Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.

Also, the biggest shout out ever to Unlucky Alis, who should just give up on her degree and resign herself to becoming a full-fledged editor at this rate. Seriously, she spend two months listening to me complain about how chapter 29 is cursed.


CHAPTER TWENTY NINE—The Truth Will Set You Free…

(…or hang you with those same manacles.)


PRELIMINARY INCIDENT REPORT:
SOUTH WESTERN PASSAGE COMMAND (SOUTH-WESTERN REGION)

September 22, 1915

The following report offers a summation of the September 19 attack on the South Western Passage Command by the Royal Aerugonian Forces, as well as its effects on the Command's men and structures, and the proposed actions to be taken as a result of the attack.

1.1 SUMMARY OF THE INVESTIGATION

The investigation took place between September 19 and September 21, 1915. It was headed by Major George Fairchild; the major was aided by Warrant Office Vato Falman.

As of the writing of this report, no official investigation has taken place to determine how enemy forces were able to successfully stage an attack against the Amestrian forces stationed at the Command.

Methods of investigation include:

· several sweeps of the path taken by Amestrian troops during their retreat to the town of Pontecuti;

· interviews with surviving sentries who were on duty in the hours before the attack;

· interviews with other key officers who were given command positions during the attack;

· interviews with surviving doctors and medics over the course of the attack's aftermath;

· head counts of all surviving units to compare against known estimations of the total number of soldiers stationed at the South Western Passage Command;

· and a reregistation of all surviving soldiers in order to regather names and information that would otherwise be lost to command staff.

2.1 RESULTS

2.2 Soldiers at South Western Passage Command

Interviews with surviving officers suggest heavy casualties were taken in the attempt to defend the Command. Estimates currently suggest a loss of approximately 6,000 to 8,000 lives before the order to evacuate was issued. The exact number of soldiers injured during the retreat to Pontecuti is impossible to determine.

Currently, 4,867 soldiers, officers, and support staff are accounted for. During sweeps of the area south of the town of Pontecuti, 59 soldiers were recovered.

In total, an estimated 19,200 soldiers, officers, and support staff are missing, deceased, or unaccounted for.

2.3 Structures at South Western Passage Command

The exact state of the structurs at the Command will be determined, if necessary, once the command is recovered by Amestrian forces. Heavy structural damage is suspected.

3.1 PROPOSED ACTION

3.2 Soldiers at South Western Passage Command

It is suggested all of the approximated 19,200 soldiers unaccounted for be considered MISSING IN ACTION until further investigation can determine their status.

3.3 Structures at South Western Passage Command

To be determined once the Command has been recovered.

— Filed by Major G Fairchild, signed by Brigadier General R Mustang. Written September 22, 1915.


Edward twisted his mouth, swallowed a yawn, and blinked blearily at the bright, golden sunlight as it dripped through a single window and, thick as honey, smeared itself across the cluttered walls of the headman's office. He'd been up until fuck-knows o'clock, after all, tossing predictions and plans and opportunities for counterattacks back and forth with Mustang like some sick parody of a ball game. Now, fatigue draped over his mind like a gossamer sheet, blanketing his thoughts and turning them into vague, hazy things. He could make them out, just barely, but…

Mustang was seated before the grizzled headman, legs crossed and looking as though he were prepared to turn the man's office into his own. But, standing where he was behind the general's right shoulder, Edward could see the tension cording the muscles of his neck and settling heavily on the bars decorating his epaulets. Hawkeye's back was straight as she jotted quick notes onto the thick sheaf of paper in her hands, all with a professionalism that was cool even by her standards.

Behind them all, Breda failed in hiding his own yawn. A quick glance over his left shoulder told Edward that, no matter how bored the rotund man pretended to look, his eyes flittered across the civilians present, analysing and evaluating, missing nothing.

Marini himself was nestled behind a worn oak desk, hands resting comfortably over his sizeable stomach, listening to the Amestrian general speak with a focused frown and sharp eyes. The town's solitary banker, who Marini insisted acted as one of the town's council members, slumped against the wall behind him, wary.

Mustang offered the headman a few words, and Hawkeye looked up from her notes to add some comment or another.

