The Red Harvest explores the darker sides of humanity that I've studied over the years. I felt compelled to write this story now, as the world seems to be in chaos.

If you're sensitive to dark themes or religious topics, this story may not be for you; it contains disturbing content. Those who have experienced abuse might find it triggering due to the intense elements in the narrative. I drew inspiration from an episode of Supernatural (Season 1, Episode 11), and the song "Unnatural Selection" by Muse will accompany the next few chapters.

I'll be adding tags on AO3, and the story will transition from Mature to Explicit content. The original version will be on AO3, possibly with a toned-down version, but that's still undecided. Just remember: "Once something is read, it can't be unseen."

October 2024 UPDATE: I know it's been two years since I last updated this story, and I apologize for the long delay—it wasn't intentional. These past two years have been incredibly challenging on a personal level, marked by a great deal of loss and pain. I've learned to channel my grief into this story, believing that the darkness it brings will enhance its overall depth and cruel beauty. To expedite the process, I'll be running my rough chapters through AI, as I currently lack a beta reader to proofread my work. Additionally, editing can be time-consuming, and I simply don't have the luxury of time. I've also revisited and refined the previous chapters (like this one) to ensure a consistent tone throughout the story.


FOUR

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Meetings with King Samael were frequent around the time of The Red Harvest. As Vizier and confidant to the King, Seth had grown accustomed to such encounters in the grandeur of the drawing room. But being summoned to the King's bedchamber—that was reserved for special occasions, the kind that often had little to do with counsel. Seth wasn't entirely sure which kind of meeting this would be, though he suspected the King might be in one of his darker moods. After all, behind the facade of a living god was a man—a man who could be temperamental, indulgent, and unrelenting.

Two guards flanked the gilded doors to the King's chambers, their armor gleaming and oppressive in the dim torchlight. Their presence was mostly ceremonial, an exercise in intimidation for those who didn't know any better.

All for show, Seth thought, a conceited smile flickering across his lips. The true danger here is me.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said with a playful glint in his brassy eyes, a subtle mockery of decorum.

"Good morning, Vizier," one replied curtly. The other added, "His Majesty awaits."

They stepped aside in unison, the heavy doors parting with a low groan.

Seth cast one more glance at the guards as he passed. Their stoic faces revealed nothing, but he couldn't help but wonder how much they'd overheard over the years. Do they listen? he mused. Do they know? Humiliating strong men always had its allure for Seth, and there would be time enough to test his theories later.

As the doors closed behind him, he stepped into the dimly lit opulence of the King's private quarters.

"It was about time you showed up."

The King's voice cut through the thick air, sharp as a blade, but Seth had expected the chilly welcome. Samael lay sprawled on a velvet sofa near the window, one hand draped dramatically across his chest, his gold-ringed fingers tapping rhythmically against his breastbone. His piercing golden eyes narrowed as they locked onto Seth.

Seth offered a low bow, the movement exaggerated to the point of near mockery. "Forgive me, Sire," he said, the words slipping from his lips with the practiced ease of insincerity. He straightened, flashing a smile designed to thaw the King's frost.

Samael's gaze lingered, unamused, and for a moment Seth wondered if the King might punish him for his tardiness. He could feel the tension coil in the air, an invisible string between them, ready to snap. Then, slowly, Samael's lips curled into something that resembled a smile, but it lacked warmth. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey.

"You're forgiven," Samael drawled, turning his attention to the lavish breakfast spread that lay untouched on the table. The plates of exotic fruits, roasted meats, and honeyed pastries remained as pristine as when they had been placed.

"You should eat, Sire," Seth suggested, his voice softening, cautious.

Samael waved a dismissive hand. "Food is a trifle," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "There are more pressing matters to attend to."

Seth suppressed a sigh. The King was in one of those moods.

"The tributes, Sire," Seth began, stepping carefully now. "We're still working to locate the missing ones. I fear the rebels may have intercepted them."

The room fell silent. The King's eyes darkened, and his fingers stilled their tapping. The weight of the moment hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Seth knew what was coming, but there was no way to avoid it.

Suddenly, with a violent roar, King Samael leapt to his feet, knocking over the ornate breakfast table. Plates shattered against the floor, fruit rolled aimlessly across the marble, and a goblet of wine splattered crimson against the walls like fresh blood. Seth remained seated, knowing better than to flinch. The King's rage was a spectacle of its own—a tempest of emotion that could tear apart a room but was often as brief as it was brutal.

"WHERE ARE MY TRIBUTES?" Samael's voice reverberated through the chamber, his golden eyes wild with fury. His chest heaved, and the air seemed to pulse with a dangerous energy, the kind of energy that signaled the onset of alchemical fury.

Seth shifted slightly in his chair, the fine velvet suddenly feeling too warm. He could see the King was on the brink of losing control—true control. If Samael unleashed his alchemy in this state, the entire room could be reduced to dust. Seth's life hung on the King's restraint, and while he trusted Samael's attachment to him, the King was unpredictable at best.

"My Liege," Seth began slowly, his voice low and soothing, "we are tracking the rebels as we speak. I have all my resources focused on retrieving the tributes."

Samael's rage didn't abate immediately. He paced, kicking a piece of shattered porcelain across the floor, his hands twitching as though itching to tear something apart with his bare hands. Finally, he turned back to Seth, eyes still gleaming with barely contained madness.

"You should have anticipated this!" the King hissed. "If they cannot be found, the entire Red Harvest is jeopardized. Do you understand what that means?"

Seth lowered his eyes. "Yes, Sire. But there is still time. May I suggest a contingency?" He hesitated, knowing he was treading dangerous ground. "Perhaps... the 1902 solution?"

"No!"

The word exploded from King Samael with a force that rattled the air. His usually composed face twisted—part rage, part unease, and a flicker of something Seth had never expected: fear. The King rarely showed fear, and it unsettled Seth more than any of his outbursts ever had.

"The 1902 solution is not an option!" Samael's voice cracked with anger, his eyes wild as they locked onto Seth's. He took a step forward, looming, and Seth instinctively stiffened, knowing he had struck a dangerous chord.

"You don't understand what you're even suggesting." Samael's tone was thick with fury, as if the very mention of that solution had dredged up horrors he long wished buried. "You know well the cost was unthinkable. You remember what it did to the kingdom. What it did to me?"

"My subjects were sacrificed for my benefit. Not some strangers but my people," Samael continued, his voice tightening. "After the first solution, our people feared me—not with the reverence they show now, but with a terror so deep, it almost fractured the kingdom beyond repair. It almost did the same in 1902. And we're still cleaning up that mess."

