Disclaimer: Obviously I'm not Hiromu Arakawa, as I can't pretend to have an iota of the genius she possesses in order to do what she does every single chapter; that is, give everybody the thrill of their lives and then manage to freak us out with such a cliffhanger so as to give us a heart attack. Oh yeah, and the cereals mentioned below are obviously Lucky Charms and Cheerios, which I also don't own.

I swear, every single chapter ends with an awesome cliffhanger! Last time Kimbley got chomped in the throat like he deserves, and this time, the whole Mustang chasing down the killer of Maes Hughes a.k.a. Envy subplot comes full circle! ...recently I've discovered I'm the queen of run-on sentences. Why exactly are they taboo in grammar? Come on! So they take a little extra time! Geez!

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The problem with suburban towns like Dublith was that unlike Central, Scar couldn't seem to find the obligatory group of homeless vagabonds roaming the streets to blend in with. In Central and East City there were so many of these instances that most people of solid dwellings had come to grow used to them. Another advantage was that since Amestris was such a diverse country to begin with, dark skin wasn't so unexpected as to persecute against; but one advantage specific to cities was that more minorities are drawn to the inner city, so an Ishballan's rusty brown skin could blend in perfectly, and indiscreetly.

Now as Scar trudged heavily down the streets of this small, smiling-to-only-insiders town, he felt more exposed than he had been during that loud time at East City, with all the soldiers and state alchemists circling him. He felt eyes bore through him from behind, some with innocent curiosity and some with acute suspicion. Constantly he was pulling down the hood of his sweater further, reminding himself that should anyone recognize him it could all be over before he found the target.

The Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric. There was no personal grudge involved. Scar didn't really know anything about the boy other than that he was older than his height would suggest, so there was no reason for sympathy to be due him. It was quite likely that he didn't even know what happened in the Ishballan genocide…Ishballan rebellion was what he'd probably been taught it was, Scar thought angrily. Few of the civilians of Amestris were told the truth about it, and as a result, of course they would explain to their children the reasons for the "war" that they'd come up with themselves. And the military public relations stressed the soldiers involved with it to go along with any outrageous stories friends speculated, whispering only to their own families the truth, and to keep it secret.

So it wasn't really the Fullmetal's fault. Scar felt no hatred toward the boy. The Fuhrer and the commanding part of the military were responsible for the participation of the state alchemists. They had nearly achieved total genocide of the Ishballan race. With that kind of weapon growing in number every year, no matter how slowly, soon there could be another systematic search and destroy; a devastation for both sides, to be sure, but if it happened again there might be no chance his people would survive. It was his duty, therefore, to make sure the Fuhrer got the message that the use of state alchemists would not go unapprehended. With one weapon being disposed of at a time, the goal of an unarmed Amestris was not possible yet, but it was doing something, and it had to count.

In the meantime he would continue the search for the Fullmetal. He would ask any fellow homeless he saw before turning to regular pedestrians, but it was proving hard to find them. There must be a shelter or a soup kitchen nearby, he thought; in a town so small and tight-knit, those less fortunate must not be ignored so often. All he had to do was find it.

Passing by a small, rundown butcher shop, Scar glanced in through the window and narrowed his eyes. And at the moment, he ignored the small hobo of one hair peeking at him from the corner.

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"So what'll it be, sweetheart?"

Sheska jerked in her seat. "Er…" She hadn't planned out how the rest would exactly follow after she'd gotten in as she'd never expected to get in at all. And now here she was, sitting on a barstool, at the shadiest bar in town, and being asked to drown herself in the fermented pleasure liquid. Was this the standard procedure at a place like this? Show appreciation for the trade before doing business, right? She blanched; she'd forgotten to mention to Paninya that she'd never gotten drunk in public before. Beside her, Paninya wiggled in her stool, testing out to see how far it would swerve in each direction. Sheska prodded her silently, looking downward.

Paninya grinned widely at the bartender. "Oh, she doesn't feel quite up to it yet. Couldja get me a vodka on the rocks, though? Thanks."

"Sure thing."

Sheska tugged at the Aerugan's shirt when the man turned away. "Pst," she said, not meeting her eyes. "What does 'on the rocks' mean?" Was that some sort of slang for drugs that somehow made the alcohol more potent?

This time the grin given was true. "It just means I want ice in it." Sheska dropped her head slightly, disappointed.

