Author's Note:

So I'm literally doing this on an airplane now while waiting for take-off (long story) so I'll make this short.

Firstly, I'm so sorry for not posting last week without prior notice. Things have been...hectic around here, to say the least. I promise I'll try my best to give people a heads-up, like what I'm doing now: I probably won't be able to post next week either. I'll try my best.

Secondly, this fic just reached 50 followers! I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their great support! Keep those reviews/follows coming! XD

(I'll reply to guest reviews and reviews later, for now, till next time!)

Disclaimer: Don't own!

Chapter 10 – Lex Talionis

It all started off as a normal day at work – dull, dreary and tediously monotonous.

The officer stationed outside the police interrogation room yawned and propped his feet up on his desk. It had been a slow day, even by small-countryside-town-Sersa's standards.

Only one suspect had been interviewed since this morning – in fact, said suspect was still cooped up in there, and had been for the past two or three hours.

Flipping open the newspaper in his lap, he thumbed lazily through the pages as he reached for his mug of hot coffee – East City Badminton Advances to Nationals, International Relations Furthered by Visiting Xing Diplomats, An Interview with Fuhrer Grumman – Future Plans for Amestris, The Flame Alchemist Pushes The Ishvalan Restoration Program…et cetera, et cetera. Boring, boring, boring.

"Hey, you." a hand grasped the edge of his newspaper and yanked it downwards. The officer nearly spilled his coffee as he was yanked down with it. "Is that your only interrogation room?"

The officer glanced up at the person who had posed him this question, the irritated glare he'd been preparing to shoot in his direction faltering as he stared at the young boy whose fingers were still clutched around his paper.

He wasn't particularly tall, to put it mildly, and looked around seventeen, eighteen at most. The teenager was dressed in the most unusual manner – black jacket and red billowing cloak, his golden braid swinging back and forth as he bounced restlessly on the balls of his feet. A second boy, so identical in hair and eye colour to the first that they could only be brothers, observed placidly at his shoulder.

"It's our only occupied one." answered the dumbfounded officer, the notion that he should currently be escorting this obviously civilian boy out of the station completely forgotten in his astonishment.

The boy let go of his newspaper and nodded. "Thanks!" Striding quickly towards the heavy metal door of the interrogation room, he reached for the handle and twisted it open.

The officer scrambled to his feet. "Whoa! Wait, you can't go in there –"

A hand on his shoulder brought his confused protests to a halt.

"Let him be, Dexton." his senior and superior, Officer Johnson, materialized out of nowhere to position himself beside the younger man. "He's military."

Officer Dexton gawked. "That kid? Military?"

Johnson looked at him in puzzlement. "Ah, I forget that you're a new arrival from Creta. Now, my young, inexperienced friend, if you plan on surviving till a ripe old age in Amestris, there is one rule you must always adhere to." he nodded solemnly. "Never cross the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Dexton blinked. Johnson patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Just…sit back and watch what happens."

Right on cue, a piercing scream reverberated through the closed metal door.

Dexton started like a frightened cat. The bustling outer office instantly hushed as every last police officer looked up from their assigned desks, shrugged in unison, and went studiously back to work. The busy sounds of phone calls being made and answered, paper being fed and regurgitated by their only photocopier, pens being scribbled on rough notepads, resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened – nothing at all.

Dexton casted an uncertain glance in Johnson's direction. Officer Johnson simply moved one shoulder up and down with measured nonchalance. "Get back to work, officer."

If an undersized teenager could inflict such fear among the general population – Christ, what kind of hellish place was Amestris?

It all started off as a normal day on the peaceful streets of Sersa – quiet, unexciting, and sweltering from the high afternoon sun.

That is, until –

"PUT ME DOWN, YOU HEAR ME? THIS IS A VIOLATION OF MY RIGHTS! I SWEAR, I'LL –"

The bout of enraged screaming which could be clearly heard even a good three stories down at street level, turning curious heads and craning necks, was instantly cut off in a crackle of blue light.

Alphonse Elric raised his hands from the platform he'd transmuted from the cement walls of the police station, regarding first the gaping hole in the side of the interrogation room, its edges so crisp and neat it could only have been a product of alchemy, then the young man he'd entrapped in a large fist made of stone, his legs dangling in midair as he strained and yelled through the strip of transmuted cement Al had wrapped firmly around his mouth.

There was no denying it now.

Colonel Mustang was going to be so mad when he heard about this.

Al himself was surprised at his own capriciousness – usually Edward was the one with a complete disregard for the rules, leaving Al as the 'responsible younger brother' who tried to limit the amount of damage Ed went around inflicting on a daily basis.

But it was either this or let Edward hang their suspect out of a window in front of a roomful of police officers (owing to the fact that the interrogation room didn't have a window).

Frankly, Al felt a little better being the one holding the reins for once. At least he knew that he wouldn't drop a person from the top of a three story building.

Probably.

But of course, their suspect – hotel waiter Damien Waters – was none the wiser.

Edward gestured to Al. The younger Elric raised an eyebrow.

Ed shrugged, and there ensued a brief and silent conversation between the two brothers in which that renowned Elric telepathy was showcased. It went something like:

Are you sure about this, brother?

Of course I am. I'm always sure about everything.

Really, brother?

Okay, I promise I won't kill him.

Brother…

Fine! I promise I won't permanently disable him either! Now, pretty please?

Al clapped his hands and slapped them to their narrow, alchemized platform.

The wind whistled in his ears as Al recycled even more hard cement, feeding processed gravel and stone into his transmutation and causing their rectangular platform to stretch up, up, up – the imprisoned waiter with them.

Fifty meters above ground level, Al raised his hands and the moving platform slowed to a stop.

The strip of cement unwrapped itself from Damien Waters's mouth as he struggled and thrashed uselessly in the strangling grasp of Al's stone fist.

