wow, it's been a minute, hasn't it? :') sorry about that; i've been focusing on the fma big bang, so keep an eye out for that in the next couple of months! i hope you're all doing well and as always, i live and breathe your feedback, so tell me what you think!


Thirty minutes later, Russell gnaws on his thumbnail and watches as Central becomes a speck in the distance.

Master Sergeant Fuery, sitting across from him, looks similarly anxious, though Russell can't for the life of him pinpoint why. It might simply be that he's the sort of person who catches others' unease like a cold; Fletcher is the same. It probably hasn't helped that Russell has been bombarding him with questions about Belsio since they left Central Command.

"Major Tringham, I'm really sorry, but I honestly don't know anything else about what happened to your mechanic!" he finally bursts out as their train pulls out of Central City, just five minutes behind schedule. Impressive, for them. "I wish there was something I could tell you to keep you from worrying so much, but I only know what Second Lieutenant Havoc told me and that's it. I'm really, really sorry. Now, if it's not too much to ask, could you please, please stop badgering me about it? You're stressing me out."

Russell, momentarily yanked from his single-minded concern for Belsio by the exasperation in his voice, blinks. Fuery blushes and glances away. "Sir," he tacks on belatedly.

After a moment, Russell forces out a breath. "I'm sorry," he says to Fuery. "I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I just—I'm worried, is all. This person is very important to me."

"I gathered that, major," Fuery answers wearily. His large, dark eyes flit around the compartment, like a frightened little bird. Then, very abruptly, Fuery stands. "I'd like to use the restroom if you'll allow it, sir," he says, his eyes on his shoes, his arms straight as his sides.

He could make his attempt to get away from him less transparent, Russell thinks with a touch of irritation, but he can't bring himself to deny the request. "Sure," he responds. Fuery salutes his thanks and ducks out of the compartment, leaving Russell alone with his thoughts. The more time that passes, the more foreboding these thoughts become, until Russell finds himself sitting with his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, like he can stave off the inevitable the same way he would a chill.

So engrossed is he that he doesn't initially notice the soft thumping noises coming from the luggage bins situated over the windows. At first, Russell tries to dismiss the sounds as shifting baggage—yet, as they continue, inching steadily closer until they're directly overhead, suspicion digs its heels in. He shifts into a defensive position, his fingers curling into fists as he stares at the bin; the thumping turns to pounding, and the cover gives a subtle but ominous shake.

On his feet now, Russell quickly considers his options. Wait for Fuery. What good will that do if the thing in the overhead bin leaps out and attacks him? Open the bin. Who knows what's hiding in there? It could be some rabid animal that crawled in while the train was stopped at some remote outpost, or a robber armed with more than just automail, unlike Russell. Leave. The smartest plan, most likely, but also the most cowardly, something Russell's pride can't stomach. He opts for the second choice and creeps carefully forward, making his footsteps as silent as possible, his left hand reaching out for the latch as his right rears back, ready to drive a metal fist into anything that dares to jump out at him.

On the count of three, he tells himself, and steels himself with a breath. One—two—three. Russell seals his fingers around the latch and yanks it down. Ling Yao, shrieking in surprise, falls out of the bin, collides with Russell, and knocks them both to the ground.

Ling recovers first, balancing awkwardly on Russell's lap as he tries to sit up. He glances down at Russell, still sprawled ungracefully on the floor, and a grin spreads over his face. "Well, look at that. I'm falling for you, Russell," he quips, and then—while Russell flushes violently red—laughs, long and loud.

Russell, reeling, struggles to make sense of this turn of events. "Ling?" he manages, gaping up at him. Ling smiles wider. "Wh—what are you doing here?!"

"Oh, you know. Just dropping in," he answers. He sighs exaggeratedly when Russell, far from joining his laughter, continues to goggle. "That was a joke, Russell. Friendship lesson number two: when friends make jokes, you're supposed to laugh, not stare at them with that startled-rabbit look on your face. Though, I must say, it does become you." He gives another delighted peal of laughter when Russell's cheeks get even darker.

"Why were you hiding in the overhead bin, Ling?" he bites out. Against his will, his embarrassment leaks into his voice in the form of annoyance. "Tell me it wasn't for the sake of making that joke."

Unfazed, Ling rises in one seamless motion, holding out his hand to help Russell to his feet as well. "I was looking for you, of course!" he responds, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I tried calling your hotel last night and the man at the desk said you'd disappeared, you and Fletcher both! First I figured you were just off doing some State Alchemist thing, but then I got a call from Fletcher a few hours later and he told me you got arrested! Lan Fan and I were freaking out, right? We thought we'd go to the jail and find out what happened and maybe vouch for you or something, but then we realized we didn't know where the jail was.

"So this morning we went to the train station, where there's that big board with all the maps by the ticket window, right, and while she's sketching out where we're supposed to go, I happen to look over my shoulder and, lo and behold, there you are! I didn't even have time to call your name before that twitchy little guy ushered you onboard, and, hell, I didn't know what was going on—if you were in trouble or in danger or what—so I said, 'Screw it,' ran onboard, ducked into the first compartment I saw and had just hauled my butt up in here—" he slaps the cover of the luggage bin, "—when they shut all the doors and took off. Then I just listened for your voice and picked my way through everyone's crap to get to you." He beams again. "And here I am."

"Here you are," Russell repeats in a faint voice, dumbfounded. Between how quickly Ling tells this story and the sheer insanity of it, he finds himself unable to react for several moments, still processing it all. His brain pinballs through several different emotions—bafflement, naturally; guilt for having made him and Lan Fan worry; confusion about why he'd go to such lengths—and finally settles on, of all things, feeling kind of touched. Insane and illegal or not, the tangible display of affection makes him glow with warmth. He struggles to force his sentimental smile into a smirk. "You're out of your mind, do you know that?"