Samael's gaze bore into Seth, his golden eyes ablaze with something more than just anger. "I proclaimed them both, yes. I called for it, and the power it gave me was immense. But it nearly destroyed us, Seth. The Red Harvest of 1724 and 1902 left devastation in its wake. Uprisings, chaos, madness in the streets. I retained power, yes. But at a cost so great, the kingdom hasn't fully recovered, even now. You were too young to grasp it two hundred years ago, and it seems you still haven't understood it even after seventeen years. So don't you dare suggest it again."

Seth lowered his eyes, feeling the weight of his own mistake. The King was right. The stories of the 1724 solution were not just tales of power—they were stories of loss, of a kingdom nearly brought to its knees, all for the sake of a dark, desperate play for survival. To suggest it now, so soon after the last time it had been enacted, was reckless. Foolish, even.

"I understand, Sire," Seth said quietly, his voice measured, careful. "I did not mean to reopen such wounds."

Samael laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that echoed off the chamber walls. "Wounds? The kingdom bled out, Seth. The 1902 solution wasn't just a tactic—it was an atrocity. I fed, yes, but that feeding led to a nasty revolt, one we're still dealing with up to this day. It is not something to be repeated lightly. Not unless we have no other option."

Seth swallowed hard, feeling the coldness of the King's words seep into his bones. He had misjudged. But he still had to act—still had to offer something to steady the situation.

"Sire, I realize the 1902 solution is not viable," Seth began, his voice measured and careful. His words slid through the tension in the room like a knife through thick cloth. "But we do still have time. The Red Harvest approaches, but it is not yet upon us."

Samael's gaze flickered, doubt creeping into his eyes even as the rage lingered beneath the surface. The King's fury never truly vanished; it only simmered, waiting for another reason to erupt. "Go on."

Seth knelt lower, lowering his gaze, a show of submission that was as much calculated as it was sincere. "The tributes—there's still an opportunity to procure fresh ones. The Priest of Benévolo is in charge of the tribute operation, is he not? His people are the ones who select the couples, the ones who prepare them for your benefit. If anyone can produce new tributes in time, it's him."

Samael remained silent, his expression unreadable as his eyes narrowed slightly. Seth knew the storm was far from over, but he sensed the King might be willing to hear him out. He pressed on, the urgency of the situation framing each word.

"If I may be so bold, Sire," Seth continued, his voice soft but with an edge of determination, "allow me to travel to Aurego and speak with the Priest in person. The tributes are his responsibility, and I can ensure he finds suitable replacements."

The King's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze still locked on Seth, unblinking. "And you believe the Priest will find replacements in time?"

Seth nodded slowly. "He will know what's at stake. And if not, I will remind him." A gleam sparked in Seth's eyes—ruthless, unyielding. "I will make him deliver what we need, or he will suffer the consequences."

Samael said nothing for a long, torturous moment. His expression was an enigma, a blend of calculation and barely restrained fury, the air between them thick with unspoken threats. Seth could sense the storm still brewing within the King, but he also knew Samael's mind was turning, weighing his options. The 1902 solution was not an option—not yet. But there was still a way forward, one that didn't involve burning the kingdom to the ground in a mass sacrifice.

After what felt like an eternity, Samael exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, though the tension still hummed in his posture. "Very well," he said at last, his voice still cold, though the edge of raw anger had dulled. "You will go to the Priest. You will bring me fresh tributes, and you will not rest until it is done."

Seth bowed deeply, his head nearly brushing the floor. "It will be done, Sire."

"Make sure of it," Samael added, his voice dark with warning.

Seth kept his head low, a small, almost imperceptible smile of triumph creeping across his lips. "I will see to it, my King. Fresh tributes will be found, and the rogue tributes will also be dealt with."

"See that you do." Samael's voice softened slightly, though the menace still lingered, like a shadow refusing to leave. "And Seth—if the Priest of Benévolo fails you... remind him what happens to those who fail me."

Seth rose slowly, daring to meet the King's gaze for the briefest of moments before bowing again. "I will remind him, Sire. I promise you that."

Samael's lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile, though there was a weariness in his eyes. "Good."

Before Seth could react, the King's hand reached down and curled into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him up with a sharp, almost violent tug. Seth stumbled to his feet, their bodies now inches apart, the King's breath hot against his skin. Samael's hand traced a slow, deliberate line across Seth's jaw, his long fingers cold and possessive. It was a touch meant to remind Seth of his place, of the fragile line he walked.

"Tell me, Vizier," Samael whispered, his voice now laced with dark amusement, his eyes gleaming with something primal. "How would you punish a rogue tribute?"

Seth's pulse quickened, heat spreading through him. His mind flashed with visions of twisted retribution, of brutal authority exercised with unwavering precision. He knew exactly what his King wanted to hear. His lips parted, the words coming naturally, almost instinctively. "With a firm hand, Sire. And with punishment so severe that even in death, their souls would tremble at the memory of your wrath."

Samael's grin widened, a low hum escaping his throat. His eyes glinted with approval, his grip tightening as if to remind Seth who truly held the power in their exchange. "A most excellent answer."

Without warning, the King pulled Seth into a fierce, possessive kiss, the force of it driving all air from Seth's lungs. The grip on his tunic tightened, and Seth could feel the cold dominance of Samael's power wash over him, as if the kiss itself was a reminder of the King's total control.

Seth melted into the touch, his mind buzzing with a mix of exhilaration and submission. The lines between power and servitude blurred, a dance he knew all too well. Whatever happened with the tributes, he would make it right. He had to. For both their sakes.

Samael pulled away, his eyes lingering on Seth's face, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Don't fail me, Seth. I would hate to lose such an obedient servant."

Seth's breath hitched slightly, his pulse still racing from the intensity of the moment. He bowed his head once more. "I won't fail you, Sire. Not ever."

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"The Brigadier General is waiting for you. You may proceed," said the Private.

Alphonse smiled in return, but the Private's gaze lingered on his face a moment too long. Her wide caramel-colored eyes studied him intently, and Alphonse shifted slightly, feeling the weight of her stare. He wasn't sure why she seemed so fixated on him, but he forced himself to smile politely. His cheeks warmed just a touch, embarrassment creeping in despite his best efforts to ignore the awkwardness.

He didn't say anything, though—it wasn't in his nature to make a fuss over something that might just be in his head. Instead, he kept his expression calm, nodding along as if nothing were amiss, hoping the moment would pass quickly.

Golden blonde hair, fair skin, and a perky little nose... now that Alphonse thought about it, the new Private was rather cute. Still, he couldn't shake the discomfort from the way her gaze lingered. Maybe she was just being polite, or maybe there was something else on her mind, but either way, Alphonse wasn't about to press the issue.

The Private turned and escorted him to the door, her professional demeanor returning. Alphonse followed, falling into step behind her. As they walked, his thoughts wandered, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He wondered if Mustang had already made a pass at her—probably not, he reasoned, if Edward's stories about Mustang and Major Hawkeye being a thing had any weight.

