Anyway, I've finally decided that this is based at the end of the anime. You'll see why by the end of the chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. They belong to Hiromu Arakawa and Jerry Bruckheimer, respectively. I do, on the other had, own a cracker and a piece of cheese.

Ed held his breath and shrank back into the shadows as the police cruiser made its slow way past. He counted the seconds in his head.

One… Two… Three…

In his mind's eyes, he could almost see a light swinging his way, reflecting off of his golden eyes, a shout, the two officers getting out of the vehicle and giving chase once more—

Five… Six… Seven…

—Of course, it wouldn't be the first time he was spotted. There had been one time when he'd knocked over a garbage bin in an alley just as a cruiser was passing by. That had resulted in hot pursuit until he'd managed to lose them by throwing himself down a manhole in the middle of the street. Needless to say, he didn't smell very good at all when he'd climbed out at a different place somewhere nearby, but that was simple enough to fix. A clap of the hands, and he was back to normal. Of course, his pride was another thing—

Ten… Eleven…

—He'd been very good at avoiding everyone for the rest of the night, but luck always ran out eventually. It was always when you let your guard down and got confident that misfortune decided to slap you in the face for being cocky.

Fifteen… Sixteen…

The car was gone.

He released his pent up breath with a quiet sigh of relief. His luck was still intact, as was his freedom.

It took only moments for him to rise from his hiding spot in the doorway of the small Chinese restaurant and ghost across the street. He figured that the officers in the cruiser not seeing him was due to his dark clothes (he'd transmuted his coat black when he'd found out that red was too easy to spot). His traitorous mind suggested the real reason they didn't see him: he was sma—

He stoically ignored the last bit of that thought.

I've got to find someplace to hide; all this running is doing me in…

It was true. He'd been on the move since early that afternoon. His flesh leg was starting to ache from all the crouching and sprinting he'd been doing (though his automail leg was fine, needless to say). He needed somewhere to take a break, if only for awhile.

He darted into an alleyway and blended with the shadows there, freezing as he heard sirens in the distance. It took a minute for his racing heart to calm again after they faded.

Damn, I'm jumpy, he thought angrily. How the hell am I supposed to stay in the background if I'm jumping out of my skin at every turn? He shook his head to clear it and continued his way down the alley.

His mind turned back to that afternoon. He'd been treed in a park. Treed. If Mustang ever got a hold of that little tidbit… Ed shivered. Perfect blackmail material.

He moved from shadow to shadow for awhile, his eyes darting this way and that, watching for potential threats and places to hide. It took him a few minutes to realize that he didn't hear any sirens nearby. Some time later, he still hadn't seen any more police cruisers. It seemed they had moved off.

Ed sighed in relief. Maybe his luck was finally getting better.

Just then, he rounded a corner and spotted a boarded-up building sitting casually between two dilapidated shops. He slowly crept up to the side of it and peered through a crack in the weather-rotted wood. But for moonlight shining through the gaps in the boards, there was nothing visible inside. He decided to chance it.

He scanned the side of the building, careful to avoid the windows of the surrounding buildings just in case, and then went around to the back. There—a large gap between a board and a window frame. Ed grabbed the edge of the frame and hoisted himself up, wiggling head-first through the hole. It was just big enough for him to get through. He tumbled onto the floor inside, automail and all, and let out a small "oof!" A miniature cloud of years-old dust rose into the air around him.

Once the dust had settled, he looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness around the shafts of moonlight, he managed to make out a large oven against one wall. He moved his eyes to the rest of the room, and could see a long table in the middle of the floor, as well as, on the far wall, a rack filled with pans and oven mitts, rusted and gnawed by mice. There were doors on the right and left walls.

It seemed he'd stumbled on an old bakery. Ed stood and padded silently over to the table, each step causing dust to rise around his ankles. He ran his gloved finger along the inch-thick dust on the table, then examined it. Among the grey were flecks of white: baking flour. He dusted his hands off, then stepped over to the door on the right.

He opened it and discovered a large pantry. There were shelves spanning all three walls from floor to ceiling. They were empty but for bits of packaging and layers of sugar, flour, and other spices. Of course, dust blanketed everything.