"I might've heard," Ling says cheekily, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The door to the compartment rattles as it slides back open, admitting Fuery, who enters with the cautious air of rabbit venturing from its den, recloses the door, and then heaves a sigh of apparent relief as he leans against it. Almost immediately, he tenses up again, glancing over at Russell with an expression of unmistakable—if inexplicable—guilt.

"That was an awfully long bathroom break, master sergeant," Russell remarks.

"I lied, major," Fuery confesses before Russell's last syllable leaves his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut. "There's nothing wrong with your mechanic."

The relief that floods through Russell lasts an entire three seconds before it morphs into anger.

"You what?!" he hollers, making Fuery wince. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You had me worried sick! Why would you do something like—oh, my God." Fuery attempts to melt into the door, and Ling has the foresight to seize Russell's arm before he storms over and pins him there. "Mustang put you up to this, didn't he?!" Russell shouts at Fuery.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't have a choice—"

"Oh, of course you didn't," Russell says scathingly. "God, you are such a fucking sheep."

Aggravating as Fuery's compliance is, though, he's infinitely more furious with—once again—Mustang. The bastard! Just thinking of him makes Russell see red and taste metal on the back of his tongue.

"I'm going to kill him," he declares, his voice a snarl. "I'm going to fucking kill him!"

"Oh, no, major, please don't," Fuery pleads with him.

Hands, gentle but firm, grasp Russell's tense shoulders, startling him. Ling's easy smile doesn't conceal his look of concern. "Come on, Russell, calm down a little," he says.

"Please!" Fuery adds. He takes a careful step forward, even under the full force of Russell's glower. "I know you're upset, Major Tringham, and I don't blame you, not at all! Believe me, I didn't want to lie to you! But it was the only thing we could think of to make you come to Xenotime!"

"It's that important that he goes to Xenotime?" Ling asks dubiously.

Fuery, apparently just now noticing him, blinks. "Who are—" He decides better of it after a moment and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Yes, it's very important that Major Tringham goes to Xenotime, or else we wouldn't have gone to such extreme lengths. I swear it."

In spite of himself, between Ling's hands still on his shoulders and his burgeoning curiosity, Russell feels his explosive rage dulling to intense irritation. He exhales sharply through his nose; Ling encourages him by squeezing his shoulders. "Why is it so damn important that I go to Xenotime, then?" he grits out, still glaring at Fuery.

Fuery's eyes flit away again to bounce around the compartment, his tongue in his teeth. "I—can't tell you that yet, sir. Yet," he adds hurriedly, clearly desperate to ward off more shouting. "Even without—" Again, his gaze darts about, the sentence left hanging. Russell suddenly remembers Fuery's grasp of technology and wonders if his trip to the "bathroom" is why they can talk more freely. "But there's some—thing there that you really need to see."

Russell narrows his eyes at him, still feeling distrustful of anyone so close to Mustang. Fuery seems to read this on his face. "I know you don't trust the colonel very much right now, sir," he says gently. "In light of what you've seen, again, I really don't blame you. What we're hoping is that what you see when we get to Xenotime will convince you to change your mind."

However much a smug, manipulative, now murdering bastard he is, Colonel Mustang does know Russell. He knows that his forgiveness is not easily won, and that his trust, once lost, is nearly impossible to regain. Of course, in the year and a half that they've known each other, Russell never really has trusted him, something else that Mustang is likely aware of. Whatever he wants to show Russell must be important indeed.

Ling—half-consciously, it feels like—rubs his fingers between Russell's shoulder blades. The tension there gradually begins to ease, and Russell heaves another sharp sigh.

"You better show me something damn near miraculous, Fuery," Russell tells him, though with much less heat.

A strange smile twitches on Fuery's mouth. "You're not far off the mark, sir."


The train pulls into Xenotime shortly after ten o'clock. With no luggage to recover, Russell, Ling, and Fuery are among the first passengers to exit, Russell leading the way out of the cramped train station and into the street while Ling and Fuery take in the sight of his hometown.

"This is where you're from, Russell?" Ling asks after several moments of silence.

He doesn't sound particularly impressed. Why should he? Xenotime sits in the worst of Eastern Amestris' badlands; the weeds poking up from between the cracks in the dry and dusty earth are the only spots of color for miles. It's much larger than Resembool, but its layout—tiny stores and towering tenements practically sitting on top of each other, everything built up instead of out—and the almost unsettling sameness all around give it a claustrophobic feel. In a dustbowl like this, no amount of cleaning can keep a storefront from looking dingy, nor is anything particularly structurally sound when it's built on bare bedrock. Russell feels his lips twist into a rueful smile.

"That's right," he answers. "Home sweet home, right here." When Ling shifts his weight, a rare display of discomfort, Russell can't stifle a small laugh. "It's all right. I know it looks terrible."

"It's more—" This is Fuery, sounding tentative. He adjusts his glasses as he considers the scene. "Ironic, I guess? I mean, we call you 'Evergreen' and this place looks—"

"Dead," Ling fills in bluntly. "Like a living ghost town."

Russell concedes this with a shrug. "Fair enough. But, yes, Ling to answer your question, this is where I grew up. And this is where my mechanic lives. Are we still going to see him, master sergeant?" he adds, glancing over at Fuery.

To his slight surprise, Fuery bobs his head in agreement. "If you could show us the way, sir, since you're the most familiar with this place."