"I'll report you to the Fuhrer for this! This can't be in accordance with military regulations!" protested Waters.

Edward grinned viciously. "Who said anything about military regulations? From what I can see – you've just been snagged by two rogue civilian alchemists."

The Fullmetal Alchemist directed a pointed glance down at the interrogation room, where Havoc, Falman and Fuery had congregated at the wide opening, staring up with eyes shaded underneath flattened hands.

At Edward's cue, Havoc promptly called up: "Oh no! Our suspect has just been abducted by some random alchemist whom I have absolutely no association to."

"What can we do against such a powerful enemy?" added Fuery helpfully.

"This is a disaster." deadpanned Falman unconvincingly.

Al resisted the urge to facepalm as Edward turned his full attention, wicked grin and burning eyes, back on Damien Waters. And having the full attention of Amestris's most notorious State Alchemist was a terrifying thing indeed.

"Look, sue me to hell and back for all I care." Ed's grin morphed into a dangerous scowl. "But you're not leaving here until I get some real answers."

Damien seemed to have regained his composure, even though Al didn't miss the way his eyes darted nervously down at the long, long drop to his death. "What if I told you that I don't know anything?"

"Then you're lying." replied Edward flatly. The wind whipped through his braid, sending it flying to and fro like a golden pendulum. "I just happen to be acquainted with one of the best liars in the world, and he taught me a few tricks regarding the trade. Trust me, I can tell."

Damien cocked his head, unperturbed. "And what if I am? You wouldn't dare –"

Damien didn't even get the chance to complete his sentence before Edward nodded to Al, who breathed out an exaggerated sigh and clapped his hands.

The stone fist unclenched, releasing its trapped quarry.

Damien Waters fell, screaming like a banshee as he plummeted towards the pavement.

AHHHHHHHHH!

Almost immediately, Al clapped his hands and slammed them to the ground. A small platform instantly slid out of the wall, stopping the waiter's descent before he could become a flattened pancake on the side of the road, or fall too far that he'd sustain irreversible damage.

Alphonse's own platform then spiralled downwards to come level with where Damien was sprawled on Al's skillful transmutation, eyes wide and bulging as he gasped for air like a fish out of water.

Edward stepped off their platform and onto his, leaning down to peer into his face. "Ahem. You were saying?"

Damien's terrified gaze snapped upwards. "You're freaking out of your mind."

Edward shrugged and made a show of peering down casually at the street. "You still have about two stories to go – not quite high enough to kill you, if you make a good landing, but plenty high enough to break a few bones and such."

The golden-eyed boy swivelled around, and the smile stretching his countenance scared Damien witless. "So…where were we? Ah, I know, I was about to ask my lovely brother here to –"

Damien raised his hands in vague surrender. "Okay, okay! Holy crap, I'll talk, alright?"

Ed stepped back, arms folded and frown set firmly in place once more. Alphonse edged in closer to take up his customary position at his brother's side, brow furrowed. "Why don't we start with how are you associated with the people who took Mustang?" bit out Edward.

Damien sat up, clutching at his still-pounding heart. "I'm not associated with those people in any manner. It's just business, you see? A few days ago, this Ishvalan man – rather respectable looking, around his mid-forties or fifties – came up to me after my shift and offered me a huge sum of money in return for two favours being done." Damien raised his fingers to punctuate his point. "One, I was to be their getaway driver during their mini shootout. The second set of instructions didn't come until later, when I was told to lure you away with a fake phone call. There were never any names involved in our transaction – the man simply paid me a third of the money as a deposit upfront, and I just received the rest of it this morning. Which was why I was in such a hurry to get out of town."

"Wait, you were there when they were shooting at us?"

"I was in the car the entire time."

"How many people are involved?" asked Alphonse, eyes instinctively searching for any outward signs of deceit.

Damien shook his head. "I'm just the outside guy they hired to do their dirty work. The actual plan was never revealed to me, and I can't say for certain if I was dealing with a large group of people or just a small one. What I can tell you, however, is that I came in contact with five people in total: the Ishvalan man, two boys and a girl close to their twenties – they were the three involved in the shootout, and a little girl."

"A little girl?" echoed Al, voice rising in astonishment.

"Yes. She's their scout and messenger of sorts. I've often seen her reporting your little group's daily movements to their ringleader." Damien cleared his throat. "That's all I know."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "That can't be it! Everything you've told us so far is pretty much useless!"

"Well, there is one last tiny little thing." Damien smiled crookedly and raised a hand. "But not so fast. In return for my next piece of information, I want full amnesty in consideration of this being my first offence."

Edward glanced back at Alphonse, who shook his head mutely. The truth being – they weren't sure if Waters would even be convicted without a crime to be convicted of, with the truth behind his arrest still being kept under wraps from the local police.

"The most I can promise you is a lighter sentence." fibbed Edward smoothly. "A couple of years behind bars whittled down to just a few months. Sounds good?"

Damien shrugged and nodded, seemingly satisfied. "As I mentioned earlier, I'm simply the outsider – minimal contact with the main masterminds. But I did, however, manage to unintentionally overhear several tidbits of information that you may find most intriguing. One of them being…" he paused dramatically.

Ed bristled, and Al made sure to keep one wary eye on his brother just in case the need for quick restraint should arise. "Get to the point."

"In short, I know where they were planning to take him." Damien raised his chin smugly, observing the Elrics' reaction to his big reveal.

Ed's eyes went wide, before narrowing into a pair of golden slits. "Where?"

Damien turned around and stretched a single pale finger eastwards. "There."

Edward worked his mouth. A bulging vein throbbed dangerously in his temple. "Bravo. That's awfully specific of you."

Damien shook his head in mock disappointment. "You aren't looking far enough, Edward Elric. Think for a second, what's beyond the town in that direction?"

Edward raised his head, gazing out at the rickety sea of thatched roofs and squat buildings.

