A/N: This is an attempt to rewrite my original chapter seven; unfortunately, my computer died before I uploaded it and the system was dead like a dead thing. Much like Alphonse, the hivemind had to be relocated into a tin can and it took me a bit to recover it all. Fortunately, the world of Fullmetal Alchemist wasn't mine to begin with. Well, at least it doesn't count as a writing relationship fumble if no one else's mind is as deeply in the gutter as yours to recognize the same unintentional ho!yay. The classic Achmed the Dead Terrorist joke reference here, however, is as entirely intentional as the Olivieer hints. Someone actually did a version with Kimbley and Scar that works surprisingly well, for as little footage as was used.


Katarie flicked a page idily, but her thoughts were obviously more focused on the grass stem bookmark she twirled between her fingers than the letters on the pages before her. Millie didn't even try to pretend, her eyes straying beyond the gardens towards the mansion where her father sat attendance upon his general, her book left open and unheeded in the grass. The girls had begun to fidget as the end of the workday got closer and closer, and I gave up on getting much more reading out of them. "If you're not going to read, you can at least speak Ishvalan until your parents get off duty," I compromised, closing my lesson book. Like many of the younger generation, the Miles girls had picked up a Creole of the language mixed with Amestrian from their elders who had survived the slums, but proper Ishvalan grammar, I feared, was becoming as dead a language as the priests' Old Ishvalan that my brother had used for his research notes.

They nodded in comprehension, but conversation was limited, repetitive, and if its one-sidedness would come as no surprise to those who knew me and my goddaughters, the respective roles might have been. Millie had become very good at her basic phrases, at least: "Will Daddy be home soon?" "What time is it?" "Do you think Mommy will have to stay late, Uncle Scar?" "How much longer until General Armstrong is done?" Katarie would reply when spoken to, but it was clear that her mind was on other things, as well.

It had been a balmy day, our last one at the Armstrong mansion before we headed back east, and I'd given into the girls' cajoling and held our daily lesson outside under the trees. Armstrong could call me "coddler" all she wished. Perhaps such things were common in their mother's homeland, but as Briggs-born Ishvalans, the shady, verdant expanse of garden lawn was as exotic to my students as the jungles south of Xing or the ocean west of Creta and as such, could offer their own teachings.

Katarie stroked the grass beneath her hand, seemingly entranced by the feel of a ground surface that was neither unyielding like ice or steel, nor soft and formless as sand and snow, but warm, firm, and moist like a living thing with live things living above the earth, beneath it, within it. Though she might not be giving the lesson I had had planned much attention, who was I to argue if God had a deeper one for her? Grammar might wait for my godchild to discover how far and how subtly the true lands of Ishvala extended; our people had been made for the desert, but our God had populated the entire world with many, many different creations, all of which depended upon one another to continue His works. In this living soil, Katarie might find a microcosm of the Divine's greater intricacies.

"The surest way to make God laugh is to tell Him and your students your lesson plans," I murmured to myself, placing my book aside.

"Sorry, Uncle Scar?" Katarie's head shot up guiltily. "I didn't get all that."

I put my left hand over hers, feeling grass prickle between our fingers. "Just something my teacher said to me when I first came back to Ishval." She looked nervous, as I surely had seemed a much more intimidating figure when I had met them then and there. I'd cleaned up before Miles formally introduced me to his family, healed of the worst of my physical ills, but Scar had still remained.

I shook my head with a light smile, banishing the image of the bloodied, battle-haunted alchemist I had been in my last life as best I could. "It is something you will understand later, when young ones come to you for advice."

"But Katarie and I aren't going to be teachers, Uncle Scar," Millie insisted. "We're going to be soldiers, just like Daddy and Mommy and General Armstrong."

The surest way to make God laugh… I repeated to myself, half in regret and half in prayer. At least Grumman did not start wars. Under the new Fuhrer, there were no more "uprisings" that ended in a city or a people within Amestris destroyed. But Drachma, Aerugo, and Creta had not forgotten Bradley and had not entirely forgiven us for him, even as Grumman attempted to pull back the troops. The Eastern front might be quiet, but there was still a need for soldiers in the North, and I feared there would be until long after Miles's girls came of age.

"If you think about it, Uncle Scar's sort of like a soldier, too, even though he's a teacher," Katarie said slowly, stilling her hands in the grass and looking over at her little sister. "Mom healed him after he fought in the war, and if she can be a doctor and a soldier, there's no reason a soldier can't be a teacher, too. Dad and General Armstrong teach us stuff."