The bartender came back and clunked a glass, which Sheska inspected thoroughly, in front of Paninya. He looked sideways at the mousy-haired girl. "You sure ya don't want anything?" She mumbled, hands fluttering in her lap. "What now?"

"Some…milk, maybe?" She said weakly. She heard a sharp gasp from Paninya and saw from the shadow on her right that she'd leaned her head into the counter and was looking sideways at her, eyes bulging no doubt. Straightening quickly, she found the bar-person's jaw was dropped, torso leaning on the counter. Clearly she had made a mistake. "Ah, no!" She stammered, searching for the means to amends. The etiquette here was a whole different system of its own. "A, um, a light beer…would be…nice," she pushed out.

Miraculously, after an awkward pause the bartender (whose name was Ethan) brightened his expression and headed to the back. "We usually don't serve a lot of the pussy stuff here—'scuse me," he said, checking his language and not a bit chagrined. Then he dropped a can of the lightest version of the lightest brand possible to find in the Devil's Nest, lightly in front of Sheska (who had to trust it was what it was).

Three and a half cans later: "Ya know that one cereal with the sugary grain part and the bits of marshmallows? S'called 'Good Omens' r'something I'm pretty sure."

Paninya rested her head on her elbow. "What about 'em?" Humoring her.

"Well I'z like this, see: I'm the cereal part, and you're the marshmallow-y goodness. Everybody likes the marshmallows because they're all sweet-looking on the outside, but the truth is that what's on the inside's gonna make yer teeth rot. Freaking rotten insides is all there is to 'em all!" Sheska smacked her fourth can on the counter for attention.

Ethan passed them by bearing a shot for a customer further down. "What jerks," he agreed. He'd been keeping tabs on their conversation; virgin drinkers were sure to be hilarious. "What about the cereal?"

"I know!" said Sheska, eyes widening. "The thing is, the marshmallows were only added into the cereal when they decided that just sugary cereal wasn't appealing enough. The cereal was there from the beginning! But of course nobody appreciates the cereal. Lord no!" She shaped her mouth into a length fit for choir. "The cereal is only there to support the chosen marshmallows. Most people don't even eat the cereal. It's the same principal as picking out the MnM's from the trail mix."

"So the marshmallows are the chosen ones," indulged Paninya.

"Yeah. Even though the cereal is trying its best to get eaten, its taste will never measure up to the marshmallows. That's the pecking order, ya know. And it's not fair, dammit!" She took a deep swig. "What's so special about the marshmallows, anyway? The cereal is sweet too! Anyway, cereal isn't even meant to be sweet! Sugar in cereal screws with the milk! Sweet cereal is for losers! Are you a loser?! I'm not! Jolly-o's are just fine for me! I don't need marshmallows! Do you hear me?! I don't! I don't!" Suddenly, just when Paninya was about to quiet her down, she lowered her voice in volume and pitch and said in a challenging tone: "Which are you, Panya—cereal or marshmallow?"

"Me? Why I'm the milk."

"Hey," came a new voice. Paninya looked to her right and saw a stocky man in his late twenties sitting on the stool next to her. He had dark brown hair slicked toward the back of his head, and was wearing a kimono-style shirt acting as a vest over a clinging black T-shirt. He leaned toward her, not in a flirting gesture, but almost as if to get a better smell at her, if that made sense. When he opened his mouth again, this time she could observe briefly a unique dental structure; two eerily over-developed incisor teeth. "Who are you? I've never seen you around here." His face was suspicious, but not possible to classify as kind or unkind. It was clear of emotion.

She looped her arm around Sheska's shoulders and gave him an amiable smile. "Oh well, you know, just travelers on the road of life. Guess you could call us tourists, too, if you'd like."

"Get real," he said with a returning smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There are no tourists that come to Dublith; the tourists of Amestris come from here."

"Paninya? What are you doing he—Sheska?!"

The three on the stools swiveled their heads around. Paninya gasped. "Al!" To the bull of the man holding him over his shoulder she said, "Hey now, just what're you doing?" She hopped off of her stool, the mechanical legs creaking with tension.

A short stocky woman with a swirling burgundy tattoo on her arm stepped to block her. Her smile was narrow, and Paninya saw that even without gloss of any kind the lips were somehow shining and full. "This would be business of the manager, and none of yours." She took another challenging step. "Why're you asking; you know this guy?"

"But what are you doing here, Sheska?" Al persisted, still in a state of disbelief. "I'd definitely expect Paninya to be somewhere like this, but you--!" ("And just what's that supposed to mean?! Why I oughta--!")