It was perfect.

He walked over to the back corner, where there was a gap between the shelves on two walls. Clapping his hands, he touched the floor, effectively clearing the dust within a three-foot radius. He then positioned himself with his back against the wall, facing the pantry door. He slid down until he was sitting comfortably, with his knees drawn up to his chest. He placed his chin on his knees, then wrapped his arms around his legs.

It took only a moment for his body to realize that he'd stopped moving, and it immediately relaxed. Ed suddenly felt like his eyelids were made of lead. He blinked once, slowly, trying to keep awake and alert. He quickly realized it was a useless effort. He'd been running for hours, ignoring his body's demands, and now it was letting him know exactly how long this day had been.

Let them come; he didn't really care at the moment. He was too exhausted.

His eyes drooped shut, and he was asleep in seconds.

Grissom sat in his office once again, reviewing the evidence they had for the Aloise Burschtman case. He didn't actually see the paper in front of him, though; he was thinking about their fugitive.

He looked over at the digital clock on his desk: 9:04. That meant that it had been about seven hours since Ed had disappeared from the park. Grissom reflected on the apparent ease with which the blonde boy had managed to evade at least twenty armed police officers. He didn't understand in the least what Ed had done to his arm or the ground to get away, let alone how he got out of his cell at the station. The guard was still babbling something about 'magic', which was completely useless to the investigation. Magic did not have a scientific basis; clearly the guard had either been asleep or tricked into thinking he saw what he said he saw. Which was not possibly what he actually saw.

Now didn't that thought give him a headache?

The lead CSI had many theories about Ed's escape. Getting out of the cell was the simplest theory: Ed's automail arm could dent a steel table, so why not break hollow bars? The hole in the wall was a different story. He may have had a blade of some sort, but what could cut through one-foot-thick solid concrete that cleanly? A miniature bomb wouldn't have done it, and even if he had had something to cut through the wall, he wouldn't have had the time. The guard hadn't been knocked out, or even incapacitated in any way.

It was nerve-wracking, trying to come up with scientifically-sound theories in a very unscientifically-sound situation. It didn't help that the security footage was completely unhelpful; it had gone on the fritz the instant Ed had stepped out of the cell.

Grissom had a few theories about Ed's weapon. It could have easily been up his sleeve, but that would have been found when he was searched, unless the boy picked it up before getting caught up in the park. Or, it could have been some kind of extendable blade hidden in his automail. That was the most logical theory, but Grissom hadn't seen any openings in Ed's arm that a blade could come out of. It also didn't explain Ed's lightning speed at drawing it. The only thing it did explain was where his weapon at the plant had come from.

The final theory was about how Ed managed to blow up the ground in front of their faces and escape right under their noses. One way he could have done it was with a set-up, but that would support the idea that Ed had known ahead that he would get away, and that he could lead his pursuers to that exact spot. It was improbable, but not impossible. A more likely explanation would be, once again, the power in the boy's automail arm, but to create that size of a blast would have taken a lot of force, and the position Ed was in just before it happened didn't support it.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Why was this so hard? Nothing like this had ever happened before; he always had some explanation for every odd thing that turned up in a case. Now, along comes someone who's not even in the books, an enigma that turns up out of the blue, and all his scientific explanations get smashed to bits. Both figuratively and literally.

His musings were interrupted as Brass knocked on the glass door, and then opened it, making his way through the many shelves in Grissom's office, trying to avoid knocking over numerous jarred bugs. He sat down in a chair in front of the lead CSI's desk and sighed.

"Can't find him," Brass said shortly. "For the first little while, we kept catching glimpses of him moving toward the residential areas in east Vegas. We almost caught him a few times. But then, we lost him again around seven, and haven't seen a trace since."

Grissom sighed. "He could be anywhere; Vegas is a big place."

"I know, and there's not much we can do now. It's late. We could send out small patrols for the rest of the night, one or two vehicles, but that's about it."

Grissom nodded and sighed.

At that moment, Sara Sidle knocked on the door and opened it, holding up a paper cup. "Coffee?"

"Please," Grissom replied. Sara stepped into the room and placed the cup on his desk as Brass stood.

"I should probably get going; tonight's gonna be a long night."