Pushing the thought aside, Alphonse stepped into the Brigadier General's office, the awkward moment with the Private fading from his mind as he refocused on the matter at hand.

When he stepped into the office, the familiar scent of parchment and ink greeted him, as well as the sight of Mustang seated behind his desk, looking as composed as ever.

"Good morning, Alphonse," Mustang greeted him with a nod, gesturing to the chair across from him.

"Good morning, sir," Alphonse replied as he took a seat. He glanced briefly at the empty chair beside him and frowned. He had expected to see Jean Havoc there, but the room was otherwise empty. His discomfort must have shown, because Mustang chuckled softly, clearly reading his expression.

"Havoc's train got delayed," Mustang explained, his voice casual. "There was an earthquake in the southern region. It's disrupted the train lines from South City all the way to East City."

Alphonse blinked, taken aback. Earthquake? He hadn't heard anything about that. He had only arrived in Central the previous night and hadn't caught any news. "Were there any casualties?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Thankfully, no. Just some power outages," Mustang replied, shaking his head. "The epicenter was in southeast Aurego."

Aurego. The name immediately sent a chill through Alphonse. "Aurego?" he repeated, frowning. He could feel the tension in his shoulders rise. That was where Edward and Winry were supposed to be—on their honeymoon.

Mustang must have sensed his anxiety. "It's just a coincidence," he said gently, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Coincidence or not, Alphonse couldn't shake the sense of dread that had settled over him since he heard the word "Aurego." Ever since the Promised Day, the Elric name had become widely known in Amestris. Edward, in particular, was practically a national hero. It was part of the reason his brother had chosen to take Winry's surname, Rockbell, when they got married. Ed wanted anonymity—a chance to start fresh without the constant eyes of the military or the public on him. But anonymity was fragile, especially when your last name used to be Elric.

Before Alphonse could dwell on it further, the intercom crackled. "Brigadier General, Mister Jean Havoc has just arrived. Should I send him in?"

Mustang raised a hand to Alphonse, signaling for him to wait. "Let him in, Private Daniels," he replied, pressing the TALK button.

Alphonse shifted in his chair, still uneasy. His worry for Edward and Winry was gnawing at him, but before he could speak, Mustang's playful grin returned.

"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" Mustang remarked out of the blue, referring to Private Daniels.

Alphonse's face heated instantly, a blush creeping up his neck. He stammered, trying to dismiss the comment with a laugh, but he could feel his embarrassment rising. Why did Mustang always have to do this? He wasn't used to being the one teased like this—usually, Edward was the target.

The door swung open, and Havoc sauntered in, cigarette already dangling from his lips. He took one look at Alphonse's flushed face and grinned. "Well, look at that," he said with mock surprise. "What kinda dirty things has the General been telling you, kid?"

Alphonse groaned inwardly. He hadn't even been in the office five minutes, and already they were piling on the jokes. "Can we just start the meeting, please?" he muttered, hoping to steer the conversation in a more serious direction. His worry over Edward and Winry made it hard to keep up with their teasing.

Mustang smirked but nodded, turning his attention back to the matter at hand. "All right," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Alphonse is worried. Edward and Winry haven't called home since their wedding, and this morning, when Alphonse contacted their hotel, he was told that they checked out three days ago. No one's heard from them since."

Havoc's grin disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression. "That doesn't sound good," he said, frowning. "Did you try the travel agency?"

Alphonse shook his head. "I don't have their contact information."

Havoc reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. After rummaging through it for a moment, he handed Mustang a small business card. "Here. This is the agency I used to book their trip."

"Just so you know," Havoc added, leaning back in his chair, "I made the reservation under Rockbell, not Elric. Ed told me before the wedding he was planning to take Winry's last name, just to stay under the radar. You know how things got after the Promised Day—everyone involved became kind of a big deal. Ed didn't want that kind of attention, especially on their honeymoon."

Mustang took the card and dialed the number. Alphonse's heart pounded as the phone rang. His mind raced with possibilities—most of them unpleasant. What if something had gone terribly wrong? What if someone had recognized Edward despite the name change? The Elric name had drawn attention, especially from neighboring countries that had taken a special interest after learning about the events of the Promised Day. Aurego, in particular, had been watching Amestris more closely, given its close political and economic ties. Alphonse had momentarily forgotten about Ed's decision to adopt the Rockbell name, a move meant to avoid exactly this kind of attention. But now, he couldn't help but worry—was even that precaution enough to keep them safe in a place like Aurego?

The call connected, and a bubbly voice chirped on the other end of the line. "Heavenly Destinations Travel, this is Samantha speaking! How can I help you today?"

"Hello, my name is Charles," Mustang said smoothly, slipping into a casual tone. "I've been trying to reach a cousin of mine who booked his honeymoon through your agency, but I haven't had any luck. I was hoping you could help me."

"Oh, of course! I'll do my best!" Samantha replied, her voice bright and upbeat. "What's your cousin's name?"

"Edward Rockbell," Mustang said after a brief whisper from Havoc.

"Hold on one moment while I check the ledger!" Samantha said, her voice as perky as ever.

Alphonse bit his lip, anxiety gnawing at him. The Elric name had become too famous, too recognizable. Ed had changed it to Rockbell to avoid exactly this kind of attention, but had it worked? Or had someone already figured out who they were?

Samantha's voice returned, still cheerful but with an unwelcome revelation. "It looks like the reservation for Edward Rockbell has been canceled!"

"Canceled?" Mustang echoed, his brows knitting together. "The hotel canceled it?"

"Yes, sir!" Samantha confirmed, her voice still bubbling with energy. "It's actually pretty common for The Red Harvest to cancel reservations on behalf of their guests. They do that a lot!"

Mustang frowned, clearly unsettled. "I've never heard of a hotel making cancellations instead of the guests themselves."

"Yep, it's just how they operate!" Samantha replied, sounding as though she was talking about something entirely routine. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Mustang sighed. "No, thank you. I'll try contacting the hotel again."

"Okie-dokie! Good luck!" Samantha chirped before hanging up.

Alphonse's chest felt tight. Canceled? That didn't sit right with him, especially with the eerie feeling that had been building in his gut since Resembool. His mind kept circling back to the Elric name—what if someone had figured out who Edward really was?

"Did you two manage to follow that?" Mustang asked, looking up from the phone.

"Yeah…" Havoc said, though he looked just as uneasy.

Alphonse nodded, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. His worry was starting to solidify into something more concrete—something darker. He'd been right to be concerned.

"They seemed legit when I booked," Havoc muttered, trying to make sense of it. "I mean, me and the missus stayed there, and we made it back in one piece."