Russell's small smile becomes a smirk. "Of course. I hope you don't mind a bit of a walk—he lives on the other side of town, you see, and there aren't many cars in these parts, city slicker." Still a little annoyed at his ruse, Russell delights in seeing Fuery's face fall.

"Of course, major," he repeats faintly.

Despite their uniformity, years of practice have made Russell able to navigate these streets with relative ease. Ling falls in step beside him while Fuery trails behind, head bowed like a sad, defeated puppy.

"Everything's so dusty," Ling comments after a few moments, touching a mailbox and inspecting the dirt that comes away on his finger.

"Naturally. This is a mining town," Russell says. "You can't excavate hundreds of pounds of dirt a day without it getting everywhere."

"Mining, major?" Fuery pipes up, sounding slightly breathless already between the warm, dry air and that thick uniform. "What do they mine here? Coal?"

Russell shakes his head. "Iron ore. Been this area's chief industry for decades—centuries, even, if it's true that people were mining here before Amestris was even founded like some stories say. Supposedly there used to be this great mountain at the foot of which Xenotime was built, but our miners reduced it to a hole in the ground ages ago, and it forms our largest excavation site. The largest excavation site in the eastern region, actually, and third-largest in all of Amestris behind two located up north. The raw material we dig up is sold to factories mostly in East City, a few elsewhere, which is then refined and processed into pure iron and steel to be made into anything from toasters to military-grade weaponry."

"There's got to be a huge market for that," Ling says, lifting an eyebrow. He casts another glance around. "In which case, shouldn't this place be a little … nicer? I mean, logically, you should be rolling in it, but it doesn't look like that's true."

"Oh, no, most everyone here is poor as dirt," Russell responds. "We don't have the equipment to process what we excavate on our own, and the ore by itself is worthless if you can't create actual iron out of it. Thus, the middleman—the operators of those factories in East City who are our main customers—can buy it for cheap, refine it using the machinery they have that we don't, and then turn around and sell the product at a premium to even larger factories in Central." He gives a humorless chuckle. "The people here get left in the dust—literally, since, as you can imagine, all that dirt and debris clogging one's lungs often cause breathing problems later in life. The physical demands of the labor are also extreme and the deeper we have to dig, the more perilous the work becomes, and safety regulations are often disregarded if they clash with meeting our quotas, so accidents in the mines are fairly common. If you lose a limb, you're one of the fortunate ones."

"I mean, if you're going to lose a limb—it's still awful, but at least there's an automail engineer who lives here," Fuery says hesitantly. "Right, major?"

"The automail engineer who lives here is the best in the world," Russell says, "and the most decent person that I know, after Fletcher, of course. Unfortunately, most people here see him as just someone else who profits from their labor more than they do. They even think he's taking advantage of them, since he naturally makes most of his money after mine accidents happen. It's a ridiculous line of thought, but given their circumstances, you can't necessarily blame anyone here for being so cynical. Belsio predicts the town has another twenty or thirty years before the mines become too hazardous to probe and we're all gradually forced to leave or starve."

"He sounds like a cheerful guy," Ling quips.

Russell can't help it: the corner of his mouth twitches. "Oh, yeah. Real life of the party, that one."

"Pardon me, sir," Fuery pants, now trailing several feet behind Russell and Ling, "but are we almost there, do you think?"

"Oh, definitely," Russell assures him, glancing back to flash a smile his way. "If I remember correctly, we should be about a mile out by now. No more than two."

Fuery makes a noise expressing either relief or horror; Russell can't tell which. Ling attempts to smother his snicker behind his hand.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks in an undertone.

"What? Of course not," Russell murmurs back, all innocence. "Though we may have taken the long way, purely by accident."

"You're the worst."

"I can hear both of you!" Fuery snaps, to more poorly muffled laughter.

True to Russell's word, twenty minutes later, Ling makes a sound of delight. "Would you look at that! I see grass!"

Parched and patchy grass, yes, but instilled as far from Xenotime's principal mine as possible, Belsio's residence does have more of a yard than most. He can even grow a select few things out back, and in windowsill gardens he keeps in his kitchen. The thought makes Russell smile, then sigh.

Almost two months since he last saw this house. Not just a busy schedule, but his own pride have kept him away; the longer he stares at it, the more guilt he feels, compounded by Fletcher's suddenly conspicuous absence. He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. He thinks it every time he returns, along with promises to himself that he won't be as distant from now on, yet he falls into his old habits each time he leaves, as bad as ever at taking his own advice—and learning from his mistakes.

A girl—tall for almost twelve years old, olive-skinned, and wearing her long, chestnut hair in a low ponytail—comes around the house with several boxes of screws cradled in her arms. Glancing up, she startles at the sight of visitors, recognizes Russell, and promptly drops the boxes at her feet to march over to him, her expression indignant. Russell attempts an appeasing smile.

"You've gotten taller, Elisa," he offers.

She barks out a laugh. "Y'all listen to this boy! Comes crawlin' back here after not botherin' to show his face for weeks and that's all he's got to say! 'You've gotten taller'—gimme a break, Russell. You're so full of crap your eyes are turnin' brown."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right? I can't help being so busy," Russell says. Far from mollified, Elisa snorts.

"S'what you always say. Guess you got somethin' that needs fixin', then? You get hurt?" Her brown eyes flick down. "Or are you limpin' again 'cause your leg's too short?"

"That happened once," Russell reminds her. He feels the beginnings of an angry, embarrassed flush. "And, no, my automail doesn't need any repairs. I just want to see Belsio. It's the truth!" he adds a bit irritably when she cocks an eyebrow.