In that direction…

It hit him then, a rolling impact which nearly sent him staggering with dread and heavy realization. A wreaking ball and a bucketful of cold water all at once.

"But that's –!"

…

"…Roy."

Sir?

"Mr. Roy?"

Colonel Bastard!

Roy groaned softly and sat up. His neck was cramping even worse than a full night spent slumped over a table.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

Roy blinked away the drowsiness of deep slumber. He had long since become accustomed to opening his eyes to darkness instead of sunlight, but that did not make the experience any less disorientating. He yawned once and stretched.

Bound feet and shackled hands.

What a lovely way to kickstart his day.

He sighed and tried to roll the stiffness out of his arms. "Asther?"

A rustle of skirts and a soft, cheerful voice. "Mr. Roy, I brought you breakfast – or well, lunch. It's nearly noon."

Roy smiled slightly in amusement, but it was a fleeting smile, quickly dropped when the full weight of his situation crashed mercilessly down on his sleep-frozen shoulders. The numbness of his shock had quite faded away along with the haze of drugs, and Roy was beginning to wish that he'd stayed asleep and blissfully ignorant.

"Your father didn't seem very happy the last time you visited me." reminded Roy gently. The truth being: he was ashamed for feeling glad that he couldn't see her, the face of a motherless little girl – robbed of a family she'll never know because of him.

He wasn't ready, will never be ready, to face his sins when they came in this shape and form.

"Shh!" shushed Asther conspiratorially, executed in that prompt no-nonsense manner specific to eight-year-olds, causing Roy's lips to curve into another reluctant smile despite himself. "Papa is out and he left Big-Brother-Xander in charge. Xander is always nice to me, unlike my real brother." Roy could imagine her pouting. "Would you like some apple?"

"Oh." Roy nearly started back in surprise at the sensation of something being waved in front of his nose. The tart fragrance of freshly cut apple permeated the dusty smell of the air. Roy's stomach whined in complaint – strange, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt hungry.

Feeling strangely silly as he hadn't had to put up with the embarrassment of being fed since his early blind-and-hospitalized days, Roy hesitatingly leaned forward and closed his teeth around the small piece of apple.

He chewed contemplatively and swallowed. "It must be difficult being the only girl in the house."

Information – and an almost painfully innocent candidate willing to offer it without resistance.

"No, there's still Xandria." There was some more rustling as Asther sat down next to him. "My cousin Xandria. She's really nice to me but mean to everyone else. Big-Brother-Xander, her twin, is just quiet all the time." Asther giggled. "Papa says she's not feeling well, so she can't come out of her room right now… But don't worry if you meet her. Xander always tells me that her bark is worse than her bite."

Not feeling well? Hawkeye did tell him she'd hit one of their rainy-day-assailants…

"That sounds nice." replied Roy uncertainly. Making small talk with a child wasn't particularly his strong suit – just look at his relationship with Fullmetal. "Have you and your cousins always been living together?"

"Since they lost their family, yes." Asther's voice sobered as she held up another piece of apple. Roy obediently bit into it. "It's always been just us."

The two cousins, Asther and her brother, and Blake. Just five? Roy would be confident about slipping past them all if he'd still had his sight.

Unfortunately, that notion was sadly unachievable at the moment.

Roy chewed mechanically, his mouth awash with sweet juice. He swallowed. "Asther…" he stopped.

Stay away from me. Because whatever your brother or father told you, it's probably true.

In his mind it sounded right, correct, logical. But the conjured words would not translate into physical sound. Because the only reason Asther was still here and talking to him, was that she did not know – or knew but was unwilling to believe – the stark reality of what he'd done to her family.

Perhaps the worst part about the whole scenario was that he couldn't remember. He remembered District 27 of course, the flames and the smell – of burning, of death. But he couldn't recall coming face-to-face with those subjected beneath the raw might of his specialized alchemy on that occasion.

He was a soldier, a dog – the sole purpose of his existence was to obey without question. To snap and to set aflame what they wished, and to never have to set his eyes on the carnage he'd wrought if he chose not to. Did that make him a coward?

Before he could decide, Asther announced brightly: "If you're hungry, Mr. Roy, I'll get more food. I don't think I'm supposed to, but as long as Papa doesn't know it's alright."

In a flurry of clothes and a pattering of bare feet, Asther had bounded off again before Roy could utter a sound.

Left alone with his thoughts, Roy blew out a frustrated breath in between pursed lips and slumped back against the bitingly hard wall. Breaking out of his restraints was not the issue here, as there were intervals of time where he was left unguarded and unsupervised – apparently, a blinded and ostensibly incapacitated Flame Alchemist just didn't seem quite as dangerous. He could easily take advantage of one of these windows of opportunity to put his alchemy to use.

No, the issue was where would he go after escaping his shackles? And for that matter, where was he?

How would he get out of this place? What exactly was 'this place'? So many questions – all answerable with a simple sweep of the eyes, an ability which Roy was currently lacking in. All he could reliably discern about his current environment was that he was in a room (obviously), with a window (he could hear the wind blowing), which probably wasn't a basement (it couldn't be underground). Should he take his chances and make a break for the window? But what if it was barred or barricaded? What if he was five stories above ground and fell to his death?

Roy could visualize it now. This game of chess, a game which he'd played on both sides of the board, sometimes black and occasionally white; except that this time, he was the sole remaining piece – the lone king, standing undefended against five opposing pieces, rapidly approaching.

A king was thoroughly useless by itself, but he wasn't checkmated – not yet.

If he was to play, he would play with his own deck of cards. And right now, obtaining those cards meant waiting and observing.

So Roy shuffled into a less cramped position and waited.

The door at the far end of the room creaked open.

Roy started, but scolded himself into remaining calm. "Asther?"

A grunt – a male grunt. Ringing footsteps. The kind of sound a person made when something heavy was being carried along.

Roy felt himself slowly go rigid. "Who's there?" he asked apprehensively.