Marini nodded his understanding, and his face folded as his frown deepened. "I want t' say, before this goes any farther, General, that I understand your situation. I can only imagine how difficult this is t' both you and your soldiers. However, I can't ask much more of the folks here in how they support you all. I hope you appreciate just how precarious our own situation is."

The air thickened for just a moment as Mustang looked the man over. Then he shifted in his chair, and his shoulders hunched just slightly, and he offered Marini an almost-rueful smile. "I thank you for your understanding, Mr Marini, and I do, of course, sympathize with what I can only imagine is a… decidedly trying… situation for you and your neighbours as well."

The banker, aging and rail-thin, coughed lightly into his hand.

Mustang ignored him. "Without a doubt, my men would be in a much worse position than we are now. For that, you have my most sincere gratitude, and I promise you; when we're able to resecure this area, all the hard work and sacrifice you've made to help these soldiers will be repaid in full."

"Think nothing of it, General," Marini said, but the thin smile didn't reach his eyes, and Edward thought he looked rather unimpressed with Mustang's buttering up. "I'm sure any good Amestrian person would think t' do the same in our situation. Now—" the man leaned forward on his elbows, fixed the soldiers with a too-calm, too-even gaze "—are we t' be exchanging pleasantries all day, or is there something you're lookin' t' share?"

Mustang's dark eyes slid over his shoulder, met his own gaze for a moment, and Edward understood—he'd been the one to notice it, after all.

His epaulets felt too heavy all of a sudden, but he squared his shoulders anyway, and his voice cut through the honey-thick air. "We keep calling them an army, but the way they're fighting is just… weird, even after you consider their chimaeras. There's no trenches, no laying out barbed wire, no fighting in the fields—"

Breda, his eyes half-closed while he listened, suddenly inhaled sharply, and he bustled forward from his spot by the door. His fingers wrapped around Hawkeye's pen without warning; he half pushed Edward out of the way to get a better view of the map strewn across Marini's cluttered desk. The locations of the Amestrian outposts were scribbled across its worn surface. The pen flashed as he crossed several names off.

"We keep talking about them like they're an opposing army," he muttered, and the words rushed from his lips like water from a floodgate. "But they're not acting in any traditional army formation I've seen. Just look at it—they didn't take any ground at all until they took over the Passage Command. They should have been gaining ground, but they kept attacking and falling back instead."

The banker blinked. "Like guerilla fighters."

Edward nodded. He and Mustang had figured that much out last night. Although, he thought dourly as his golden eyes scanned the ink-splattered map, the why still eluded—

"Would there be a reason for them t' do such a thing?" Marini asked.

Rivers glared up at him from the headman's desk. Nera curled around the bottom of the Sibillini hills, nestled at the edge of the district to their west. If they'd wanted to blow an even bigger hole in Amestris' defences, they should've attacked Deep Southern, but that lonely outpost still—

His fingers curled around his chin. Hang on.

This entire area was an agricultural hotspot, fertile and dotted with fields and livestock pastures, thick with the sweet smell of corn and heavy stench of sheep shit. Wheat from the area was shipped all across the country, wasn't it? To bakeries and mills, a staple for meals and regular cargo on the rail lines. Then the lime from Hakuro's district—chalk for alchemists and woodworkers and farmers…

Marini said something, but he paid it no mind. With the power those damned chimaeras could wield, ordering them to take out a surveillance team made no sense—too much of a risk, and it revealed that they had something the Amestrians didn't—and then the attack on Rivers, with the distraction set against the Passage Command to stop them from sending help—but they hadn't done so when they'd gone after Plains—and the three enemy soldiers lurking so close to Rivers, silent until the end as to just what they were searching for…

"—but Intelligence confirmed the size of their armies," Hawkeye muttered, "and armies are notably slow and hard to feed if you keep moving them in an attempt at guerilla warfare. It doesn't make any sense—"

They'd already taken out Blacklung—and considering the man had been trying to mess with their transmutations until his last breath, they had to know he'd been at Rivers when they attacked—

—in the distance, Breda muttered a question that distinctly ended with his name, and Mustang snapped at the other man to shut up for a minute—

—those enemy soldiers had been searching for him. He was sure of it—

Maybe their midnight scramble to reach Plains hadn't been nearly as secretive as they'd first thought, and the days before the attack had only been there so the chimaera-alchemists could regain some of the strength they'd lost after Rivers. And the attack itself, it was something that would kill most alchemists even if they could fend it off—