Alphonse turned toward Havoc. "Our last name has become pretty well-known since the Promised Day," he said, voice thoughtful but tense. "That's part of the reason why Edward changed it to Rockbell. He wanted to keep a low profile, but it's possible someone at the hotel or the travel agency figured out who he was."

Havoc shook his head. "I never mentioned the name Elric when I made the reservation," he said. "Hell, they don't even know I was part of the military."

Mustang leaned forward, his expression hard. "What exactly did you say when you made the reservation?"

Havoc hesitated, clearly sifting through his memories. Finally, his eyes widened, and he groaned, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "I… uh… I might've joked about the Chief being a blushing virgin."

Alphonse's heart sank. "You what?"

Havoc grimaced. "It was just a joke! But the travel agent seemed weirdly interested in that detail. Right after I said it, he mentioned something about a special villa reserved for special couples." He crossed his arms, looking deeply uncomfortable. "I didn't think much of it at the time."

Mustang's eyes darkened with frustration. "Dammit, Jean. You shouldn't be making stupid jokes about something like that."

Havoc raised his hands defensively. "I didn't know it would get them in trouble!" He paused, his brow furrowing as he thought of something.

"Think about it—it's like those old stories. A virgin princess gets kidnapped by a dragon, taken to its lair, and then a knight has to rescue her before things go south."

There was a brief, heavy pause in the room. The mention of princesses and dragons was so out of place with the current tension that it left everyone momentarily stunned. The sheer outrageousness of the analogy was almost laughable. Almost. But something about it made Alphonse's mind churn, forcing him to think beyond the immediate.

Alphonse found himself nodding slowly. "He's right. It's not as ridiculous as it sounds." He took a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "I've been reading a lot of old lore lately—ever since I started studying in Xing. Virgins, or just people who are considered 'pure,' tend to have the worst luck in those kinds of stories."

Mustang stared at him, his expression incredulous. "Are you seriously telling me that this… this nonsense could be real?"

"It's not nonsense," Alphonse replied, his voice quiet but firm. He didn't want to say it out loud—not everything he'd learned, at least. He didn't want to admit that he'd stumbled across some deeply unsettling stories during his time in Xing. Nefarious tales that Mei had cautiously shared with him, stories she had told with a quiet grimness in her voice. They weren't just legends—many of them were rooted in actual events.

Human trafficking, disguised as folklore. Stories of young women, and especially children, being taken away under the guise of dark rituals or fantastical beasts, only to meet a fate far worse than any fairy tale ending. Mei had told him that these stories were used to keep people, particularly women and children, obedient. A warning that "loose" women or unruly children would often meet a bad ending. The tales served a dual purpose—entertainment for some, but a dark reminder for others.

Alphonse didn't say all of that. He couldn't. Not yet. But the idea of Ed and Winry being targeted, not by some mythical creature, but by something darker—something real—gripped him. "Think about it," he said, his voice growing more insistent. "The reservation was canceled, and no one's heard from them. Virgins in folklore, especially in dark stories, are often seen as sacrifices. What if Ed and Winry were targeted because of that?"

Mustang leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "You're saying someone in Aurego might have...?"

"I don't know," Alphonse admitted, his thoughts racing. "But what if this is something similar to what Mei told me about? Stories that hide the truth about what's really going on. Human trafficking, kidnappings… using folklore as a cover."

Havoc shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The idea of a simple joke turning into something so grim clearly unsettled him. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he muttered.

Mustang's gaze hardened. "Whether you meant it or not, we have to act. And we need to act fast." He picked up the phone again, his fingers moving with urgency. "Breda, it's Mustang. I have an urgent favor to ask."

Alphonse sat back, his stomach churning. The weight of the situation pressed down on him. If they didn't find Edward and Winry soon, it might be more than just a matter of missed phone calls and canceled reservations. It could be something far worse.

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It was a fine morning. The coolness of the night still lingered in the air, making it the perfect occasion for a stroll. Noelle relished these quiet moments—so rare, so fleeting. She rarely ventured out anymore; the balmy heat of summer was unforgiving to her aging, aching joints, though she had long accepted it as a consequence of time's relentless march.

Time, however, was a concept that had played out quite differently for Noelle. Four hundred years had passed since the day she'd made her choice—an immortality that brought youth, beauty, and vigor, but also carried with it a weight, one that grew heavier with each passing century. She had never once regretted her decision. Not until the summer of 1902, when everything changed.

The King had broken his promise. He had done it again—repeated the massacre that stained the summer of 1724 with blood and death. The pain of betrayal had cut deeper than time itself, and Noelle had found herself questioning the choices she once held dear.

"Your ladyship, wait up!" Luke's voice called from behind her, his breath heavy as he jogged toward her.

Noelle slowed her pace, allowing the young man to catch up. His golden eyes, usually full of life, now looked unusually tense as he jogged up to her side, slightly out of breath.

"Why did you leave without saying a word?" Luke asked, a mix of worry and gentle reproach in his tone.

Scolding me like I'm some reckless child, Noelle thought with a brief flicker of irritation. But she swallowed it, knowing his overprotectiveness wasn't unwarranted. Luke had always been like this—zealous, watchful. Perhaps he wouldn't have been so concerned, so intense, had the events of 1902 never taken place.

The memory of that cursed summer lingered like a dark shadow in her mind, and Noelle found herself pushing the past aside before it could consume her. Instead, she offered her hand to Luke.

"Walk with me," she said softly.

Luke took her hand with his usual grace, lifting it briefly to his lips. "Always my pleasure, your ladyship," he said with a smile, his tone light and familiar. His attitude, the way he tried to cheer her, reminded her so much of Alba—not in his physical appearance anymore, but in his spirit, in the way he carried himself. Alba had always been the light in the room, and Luke—her twin—was no different.

Noelle's heart clenched. Alba had been like the daughter Noelle could never have. Luke, too, was like the son she had longed for but had been unable to bring into the world. Her choice for immortality had come at a steep price. The blood that had granted her centuries of life had also made her barren. It was one of her deepest sorrows, a constant, silent ache that no amount of time could soothe. She had been a mother in every way except the one that mattered.

Noelle averted her gaze, masking the sudden pain that surged in her chest. Seeing Luke sometimes felt like staring into the past—into a life she might have had, into the child she could never carry.

Luke noticed her distraction, as always. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked, his voice soft, concerned, almost like a child worried about a parent.

Noelle opened her mouth to respond, but at that very moment, she felt it—a subtle tremor beneath her feet. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but she knew exactly what it meant. The birds in the trees took flight, their frantic wings cutting through the stillness of the morning.

She froze. The earth had moved.

Luke hadn't felt it—she was sure of that. His expression remained calm, unaware of the silent shift beneath them. But he, like her, knew what it signified. He would recognize the signs, the consequences, even if he hadn't sensed the tremor itself.