There was no answer save for the stopping of footsteps directly in front of him. Roy almost shrank back against the wall in response to some deeply embedded instinct, but firmly held his ground nonetheless.

The sonorous clang of something metal being carelessly set down sounded, close enough that Roy's folded legs came in contact with its hardened surface. A sloshing of liquid, splashing into his lap and soaking his pants, the sound strangely disembodied and out of context in this amorphous space.

"I see you've been speaking to my sister." the voice came next, cool and jagged.

"Evan Blake." said Roy quietly in return.

Evan was silent for a moment. Roy tensed.

"Lex talionis."

Roy frowned. "What?"

"Just know that you had it coming." answered Evan callously.

When it happened, it did without warning.

A hand shot down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, and before Roy could properly react, painfully shoved his head downwards.

His face was instantly met with numbing cold; the darkness stung his eyes. He gasped once in surprise, and quickly realized it to be a fatal mistake.

Water poured down his throat instead of air, filling his nose and lungs – his chest recoiled painfully; a single thought pounded through his head like a tape recorder stuck on repeat – he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe.

Roy thrashed reflexively against the hands holding him down, the dread and anguish crushing his skull like a vice. His body launched into the fight-or-flight response, alchemical symbols flashing through his mind, too fragmented and distorted to be of any use – decomposition of water, hydrogen and oxygen, combustion and electrolysis – all overridden by the frigid cold on his skin and in his lungs.

He stayed under for another excruciating second before the hands yanked his head back, and Roy emerged, choking and gasping for sweet, sweet oxygen.

He barely had time to breathe before he was pushed back under again.

His struggles grew gradually feebler. His dark world was now one of frigid water and biting pain.

This was what it felt like to drown.

And all of a sudden, through the undecipherable haze of repeated actions – of up and down, above and under, breath and un-breath – a bizarre emotion, both familiar and foreign, struck Roy.

Fear.

Asther Blake dropped the plate she was carrying. It shattered on the ground, ceramic and all.

Something in Asther echoed, shifted, broke.

"Brother!"

The cry was barely out of her mouth before she was by his side, slender hands wrapping around his arm. Fibrous muscles rippled underneath his drenched sleeve – since when had he become so strong?

Evan looked down at her as if just noticing her presence in the room. Their eyes connected – both a deep shade of red, of blood and of rubies – and Asther felt her heart constrict in terror at the pure, mirthless delight shining through the crimson sheen of his gaze. And deeper still, beyond the layers of his hardened soul: a hatred which gleamed and hissed, a venomous serpent, its fangs already clamped firmly around his heart.

Asther clenched her jaw but refused to let go. The look in her big brother's eyes slowly morphed into unadulterated rage. "Asther! Let go!"

He swung. Asther hung on.

"Stop!" she pleaded, not sure what else to do or say. "Stop hurting him!"

Evan had to relinquish his grip on the colonel to pry Asther's fingers from his arm – Roy immediately collapsed against the wall, coughing violently as he threw up the water he'd swallowed onto the already soaked ground.

"Asther! Asther Blake!" Her brother's fingers were impossibly strong compared to hers. Asther was wrestled off his arm like a bothersome parasite and flung to the floor.

He towered over her, and Asther flinched away at the hot inferno, stoked and burning, behind his accusing glare. "When are you going to grow up and stop being such a brat?"

Asther shrivelled underneath the force of his furious words. Brothers weren't supposed to treat their little sisters in this manner, were they? But no – she was wrong, this was her fault. "I'm sorry, but –"

Evan reached down and grabbed her arms, hoisting her easily to her feet as if she weighed close to nothing. He held her firmly in place, and Asther wanted to escape that penetrating gaze so badly it hurt. "You don't believe me. Why won't you believe me? This…person deserves every last shred of pain and misery for doing what he did to our mother!" he spat the word 'person' out like a black curse, a putrid disease.

Asther stared at her brother, terrified by this persona of righteous vengeance. "I can't…I don't…" she took a breath. "It can't be true."

It had all been so easy right up to this point.

It had been so much more straightforward when she could simply despise them all – the State Alchemists, the military, Amestris, everyone – from the thin air of moral high ground. Because she was the victim and they were in the wrong. That was the one principle her father and brother had drummed into her head throughout these long, hard years.

They were wrong. Bad. Evil. Rotten to the core. And they deserved everything they had coming to them.

And yet, that was about the full extent of vengeance her little eight-year-old heart could comprehend. This concept of right and wrong – once solid, but in actuality impossibly fragile – now lay smashed and splintered at her feet.

But this – this can't be it.

This wasn't the face of the man who had killed her mother, who was responsible for the decimation of her home. That man wore the visage-less mask of a monster, wreathed with flames and soaked with blood.

It wasn't this – shivering and coughing against the wall, his dark hair hanging limply in grey eyes, legs drawn up to his chest in an almost protective gesture.

Not this – the person who smiled when his amber-eyed lieutenant admonished him for not eating enough; who teased and laughed while a boy with golden hair and fiery eyes yelled at him with familiar annoyance; who joked playfully with his fellow men – all of whom operated within the well-worn emotional ruts of family.

Because he was a human being – and why did they have to hurt him?

Not this. Not this.

Evan grasped her by the shoulders and whirled her around forcefully to face their captive. "Ask him then. Ask him."

Asther felt her throat go dry. No, she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know the answer.

"Mister…Roy?"

Her voice was but a shadow, an echo.

He heard anyway, raising his head wearily. His eyes were empty, and yet full of unbridled feeling. "Asther…" he pressed his lips together. "I'm…I'm sorry…"

Asther felt it again – that slip and shift as everything she knew and held dear was ripped from her torso and flung out the window. Except that this time, it didn't just break; it shattered, a mirror image of her ceramic plate.

Evan dropped his arms to his sides, straightening and swaying unsteadily like a drunkard.