"Like waiting," Millie agreed petulantly, wiping her hands on her skirt. "How much longer, Uncle Scar?"

"They'll be here soon enough," I hedged, as I had before and would again. Just because they knew better than to expect their mother sharply at quitting time didn't mean that the Miles girls - Millie Miles, especially, - were entirely at peace with Armstrong's unflagging drive for less tangible political goals here in Central, especially when the general's work kept their father swept up in her wake. "But Katarie is right: part of being a good officer like your father or General Armstrong is teaching others what to do. Sometimes, that can be a very difficult duty indeed." I tried to keep the irony out of my voice, and it appeared to pass over the younger sister's head, at least.

"You think kids'll be asking us about things when we're big?" Millie bounced up and assumed a decent impression of Armstrong's imperial bearing as she strutted around the tree. "Why yes, General Katarie and I remember back when the Fuhrer was a little girl at Fort Briggs…" The impersonation was somewhat spoiled by her sister's infectious giggling that left Millie barely repressing her laughter, much less her smile.

"Of course Major Millie and I grew up with her." Katarie tried and failed to regain a deadpan expression.

Millie's face fell for a moment. "How come I have to be a major and you get to be a general?" Despite their silliness, I knew that this playacting wasn't too far from the future they wanted: Armstrong as Grumman's successor, and they as her loyal inner circle.

"'Cause you're younger. General Armstrong's baby brother is a major, Dad's a major, and I think even Major Breda's got an older sister…" Katarie ticked off on her fingers.

"Yeah, but Mr. Ed is a major, too, and all he's got is a younger brother," her little sister pointed out.

"Mr. Al's not in the military, though." For six years, Alphonse Elric may as well have been. He had worked as hard as his brother during the elder Elric's years as a State Alchemist, forever on the move, accompanying Edward on whatever task Mustang set them at, and I had tried to kill him, too, in my time hunting the demon dogs of the military. I tried not to think about the fact that Katarie was barely a year younger than Alphonse had been when his brother received the state license that had nearly been both Elrics' death warrant, barely two years younger than Edward Elric had been when he became a pawn of the homunculus-ruled military.

"Neither is Uncle Scar." It was different now, I tried to tell myself. Fuhrer Grumman did not wage needless war. General Armstrong would not send children to the front lines. Even Mustang, Brigadier Bastard though he might be, would rather be the Hero of Ishval for helping to save our people, not for nearly destroying us. No matter what succession crisis might grip us once Grumman died or retired, it would be a choice between two adult generals with experience leading and a solid support staff - dare I say, families, even if Olivia Armstrong took no husband and remained distant from her blood brother and sisters - of their own, not teenagers sent into a foreign country and wary of their half-siblings.

"Yeah, but Mom and Dad have called him a bear, too." Katarie looked at me to settle this, to reveal my status as a secret high-ranking weapon of Briggs and prove her theory.

To think that I had been upset when Brother had toyed with the idea of getting a state license… "I served as a warrior-monk of Ishval. We had no title other than Brother. To earn even so much as the rank of major in the Amestrian army, you would have to work very, very hard and always follow those rules General Armstrong taught you. There is no room for weakness in the military. There is little enough room for love, kindness, or God, either, which is why I choose not serve as a soldier of Briggs." I have merely been press-ganged.

"That's not true!" There were tears stinging the corners of Millie's eyes. "Mommy and Daddy love us and each other and God, and so does General Armstrong." While I'd be tempted to argue the details of that last point, Millie was upset enough, and Armstrong did care about her godchildren, at least.

"I'm not saying that they don't try. They're still human; still children of God, but in wartime… a soldier cannot afford not to think of himself and his people, but he cannot afford to think of the people on the other side as human beings." Not until it was much too late to do anything about it. "There are things that I wish you girls never need to learn. Some of these things, a soldier, especially an officer, must know by heart."

"What are you corrupting the girls with now, Ishvalan?" Armstrong must have caught the pained expression behind my hand, and combining it with the defiance on the girls' faces, she rightfully assumed that this was more than just a silly mistake in their lesson.

"Daddy!" Millie switched effortlessly back into Amestrian, leaping up and informing her father of the hideous slander I'd spoken against his profession. I remained seated beneath the tree.

"The law of Briggs," I summarized for the general.