"They're making sure they win, no matter what," he muttered, voice distant. His mind raced through a library of information, snatching stained folders and months-old reports with pale fingers, throwing it all before his eyes in a mess of words and footnotes and hastily scrawled script. "This entire region feeds the rest of the country, or produces raw goods for—for everything. Wool and leathers and chalks. If they take this area, it could ruin the rest of Amestris. The military'll try to get this region back no matter what, and the Aerugonians have to know that, so they…"

His feet moved of their own accord, pushing closer to desk and the map it contained. Breda's bold marks winked wetly up at him, crosses where proud Amestrian outposts had been turned into mass graves… Rivers, where Blacklung had gleaned the first clues of the Aerugonians' strength. Plains, where he'd damn near lost his own life…

The muffled sound of metal on wood cut through the room as he tapped a finger on the scratched out Nera. "Nera Outpost got destroyed at the same time as Rivers, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Breda muttered, voice riddled with confusion, "but what does that have to do—"

Icy fingers tightened around his stomach. He was right. He was right. "And General Aichi's alchemists were both there, weren't they?"

"Chief, you're not making any—"

"Correct, Fullmetal. Both the Baresark and Silver Bullet Alchemists were there at the time."

—it all made so much sense

His eyes snapped up, met the blank, confused stares of the others. How—how the hell could they not understand? "Tests! They—the surveillance teams and all the time they spent sneaking around for the first few months—they were testing the chimaeras to see how well they'd handle a fight. They'd keep falling back to evaluate how—how well their tests went, and then send them out again."

Hawkeye was watching him with her brow knit together. Breda blinked. Marini looked pensive, but there was no spark of comprehension in his pale eyes, either.

"Just think about it." The words tumbled from his mouth, too quickly but not quickly enough, and he stumbled over them, swept away by the flood sweeping through his mind. "If the chimaeras were designed for this war, to be able to battle State Alchemists and overpower them, there's really no way Aerugo could've known exactly how effective they'd be, or if they'd be effective at all. They're untested weapons, so they—they can't be absolutely sure they could take the region over—or that they'd be able keep it if they did.

"So that's what they did for the first few months. The surveillance teams from Plains and from Hakuro's district weren't attacked because they'd found something they weren't supposed to. They were hunted down so the Aerugonians could see how well the chimaeras could control their alchemy in a real-world situation. They were testing them, and now…"

He shook his head and the words splattered themselves against his skull, dripped down, picked up speed again.

"The tests must've been successful. Just look at the places they've attacked: Rivers had Blacklung, Nera had those other two alchemists, I was at Plains, and we were both supposed to be at the Passage Command until you changed the roster—"

"They've been targeting State Alchemists, then." Hawkeye's gaze was sharp enough to cut stone, and it grazed Edward's ashen face and red-rimmed eyes before falling on the general's damaged arm.

It was Mustang who nodded, his mouth set and eyes tight, and his voice was both low and too loud when he finally spoke. "To complicate matters, we need to recall just how fertile Aerugo is. If they don't need this land to feed their people, then they don't have to be concerned about ruining swaths of land in order to win battles. Even if Amestris does win the war, it would take a massive effort to make the land useable again, and it would undoubtedly take years."

The room was silent. The air was still; the thick sunlight filtering in through the windows hardened, and the warmth it offered shattered on the rough-hewn floors.

"If they've no regard for the land," Marini said after a moment, "then there's nothing stopping them from ripping up folks' livelihood even more than they have. No one'll want t' live here if there's nothing t' live for, and there's no promising that they'll just leave the people be, either." A pause. A steadying breath. Hard eyes turned to the general. "So what're we t' do?"

Mustang straightened in his seat, and shifted seamlessly into the imposing general he was supposed to be. Hard, dark eyes met the banker's, then the headman's, squarely. Edward freed a heavy sigh, scrubbed at his face, waited for Mustang to stop toying with his prey. After all, he hadn't stayed up until such an unreasonable hour with the bastard for nothing.

"What needs to be done is simple. We determine how to contact General Hakuro and regional headquarters to inform him of this development, and ensure the safety of the civilians in this area—including your people."