Asther pressed her hands to her eyes. This wasn't it. How could this be it?

And yet it was.

She turned and ran. Just as she always did.

Ran and ran and hid. Wishing feverishly that Truth and Reality wouldn't find her and drag her out by the heel.

For a while, at least, no one came looking for her.

It was nearing late evening, and Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was finally tiring.

It wasn't that Sersa was a big town, the complete opposite, actually. The reason they'd taken hours just to cover the last five automobile shops – Riza analyzed jadedly – was simply because of the distrust and suspicion which the military in general was greeted with, not only in Sersa, but also in the many small rural towns dotting the Amestrian borders.

Information was difficult to obtain when people were reluctant to talk. Riza was beginning to wonder if it would be more efficient to forgo her uniform altogether and traipse around town in guise of a civilian.

It didn't matter now, anyway.

Riza gazed at the slightly rundown sign which announced the dingy shop as 'CAR SE VICE A D REPAIRS'. Some of the rusted metal alphabets had long since eroded away and fallen after years of constant exposure, and Riza suspected that the empty space above the half-complete letters once held a plague etched with the name of the person who ran the workshop.

She glanced quickly up at the rapidly darkening sky, slowly fading away into deep blue-purple from the bright azure of noon. The sun, to Riza, had always symbolized hope and promise – the dawning of a new day, and the resolve to make this day better than the last. But when the shadows grew long and the light dim, Riza could feel the nagging edges of uncertainty start to claw at the borders of her heart, the darkness creeping silently behind her footsteps.

What if she was wrong and Roy's message wasn't about a broken down vehicle after all? He'd always had a knack for being needlessly ambiguous.

Or what if Riza was right but at the same time, she was being a fool by pursuing her lead in this manner? Just because their culprits ran into a problem with their transport didn't automatically mean that they'd take the risk of obtaining the help of a mechanic.

She'd have wasted all this time on nothing. Time better spent searching elsewhere, time which was rapidly running out like sand in an hourglass. Limited and precious.

The thought was unbearable to her. Everything about this was unbearable to her.

Riza squared her shoulders, packing her uncertainties and doubts away into that same box where she kept her fears and grief, striding rigidly into the murky shop front, her footsteps the crisp and clipped gait of a seasoned soldier.

A second pair of footsteps, bored and casual, followed. Brigadier General Rourke had been rather silent since the past hour, and Riza could sense him rapidly losing interest as he ran silver eyes along the greasy walls, lined with machine parts and repair tools.

Riza made sure to keep one eye on him even as she made her way to the counter at the back of the darkened room. She didn't trust him – none of them did – but for now, all they could do was play along. This man, while dangerous, didn't come across Riza as particularly deadly. Really, she suspected that the only reason he had offered his 'help' was merely because the notion of a kidnapped Flame Alchemist struck the brigadier general as a largely entertaining and hugely interesting one.

A born manipulator and puppeteer, he enjoyed watching others squirm and rush about like ants in a storm. So the sooner he grew bored of them, the better.

Riza had sent Breda back an hour ago to check on the Elrics, and he'd obeyed her instructions with measured reluctance; Rourke had sent Major Gabel to get him something to eat – Riza had never managed to get in more than a few words to the young State Alchemist, but he seemed like a mellow enough fellow who'd simply been dragged into this without his discretion.

The two remaining military officers were still a sight to be reckoned with as Riza rang the little silver bell on the counter.

Its clear, tinkling sound resonated strangely through the musty air.

"Just a moment!"

A pattering of light feet, and a young man – an oil-smeared bandanna keeping his fringe out of his eyes, appeared from behind a doorway. "How may I help you…"

He gradually trailed away as his gaze flickered down the unmistakable Amestrian military colours. The smile on his face remained frozen, but his eyes had grown cold with apprehension.

"What brings the military to my humble abode, sir and missus?" the man swept into a mocking bow, the dirty rag in his hand swinging as he straightened.

"We would like to ask you a few questions, if that isn't too much trouble?" asked Riza courteously.

The young mechanic shrugged, swinging his rag over one shoulder and wiping down his greasy hands. "I don't suppose I have a choice?"

Rourke snorted. "You're right – you don't."

Riza directed a warning glance behind her, but Rourke smoothly continued on with his bristly dialogue: "We're looking for a black Ford Econoline van sent in for repairs. Perhaps you've seen something of the like?"

The mechanic narrowed his eyes at Rourke's condescending tone. Riza looked at him apologetically, but the damage was done. "No." he said coolly. "Haven't had any vans come in for quite a while now. We specialize in cars, you see."

Riza's heart fell. This was the last repair shop on their list.

The mechanic bent down to drag a heavy toolbox out from underneath the counter, hoisting it onto one shoulder with a grunt of exertion. "Can I help you with anything else?"

"No." said Riza softly – for what else was there to say?

"Glad to be of service, then. I should be getting back to work –" a flash of movement at the entrance catching his eye, the mechanic suddenly raised himself on his tiptoes, straining to look over their heads. "Grandpa, you're back!"

Riza spun around. An old and wizened man was hobbling towards them, his hands as greasy and black as his grandson's, the dim light of evening casting the deep creases of his tanned face in sharp relief. "Ah, Brandon. You wouldn't mind passing me a set of new pistons –"

His blue eyes, clouded with cataracts but still impossibly sharp, swiveled to stare as he finally discerned the presence of Riza and her unsought-for companion. "You people…We aren't in trouble with the state, by any chance?"

Before Riza could move to answer, the young mechanic set down his toolbox and crossed his arms, "No, it's nothing you need to worry about, grandpa. They were just wondering if I'd seen a black Ford Econoline in need of repairs." he regarded both Riza and Rourke with hooded eyes. "I believe that they were just about to leave."

"A black Ford Econoline?" the elderly man snapped his eyes up, scanning Riza's face suspiciously.