"Uncle Scar has seen the dark side of the military," Miles said diplomatically, taking one of his daughters under each arm. "He worries about you. Perhaps overmuch, especially if we can keep you at Briggs or Eastern, but my red-eyed brother is not entirely without justification."

"But kindness and God aren't weaknesses, at least not ones that make you unfit. You can't be strong all the time, so sometimes you've got to send out positive energy so that it comes back and protects you when you're weak. It's like the little packrats gathering up their nests: they're weak by themselves, but they can build something strong together." Katarie looked embarrassed by her outburst almost as soon as the last word left her mouth, but I don't think Miles could be prouder of her. I knew I was.

"Katarie, I think you'll do all right." Ruffling his eldest's blonde hair, Miles dismissed himself and the children with a contented nod to me and the general. Armstrong returned the salute, a hint of a smile gleaming in her eyes as she watched the three of them walk away to finish packing.

"I think you've just been trumped out of position as favorite godparent," General Armstrong remarked, never turning her eyes from the family as she leaned against the tree.

I shrugged, turning to pick up the lesson-books. "Ishvala chose the best parents for those girls. I merely assist them. This is the way of a godfather."

"You love Katarie and Millie," she said bluntly.

That was true, but rather a strange topic for conversation with her. "You make it sound as if one should be worried about their safety." I kept my voice dry, unsure what she was after. "They're my nieces, my goddaughters, the closest I'll have to children of my own. Of course I love them."

"The problem with you alchemists is that you always want to extend your lives past their natural boundaries." I raised an eyebrow, wondering if this wasn't some vengeance for my earlier dismissal of soldiers. "You may be looking to do it in a more natural fashion, but you've got that twinkle in your eyes, Ishvalan. You want to father your own children."

I couldn't speak. What does a man say to that, especially when it comes from a (single, female, and undeniably attractive) former enemy who has saved his life and now holds a position of power over him?

"Even if you did, your children would end up like those girls: they'd want lives of their own someday. They won't be an opportunity for a fourth life for you."

"I have had enough lives of my own," I replied as steadily as I could, even if I could not maintain eye contact. "I simply wish to see the next generation grow up without corruption from the Homunculi or their wars. I want them safe. After all the blood on our hands, they deserve to be safe."

"They will be." Olivia Armstrong dropped a hand to my shoulder, paying it no more attention than if she'd found a conveniently sized stump to rest a hand on. "Katarie and Millie will help make sure that they are, even when you and I are gone. They'll be two old war dogs from a generation who have been able to concentrate more on reparations than revenge."

For a moment, I pictured Millie Miles strutting around the trees again, her sister sitting in the grass before her, but this time I saw them as grown women, dressed in military blues. I closed my eyes against the image, but it was not unbearable. It was a kinder picture than it would have been for an Ishvalan girl of my generation. "And what about you, general? You don't fear that they'll be too gentle, too soft for your bears?"

"A pair of spoiled, stubborn, idealistic, high-bred girls who got everything they wanted as children except discipline and a purpose for being alive?" Armstrong surveyed her manor with a practiced eye. "They'll be fine. They're smart, and they come from a good military tradition, despite an embarrassment or two of an alchemist in the family." She squeezed my shoulder and let go.

I stood next to her, rearranging the books beneath my arm. "And what of the other matter, Olivia Armstrong?" I asked more softly. I couldn't look her in the eye.

"What, kids? Or living forever?" she snorted, crossing her arms. "I'm not afraid to die when I am no longer fit to live, and no matter what I might say to lure Bradley's lapdogs into a trap, the concept of aging does not bother me."

"You don't want to pass along whatever blood made you so 'fit' to the next generation, then?"

It was her turn to look away, shrugging in response. "What I want is of no consequence. I'm too old bear children even if I could stomach the concept of military-brat preacher's kids with red eyes and the Armstrong curl, so the mansion goes to the Mustangs, my sword to whichever of the girls rises higher in rank before I die, and Briggs command to Henshel, if Millie and Katarie aren't ready for it."

"No one said that they had to be mine." I didn't seem to be able to raise my voice above its current softness. I blamed the humidity in the air.

She laughed and said my name. "Why else would a man with that look in his eye be asking me?"

"For comparison's sake," I said, which was not a complete lie. "One might wonder where you learned to recognize the expression."

Armstrong rose from the tree, her face drawn and inscrutable, but a hint of buried pain in her blue eyes. "Do not ask me that, Scar." Before I had the chance to question her further, she turned and walked back inside.