"Deep Southern might still be operational," Breda cut in suddenly, and his eyes turned to his young superior officer. "It'd be tricky, Chief, but maybe you could get down there with a team and radio Hakuro from there. They could send troops and supplies. Maybe we could even get the Passage Command back before the Aerugonians get too entrenched."

"There's too much of a risk," Mustang said. "And given Fullmetal's skills—"

The banker cut him off. "But any risk is better than a sure bet when it comes t' human lives, am I right?"

Edward stared the spindly man down for a breath, then turned to Breda. "I wouldn't be able to take horses—they're too noticeable—so it'd take at least five days to get down there and just as long to get back. So if I make it, if the outpost is still standing, and if they can get a signal through, we'd still run out of food before any of Hakuro's backup could even get here."

"If we do nothing, though," Marini countered, "there won't be much t' defend."

The General's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened into a frown. But before he could speak, Hawkeye's own voice rang in the room.

"Perhaps it would be best to set this aside as a contingency," she offered, and added a few words to the notepad in her hand. "If we truly have no other option and if Major Elric is needed here, I am more than able to—"

"Don't even think it, Lieutenant." The words left Edward's mouth before he remembered thinking them, and they cracked through the still air like a whip. Even Mustang raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're not going on that death march. If they catch you, and find out who you are and how much you've been involved in all this—"

Hawkeye met his molten glare with her own cool bronze gaze. "It's just a contingency, sir. After all, it's quite clear that we have to find a way to move forward from here."

"And just what are we t' do, then?" The banker snapped out. "You lot made it pretty clear we're not t' sit here picking our noses."

"Fullmetal's been right so far in regards to their work with the chimaeras. Assuming he's correct again, we can determine exactly what the Aerugonians are going to do next. Furthermore..." Mustang's dark eyes flickered in Edward's direction. "We have already have a plan which—with some modifications—is entirely viable."

"Fullmetal and I are the only remaining alchemists in this early, so we can safely assume they intend on attacking Pontecuti again—and soon." The general eased forward in his chair. His finger traced a road north until he found a quaint town with a rail line cutting through it. "Their plan, once they eliminate us, would no doubt be to march north and take control of the rail lines. From that point on, it would be child's play to cripple the movement of supplies and personnel."

"So…" Mustang squared his shoulders beneath the gold bars proclaiming his rank; if Edward didn't know any better, he'd swear the older alchemist was steadying himself. "Here's what's going to happen: those to the north need to understand the seriousness of their situation and that town needs to be cleared out.

"The military should have a train stationed there to transport the injured back from the frontlines, so Fullmetal, you're going to take Caddock and Hawkeye's platoons, evacuate the townspeople, and head east to Millondo. The regional headquarters is there, as are Hakuro and his troops, so the civilians should be safe. Choose a cavalry platoon as well to give yourself a full company, and if you have the opportunity, destroy the rail lines behind you."

Edward frowned at the change, but nodded anyway. As much as it was a shit idea for them to be separated when they were both worn out the way they were, with the chimaeras still roaming about and an attack on the bloody horizon, there really was no other option…

"Evacuate the north?" Marini breathed heavily and aged about twenty years before Edward's eyes. "T' do such a thing… I don't s'pose you'll be suggesting we're t' evacuate Pontecuti next?"

A sharp nod. "Precisely. Considering what we now know, we have to assume the Aerugonians are preparing for another attack, so everyone here has to leave, and quickly. Unfortunately, with the number of people we have, the train won't be an option."

The banker's jaw went slack. Marini's mouth tightened, and his eyes flickered down toward the map.

"But, General…" Breda said, voice half-strangled, "that's got to be at least 400 kilometers."

"At least the ground's fairly flat." There was a hint of… something in Mustang's voice; he clearly knew just how weak the consolation was. "The mechanics will be able to retrofit transports so they can carry as many people and provisions as possible, and we'll be able to use the warhorses and the civilians' livestock to help carry goods. I'll have Airabonita try to connect with Hakuro's command as we go—with any luck, they'll be able to send out more trucks to pick us up before we get even half way there."

"If you want my company there fast," Edward told him, "I'll need, say, sixty horses, and I can get us there in two days."