"Would you happen to know anything about one?" asked Rourke, tone bored and uninterested.

The old man was still staring at her. His gaze, Riza decided uncomfortably, was like a magnifying glass – scrutinizing every last crack and fissure in her dark and damaged soul.

He then jerked a blackened thumb at Rourke. "He I understand." shifting his feet, his thumb sliced through the air to rest on Hawkeye. "But you – why did you become a soldier, girl?"

Riza's spine snapped upright at the unexpected question. Her amber eyes flickered like a candle in the wind.

"Answer me, child." insisted the man, shuffling closer to her.

Rourke scowled. "Now, hold on a second –"

Riza stepped in front of Rourke. "I joined the military to…" she paused then.

Why had she pledged herself to the Amestrian military? There was a reason, she knew, but it was one which constantly darted in and out of the edges of her consciousness. The echo of an idea – too slippery and insubstantial to grasp in her cupped hands.

The question was a pebble dropped into the pool of tranquil water residing within her heart. Ripples emanated across its mirror-like surface, stirring sunken dust and hidden recollections.

She remembered now – a back clad in Amestrian blue, standing erect and proud. Her first thought had been that royal blue suited his obsidian eyes well.

Are you going to judge me for becoming a soldier as well?

No, she wasn't. She thought it admirable really. The bravery required to chase his dreams, no matter how silly or unrealistic they may be.

A future where everyone will be able to live in happiness.

Could they really make that happen? Could she?

Can I trust you?

Eyes which sparkled like a midsummer night's dream, their black depths full of silent promise: Of course you can.

Riza straightened and answered firmly: "I became a soldier because I want to protect this country." And his – their – dream.

She smiled wryly. "Sorry if I'm boring you. It's just a childish dream of mine."

The old man held her amber gaze for a moment longer. Riza stood her ground and stared right back, even as she felt like she was spreading bare every last atrocity she'd ever committed for the world to scrutinize.

The man snorted once and turned away. "They all say that. Right before they march off to war and never come back."

He limped awkwardly to the counter, cursing softly beneath his breath as he favoured his age-eroded joints.

Riza bit her lip. "Excuse me? Have you seen the vehicle we're searching for?"

His movements faltered – just for an instant.

Riza breathed in. He knows something.

She strode urgently up to him, overtaking the elderly man in mere seconds. "Could you...could you tell me what you know?"

The man looked towards the wall, resolutely avoiding her gaze. "I have nothing to say to you."

Rourke clicked his tongue in mocking disappointment. "My, this is looking more and more like an obstruction of justice. Lieutenant Hawkeye, if you'd allow me –"

Riza whirled around, sherry eyes glinting like hardened jewels. "I can handle this, General Rourke."

To his credit, Rourke simply shrugged and stepped aside.

Riza swallowed and turned back to the old mechanic. "I…Please." Riza could not recall the last time she'd felt desperate enough to plead for another's help. "This concerns someone…very important to me."

The man must have heard, or sensed, the slip of emotion in her voice. He sighed deeply. "There is a long stretch of abandoned land between Sersa and what used to be the place we called Ishval. I have a small repair shop there, have managed it for almost forty years. In the old days, business with travelling Ishvalans was good. But when the war broke out –" he chuckled mirthlessly to himself. "Business with the military was good. But now…that place is deserted. No one goes there anymore, but no matter how much my grandson insists that I close it down and move to the main shop, I just can't let it go."

He looked at Riza, eyes steady and unwavering with the stillness of long years. "Customers are rare and far in between, out in the desert. But last night, I had a very unusual guest."

Riza nodded, urging him to continue.

"He was an Ishvalan man." the old mechanic shrugged. "He brought me to where his van had broken down on the sand some meters away. Dead battery – it was child's play to jumpstart the engine. It was painted black, with tinted windows…and I'm fairly certain it was the model you are looking for."

Riza felt her heart surge with irrepressible hope. "Where did they go?" she stepped forwards, urgency radiating in every sinewy ripple of movement.

The elderly man seemed to think. Then, with almost agonizing slowness, he pointed a gnarled finger east.

Riza instinctively glanced up in that direction, only for her eyes to hit the adjacent wall and the various assortment of automobile spare parts it boasted.

"I'm sorry?" her voice faltered, uncomprehending.

The mechanic shook his head in a sagely manner. "You're not looking far enough, child. The people you're searching for were headed east, away from the town. To a place no one's ever ventured to in many years."

Riza's eyes slowly widened, a myriad of emotions – surprise, realization, horror – clouding their sherry depths.

"But that's –"

…

Just because Xandria didn't believe in surnames didn't mean that Xandria didn't believe in family.

Xandria and her twin brother Xander had long since forsaken the last name bestowed to them by their ancestors when they had lost their family in the war. It was simply a painful reminder of what had been destroyed, and what had set them on this thorn-strewn path of retribution.

But family was important. Always.

Which was why Xandria found herself wrenching open door after door, the slim Ishvalan girl wincing as she clutched at the bandaged bullet-hole in her upper arm. "Asther?"

She found the smaller girl in their bedroom – a slight bump underneath the covers of her cot. The shutters were closed, blocking out even the meager sunlight of the darkening day.

Xandria closed the door behind her softly, plunging the room into even deeper darkness. "Asther?"

The rolled up mound didn't budge. Xandria sighed and crawled over the mattress spread on the floor, touching a hand to Asther's almost painfully bone-thin shoulder. The mattress was Xandria's – even though this old place had more than enough rooms to house all of them, Asther didn't like sleeping alone.

Asther didn't respond. Xandria ran gentle fingers through her long, silken white hair.

Asther jolted as if touched by electricity. Xandria started back when the younger girl turned around, her blanket pulled firmly up to her chin.

Asther's white half-mask gleamed eerily in the shadows of their room. That mask had concealed the entire right side of her face for years, even before Xandria had come to know and love her, and the older girl honestly could no longer imagine Asther without it.

