Pain.

I cannot comprehend anything else.

It courses through my mind, it's a burning river of living fire, screaming, racing, and it feels as if it's the living embodiment of pain itself—

but

I know everything

I realize the pain is Knowledge— thoughts, images, equations, everything of this World— stuffed into my mind, and I find myself screaming for it to stop, please just stop, I can't take it anymore—

And then I'm falling— down, down, down, down down down down—

And then there is nothing.

I wake up.

A gasp; I'm shooting up in bed, one hand clutching desperately onto my sheets. My eyes are wide; I'm heaving. My breath goes, one by one by one, and it's the only thing I'm focusing on for that moment: I am alive.

My bed is damp from sweat; the moisture dots my skin, my bare arms. Light, bold pillars from the windows, pierces my vision— for a moment, I cannot focus on anything else other than my own being.

I am alive. I am alive. I am alive...

But, then— I am aware of only one thing— and I stand up straight, back rigid.

My brother.

Where is Warren?

"W—Warren?" I find myself croaking, my voice sore; then, louder, fiercer, more fearfully: "Warren? Wa—Warren!" I pull myself out of bed. My body aches— but I do not care. I cannot care.

I need my brother.

He—he was here last night, I am recalling, aimlessly lumbering throughout the room, my mind still struggling to catch up, wake up; I physically force myself towards the doorknob, my side banging against the dark, oak, door, and I grasp the jiggling knob tightly like a drunken child. He didn't leave. I would've noticed.

I turn, forcibly, and I almost fall face-first into the wooden floor— I jerk up my head in attempt to catch myself, my feet stumble clumsily, and I can't help but feel faintly surprised that I do not fall over.

"Warren?" I call into the twisting hallways I cannot recognize— I'm in a dream, I'm sure of it, but why does it feel too real— with no real goal to reach. I just need to find him, that idiot, he must be cooking some foreign breakfast from Africa or something without telling me beforehand, he always screws up and forgets something, I have to be there to help him like some mother—

In a quick rush of decisiveness I opt for the left hallway, feeling some sort of drunken compulsiveness, and I drag my feed forward, every step uncoordinated and shaky, my body lumbering left and right as I trudge down the hall.

"W—Warren!" I find myself calling; my heart is reaching, twisting, my stomach tightens, my breath is picking up, faster and faster—

"Haylin?" a voice calls, far ahead of me, and I can't help but perk up, my head snapping up in surprise— my eyes widen, and I suck in a breath. I can't help but notice the tears that begin to stain my eyes— What? What's going on?

"Haylin!" says the voice again— and in a stab of pain, I realize it's not Warren— but I still stagger forwards, making my way towards the voice— it's so familiar, yet so unrecognizable, it's unbearable— but I still go forward, still push myself forwards.

I find my voice. "...Mom?" I call out weakly, pathetically, and the voice— my mother's voice— is panicked when she calls out my name again. Another voice joins her's, deep and masculine and one that seems to echo with music, even within its dark woody bases— Dad?— and it seems to also bear my mother's own concern.

"M—Mom? Dad?" I don't know why I'm crying. Tears stream down my face like waterfalls; my voice chokes, and I cannot understand why.

I keep going, and light touches the floorboards before me from the right hallway, and I turn, blinking both hot tears and hot light out of my eyes, and I see my parents at a dinner table I cannot recognize, eyes wide as they are up on their feet, looking worried.

The tears are streaming freely (Why, I cannot understand why) and my voice is tightening, my throat is tightening— my whole body is tightening. I can't breath— maybe I am, maybe I am not, but all I am aware of it the hollow beating of my heart, the expressions on my parent's faces, and the blinding brightness of the glaring morning sun as I whisper, "Where's Warren?"

The next thing I realize are my parents, pulling me into tight embraces— I feel the tears on their cheeks as they do, hot and burning like my own— and my screams of agony, tearing at my throat.

They tell me he's dead— he's been gone, for a long long long long time.

Ever since I— we— was just a child. Just at the tender age of three.

I just went to sleep by his side side, just last night—

I have next to no memory of him, they tell me. Only subconsciously, from when we were children— I cannot know what he looks like.

He has short, scruffy, unmatted hair I always tell him to brush, too light to be a true blond, too dark to be a true brunet. The brightest blue eyes ever. That baby face of his, how can I ever forget—

They tell me he was taken— there one night, gone the next— they had found my by his side, screaming and screaming and screaming and holding onto what was the only remainder of my brother— a toddler's fistful of a baby blue blanket— it must have fallen or broken off, they tell me.

I would never let that happen. No one touches my brother, they can try the best they can, but only over my dead body—!

It happens all the time, they tell me. The attacks. The mornings, filled with my screams, demands for my brother; the nightmares. The fear. All the tears— my heart breaking into millions and millions of tiny little pieces— it's nothing new.

No. No, you can't tell me that!— no, you can't tell me he's dead. He's not gone. He was there, I swear, my brother, he couldn't be just gone, I would never let that happen, don't lie to me—!

He is dead.

He is gone.

just

like

that.

But... how?

It takes me too long to realize what's going on. I should've seen it the moment I'd woken up— everything pointed to it!— Warren's 'death', the unfamiliar surroundings, my dream from last night—

How could I have not seen this?

My parents are in the kitchen, just before the stove, behind the archway that separate the kitchen from the dining room. It's morning; warm golden sunlight tumbles from the windows, peeking from between the tall concrete walls that line the street and sidewalks. People make their way up and down the streets, the cars running cheerily through the roads, their words rumbles of conversation that hover and rest over the city like a thick winter blanket.

It's silent in the house; after the confrontation, my parents had fallen into a shared silence, and were wise to move away and into the kitchen, knowing that I would need my space for a while.