"It's a bit hard to explain," said Sheska, suddenly sitting straighter and looking more like a grown-up than she did usually. "It has to do with the job I told you about."

"How can you be sober?" said Ethan the bartender, also disbelieving. "You were just rambling like this was the first drink in your life!" She blushed, shrugging. She'd never gotten drunk in public, but partly because of the many vodkas in the privacy of her home and partly because of genetics, she had built up a virtual immunity to alcohol's effects, if that was possible. Paninya, too, shot a look toward her, but she kept her gaze fixed on Al.

The tattooed woman exchanged glances with the giant. "Loa, they could cause trouble if they tell anybody about this outside."

He grunted and shifted Al on his shoulder. "We'll have to get them down there too. Greed might want to interrogate them." Dorochett, still on his stool one away from Sheska, fingered his sword and looked pointedly at her. She started.

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The boy Rose had called Miguel hadn't made a sound so far, and it was making Winry edgy. Kids, as a rule, should always be loud and obnoxious and untamable. The only possible explanation for this heretical silence was that he was scared—which still didn't make much sense to her; what could be scary about the most beautiful creations ever to be beheld gracing you with eternal presence on your own body? Well then, she thought resolutely, it's up to me I guess.

Miguel was sitting quietly as she'd always seen him, hands in his lap, crutches to one side. She came up and chattered about the model of leg he was getting, thinking about how much this silence was somehow offending her; it challenged the way she spent her childhood and time even now. The more she thought about it and the way he had shown no respect to her all this time, the more she could settle for any noise at all. Even a scream, she thought maliciously, tapping the ankle of the new leg.

"Now you might feel a little bit of discomfort at the moment when the nerves come to contact with the automail, but don't worry, it's just like a pinch," she lied sweetly. This'll fix him good, she thought, and eagerly started off the countdown. "Feel free to join in if it'll take your mind off the nervousness," she added gleefully, and held the leg wobbily so it looked as if she didn't completely know what she was doing. "…three…two—"

She jammed the leg into the socket with precision but fierce brutality, the same she used on Ed. She grit her teeth thinking of all the cracks he had last come up with to discourage her, and now of the similar leering gaze she imagined on this child of willful silence. Then she closed her eyes, thinking only now of how he had nothing to do with her frustration toward the blond menace, and how she was beginning to regret confusing it with an innocent Liorite refugee who had every right to any choice he might find in all the horror he had already endured; and she listened for the humiliated scream of pain she didn't know, now thoroughly kicking herself.

Of course, Miguel never lost his head for a second. He had seen what was coming and taken it like a man, quite aware of the blond's disbelief of him and determined to show no deference to expectations. So he too had gritted his teeth, but with a cloth he had stuffed in his mouth beforehand at the suggestion of Garfiel between them, and had succeeded beautifully in not making a peep for all the stabbing pain received. And as he watched her open her eyes in even more incredulity than before he felt a rising satisfaction despite the throbbing pangs at the joining area in his leg. And quietly as always, he stood on his new leg, not even making the usual sounds of awe of first time fitted automail-bearers, and hobbled with his young head held high out of the room.

Winry stared after him. Was this what they called…utter defeat?

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"Whoa, cool! He really is empty on the inside!" The Boss of the chimeras of Devil's Nest was as solid of a man as any Sheska had seen—even more so than Major Armstrong. And solid really was the best word for him: his chest looked like bunches of rocks melded together, his arms were so muscled they seemed to bulge without coming off as geometric, and though his shoes made light clacking sounds where he stepped, his gait suggested a density unrivaled. "Nice to meetcha, kid!" he said, slapping Al's head back onto his body offhandedly. "My name is Greed. Let's be friends."

Al took notice right away of the mark on the hand he used to point to himself. "That tattoo—you're a homunculus!"

"Hm? You know about these? You're really in the know, huh?" The next five minutes were spent on Greed's convincing the three of them of the validity of his claim, and at one point Paninya had to twist away from some splattering blood as Loa demonstrated it. After all scientific mumbo-jumbo was said and clear to Al (who decided nonetheless to dub Greed as a top-class 'bad guy', supported by the homunculus' monologue on himself and his goals) he said finally with his marked hand held out palm up, "I've told you my secret, now tell me yours. Tell me what they did with your soul."