Elisa considers him for several moments longer than necessary, dubious as can be. Then, she huffs out a resigned sigh. "Oh, fine, then. This oughta be good, at least," she says. She retrieves her boxes of screws to take them in the house. "He's upstairs. Follow me."

Russell obeys with a sharp sigh of his own, Ling and Fuery close behind. Fuery doesn't seem to know how to react to this little exchange; Ling, on the other hand, is unabashedly amused. "If Belsio's anything like his daughter, I'm looking forward to meeting him," he says happily.

"Oh, they're just alike. Don't worry," Russell mutters. "Though she isn't his daughter—she's his niece."

"And protégée," Elisa calls loftily over her shoulder, leading them into the house. Belsio has it arranged so that the first floor functions as his place of business—waiting room in front, work and operating rooms in the back—and the second is his actual residence, accessible by a staircase behind a door off to the side. Elisa crosses over to this door after leaving her boxes on the front counter. "Who fixed your arm all by herself after you went and broke it sneakin' into that secret laboratory in Central a little while back?"

Who forgot a screw after begging her uncle to let her do the tune-up by herself and made the arm susceptible to breakage in the first place? It crosses Russell's mind to retort with this, but even delivered with a smile, it would probably come off as cruel, particularly since Elisa is very sensitive. Belsio claims she gets it from her father. Having never met the man, Russell can't confirm this, but it makes the most sense if Elisa's mother was anything like her younger brother: Belsio has composure the likes of which the military would envy.

"Fair enough," Russell says instead, conceding. Elisa bounds up the remaining stairs with something of a smug spring in her step. Behind him, Russell recognizes Ling's snigger.

Elisa looks over her shoulder again when they reach the top of the stairs. "Uncle Belsio's got people over, so y'all be polite," she says, and then, before Russell inquire about this—Belsio's even worse about making friends than he is—she throws open the door and calls out, "Uncle Belsio! Look what I dragged in!"

A man appears in the doorway of the kitchen. Save his tall, thin build, he's Russell's physical opposite: deep brown skin, jet black hair, dark, narrow eyes in an angular face, and an expression of complete and total impassivity where Russell's composure wavers in equal parts annoyance and guilt. Noticing him, as well as the look on his face, Belsio lifts an eyebrow.

"Well, hello, stranger," he says. "What brings you here? You get shot again?"

Annoyance wins out, and Russell's mouth twitches into a scowl. "Ling, Fuery," he says, glancing over his shoulder at the pair of them, "this is my mechanic, John Belsio, in all his unhelpfully sarcastic glory."

"Don't call me that," Belsio tells him, squinting in displeasure. "You know better than to call me that."

"He hates his first name," Russell explains to Fuery and Ling, while Belsio turns on his heel and walks back into the other room. He raises his voice a bit. "So you should definitely call him that."

"Did you honestly spend hours worrying yourself sick about your mechanic just to antagonize him as soon as you saw him?" Fuery demands, his voice high and thin with exasperation. A dry chuckle, Belsio's, emanates from the kitchen.

"Oh, believe me. If he wasn't trying to get a rise out of me, I'd think he was sick or something."

It earns a sigh from Fuery and another treacherous giggle from Ling. Russell huffs, his breath blowing his bangs out of his face, before he follows Belsio into the kitchen.

Then, he stops dead, lips parting in shock.

In his peripheral vision, he sees that strange smile has returned to Fuery's mouth, while Ling blinks in bemusement. Only Belsio seems entirely unperturbed as he refills everyone's cups, either unaware or uncaring that his guests are the last two people Russell could have possibly imagined taking tea with him: Edris' older bodyguard, Pinako, and Second Lieutenant Maria Ross.

"What part of 'be polite'—oh, screw it," Elisa mutters. Belsio lifts an eyebrow at her language, but hands her a mug of tea without comment and steps aside so that she can hoist herself up onto the counter. "Well, come sit down," she says to Russell, still gaping in the doorway. "'Fore you start catchin' flies."

"I—I don't—how—?" Russell shuts his mouth tight against his stammering, shakes his head to clear it, and then bursts out, "What is going on here?!"

To Ross, Ling asks casually, "Aren't you dead?"

A wan smile crosses her lips. It's hard to believe that Russell saw her just yesterday: this woman looks nearly gaunt with exhaustion, her dark eyes hollow in her ashen face and her shoulders looking small and slumped under one of Belsio's shirts. "No, not quite," she responds. Her eyes turn suddenly glassy, and she occupies herself with her tea.

Fuery. Russell twists his head in his direction, where Belsio pushes a mug of tea into his hands despite his weak protests and directs him to a chair. The moment he sits down, Russell hurries to his side and takes the seat next to him to say insistently, "You knew about this, didn't you? You and Mustang both!"

"Of course I knew—it's what I brought you here to see—and Colonel Mustang arranged the whole thing," Fuery answers.

"What whole thing?" Russell presses. He looks at Ross. "Why aren't you dead?" Then, he remembers Pinako, who coolly watches the scene before her. "And why aren't you trying to kill me?"

"Whatever conflict is between you and the prince can stay between you and the prince," she tells him calmly, pausing after to take a sip of tea. "Outside of His Highness' orders, I don't care to get involved."

"O—okay, then. But, you? Alive?" Russell says, returning to Ross. "I saw you die! I saw your body!"

"You saw Colonel Mustang fake my death to draw out those responsible for Maes Hughes'," she explains. "Now the real killer or killers will be lulled into a false sense of security, making it easier for Mustang to sniff them out, see?"

"They transmuted the 'corpse' from slabs of raw meat," Fuery adds. "The coroner, Doctor Knox—he's a friend of theirs—was in on it, too. That's why he faked the autopsy report."