It'd be hard, and the men would be exhausted, but he was sure he could get the distance covered. It was the detail Mustang had assigned himself—the herculean task of successfully guiding more than five thousand people, civilians and the elderly and the infirmed along them, across the vast plains of south-western Amestris—that tightened his ribcage and twisted his stomach. They'd need food and water, shelter and medical supplies, a way to carry it all and a way to ensure the injured could keep up…

The man nodded, and Edward went on. "We'll leave at first light of the day after next, then. That way, you'll have more men to help prepare for the evacuation. Plus, if I leave Caddock in charge of getting my company ready, it'll give me time to transmute some water tanks onto a couple of the transports. I can set up a warning system to the south, too, to give you all some extra warning in case those bastards come back sooner than expected."

The gaze Mustang fixed him with was piercing—searching, Edward knew, for any indication that he might not be able to pull off the list of transmutations he'd tossed about. But then the older alchemist sighed.

"Time to get to work, then. Mr Marini, I'm sure you have several matters you'd like to discuss regarding this, and I make myself at your disposal. Breda, gather what's left of the senior staff so we can fill them in. Lieutenant, have the mechanics begin work on the transports; Fullmetal can tell you exactly what he needs in order to transmute those water tanks. Fullmetal, you know what to do."

The dismissal was clear. Both lieutenants touched their fingers to their foreheads in a crisp salute. Edward nodded to Marini before turning on his heel and following them out the office's worn oak door. Ahead of him, Hawkeye slowed half a pace, and he didn't need her expectant gaze to know why.

"For the transports," he told her as they both made their way toward the front of the building, "make sure two of them have their canvas rooves and the steel frames pulled off. And I'll need about eight cord of wood and a couple of containers of hoof oil."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Uh…Yeah." The warning system he'd promised Mustang—it'd have to be straight forward, something their sentries could pick out from a distance… The idea struck him, and a half-dozen transmutations dashed across his mind to support it. It'd be dangerous, but what did he care if the bastards got hurt trying to march across Amestrian soil? "I'll need, uh… Fuck it. I need all this, okay?"

His trusty notebook lost a page as soon as it was pulled from a pocket. His pen scratched across the torn sheet, and unflappable Hawkeye quirked an eyebrow as she scanned it. "Butter. Some ten cenz pieces. Salt. Canned mea—Horse urine? What precisely are you transmuting this time, sir?"

"Nitroglycerin and a few elements to colour the flame when they go up." Even as he spoke, his eyes drifted away from the woman. He could see into the communications room from where they stood, and the map—laden with Hawkeye's precise hand and Marini's own additions—that hung on the otherwise bare wall. "Leave it all by the south gate and make sure no one comes around while I'm transmuting. I'm not adding anything to stabilize it, and I don't want to fuck something up and blow up a couple buildings because someone's distracted me."

Hawkeye said something, but he'd already turned away, made his way into the room. His eyes fixed on the map, flew over far-reaching stone pines and broad-leafed oaks, dashed over limestone riverbeds, scaled crumbling cliff faces. Her footfalls echoed off of the whitewashed walls he'd left far behind.

The nitroglycerin—unstable as it was—would explode if an enemy soldier struck it, sending flames and dirt and detritus high into the air and warning their sentries of the impending attack. But it'd only work if those southern rats actually kicked the things, so… How would they attack?

If he were the one attacking the village, surrounded as it was with empty fields and protected by a garrison of thousands of soldiers and two State Alchemists, what would he do? When would he even do so? How would he have his troops approach? A rush attack hadn't worked the first time, but it had been costly for the Amestrian forces hiding there, so would they have the ability to fend off a similar attack? Was it worth the risk?

So many variables, so many unknowns. But this village had to fall and the Amestrian alchemists within it had to be taken down as quickly as possible. He had to protect his most valuable assets—the chimaeras with the powers to keep this war waging in their favour…

He would split up his forces, have his long range units serve as a distraction just powerful enough to make the civilians panic and leave military personnel scrambling. The cavalry teams could rush forward from the south and the west to test the village's defenses, to uncover just how many soldiers they had on the wall and what kind of firepower they had; the infantry would use the confusion to get close on all edges, trap the Amestrians in their false sanctuary. And the chimaeras… they could—could empty out the hillock the village stood on, most likely, to grow their monstrous stone cage and fill it with alchemical energy until its inner edges dripped like glass and anything living was turned to ash.