"What is it?" Luke asked, his smile faltering, replaced with unease. He tried to laugh it off, but there was a nervous edge to it. "What do I need to look for?"

Noelle hesitated. She knew what the tremors meant. They both did. But saying it out loud would only unravel Luke. He hid his trauma well—he was good at that. But she had seen his mask slip more than once, especially when anything reminded him of that fateful summer of 1902. Especially when the passage was mentioned.

Don't say it, she thought. Don't mention the passage.

But Luke's eyes were fixed on her, sharp with concern. He wasn't going to let it go.

Noelle sighed softly, knowing she couldn't lie to him. Not after everything. "I think…" She took a breath, the words heavy in her throat. "I think the passage has been used."

Luke went still. His face didn't change at first, but Noelle saw it—the flicker of fear, the tightening of his posture. His golden eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he were somewhere else, somewhere dark.

"Noelle…" he said, his voice quiet and strained. "Tell me it's not like before."

Noelle stepped closer to him, gently taking his hands in hers. "This is not the same," she said firmly, holding his gaze. "We're ready this time. You're not alone, Luke. You don't have to face this like before."

He searched her face, his expression torn between disbelief and a desperate need to be reassured. Noelle squeezed his hands, grounding him, silently reminding him that they had survived the worst before. But she knew the past weighed heavily on him. The massacre of 1902, the blood, the destruction. Losing Alba—his twin, the other half of his soul—had broken something deep inside him. The passage opening again would stir all those old ghosts.

Luke swallowed, then nodded. "Alright," he said, his voice quieter than usual, but steady. "What do you need me to do?"

Noelle relaxed, if only slightly. "Go into the city. Find out what you can. Discreetly. We need to know who opened it and why." She paused, her gaze softening as she added, "Do it for me. For Alba."

At the mention of his twin's name, Luke's jaw clenched, but he nodded again, more firmly this time. "I won't fail you," he promised, his voice resolute, though the shadow of fear still lingered.

"I know you won't," Noelle whispered, giving his hands one final squeeze before releasing him. "Go now."

Luke hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on hers as if seeking one last reassurance. Then, with a deep breath, he turned and made his way down the garden path, his shoulders squared but his steps heavier than before.

Noelle watched him go, her heart heavy with both pride and sorrow. Alba had been like the daughter she never had, and Luke, the son she had longed for but could never bear. They had filled a void in her life that immortality had left hollow. Now, with Alba gone and Luke burdened by a past that haunted him, Noelle felt the weight of those long centuries pressing down on her.

As Luke disappeared from view, Noelle's gaze shifted toward the horizon. The tremors were just the beginning. The passage opening again meant something far worse was coming. And this time, she feared that neither she nor Luke would escape the ghosts of their past.

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While waiting for Heyman's Breda to dig up some dirt on Heavenly Destinations Travel, Alphonse spent his days in Central Library or the park, meditating. It helped calm his nerves, but it didn't shake the lingering dread gnawing at him. Edward and Winry had been missing for too long, and every second that passed felt like a lifetime.

At the moment, Alphonse sat in a conference room. He and Havoc were side by side, and Mustang sat at the head of the table. All of them waited for the team's top infiltrator, Breda, to arrive.

No one spoke while they waited, the tension in the room thick enough to silence even the usual lighthearted chatter that Havoc might've indulged in.

"Mister Breda is here," Private Daniels said through the intercom.

"Let him in," Mustang replied curtly.

Alphonse noticed the stiffness in Mustang's posture. He always had a certain calm confidence, but now there was a palpable edge to his demeanor. Despite everything, it comforted Alphonse to know that Mustang cared deeply for Edward. He had always treated them both as more than subordinates—as if they were part of his extended family.

The door creaked open, and Breda walked in, carrying a small suitcase.

"Did you bring good news with you?" Havoc asked, his voice slightly garbled from the chaw of tobacco in his mouth. Earlier, Private Daniels had mentioned Mustang's new rule about forbidding smoking in the conference room, much to Havoc's disappointment.

Breda placed the suitcase on Mustang's desk and glanced at the three men. "Depends on how you define good," he said grimly, flipping the case open.

Alphonse leaned forward, his heart pounding. "Were you able to locate my brother?" he asked, the question coming out sharper than he intended. But Breda's expression darkened immediately, and Alphonse knew the answer before he even spoke.

"No," Breda admitted. "But I did find something… troubling."

Mustang leaned forward, his voice turning hard. "What did you find?"

Breda pulled out a folder filled with photographs of ledgers. "I went back as far as ten years, focusing on the honeymoon packages from The Red Harvest. As you can see"—he spread the photographs across the table—"all the entries for this time of year were canceled."

Alphonse's eyes scanned the photographs. Each cancellation shared the same month as Edward's and Winry's. The same story, year after year.

"It only happens during this time of the year," Havoc muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice. "Every year?"

Mustang frowned as he studied one of the photographs. "Except this one from 1902. There's no entry for that period."

"Correct," Breda said, his tone grim. "And I'll explain why in a moment. But first, look at this." He pointed at the contact information field in one of the ledgers. Alphonse's heart sank when he saw Granny Pinako's telephone number next to Edward's name.

"I called the numbers listed for each canceled entry. Some numbers were dead ends, but I managed to talk with almost everyone I could track down."

"Get to the point," Havoc interrupted impatiently, earning glares from both Mustang and Breda. Alphonse remained silent, trying to prepare himself for whatever was coming.

Breda took a deep breath. "The point is, all of the contacts confirmed that their loved ones booked the Red Harvest Special Honeymoon Package for one reason—they wanted their first time to be special. Every single one of them has been missing ever since."

The words hit the room like a punch to the gut.

Alphonse felt his stomach churn. "No way…" he muttered, nausea creeping up his throat.

Alphonse could barely process the conversation unfolding around him. He couldn't believe it—his hunch about virgins and sacrifice, the absurd notion that had popped into his head, had actually been right. The weight of that realization settled uncomfortably in his chest. He stared at the photographs Breda had spread across the table, the same names, the same patterns, year after year. Couples who had booked their first-time honeymoons, only to vanish.

He felt a shiver run down his spine. This was real.

"This should've made the news," Havoc said, his voice strained. "Why hasn't it?"

"Because of jurisdiction," Mustang replied, scowling. "Quoting Hughes: 'International laws are quite problematic.'"

"Lots of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit," Breda added. He hesitated, then continued, "There's something else I need to mention before we move forward." He pulled out an old newspaper clipping from his folder, placing it on the table. Alphonse glanced at the date—1902. The headline mentioned an earthquake near Benévolo, a small town in Aurego. According to the article, the quake was felt all the way in East City.