The reality of it settles over Russell like gently falling snow. Mustang didn't kill Lieutenant Ross. He faked the murder to protect her from the military, wherein lies the real culprit or culprits behind Hughes' death, which means—

"He isn't really on their side! He's only pretending to be to use their resources to find out what he needs to know!"

Fuery smiles and nods.

"Then why did have me thrown in jail?"

"Why did he what?" Belsio repeats, eyebrow shooting upward.

Before Russell can do more than freeze, Fuery says, "They didn't have much of a choice, did they? They had to keep up their front of being too enraged and vengeful over Brigadier General Hughes' death to think properly. And you did technically break the law. It would have looked suspicious if they had let you go."

Russell does his best to ignore Belsio's pointed stare as he mulls this over. Fuery's explanation makes sense—yet, something still nags at Russell. Faking someone's death, protecting a fugitive from the military, even deeming the government responsible for his friend's assassination—these are not actions of someone going against his superiors for the first time. This is a person who has acted on his own more often than not, so subtly, so quietly that Russell, keen as he likes to think he is, never noticed.

Time after time, Mustang has warned him to remain in line, keep his head down, follow all orders to the letter or risk severe consequences. Were his many disparaging remarks and barely-restrained tirades merely parts of his military dog act, in case anyone had their ears pressed to his door? Or—and the thought nearly has Russell flustered, his eyes widening and his cheeks heating the tiniest amount—has Mustang been trying to protect him from the very beginning?

"What about you, then?" Russell asks Pinako, returning his attention to her. She must have some part in this—it's too much to believe that she's here by coincidence—but he can't imagine what it is. She only drinks more of her tea in response, gold eyes flitting expectantly to Fuery.

"I'll let you explain," she says when she lowers her cup. "You seem to like doing the talking."

"Uh—okay, then." Fuery clears his throat. "Well, um, Warrant Officer Falman—wait, let me go back. Do you remember Barry the Chopper?"

There's a clatter and a smash. Russell whips around, along with Ling and Fuery, and sees Elisa with her hands pressed over her mouth, her mug in pieces on the floor at her feet.

"S—sorry," she whispers through her fingers. "I'll—"

"I'll get it," Belsio murmurs to her. "It's okay."

She slides off the counter and ducks out of the room. After making quick work of the mess, Belsio follows her.

Fuery swallows guiltily as Russell levels him with a glower. "Does that answer your question?"

"A-anyway. After the skirmish at Lab Five, we detained Barry the Chopper at an apartment in the slums of Central with Warrant Officer Falman keeping watch over him. We thought he might have information for us!" Fuery insists when Russell gapes at him. "And he did prove useful to us—he broke Lieutenant Ross out of prison. When he came back afterward, he'd brought someone with him."

"Prince Edris," Russell murmurs. Fuery nods again.

Now it's Ross who speaks. "Besides Colonel Mustang's team, the people in this house are the only ones who know I'm alive," she explains in a thin, trembling voice. "I can't—c-can't even tell my parents." She chokes up, and Pinako pats her forearm as she covers her face with her hand.

"Obviously, it's not safe for her here," Pinako continues for her. "So I'll take her with me back to Xerxes. She can hide there until this whole mess gets cleared up."

Ross nods, lowering her hand and inhaling deeply. She's clearly fighting tears.

"They're leaving sometime today," Fuery says. "As soon as I get the signal from Lieutenant Havoc."

"What about Belsio?" Ling asks.

"What about him?" He reenters the kitchen, cocking an eyebrow, while Elisa shuffles past where he leans against the doorframe to quietly reclaim her seat on the counter. Ling looks back at him, unfazed.

"How did you get involved? Did Fuery or Mustang contact you so you'd take them in when they showed up?"

Belsio snorts. "You think these people tell me anything? No. The pair of 'em turned up late last night and I did what I would've done otherwise."

"Thank you," Ross blurts out, more shakily than ever. "R-really—thank you."

Belsio blinks, clearly somewhat startled. He gives an awkward cough and merely nods in response before he crosses over to the teakettle on the stove to fiddle with it, his back to them all.

"When are you supposed to get this 'signal'?" Pinako asks Fuery. "I'd really like to get a move on—I do have business to attend to back home."

"You aren't coming back?" Russell says, his eyes widening a bit. "What about Ed?" He obviously doesn't know her nor her granddaughter well, but their one encounter made them both seem like Ed's attack dogs, little more. He's therefore slightly surprised that she's so readily leaving him behind.

"Prince Edris can take care of himself, and Winry can keep him out of too many fights," Pinako replies. "No, my country needs me more right now, what with the king as sick as he is, his decision still not made, and both of his sons running like fools through Amestris looking for that Philosopher's Stone—"

"Ed's brother is in Amestris, too?" Russell interrupts. "Almas?"

Pinako grunts in agreement. "Yes, he is. Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him that," she adds. Her expression darkens. "I don't want him doing anything he'll regret, and he tends to where Prince Almas is involved."

Still standing by the stove, Belsio gives a quiet but audible huff. "If I never hear another word about the damn Philosopher's Stone, it'll be too soon," he mutters. He raises his voice and addresses Pinako. "Do your princes or whoever a favor and tell them to stop wasting their time. Maybe they'll be convinced."

He gives Russell a meaningful glance. Russell stares stonily back at him, his eyes narrowed to slits and his jaw tight.

Ling cuts through the tension as easy as anything. "Russell was right; you really are a downer."

"I'm not either. I'm realistic," Belsio says coolly. "And the reality is that there's a better case to be made for a giant mole living in the mines than for the Philosopher's Stone."