Hawkeye was back for a moment, and a hand touched his shoulder as her voice echoed in the distance. He muttered something—he couldn't quite recall what—and waved her away.

The traps meant to catch the Amestrians unawares would have to be taken back down, and that would take some time, but then cavalry teams could make quick work of the beaten roads leading north. Foot teams could follow the Tevere's western verdant banks, though they would need the cover of night to avoid wary Amestrian eyes. And thanks to the detailed maps the Amestrians had left behind in their frenetic retreat, he would know the whereabouts of each animal trail, riverbed, and clearing. More soldiers could follow those, perhaps with the chimaeras, with their superior eyesight and smell, to act as guides…

That was it, then, wasn't it? And to counter all that…

He'd head out soon as the things were made and place them along the road, the creek beds cutting through the hills to their west, the banks of the Tevere. Three sets of them, each with different elements to mark their distance from the town, to alert the sentries of where and how far. To give them just enough time to scramble out of the town before they were trapped like animals and lead to slaughter.

He circled a dozen points on the map, added which colours the explosives flared, ripped the thing off the wall. His well-worn boots beat a quick tempo on the floors as he rushed from the room, tromped out of the building, squinted through the midafternoon sunlight. His mind was still spinning, smearing a quagmire of half-formed thoughts across the front of his skull faster than he could clear through it.

The map would have to go to Mustang so the general could let Fairchild and the sentries know just what to watch out for; Hawkeye, surely, would have gathered everything he'd needed by now, and if he hurried, he could get out there with a team and plant the explosives before night fully enveloped the land; the mechanics would soon be finished stripping the canvas and steel coverings from the two transports. The senior staff… would their meeting with Mustang have finished by now? Would they know of the plan, of their roles in it? Would they see it for what it was—little more than an act of desperation to keep as many hearts beating as possible—or would they simply think of it as another tactical retreat? How would they even react? Half of them were older than the general they followed; would they obey their orders or…?

He bit off a groan, scrubbed at his face as though he could wipe away the fatigue smeared across his mind and clear the maelstrom brewing beneath. Breathed deep and blew it out from between chapped lips.

No point in getting worked up about shit you can't control, Elric. Focus. What needs to be done now?

That was an easy answer, at least. The nitroglycerin had to be transmuted, the mines had to be created, and his slap-dash warning system had to be put in place.

Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get to work.

He shook his head—talking to himself was a sure sign of insanity, wasn't it?—and made his way down the main road, away from the town's square and the bustle of blue-clad bodies. At the perimeter wall, he found Hawkeye, her shoulders thrown back and chin held high, exchanging a few words with the much more at-ease Caddock. A few buckets and a single tin can rested at their feet.

Two salutes as he neared, one crisper than the other. He waved them aside and his eyes fixed on his blonde lieutenant. "The transports?"

She didn't miss a beat. "They're complete, and have been moved down to the river. Once you created the water tanks, I thought it best to have them filled as soon as possible, considering our timeline. Furthermore," she added, "I've spoken to the sentries on duty. They're to keep clear of the area while you're working; they will ensure you're not disturbed."

"Good." He turned to Caddock. "Lieutenant Hawkeye had you prepare a company."

"All good to go, Major Kid." The lanky second lieutenant tried and failed to keep his face straight when Edward fixed him with a glare. "I've got one of my squads standing by, too, for when you're done with whatever you're doing. We'll be ready to head out when you are."

What would he ever do without these two at his side?

"Guess I'd better get to work, then."


Random tid-bits of information:

1) Chalk—Just in case you were curious, chalk is used in woodworking to help demarcate adjoining surfaces and is used in agriculture to balance the pH of soil.

2) The Silver Bullet Alchemist—Otherwise known as Jack Crowley, he's actually a pseudo-canon character. He makes an appearance in one of the FMA console games.

3) Nitroglycerin—Yes, horse piss and butter (in theory, and if you can use alchemy) should provide most of the base materials for nitroglycerin. If you're a chemistry genius, please feel free to correct me.

Author's Note: So, this chapter went through… eight versions? Nine? Too fuckin' many, in any case. For those of you who are curious, I'll probably be posting up some of the failed attempts on my Facebook page. Search xcrimsonxblackxbloodx if you want to find 'em.