Grissom waved him out the door, and Sara followed, closing it behind her.

He sighed and once again opened the Burschtman file.

Only a few more minutes of staring into space went by before the CSI lab secretary walked in with a small envelope.

"This was dropped off just now. It's for you."

Grissom accepted the envelope and slit it open as the secretary left. A single piece of paper fell out. He picked it up. It was printed on regular, everyday photocopy paper, most likely from a run-of-the-mill industrial printer. His eyebrow rose as he read the first few lines.

Mr. Grissom,

You are no doubt aware that a serial killer is on the loose here in Vegas. It's my pleasure to introduce myself. After all, I'm sure you don't correspond directly with many of your criminals.

Oh, dear, don't look so surprised. I doubt that it makes any difference. You can try to catch me, but your precious team is far too incompetent. It is fun to watch you blather around, I must say.

But that's beside the point.

Mr. Grissom, this is your first warning. It's only a warning, nothing more. Yet.

You see, we can't have you finding me, now can we?

And so, Mr. Grissom, I am asking—very kindly, I might add—that you release all evidence in my file to me. And don't try to play the precious fool and withhold any. That may be very bad.

Because I know about all of it. Every little detail in this little case of yours.

I even know about that precocious little child you've picked up and adopted like a stray kitten.

In that regard, I would ask that you drop all evidence off at the corner of Sunset and Durango, in front of that charming Taiwanese restaurant, at midnight. Of course, I shouldn't have to elaborate on what will happen if you don't.

Until later.

Grissom snatched up the envelope and flipped it over. The return address read:

Haha To You

123 Incompetent St.

Las Vegas, Nevada

X0X 0X0

He covered his eyes for a moment, then stood, grabbing the envelope and the letter. He strode out of his office and down the hall to Trace.

Greg was in, getting ready to go home. Grissom handed him the letter and the envelope.

"I want them screened for prints."

Greg looked at him, then down at the letter. Grissom watched as his eyes ran over the lines.

"This guy's either a joker or an over-confident murderer," Greg said quietly after a few minutes.

"I know. And I need his prints."

"You're not going to take him seriously, are you?"

Grissom sighed. "The DA would never approve, so we either risk his wrath or our 'killer's'—" he tapped the letter, "—consequences. The DA's a lot worse, if you ask me. This guy's not getting anything."

Greg nodded, then took the paper and walked over to the fumigation chamber.

Grissom sighed. He really didn't expect any prints, but it never hurt to try.

-Dreaming-

Ed stood in front of the Gate of Truth, whiteness surrounding him on all other sides. The black doors rose up before him, terrible and ominous.

I refuse to back down, Ed repeated in his head. He felt his anger rise, and his voice came with it.

"I've come to make a deal! Me for my brother!"

Silence met his words.

"Give him back! He's my brother!"

He felt, rather than heard, a foreboding chuckle.

Back again, are you…

Ed snarled. "Give Al back to me! He doesn't deserve this!"

You want him back? Then have him…

The doors creaked open, and long black hands shot out and grabbed him. Ed screamed as he was dragged in.

"Where are you taking me? Let me go! LET GO!"

He watched helplessly as the doors closed behind him.

Suddenly, he felt a distinct tugging near his heart. He could abruptly see a long blue tendril of light stretching between his chest and where the doors had just closed. With a mighty wrench, the tendril broke free of him. Suddenly desperate, Ed snatched at it as it flew away from him—or him from it?—and managed to grab the very end of it. He pulled it back to himself, and gathered his end in his hands, the other end still stretching beyond the closed doors. He tried to curl around it as gravity suddenly flipped, and he found himself falling backwards into darkness.

Ed sat up suddenly and smacked his head on a shelf. He sat back with a groan and opened his eyes.

There's a certain disorientation that comes with waking up in the corner of a dust-covered pantry when there's only enough light to see halfway across the room. It took Ed a few minutes to remember why he was there, and a few minutes more to recall what had woken him.

"Damn that Gate…" he muttered. Why hadn't he remembered it?

In the underground city, he had died. He knew it, felt it. He even remembered standing quietly in front of the Gate, waiting to pass on.

