich and water bottle and have thrown the bag in a trash can that's conveniently placed at one end of the train. Quite handy, it being there, it reduces the amount of litter tossed around the aisles.
Once I've made my way out of the station, Tristan walks up behind me, putting up a casual air. I don't turn around to face him, but ask conversationally, "And where's the third conspirator?"
"Right here," Scar says, appearing out of nowhere. "Are we going to go, or do you just want to stand here indefinitely?"
"Lead the way, captain," I sigh, following him when he starts to move away from the station. Tristan walks alongside me, and I remember a question that I never got to ask him. "Hey," I say, "you never did tell me why you called me your mom around that officer."
He looks like he really doesn't want to talk about it, but will anyway because I asked. "I was just getting into the role, you know. That's it." Tristan speeds up his pace until he's walking next to Scar, leaving me trailing behind them, lost in my thoughts. They aren't talking, united in their distaste of casual conversation.
I don't bother to walk faster. Let them have their manly-bonding time and all. I want to believe him, and just for a second, I think I convince myself that I do.
Author's Notes
Title: When in Doubt is another song by Thousand Foot Krutch; the lyrics at the start of the chapter are from it. When Part Two begins, the chapter titles will switch to songs by a new artist.
Sabrina's Power: Yeah, I agree with the Truth in that she drew the short straw. It's basically like she's able to heal people, but her spit makes her powers stronger. The precise explanation for it is something that the Truth made up off the top of its mind. In my opinion, the Truth decided all of their powers beforehand, but not the explanations and how they work. Standing in front of a big doorway all the time is hard work.
Tristan: Originally, Tristan was going to be 2003 Wrath, but I decided that it was too confusing. Simply, he's the Brotherhood's version of Wrath, obviously with another name, but with similar physical appearance. Since Tristan tends not to talk about himself that much, nobody else in Amestris knows about his past, including Sabrina. So, for now, I'm advising you to treat him as another OC, just a more minor one, but you can think of him however you want.
Larkin Astor: He's the Shock Alchemist, and I'll admit that his alchemy is based on Liz's from the Lightning Strike trilogy by Kallypso, but with some alterations. Since Scar mistook Damon for him, Larkin obviously has to look similar to Damon.
Thanks to all of you who read and/or review this, and a special thanks to my co-conspirators Major Hughes and lilaclily00.
As always, you're welcome to ask questions, review, anything your pretty little hearts so desire. I won't mind, and I'll answer anything that isn't related to spoilers.