Asther's single exposed cheek shone with tears – she'd been crying.

Xandria reached out, cupping her hands around her little cousin's chin and pulling Asther into her lap. She obeyed without resistance, pressing her face into Xandria's side as she sniffled uncontrollably.

"He made you cry." stated Xandria tightly. She herself wasn't sure if she meant Evan or the Flame Alchemist when she'd said 'he'. As far as Xandria was concerned, she hated both of them – Evan in the way which she disliked an unbearably annoying younger cousin, Colonel Roy Mustang in the way which she loathed all State Alchemists.

Though personally, Xandria's quarrel wasn't specifically with the Flame Alchemist. No, her family had been wiped out by someone else. Hence, the degree of her odium wasn't as intense as Evan, or even Uncle Blake.

Frankly, she had no reason to interfere with Evan's twisted quest for justice. But why did he have to make Asther cry?

Asther sniffed miserably and shook her head.

Xandria exhaled noisily, combing calloused fingers through Asther's snow-coloured hair. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, separating and dividing strands as she swiftly braided Asther's long tresses.

"I told you not to talk to him. Roy Mustang." said Xandria sternly, but not quite unkindly.

"I'm sorry." mumbled Asther indistinctly. "I've been watching him – and them – for weeks, even before they arrived in Sersa. I've just always observed from a distance, so I was…curious, I guess."

"Curiosity killed the cat." remarked Xandria bluntly.

"You don't have to tease me about it, Big-Sister-Xandria." bemoaned Asther.

Xandria mentally kicked herself. Pep-talks were definitely not her strong suit. "What are you upset about, Asther?"

"I just…I don't understand." Asther burrowed deeper into Xandria's comfortable arms. "I don't understand why we have to do this."

"It's for the good of Ishval." breathed Xandria, braiding and unbraiding Asther's hair. The process was meditative – winding, unwinding, tangling, untangling. "And because he hurt you."

At the thought, Xandria dropped one hand to Asther's face, rubbing the smooth surface of her mask with thumb and forefinger. She paused, before slipping them underneath the mask, moving as if to take it off.

Asther grabbed Xandria's wrist. Her one visible ruby iris glittered with unshed moisture. "No." she whispered.

Xandria dropped her hand.

"I don't want to hurt people anymore." Asther murmured into Xandria's blouse.

It was safe to say that this particular stunt was far from their first. The four of them had been living with Uncle Blake for years, after all – and more than a few mysterious disappearances of military officials in East City and Central could be credited to them. It was nothing personal. They just needed to silence anyone who could turn in Xander and Xandria – both full-bloods, unlike their next of kin – to the big dogs.

Xandria fell into contemplative quiet. "Lex talionis." she intoned faintly, her voice echoing strangely in this enclosed space.

"My brother says that to me all the time." commented Asther vaguely.

"It's a law – one interestingly similar to the alchemical principle of Equivalent Exchange." explained Xandria patiently. "The law of retribution. Lex talionis. The punishment corresponds in kind and degree to the injury or crime. The old 'an eye for an eye'. "

"But," she smiled, a dark little thing. "What happens when the misdeed is too large to be paid back by a single person? And does that mean vengeance is justified?"

"I don't…understand." said Asther uncertainly.

Xandria stroked Asther's hair soothingly. "It's okay, my little Asther. You don't have to. You don't have to understand, you don't have to watch, you don't have to know. We'll handle everything."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead to the crown of Asther's head.

"After all, that's what we're here for."

The night was a living, writhing thing, its arrival heralded by a stiffening silence and the deep sighs of slumber. The lonely moaning of the wind and the mournful song of nocturnal insects.

The silence, too, was alive – wrapping invisible fingers around your throat, strangling and choking. Stifling and oppressing.

There was something mesmerizing about them all the same. A strange magic in the air after the sun had spluttered out and the night was old and ancient. Roy could feel it now, a vibration in his bones and a shiver up his spine, as he curled up next to his wall and tried to doze off.

But the goddess of sleep wasn't kind to him tonight, and he found himself wide awake and listening to the sounds of nightfall.

The wind was strong, random and violent gusts spluttering through the open window and chilling his skin through his dampened clothes. With it arrived the now-familiar smell of desert plains – if nothing else, at least Roy was certain that he was either still in, or nearby, Sersa.

The wind blew again, and this time, it carried with it tiny particles which whipped against his closed eyelids. He opened them tiredly. The floor was now littered with fine mysterious grains of unknown origin – like minute slippery beads beneath his shoes.

Sand…?

The silence here was not one of an absence of sound, but rather the absence of human activity. Outside, the distinctive snarl of a male fennec fox drifted through the night, aggressively marking its territory. The hiss and tremor of a passing rattlesnake sounded once, and faded away as it slithered underneath a rock or dune.

Roy's eyes flickered, tired but not sleepy. The strange sounds of night rang a chord somewhere deep within him, rousing to the surface buried memories of sand in his shoes and ash in his hair.

He jerked upright.

It can't be.

But the sounds, the smell and the feel of this place, it could only be –

His voice was barely a whisper as his lips parted, uttering the accursed name:

"Ishval."

1908, The Ishvalan War of Extermination

District 27

Sometimes, they made him do it in the darkest hours just before dawn.

Fire was always the most magnificent in the starless black, an endless performance of spitting sparks and crackling tongues. There was a certain sinful pleasure in playing with fire in the dark, but right now, all he felt was the guilt of sin and none of the satisfaction.

When the sun broke the horizon and the sky began to burn, the new day would reveal a catastrophe spread as far as the eye could see. The young major gazed out at this scene of destruction, horror lodged in his throat and a terrible awe in his eyes. For alchemy was an art, and even the most gory masterpieces held the most awful allure.