"That can't be a coincidence," Havoc said, frowning deeply.

"We have to avoid speculation," Mustang warned. "There's no hard evidence linking that earthquake to these disappearances."

But Alphonse couldn't help but feel a connection forming between the events of the past and what was happening now. Havoc clearly shared the same unease.

"There's definitely something fishy about this travel agency," Breda said. "I'm almost certain we're dealing with human trafficking. But we won't know for sure until we raid the place."

Breda's comment about human trafficking echoed in the room, the words hanging in the air like a bad stench no one could shake off. The implication was too disturbing to fully grasp. Virgins being lured into this twisted web, sold off or worse... it left a sickening taste in everyone's mouth.

A heavy, oppressive silence followed Breda's statement. No one dared to speak, the weight of what they were dealing with sinking in. Alphonse's stomach twisted as the full horror of it came together in his mind. He couldn't imagine what Winry and Edward might have gone through, what kind of danger they could be in. The thought made him want to lash out, but all he could do was grip the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

Havoc, ever one to break tension when it got too unbearable, leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle. "So... how are we going to go about it? Should be do a fishing expedition?" Havoc asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mustang smirked. "Why are you asking? You're not even part of the military anymore."

Havoc nodded toward Alphonse. "Well, neither is this guy, but you're still gonna let him in on the action."

"Hey!" Alphonse huffed in protest.

Alphonse smile a bit. Remembering the last fishing expedition he went with these guys where they managed to kill a homunculus and capture another.

"Right." Mustang waved a hand, steering the conversation back. "The real issue is how we convince these people to offer us their 'special honeymoon package.' It's going to be difficult to convince them we're blushing virgins."

"Oh! I know—Fuery!" Havoc said, a little too eagerly.

Alphonse blinked, taken aback. Fuery?

Breda immediately shook his head. "Fuery's not going to work."

Havoc cocked an eyebrow. "And why not?"

"Because Fuery doesn't have that… virgin air about him," Breda said with a straight face.

Alphonse almost choked, his mind racing back to Edward's bachelor party. How could Fuery not have a 'virgin air'?

"Oh? And how do you know that?" Mustang asked, suddenly amused.

Breda crossed his arms. "Do you remember that night we took Ed and Alphonse to that titty bar in Oakley?"

Alphonse paled, swallowing hard. Try as he might, he couldn't forget that night—especially how uncomfortable he and Edward had been while Mustang and Havoc got completely plastered. He had tried to ignore the debauchery around him by nursing a beer at the bar, but apparently, Breda had been sober enough to remember every detail.

"And your point is?" Havoc pressed.

"My point is Fuery wasn't as innocent as you think," Breda said with a smirk. "That night, he was casually grabbing a tit here, an ass cheek there—he even left with one of the girls. You two were too busy harassing poor Ed to notice."

Mustang and Havoc exchanged incredulous looks.

"Well, damn," Havoc muttered. "That was a great night."

Mustang hummed in agreement. "Unfortunately, this brings us back to square one."

Breda clicked his tongue. "I would've expected this from Havoc, but not from you, sir," he said cryptically before walking over to Alphonse. He placed a heavy hand on Alphonse's shoulder. "This one right here is perfect for the job."

Alphonse froze. Damn it.

Mustang and Havoc looked at each other, then back at him. Their pause was brief before they erupted into laughter.

"You're a virgin?" Mustang sputtered, staring at Alphonse like he was some sort of oddity.

Alphonse felt his face heat up as their laughter filled the room. He shot a glare at Breda, who was now standing next to Havoc, hand outstretched.

"Cough it up," Breda said, waiting expectantly.

Alphonse groaned. "You made bets on me?" He was beyond mortified.

Havoc smirked as he dug into his wallet. "What? We did the same thing with your brother, only it was the other way around." He handed Breda a twenty-cenz bill. "Honestly, Al, the first thing I would've done after getting my body back from Truth is get laid."

Mustang, still chuckling, handed Breda his share. "Not everyone lives like a hound dog, you two," Breda remarked as he pocketed the money.

"Enough!" Alphonse slammed his hands on the table, the sound echoing in the room. Everyone froze as Alphonse took a deep breath, composing himself. "Can we just get back to the plan?"

Mustang sobered quickly. "Alphonse, remind me, how old are you?"

"Eighteen," Alphonse replied, his tone clipped.

Mustang nodded thoughtfully. "Eighteen is doable, but—"

"He can look older with some fake facial hair," Breda suggested.

Mustang mulled it over for a moment. "That could work, but we still have another issue—the fiancée."

"What about Private Daniels?" Havoc offered with a grin. "She's a couple years older than Al, but the agency will buy it. And I'm sure Al won't mind."

Alphonse groaned audibly. He knew it wouldn't be long before the teasing returned.

"She's too new," Mustang replied, ignoring Havoc's grin. "We need someone we can trust completely for this to work."

"What about Mei Chang?" Havoc suggested, turning to Alphonse. "Isn't she your girlfriend?"

Alphonse shot up straight, waving his hands in protest. "No. I won't expose Mei to any danger."

"Ah yes, she's perfect," Mustang muttered, completely ignoring Alphonse's protest.

"It's not like you need to marry her—or, heaven forbid, bed her—for the operation to succeed," Havoc added with a smirk, earning a sharp glare from Alphonse.

"We'll ensure both of you are safe while undercover," Mustang continued, his tone steady, as though this plan was already set in motion.

Alphonse shook his head, frustration rising. "Mei's sixteen. She's a minor," he said firmly, his protectiveness flaring as he tried to convince them to drop the idea.

Breda, who had been silent, cleared his throat. "You know, sixteen is the legal age of consent here in Amestris," he said quietly.

"Like Havoc said, we're not forcing you to marry her, Alphonse," Mustang added, his voice calm. "And you're certainly not expected to bed her for this operation. She'll remain untouched. You both will. Your integrity stays intact, if that's what you choose."

Havoc leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, adding with a chuckle, "Yeah, exactly. You just need to play the part of a couple in love, looking for their honeymoon package. The rest will fall into place."

Alphonse frowned, his gaze fixed on the table, thoughts swirling. He understood the logic behind their plan, but it still felt wrong. Despite the assurances, despite Mei's incredible strength and skills, he didn't want to put her in danger. He was silent for a long moment, conflicted between his instinct to protect Mei and the undeniable reality that she was the perfect fit for this mission.

His mind replayed their last conversation, her words echoing in his memory. Mei had already told him she would help him in any way she could. Her fierce loyalty and love for him had always been clear, but she had made it explicit when they spoke just days ago. "Whatever you need, Alphonse, I'm here. I'll always help you," she'd said, her eyes filled with sincerity and resolve.