"The mole's real!" Elisa insists. "I told you, my friend Charlotte's big brother saw it when he and the rest of grade eight went on that field trip to tour the mines last yea—oh, sorry."

"There's plenty of evidence to support the existence of the Philosopher's Stone. You just ignore or dismiss it every time it's presented to you," Russell responds.

"'Evidence' is something you can see and touch, not some stuffy old lab-coat saying, 'Oh, yes, it's definitely real because this dirty old scroll my dog found buried in the backyard probably says so.'"

"Belsio is a mechanic," Russell tells everyone else, "and as such, refuses to believe anything that can't be shoved right under his nose."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the stubborn one," Belsio mutters. He pours himself more tea and knocks it back like it's whiskey.

"Riddle me this, then," Ling says, cheerful as ever as he straddles the back of his chair to face Belsio by the stove. "If the Philosopher's Stone's just a story, then what do you think happened to Creta? You know, the country that fell in one night?"

He's still facing away from Russell, but it's easy to imagine that Belsio rolls his eyes. "It's a morality tale, obviously," he says. "'The Boy Who Cried Wolf' with a sci-fi twist. 'Don't get a big head or you'll hurt yourself and everyone around you.' Simple as."

"You don't deny that Creta existed?" Ling asks.

"Of course not."

"And that it doesn't anymore?"

"Duh. It's been taken off the map for a reason."

"Then what happened?" Russell cuts in, unable to help himself.

Belsio remains unruffled as ever, finally turning away from the stove to lean against the counter beside Elisa with his arms folded. "Who knows? Natural disaster, famine, everyone got bored and started killing each other. It's lost to history. When people don't know stuff, they start making up all kinds of crazy stories—and you alchemists are the guiltiest of it by far. No offense."

"Mm, I don't know. I think alchemists are more creatively inclined than regular people, and what people don't understand, they just call crazy." Ling disguises what might have been an intentional dig with a blithe smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. The slight narrowing of Belsio's eyes says that he heard the insult, but true to form, he doesn't take the bait; he only sighs resignedly.

"You have to admit that there isn't any other explanation for how Creta fell in just one night," Russell insists.

Belsio doesn't concede. "Can you prove Creta fell in just one night?"

"Can you prove it didn't?" Ling asks.

"Can I—?" Belsio gives a small huff. "Well, no." When Ling's grin widens, he adds with a touch of irritation at last, "But that doesn't mean a thing. You could say anything is real or possible if the only thing you've got going for you is that no one's proven it isn't."

"Exactly!" Ling exclaims, his eyes shining victoriously. "Now you're thinking like an alchemist!"

While Belsio flushes, Elisa finally speaks in an exasperated voice. "For God's sake, do we gotta have this argument every time Russell comes home, you two? Either agree to disagree or take it out back and duke it out, but don't stand around bitching at each other, especially when we've got guests in the house." She huffs. "Can't believe I gotta be Fletcher here."

"Yes, you quoted my brother verbatim," Russell mumbles. Still, she does have a point. Falling back into old habits yet again—color creeps up Russell's neck as he averts his gaze. Stupid.

The shriek of the telephone cuts through the sudden, awkward silence. Fuery, not Belsio, ducks out to answer it; he returns with grim determination in his face. "Lieutenant—it's time to go."

Ross sets her jaw as she nods. "Right." Pinako supports her with a hand on her elbow as they stand, draping tan cloaks over their arms that will protect them from the harsh sun once they enter the desert. Ross breathes slowly and deeply, her eyes shut tight; when they open again, tears shimmer there like rainwater on a windowpane.

"Thank you," she says throatily, regarding each of them in turn: Fuery, Belsio, even Ling and Elisa. She ends with Russell and lets her gaze settle there. "I won't forget what you've all done for me today. I promise I'll repay you as soon as I can—you haven't seen the last of me."

"You're really brave, Miss Ross," Elisa tells her. Ross doesn't correct her to Lieutenant; she only glances back at her with a watery smile and allows Elisa to bound over to her and engulf her in a hug. "You're gonna be okay. I know you are. And we'll be right here if you ever need us again, 'kay?"

"Thank you," Ross whispers again. Finally, the tears fall, dotting the top of Elisa's messy brown hair. "You're a sweet girl."

She pulls away after a few seconds with another deep breath. Then, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, she looks at a solemn Pinako. "All right. I'm ready."

Russell should say something, he knows. Apologize for his part in forcing her to flee. Offer his own condolences. Even a simple goodbye would be better than staring at her with his lips slightly parted, like he's unable to believe his eyes. She's already crossed the kitchen before he can make his decision, her face shadowed as she dons her cloak.

Before she leaves the room, Pinako behind her, Fuery abruptly stands and salutes. Russell, despite outranking her, does the same.


When he was six years old, Russell, in a fit of emotion, ran away from home. Of course, being six, he didn't make it very far; he got to the slag heap about a quarter of a mile from his and Belsio's houses before he had to stop, and simply pouted there until his mother came to collect him that evening for dinner.

This is where he goes now, hoping to quiet his buzzing mind. And this is why, against all logic, he almost expects to see Allison Tringham when he hears footsteps crunching the gravel below him.

"There you are," Ling says, his hands on his hips. "You missed lunch. I had to eat yours for you so it wouldn't go bad."

Feeling sullen, Russell snorts and looks away.

"Hey. I didn't really, Russell. We saved you a plate. I was joking again."

"I'm not really in a joking mood."

Ling climbs the mound of hard-packed dirt until he sits with Russell on top, his knees pulled up to his chest. "Want to talk about it?" he asks.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Russell mutters, looking at the scuff marks on his boots.