"I'd tell him if I were you," prodded Martel, standing beside Dorochett. Although her immobilizing Al had come in handy to end the battle, Greed had thought it was useless now that there was a chance he would be more cooperative. "You don't want to be taken apart and treated like a lab animal, do you?"

"Cheap shot," muttered Paninya, who couldn't see how gaining new and fantastic abilities could compare to losing limbs and having them replaced with cold numb ones. But Sheska gave a tolerant smile to her and a sympathetic glance to Martel.

Al looked away from Greed's probing gaze. "I can't. I don't remember anything about when my soul was transmuted. Someone else performed the transmutation. I don't know anything, honest."

"Then all we gotta do is ask the guy who did the transmutation."

"Well, that would be my big brother. But he—he's gone." For a moment there was total shocked silence. Then the homunculus turned and began a frenzied conference of manners with his underlings. Sheska was surprised that it was Dorochett who reminded them of the delicacy of a young man's feelings, but was alarmed that Al sat next to her calmly, appearing to prefer they thought his brother was dead as he apparently wasn't about to do anything to tell them otherwise.

She had felt from the beginning that she was completely out of her element here, but then she hardly ever was in it when it came to social situations. In any case, it was up to her to set the record straight before things got too complicated. "Um, excuse me? Could you hold it a minute?" she started (as Greed finished saying "Sorry about your loss…" with such a straight face she knew it was only so they would be on good terms for business). "Al's brother isn't dead. He's gone Eastern Headquarters and should be back soon, tomorrow at the latest, actually."

"Sheska!" said Al reproachfully. "I wanted to keep Brother safe," he said in an undertone.

"Try telling the truth, kiddo," said Paninya, getting more annoyed by the second.

"Yeah, it saves a lot of trouble," said Greed, still smiling genially but peering in further at Al's eye holes critically. "So we'll just wait for your brother to get back and ask him what he knows. Unless you happen to know something helpful anyway, now that we're talking honestly here…"

Al paused thoughtfully and blew a capitulating sigh. "Actually, the truth is rather disappointing, Greed-san. I didn't want to say it before because I don't want to help a bad guy who might be on their side, but really it wouldn't help you anyway."

Greed smirked. "I guess I forgot to mention that I don't hang around those guys anymore; we've been through for a long time. And it's not like I'm out to destroy the world—more like to own it." Sheska could tell that Al was unimpressed and didn't believe that the fuzzy-jacketed man could really accomplish this, and that was the only reason he was starting to cooperate.

"The truth is," Al continued, not liking to be interrupted, "that this body of mine isn't immortal. Not even close."

"How d'you figure? Seems durable enough to me."

"That's not the real factor here. A human soul can't be affixed to an object; it'd be like trying to put a human's brain into a dog's body, or do a blood transfusion for a human with rat's blood. The body used can't take the pressure of the two opposing elements forever, and eventually they will reject eachother."

"So that means…" said Sheska, deducing quickly the gravity of the circumstances, and hearing from the other side of Al Paninya's hushed, "Oh, Al!"

"My soul will be rejected by this armor some day. It could happen tomorrow, or a hundred years from now—even I don't know when that day will come, but however you look at it, it will invariably happen." Al looked up at Greed, who was now standing with a brooding expression on his smooth face, and said forcefully, "That's why I think you're foolish to pursue immortality by this route. Please—let us go!"

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Furer President King Bradley was having a wonderful time on the long, slowly but steadily chugging train ride to Dublith, wearing a ridiculous multi-colored shirt and laughing uproariously at the slightest opening in conversation with Major Alex Louise Armstrong, who rambled with such button-bursting fervor that the nearby soldiers wondered if he recognized the Furer for the rank he was.

Wrath was reaching his boiling point. Not only was he not allowed to kill all these imbeciles, he was forced to sit with the (literally) biggest imbecile of all under the pretext that he was under guard. There were some days when he thought that he couldn't take it anymore and he should get started on the debilitating rampage on all mankind he had always felt he was entitled to from the day he woke up. If only a certain Father had chosen the human sacrifices sooner, he wouldn't have to wait! He would begin by wringing the neck of every woman who had at any point dyed her hair an unnatural color and known to be loudly proud of it.

"And the Armstrong family would be honored if the Furer would join us on our annual mountain-climbing escapade to the mountains on the western border; we may even be fortunate enough to employ the boar-spearing technique that has been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations…"

Ancient prancing, chattering aristocrat families, of course, were next on the list.