Mei wasn't fragile. She wasn't someone who needed his constant protection. If anything, her strength—both physical and emotional—was something he relied on. She had proven herself countless times, and if this was the best way to save Edward and Winry, then maybe he needed to trust her as much as she trusted him.

Sighing, Alphonse finally looked up. "Mei already told me she'd help in any way she could," he admitted quietly. "But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with this."

"You won't be putting her in any unnecessary danger," Mustang assured. "She's capable, Al. We'll make sure everything goes according to plan."

Alphonse stared at the men in front of him, frowning, as the reality of their words began to sink in. Mei wouldn't need to be tricked into anything; she would volunteer willingly. Their relationship was real, and that would make the undercover operation all the more convincing. As much as he hated the thought of putting her at risk, he couldn't deny that Mei was the best person for this. And if it meant finding his brother and Winry, he couldn't afford to let his fears hold him back.

He sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. "It'll take three days for Mei to arrive in Central," he finally said.

Mustang nodded in acknowledgment, his expression softening with understanding. "Then I suggest you call her right away."

Alphonse hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the telephone. As he dialed the familiar number, he reminded himself that Mei had already offered her help. She'd always stood by him, and if anyone could handle themselves in this situation, it was her. The line rang, and Alphonse took a deep breath, preparing to ask the one person he trusted most to help him save the people they both cared about.

While waiting for Breda to dig up some dirt on Heavenly Destinations Travel, Alphonse spent his days at Central Library or meditating in the park. It helped calm his nerves, but it did little to ease the gnawing dread. Edward and Winry had been missing for too long, and with each passing second, the weight of their absence became unbearable.

Now, Alphonse sat in a conference room beside Havoc, while Mustang sat at the head of the table. The tension in the air was thick, stifling the usual banter Havoc might have offered. They were all waiting—waiting for Breda to arrive with answers.

"Mister Breda is here," Private Daniels announced through the intercom.

"Let him in," Mustang replied, his voice tight.

Alphonse noticed the tension in Mustang's posture. He was always composed, but today, there was a sharp edge to him. Despite everything, it was comforting to know Mustang cared deeply for Edward. They weren't just soldiers under his command—they were family.

The door creaked open, and Breda stepped inside, carrying a small suitcase. He set it on the table and opened it without ceremony.

"Did you bring good news with you?" Havoc asked, his words slightly garbled by the tobacco tucked in his cheek. Mustang had forbidden him from smoking in the conference room, much to Havoc's dismay.

Breda glanced at the men. "Depends on how you define 'good,'" he said grimly, flipping open a folder filled with photographs of ledgers.

Alphonse leaned forward, his heart pounding. "Did you find my brother?"

Breda's expression darkened, and Alphonse already knew the answer.

"No," Breda said bluntly. "But I did find something… troubling."

Mustang leaned forward, his voice hard. "What did you find?"

Breda laid the photographs out on the table, pointing at the entries. "I went back ten years, focusing on the honeymoon packages from The Red Harvest. As you can see, the entries for this time of year are all canceled."

Alphonse's eyes scanned the photos. The cancellations were for the same month Edward and Winry had disappeared. Year after year, the same pattern.

"It only happens during this time of year," Havoc muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice. "Every year?"

Mustang frowned, picking up one of the photographs. "Except this one from 1902. There's no entry for that period."

"Correct," Breda said. "And I'll explain that shortly. First, take a look at this." He pointed to the contact information listed beside the names, and Alphonse's stomach dropped when he saw Granny Pinako's telephone number next to Edward's name.

"I called the numbers listed. A lot of dead ends, but I managed to get through to several families."

"Just get to the point," Havoc said impatiently, earning glares from Mustang and Breda.

Breda took a breath, the gravity of his next words hanging in the air. "All of the families confirmed the same thing: their loved ones booked the Red Harvest Special Honeymoon Package because they wanted their first time to be special. Every single one of them has been missing ever since."

The room fell into stunned silence.

Alphonse felt his stomach churn. "No way…" he whispered, nausea rising.

His hunch about virgins and sacrifice—the absurd idea that had seemed so far-fetched—was true. He stared at the photographs, the names, the dates. Year after year, couples booked their honeymoons only to vanish. The realization hit him like a physical blow.

"This should've made the news," Havoc said, his voice tight. "Why hasn't it?"

"Jurisdiction," Mustang said with a scowl. "International laws are complicated. Hughes always said they were a bureaucratic nightmare."

Breda nodded. "Lots of red tape. But there's more." He pulled out a newspaper clipping from 1902 and laid it on the table. The article mentioned an earthquake near Benévolo, a small town in Aurego, felt all the way to East City.

"That can't be a coincidence," Havoc said, frowning.

"We can't jump to conclusions," Mustang cautioned. "There's no hard evidence linking that earthquake to the disappearances."

But Alphonse couldn't shake the feeling that there was a connection. His gut told him the past and present were colliding in ways none of them had anticipated.

"There's definitely something wrong with that travel agency," Breda said. "I suspect human trafficking. But we won't know for sure until we raid the place."

Breda's mention of human trafficking left a bitter taste in the room. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken dread. Alphonse's hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. The idea that virgins were being lured into a twisted web of human trafficking, or worse, made his stomach turn. He couldn't help but think of Edward and Winry—what kind of danger were they in?

After what felt like an eternity of tense silence, Havoc leaned back in his chair and whistled low. "So... what about a fishing expedition? You know, to reel them in?"

Mustang smirked faintly. "Why are you asking? You're not even in the military anymore."

Havoc grinned and nodded toward Alphonse. "Well, neither is this guy, but you're still bringing him in on the action."

"Hey!" Alphonse protested, though a small part of him was relieved for the brief levity. It reminded him of the last mission they'd gone on together—the so-called "fishing expedition" where they had brought down a homunculus and captured another. He cracked a faint smile, but it faded as the weight of the present returned.

"Right," Mustang said, steering the conversation back on track. "The real problem is how we convince these people to offer us their 'special honeymoon package.' It'll be hard to convince them we're blushing virgins."

"Oh! I know—Fuery!" Havoc said eagerly.

Alphonse blinked. Fuery?

Breda immediately shook his head. "Fuery's not going to work."

Havoc raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because Fuery doesn't have that... virgin air about him," Breda replied with a straight face.

Alphonse nearly choked, memories of Edward's bachelor party flashing in his mind. How does Fuery not have a 'virgin air'?

"Oh? And how do you know that?" Mustang asked, amused.

Breda crossed his arms. "Remember the night we took Ed and Al to that titty bar in Oakley?"

Alphonse paled. He'd tried to forget that night, but the memory was seared into his mind. He and Edward had been mortified while Mustang and Havoc got completely plastered. Breda had clearly been sober enough to remember every detail.