"Is it Lieutenant Ross? Or Hughes' death?"

"No. I mean—yes, kind of, but. No." Russell blows out a breath and tilts his head back. "It's being back here. It's being back here and feeling like I'm the same person I was when I left. Like I've accomplished nothing."

"That's not true," Ling says at once, looking at Russell in earnest. "You've learned a lot even just since I first met you, and I've only known you a couple of months. You've just got to remember that setbacks are usually temporary, and even when they're not, well, sometimes it's okay to fail."

He doesn't know. It pangs in Russell's chest and leaves behind an ache, one that has him hugging his knees tighter. Ling doesn't know what he did—that he committed the ultimate sin, defied alchemy's greatest law, and tried to resurrect his mother, costing him his arm and leg and Fletcher his entire body. He doesn't know that, in rectifying that, failure isn't an option. Ling's words may be comforting, his expression soft as his hand reaches for Russell's, but the gap between what Russell knows and what Ling doesn't drives a wall between them that no gesture of friendship can breach: Russell closes his eyes and moves further away.

"And Belsio doesn't help," he adds after a moment. "I know he means well, but the way he keeps hinting that he hates everything I do and wants me to stop doesn't make me feel any better about it all. Of course he's entitled to his opinion, but you would think, in spite of that, he could offer more support."

Ling's quiet for a moment. "He's not just your mechanic, is he?" he asks. "Like. You've got a relationship beyond mechanic and patient."

"I've known him all my life. He was my neighbor growing up and a close friend of my mother's. He's got a personality like sandpaper, and sometimes trying to reason with him is like talking to a brick wall, but I know that he cares about me. And I care about him." He sighs. "Then I became a State Alchemist, and things got complicated."

"I can imagine," Ling murmurs. "He was just your mother's friend, though? Not your father's?"

"I don't think my father had any friends," Russell mumbles. He shifts his shoulders. "I mean, I'm sure that they must have known each other; Belsio was over a good bit when I was younger and sometimes he watched Fletcher and me when my parents were busy. But I never saw them interact, and Belsio doesn't really talk about him the way he does my mother. I don't know."

"Well, either way—even if it feels like he's constantly dragging on you, Belsio's probably just trying to keep you from doing anything he thinks will get you hurt. You know, because he cares about you. Fu's the same way, really. Actually, come to think of it, so's Lan Fan," Ling adds, and then chuckles. "All you can really do is just try to remember that and not take it personally."

"I suppose," Russell mutters, not convinced.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ling's mouth twist into a sad smile. "I'm not helping you much, am I?"

"I—think I just need to be alone right now," Russell says, more than a bit guiltily. On top of everything, now he's hurt Ling's feelings. "If you want to head back, I'll meet you there in a little while, okay?"

"Okay," Ling agrees, but it sounds uncertain. He stands, and his fingers brush Russell's flesh shoulder. "Just—"

He breaks off, though, leaving the sentence hanging, and then carefully climbs down from the slag heap to start back toward Belsio's house. Russell presses his forehead against his knees with a loud, long sigh.


"Uncle Belsio says if you don't eat something, he'll have your head," Elisa greets him the moment he walks through the door. She and Ling are sitting side by side on the floor in front of the coffee table, workbooks and papers spread out in front of them. "I'm paraphrasin' a little. But you better eat."

Russell dutifully takes plate saved for him from lunch off the counter and sits cross-legged on the sofa with it, though he's more interested in which Ling and Elisa. It looks like he's helping her with her homework; the loud, agitated groans she gives every couple of seconds support that theory.

"I'm gonna be an automail engineer when I grow up!" she finally bursts out. "Why the hell do I gotta know vocabulary?"

"Because knowing big words makes you sound smart," Ling answers. "And if you sound smart, your patients are probably going to trust you to take their limbs off and mess around with them. These words aren't even that hard, come on." He peers at the workbook. "'Exasperate.' Hey, you know that word! That's what Russell does to you!"

"That's Ling's middle name," Russell tosses back, but without any heat. He's actually trying to hide a smile as he takes another bite of food, while Ling and Elisa go further down her list.

Russell worries that he might—he's far from the most tactful person he knows—but Ling doesn't ask Elisa about the big, bold 5 in the right-hand corner of each of her workbook pages. With just a few months until her twelfth birthday, she should be in grade six, not grade five; rather than being held back, she started school a year late because of a mine accident that killed her parents just as she was about to begin kindergarten. Russell was only a child himself, but he remembers hearing from his mother how Elisa was passed from relative to relative in the following months, until the court finally placed her in Xenotime's poorly maintained, dilapidated community home. Then, at last—with Russell's mother vouching for him—Belsio got custody of her.

"But he's her uncle," Russell remembers Fletcher saying. "Why didn't they give Elisa to him first?"

"Elisa's dad didn't really like him," Allison had answered. "And, well—neither does anybody else."

"How come?"

"Because they're stupid," Russell had chimed in, having decided yet again that he liked Belsio after all, and it had been left at that.

Elisa had been so shy when she first moved in with Belsio, forever peeking around corners whenever Russell and Fletcher were over so that only her huge brown eyes were visible. It took weeks, months of coaxing, but gradually, she came out of her shell; now she can befriend anyone she meets within mere minutes of talking to them, her opinions loud and her heart the size of the moon. Russell feels something warm and nearly brotherly just thinking of the shift.