The men of the platoon he was stationed in were already trickling slowly into the decimated town nestled in the low valley of desert rock. This was often what happened with the smaller districts – the frontal assault would be left to their assigned State Alchemist, and any remaining survivors would be picked off one by one come the bloody glow of dawn. If there were survivors.

"Major?" he started terribly at a voice by his shoulder, filthy white cloak rustling as he whirled around, prepared to snap. He checked himself half-turn, forcing his jittery nerves to calm down at the sight of the brown-eyed corporal.

"Major –" the soldier paused uncertainly, a fresh face new from the academy. The major was good with names, but currently, his mind simply could not find the energy to drudge up the corporal's from the murky depths of memory. "If you aren't…feeling well, I could let Major Patton know that you won't be joining them today."

The major swallowed thickly and waved a hand. "No, it's fine. Where's Hugh – I mean, Captain Hughes?"

"The captain has already departed with the rest of his men. He told me to let you know that you can stay here if you want to."

The major smiled dryly, an expression which felt so foreign to his exhausted features. "I should thank him for his concern, then. I'm going in." he began making his way down alone. "Corporal, you're dismissed."

The corporal saluted and departed to regroup with the rest of his unit, eyes haunted with images of war. The major momentarily wondered if his own eyes looked like that as well, but shook the thought from his head as he descended the valley.

His men – his unit – were waiting for him at the bottom. The major casted a weary glance at their sand-encrusted and stoic faces, some of them older and more telling of experience than his, and yet silently awaiting his orders.

He decided then, that at the very least, he'd make sure these men left this place alive. In a world of shattered dreams, that was all he could do.

Baby steps.

"You've all been briefed." the major said crisply, folding his arms behind his back. "You know your orders. Split up to cover as much ground as possible before noon."

He tried not to choke on the word 'orders'.

The men saluted solemnly. "Yes sir."

As they departed, two of the younger soldiers came up to him. "Pardon us, sir. But we may have a problem."

He nodded, gesturing for them to show him.

A short distance away, the soldiers led him to a small, relatively intact Ishvalan house. Only the upper story had been burned away by his flames, and there were parts where the ceiling had fallen in completely.

The first soldier stepped forward to push at the half-broken door. It groaned once, but didn't budge. "Sir, we think the door is obstructed by rubble. And there could be someone hiding in there, so we were hoping maybe you could…"

He trailed off, but the major got the message.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a slightly crushed piece of chalk and waved the soldiers away. "I'll handle this. You two regroup with the rest."

They reluctantly saluted and marched away. In the distance, a crackle of gunfire and a brief human scream sounded, setting the major's teeth on edge.

Fingers moving quickly, he sketched a simple transmutation circle on the surface of the door and pressed a gloved hand to it.

The chalked circle crackled and fizzed to life. He stepped away as the door disintegrated, spilling pieces of collapsed ceiling and wall onto the threshold.

Swiping away the dust, the major slowly made his way over the rubble and into the house. The air was strangely cool and dank in the main foyer, his footsteps loud on the smooth tiles.

Raising one hand in wary expectation, he ascended a winding banister at the far end of the hall.

The second floor was a complete mess. The major swept guarded eyes over his surroundings, noting the familiar scorch marks decorating parts of the un-collapsed ceiling. Fire had eaten away at the wooden support beams, causing most of the roof to come crashing down.

Treading carefully over the partially destroyed walkway, he checked each room before concluding in relief that there was not a soul to be seen. As he strode back towards the staircase, his gaze snagged on the bedroom at the far end of the corridor – the door was swinging open, paint licked black and charred. The ceiling had completely collapsed onto its interior, making the room not worth risking his neck for.

But something drew him to it anyway. He stepped closer, broken floorboards creaking dangerously beneath his feet. But what of death? He was no longer afraid of it – or rather, he was more afraid of causing the death of another than of his own.

The door swung against the wall and rebounded loudly. He realized that the dark smear on the floor was in fact, blood.

Beneath the rubble of the incinerated ceiling, a lifeless hand stretched out, brown skin dusted white by fallen plaster. Like a silent plea for help.

The major breathed in once, turned around, and went back down the stairs.

He checked the first floor quickly, and was just about to leave when a muffled wail stopped him in his tracks.

He paused, ears perked and listening. The regular beat of gunfire thrummed through the walls.

Then there it was again – the wail of a toddler, coming from somewhere beneath his feet.

The major glanced around in bewilderment. He was in what seemed to be a living room, and a thick carpet covered part of the floor. He kicked it off, only to reveal a wooden trapdoor set in the stone.

Carefully, he approached it and wrenched the hidden door open. He expected some resistance, but it gave without even the creak of hinges, and he nearly sprawled backwards with the force of his own strength.

He peered in, thumb and forefinger tightly pressed together. A short flight of steps led into what seemed to be a shallow underground cellar.

The shadows shifted, and the light filtering in from aboveground revealed a hunched over, trembling shape.

It looked up, red eyes wide in a painfully young face. A boy, barely eleven or twelve, cradling a bundle of rags in his arms.

The bundle emitted the piercing cry which the major had heard earlier. The boy drew it closer to his body, as if he could protect the baby with nothing but his own flesh and bone.

The alchemist hesitantly descended the first step. The boy shrieked once and shuffled away. "Don't hurt us! Please…don't hurt my sister…"

He dissolved into racking sobs and shivers. A tragic, desperate sound which made the young major's heart constrict.

He raised his hand, like a divine entity delivering unjust judgment.

But they were just children.

Screw his orders. Screw it all.

His fingers slipped, sparking but not igniting. He moved quickly, shutting the trapdoor and replacing the carpet as neatly as he could. He wouldn't be able to dampen the sounds, nor get them help, but he'd left them alive and that had to count for something.

He emerged into the blistering sunshine and almost immediately ran into the soldier who had directed him to the house.

The soldier saluted promptly. "Sir, did you find anyone?"

The major clenched his jaw.

It had to count for something.

"Dead." he told him.

"They're all dead."