But Al hadn't accepted that; he couldn't. Ed remembered waking up to see Rose standing over him, looking at him with concern.

-Flashback-

"Edward? Can you hear me?"

He looked up, tears running down his face. "Yeah." He ran his hand over his eyes. "What am I crying for? ...Al?" He sat up and looked down at his right hand. It was flesh and blood.

"He used alchemy to bring you back, Ed," Rose said quietly. "After you died."

Ed looked at her. "…The Philosopher's Stone. He used it to fix my body and pull my soul from the Gate…" He leaned forward, his voice tightening. "But then what happened to him?"

Rose looked away. It was all the answer he needed.

"Don't tell me… don't tell me he's gone, Rose…" Ed stood up, his eyes wide. He began calling desperately. "Al… Al! AL!"

Suddenly, a baby started crying. Ed looked down at Rose's child, Cain, in her arms. His shoulders slumped.

"You'd better get moving," he said to her quietly as she stood. "I hate to ask this, but could you take him to the surface, too?" he asked, pointing at Wrath on the floor.

Rose looked at the homunculus, then back at Ed. "But what about you?"

He gazed up at the terraces around the room. "I'll destroy this place, down to the last plank, so no one ever gets the idea to create a Philosopher's Stone this way again."

"Very well," Rose said after a moment. "I'm sure, whatever happens, you'll find your way out. You've got strong legs; you'll get up and use them, won't you, Edward?"

Ed turned back to her and half-smiled, but didn't answer. After a moment, Rose took Wrath and Cain, and walked out.

-End Flashback-

He couldn't live with himself if he let his little brother do that. He had to bring him back.

And so he had drawn a huge transmutation circle on the ground and smaller ones on his wrists, chest, and forehead, just like he did that day six years ago, when this whole nightmare started.

He activated them.

Up until now, the time from when he started the transmutation to when he woke up in the bushes, with his automail back and fully clothed, surrounded by police, was a blank spot.

Now, suddenly, he remembered.

The Gate had sent him here. Why? Who knew. Equivalent exchange, maybe? Where? Definitely not Germany, but anywhere else was a possibility. Plus, he could use alchemy here. When? Probably farther in the future, judging by the technology.

There was only one thing for certain: Al was here somewhere, and he had to find him. Ed could simply feel it. He couldn't explain it, but he could feel that his brother hadn't been returned to their side of the Gate.

Ed stood unsteadily from his corner. His flesh leg was numb from being in an awkward position. It felt as if his automail needed oiling, too. He shrugged it off as something he couldn't fix at the moment and stepped through the dust to the door. He cracked it open and saw that it was dawn. After climbing out the window and using alchemy to replace the dust to its former position, effectively erasing all traces of his presence, he walked away.

Grissom stepped into his office at 8:00 am after reviewing a case with Warrick Brown and found the almost-expected envelope on his desk with the now-familiar mocking address on it. They hadn't left the evidence at the rendezvous, after all. They also hadn't found any prints on the last letter, and so it was unlikely to be a prankster. People who are making a joke usually don't take care to avoid touching the paper they're printing something off on.

He opened the envelope and slipped out the single sheet.

Mr. Grissom,

I'm frankly unsurprised. You didn't heed my warning. Choosing to be difficult, are we?

To be completely honest with you, I'm not disappointed. In fact, I'm rather glad. You don't think I'm serious, do you?

We'll see how serious I am.

Grissom stared at the paper for a second. Then he slammed it down on the table.

This guy was mocking them; he called the CSI team incompetent. He called Grissom incompetent. Shoving his bull in their faces and leaving his little prized kills under their noses.

It took a lot to make Grissom mad.

And this guy had done it.

He was about to stand when he suddenly remembered something.

I even know about that precocious little child you've picked up and adopted like a stray kitten.

Something clicked.

"Oh, no," he whispered.

They had to find Ed.

Yay for updates!

And so another cliffhanger is born. Don't you just love me for it?

Anyone who reviews gets digital pie. ;D

Akita

[EDIT July 16, 2008] I have changed the Gate scene; I felt it was too OOC, and I had a better idea. It only affects the later plot, which I haven't yet written. But it is a somewhat important edit, so you may want to go back and read it.