Yet—there's something bittersweet, too. He gazes at Elisa and Ling, hip-to-hip and giggling like long-lost siblings, and a fist seems to close around his heart and squeeze it tight. Presented before him is an image of complete and total normalcy: his friend helping his neighbor with her homework, dusk falling gently outside, the faint sounds of Belsio tinkering in his workroom downstairs. Soon it will be time for dinner, and they'll enjoy more mundane conversation, perhaps, like Elisa telling Ling more about the mole in the mines, or Belsio elaborating on his latest project or patient. Though he's still in Central, it's all too easy to insert Fletcher into the picture, squeezed beside Elisa and Ling, or setting the table, or perched on the arm of Russell's chair to chatter excitedly about whatever he learned or did today.

He's human in this fantasy, absolutely: blond hair fluffing all about—no brush or comb can tame it; they've tried it all—blue eyes wide and sparkling, round cheeks flushed with happiness. His body feels soft and warm as he squishes next to Russell in the armchair, and his breath when he laughs tickles Russell's neck as he playfully tries to shove him away.

Could he have had this? Had he never attempted the transmutation—had he never bullied Fletcher into it—could this have been his?

In his heart, Russell knows the answer: no.

Because, with their mother dead and their father disappeared, the same court that had seized Elisa turned its eyes upon Russell and Fletcher. Belsio's poor reputation nearly kept him from his own sister's daughter; Xenotime's court would never allow him to claim two children who weren't even of his blood, regardless of what Allison would have wanted. That left one place for Russell and Fletcher to go—the community home. Where, rumor had it, children slept five to a room and worked their fingers to the bone, coming to school with heavy eyes and quivering lips and the marks of angry hands on their faces and arms. Where Elisa lived for a scant two or three months to return so frightful and fidgety, she would cry if anyone spoke above a murmur for six straight weeks.

Where children were separated by age, and called by the names on their birth certificates regardless of whether their identities, like Fletcher's, had changed since then. Russell wouldn't be able to protect him, to correct anyone who used the wrong terms or pronouns when Fletcher was too timid, or to offer him the heaps of support and physical affection he had always needed plenty of.

Russell could never allow that to happen. Never. Back then, resurrecting their mother had looked like the only option to save them—save Fletcher—from that.

And then he damned his brother to one even worse.

If he believed in fate, he'd think the deck had been stacked against them both from the start.

He stands so abruptly, he almost knocks his picked-over plate from the arm of his chair; his lunge to recover it makes Elisa and Ling both look his way.

"I think I'm going to take a walk," he says, before Elisa can comment on how little he ate.

"You just got back!" Elisa exclaims, at the same time Ling asks, "Now? It's almost dark."

"I'll be back before then," Russell responds without looking at either of them, returning his plate to its spot on the counter. He dons his coat, pulls his gloves taut over his fingers, and takes off down the stairs with their bewildered gazes following him the whole way.

On the first floor, Belsio hears the sound of the door from the other room. "Elisabeth," he says sternly.

"Russell," he corrects. "I'll be back before it gets too dark. Don't wait for me to eat."

There's a long, heavy pause, Russell hesitating with his hand on the doorknob while Belsio seems to digest this. "Okay," he finally says.

Russell slips out of the house and shuts the door quietly behind him.


It wasn't a total lie. He does plan to take a walk. However, his words made it sound like he had no particular destination in mind; that isn't true, but he didn't want to risk anyone accompanying him.

At twilight, the cemetery is completely empty, just as Russell had hoped.

He hasn't been to see his mother's grave since the funeral. He never saw the point; after he recovered from automail surgery and got his certification in Central, he only ever returned to Xenotime to have his automail adjusted, which was enough of a reminder of what had happened. Allison hadn't been particularly sentimental, but it feels suddenly wrong that Russell has never left her flowers, or paid any respects besides trying to drag her from her tomb.

That was one of his and Fletcher's first transmutations. Flowers for their mother.

"Ha! Would you look at that!" He remembers the delight in her face as she held them, her eyes shining with pride while Fletcher hugged her around the waist and Russell bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. "You two really did this all by yourselves?"

Fletcher nodded happily, while Russell said, "Can we show Father? Can we? Can we please?"

That had dimmed her spirits; her eyes grew clouded, and she took her bottom lip between her teeth. Finally, in an odd voice, she said brusquely, "I don't think he'd appreciate them very much, kiddo."

She'd been right.

Always distant—it was like a wall separated Nash Tringham from the rest of humanity. No; a fortress. For the eight years of Russell's life that included him, he tried so, so hard to breach that fortress, and failed each and every time.

So had Allison, though she'd given up on Nash by the time Fletcher could toddle. The night that he left, she had only one thing to say.

"You walk out that door, and you're never allowed back."

Peering under his bedroom door, Russell thought he saw Nash's feet hesitate. Please, he remembers thinking. Don't do it.

Stacked against them, from the very beginning.

Four years since his feet walked this path, but Russell finds Allison's headstone with relative ease. He holds a bundle of flowers he transmuted from the grass nearby; he doesn't remember the flowers he first created for her, but forget-me-nots seem appropriate.

Yet, right under her name, he sees lilies already lying there. The petals are fresh.

Russell blinks, nonplussed. Who would leave lilies for his mother? Belsio, possibly, but he would have mentioned visiting her today, since Russell's here. She had many acquaintances, but few close friends; he can't imagine any of them leaving flowers for her and her alone, and the nearby graves are unadorned.

Then who—?

Lifting his eyes, Russell sees the figure in the distance, tall and wrapped in a trench coat that flutters in the breeze.

Russell remembers that coat.

Of their own accord, his feet carry him in that direction, the flowers falling forgotten from his fingers as he stares.

His eyes just make out the inscription on the headstone in front of the man—the joint grave of Mary and Tobias Lemac—when he hears Russell behind him. He startles, whipping around, and Russell freezes like a deer in headlights.

"Russell," his father says.