"And your point is?" Havoc pressed.

"My point is Fuery wasn't as innocent as you think," Breda said with a smirk. "He was grabbing a tit here, an ass cheek there—he even left with one of the girls. You two were too busy harassing Ed to notice."

Mustang and Havoc exchanged incredulous looks.

"Well, damn," Havoc muttered. "That was a great night."

Mustang hummed in agreement. "But this brings us back to square one."

Breda shook his head and clicked his tongue in apparent disappointment. "I would expect this from Havoc, but not you, sir."

The cryptic comment caught everyone's attention. Mustang raised an eyebrow, while Havoc, who had been lounging comfortably, straightened up with curiosity.

Breda stepped forward, resting a heavy hand on Alphonse's shoulder. His grip was firm, carrying a sense of both responsibility and inevitability. "This one here," Breda said with a smirk, "is the right person for the job."

Alphonse froze. Oh no. He felt the weight of everyone's eyes on him, and dread tightened in his chest. Damn it.

Mustang exchanged a glance with Havoc, and for a moment, the room was still. Then, in perfect synchrony, they both erupted into a fit of laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls. Mustang's usually controlled expression crumbled into wide-eyed amusement, and even Havoc, who always found a joke in the darkest situations, was almost doubled over in his seat.

"You're a virgin?" Mustang sputtered, choking on his laughter as if he'd just stumbled upon the world's most surprising revelation. He gawked at Alphonse like he was some rare artifact, a marvel of innocence in a room full of cynics.

Alphonse felt his face grow hot, the heat crawling up his neck and into his ears. His embarrassment flared in time with their laughter. He wasn't mad at them but that didn't make it any less uncomfortable.

He stared down at the table, willing the heat to die down. Great, just great.

Breda, thoroughly enjoying the moment, moved to stand beside Havoc, holding out his hand expectantly. "Cough it up," he said, his voice calm, but a glint of mischief lingered in his eyes.

Alphonse blinked, confused at first, then realization dawned on him. "Wait—" His heart sank. "You made bets?"

Havoc, completely unrepentant, grinned as he fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. "What?" he said with a shrug. "We did the same thing with your brother, but in reverse." He rifled through his wallet and handed Breda a crumpled twenty-cenz bill, chuckling to himself.

Alphonse groaned internally. Of course, they bet on Edward too. It was a ridiculous situation, and as much as it embarrassed him, a small part of him couldn't help but find the absurdity of it amusing. Still, the teasing was relentless.

Mustang, still trying to suppress his amusement, reached into his own pocket and handed Breda another twenty-cenz note. "Honestly, Al," he said with a smirk, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, "if I got my body back from Truth, the first thing I would've done is—well, you know."

Alphonse's cheeks burned brighter. He understood the joke, but that didn't make it any less embarrassing. Breda took the money with a grin, pocketing the winnings with a casual ease that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd been in on a bet like this.

"Not everyone lives like hound dogs the way you two do," Breda remarked, his tone light as he eyed both Mustang and Havoc.

The teasing continued, each remark poking a little more fun at Alphonse, but it wasn't malicious—it was the kind of camaraderie that came with trust. Still, it was starting to grate on him. The warmth in his face wasn't going away, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could take being the center of their jokes.

Finally, Alphonse raised his hands in a calm but firm gesture. "Enough!" he said, his voice steady, but carrying enough weight to cut through the laughter. He wasn't angry, but he was clearly done with the teasing.

The room fell silent, and the men exchanged glances. Mustang wiped the last bit of amusement from his face, while Havoc gave a slight, apologetic nod. The teasing had served its purpose, but they knew when to rein it in.

Alphonse took a deep breath, feeling the heat in his face start to fade. He hadn't lost his cool, but at least they'd stopped. "Can we just get back to the plan?" he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of exasperation.

Mustang cleared his throat, quickly regaining his composure. "Right," he said, nodding. "Alphonse, remind me—how old are you again?"

"Eighteen," Alphonse replied, his voice still a bit tight but more measured now.

Mustang nodded thoughtfully. "Eighteen is doable, but—"

"He can look older with some fake facial hair," Breda interjected, his voice shifting back to business.

Mustang considered it. "That could work, but there's still the issue of a fiancée."

"What about Private Daniels?" Havoc suggested with a grin. "She's older than Al, but I'm sure the agency will buy it. And I'm sure Al wouldn't mind."

Alphonse groaned loudly.

"She's too new," Mustang replied, ignoring the jab. "We need someone we can trust."

"What about Mei Chang?" Havoc asked, glancing at Alphonse. "Isn't she your girlfriend?"

Alphonse shot upright, waving his hands in protest. "No. I won't expose Mei to any danger."

"Ah yes, she's perfect," Mustang muttered, ignoring Alphonse's protests.

"You don't need to marry her—or bed her, for that matter—for the operation to succeed," Havoc added with a grin.

"We'll keep both of you safe," Mustang assured. "This mission won't put either of you at unnecessary risk."

"Mei's sixteen," Alphonse argued. "She's a minor."

Breda, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. "Sixteen's the legal age of consent in Amestris."

"We're not forcing you to marry her, Alphonse," Mustang reiterated calmly. "And certainly not to bed her. Your integrity—and hers—will remain untouched. You're simply playing a role."

Havoc crossed his arms, leaning back. "Yeah, you're just pretending to be a couple in love. The rest will fall into place."

Alphonse frowned, his thoughts swirling. Their plan made sense, but he didn't want to put Mei in harm's way. Then he remembered their last conversation. Mei had told him she would help in any way she could. "Whatever you need, Alphonse, I'm here. I'll always help you," she had said, her loyalty unwavering.

Mei wasn't fragile. She could handle herself better than most. She had proven that time and time again. Maybe he needed to trust her as much as she trusted him.

He sighed, feeling the weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. "Mei already told me she'd help in any way she could," he admitted quietly. "But I'm still not comfortable with this."

"We'll make sure it's safe," Mustang reassured him. "She's capable, and you know it."

Alphonse nodded slowly, the reality sinking in. Mei was perfect for the mission. Their relationship was genuine, and that would make the operation more convincing. He didn't like the idea of putting her at risk, but this was the best way to save Edward and Winry.

"It'll take three days for Mei to arrive in Central," he finally said.

Mustang nodded in acknowledgment. "Then I suggest you call her right away."

Alphonse hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the phone. As he dialed, he reminded himself that Mei had already offered her help. She was strong, loyal, and if anyone could handle this, it was her. The line rang, and Alphonse took a deep breath, ready to ask the person he trusted most to help him save the ones they both cared about.


A/N: I'm busy, so new chapters will be uploaded slowly but steadily.

Check out my Tumblr page: hirstories dot tumblr dot com for artwork and other stories.

Thanks for reading!