Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter 2 - Fight Club

Ed's left hand came up to his shoulder, massaging the twinges out of it carefully. He had to be careful, or he would risk damaging his nerves. Three years without proper maintenance meant his automail was in rough shape. Gouges and dents that had been repaired by a clearly inexpert hand were evident on every inch of the metal, and the modifications he'd made out of necessity were taking up some of the space needed for proper movement. Even if he hadn't grown three inches in those years, putting extra stress on the joints, he would have been in bad shape, living the way he was.

"Hey, Elric! You up for another fight tonight? We got a Canuk wants to fight the FullMetal!"

One more fight, he could do that. If he won, he'd have enough money for the month's rent, and he wouldn't have to fight for a couple more weeks. Maybe he'd even make enough money to move on to the next town. Even if he didn't leave, that was still a couple weeks of doing more good than bad, when he could patch up the other fighters, for a small fee, rather than need his own patching up. And it would give him a chance to try and fix up his automail again. He needed to make sure it didn't go bad on him, or he'd be in a lot of trouble.

He nodded to the man in charge of the underground fight club he was in. He would take this one fight. And all the Canuks he'd fought so far had been big, brutish men, easy enough for him to run around and take down.

The large stadium like room was full to the brim with people, liquor and blood flowing in equal amounts, and bringing equal pleasure to the occupants. Bouncers stood at their posts, evenly spaced throughout the room, keeping the fighting in the ring, and the drinking out. If a brawl broke out in the crowd, it was quickly dealt with, and the participants were made to either stop it, or join the queue for one of the next fights.

Ed crossed the room to enter the back hallway, where doctors and fighters could rest and prepare themselves. He was uniquely suited for this lifestyle, thanks to the knowledge he'd gained as an Alchemist and a soldier. His knowledge of combat made him an effective fighter, and his Alchemy skills gave him a working knowledge of anatomy, patching up wounds, and mixing medicines.

It was a tough life. In many ways, he found it was harder than that last year of trying to get Al's body back had been. He was alone, in this world. He couldn't go back to Risembool, he couldn't get in contact with any of Mustang's team for help or support. He didn't have his brother with him, pushing him to survive and keep going on. He'd spent his first months in this world using his Alchemy to help him survive, before he'd noticed the ability fading. This world, it seemed, didn't support Alchemy. It was a heavy blow to his spirit. He'd defined himself by his Alchemy, by his goals, and by his integrity. Now he didn't have the Alchemy anymore. He didn't have the goals, because he'd achieved them. He'd gotten Al his body back. He had nothing left but himself, then. And he could ill afford to hold himself and his integrity sacred. He needed to find a way to live. He got in fights with street thugs, and took their money from them, used his fading Alchemy to transmute some cash in the image of what he stole. Occasionally, when he had no other choice, no cash and nowhere to go for the night, he would sell himself.

He despised himself for it.

When he started to get recognized, for whatever reason, he moved on to a new city. It made it easier for him if he just didn't get attached to any one place. He could just up and leave whenever he wanted to. If he felt watched, uncomfortable, or just plain restless. He explored a good fraction of Europe before crossing the Atlantic, first to Canada, then into the United States.

Along the way, he stumbled into an organized fighting ring. A hidden club where fighters could make bets and earn winnings from fights, and spectators could place bets as well. He'd started making a name for himself in these rings, in a way he could accept, even if he wasn't particularly proud of it. He was good at fighting, and he wasn't half bad at patching up injuries, either. He made use of both sets of skills, earning himself the name FullMetal in the fighting ring, and Patches in the the back rooms.

But he was starting to get restless again now. Ed clapped his hands together, feeling the extremely faint crackle that was all that was left of his Alchemy. It couldn't even do something as simple as change ice to water anymore. He slumped into the rickety chair that stood over his meager belongings, a small backpack and jacket, and clapped again, desperate for the feel of home. Alphonse, Alchemy, Risembool. Even Mustang's team and the bastard himself.

Ed closed his eyes, oblivious to the building tension in the air, focusing on remembering whatever Alchemy he could keep in his mind. It was an exercise he performed regularly, and every time he did he could almost feel it happening. Every time, he opened his eyes, hoping to see and hear the familiar blue crackle.

When he opened his eyes this time, the Alchemical glow that snatched him, chair and all, into the void was so surprising he didn't have a chance to escape it, even if he'd wanted to.