And it's a good thing, too— for I'm beginning to fall into confusion.

This isn't right. From my place on the wooden chair by the windowsill, I see the cars— they're nothing like what I am used to. They are loud, and spit out more thick clouds than I thought possible; they're barely held together by the thin metal frames they are made of, looking as if they're aluminum cans, and honk like geese.

They look ancient, antique; it looks as if it's jumped straight out of a World War I textbook, a museum, my uncle's car collection back in France— and instead of being all black and white or grainy fading bland hues on cracked yellow photographs, or collecting dust in an exhibit long forgotten, or polished clean day by day but has never touched a street in over fifty years— they, instead look— are!— alive. They are worn out from miles (kilometers?) and years (months?) of work, but still are as good as new; they've been through rain and snow, yet are still lovingly taken care of.

The people's clothing are a similar story— it, too, looks ancient— or, at least, outdated. They also seemed to have come anywhere— anytime— other than what I was used to; the women wear browns and grays and the occasional dull greens and blues and in a style I recognize from black and white photos from my history textbook, of German (German?) civilians during the war effort, in their young country; the men wear overalls of the same dreary palette, but despite all that there seems to be a buzz of ecstasy in the air, bright smiles evident on almost everyone's faces. I could see children, running in the streets, bright hair and bright eyes unmistakable as they chase one another with toys and balls in hands.

The lump in my throat is unmistakable.

I am not home.

My voice quivers; I need one last request. Just—just to make sure. "...M—Mom? Dad?"

My mother's face appears in the archway; her bright blue eyes (oh dear God, they're so much like Warren's—) wide with concern; my father is beside her, one of his large tanned hands resting gently on her shoulder.

(And, there, I notice; they're wearing the same thing as the people outside, and, oh God, I know I do not know them, and they do not know me)

"Yes?" Clara's voice, too much like my own mother's yet too foreign to be her's, is wary, weary, concerned; my heart wretches for her. "Do you need anything, dear?"

"We'll get you anything you need," abruptly puts in Adan, his voice quick, stammering over his words— I know he just wants his daughter to be happy. He cannot take this, either. "D—don't worry. You don't have to do anything today, I promise. Your mother and I will take care of that for you, okay?"

It really hurts; to see them like this, not at all what I've been used to, what I've grown to love, what I've grown to know so well. But I can't let them see that.

"No, it's fine," I tell them. I keep the shaking out ot my voice the best I can. "I'll… just go outside. I… I just need to take a walk."

The words are so hollow and dead.

But, nevertheless, a soft smile tugs at my mother's face; her hands clasp together, and I can see her fighting her tears; blink, blink, rapid blinks; her jaw clenches slightly, and she's trying to be strong.

Please, don't do that, I want to tell her, it's fine; I can handle it. You don't need to take it yourself.

But what could I tell her?

"That sounds well," she says with false conviction, the lie of excitement edging her voice; "We'll prepare some food for you, later, when you come back—"

"You won't have to," I say suddenly, getting up abruptly, one hand on the table, "it's fine. I'll go… buy something myself, on my own. I'm not even hungry, anyway."

Pain and slight disappointment flashes in Clara's eyes, but Adan, being ever the strong and sturdy man, just tilts a head curiously, but does not comment. Instead, he speaks up: "Haylin," he tells me, "if you're going to get some food on your own, then you'll have to bring your things, don't you?"

He makes his way out of the safety of the kitchen archway, away from my mother, and in almost complete silence, aside from the rustle of people outside and the muted shuffling of his slippers on the dusty wooden floor below his feet he crosses the dining room to a table just by the wall that leads into the living room, leading to the door. He gently picks up a leather brown shoulderbag, aged and dusted from years of wear, by the long leather strap, looking as if it was almost sandpapered down, and walked over to me almost serenely, lips pursed into a straight line.

It's almost as if this morning has dampened the day; I feel guilty.

For a moment, he refuses to meet my eyes, but just before stopping before me he glances up, hesitantly and briefly; alarmed, I can see the tears lining his eyelids.

He's worried. The words hit me like a wave. His daughter… he can't take the pain. He knows it's been going on, he's grown to familiarize the screams, the tears— but he can't get used to it. This… this must be new. He's worried I may do something.

Almost immediately I want to backtrack, change my mind, say I want to stay home and comfort the both of them, no matter how much I do not know them— but I still refuse to. I feel selfish— but I feel compelled to go outside— prove to myself something I still cannot fully understand or comprehend. Something's going on.

"Here," he says softly, voice just above a whisper, and instead of simply handing it to me he reaches out and pulls the strap over my head; he rests the bag on my right side, taking my hand and placing over the bag, his strong yet gentle thick palms carefully adjusting the strap before patting it on my shoulder. Hesitantly he takes a step back, and smiles at me.

"You go ahead and have a good walk there, Hay-Hay." The nickname causes my throat to tighten. "We'll be waiting here patiently whenever you come back, okay?"

It sounds like I'm off to my death. The tight and dark air about us is almost unbearable, and I can't help but feel the need to get rid of at least some of it, just to lighten their spirits.

"Don't worry." I allow a small smirk to graze my lips playfully. "I'll be back before you know it, Dad. Don't worry a bit, okay?"

I'm relieved, almost mildly ecstatic as I see some light blossoms in his and Clara's eyes; he smiles softly back, and in a possible streak of slight frivolity he chuckles softly and ruffled my hair. "Gotcha."

Clara's still hovering in the archway, mildly wary; she's looking as if she's trying to pull away, just a little, even when Adan speaks to her. "Clara? Don't worry; she promised to come home, okay?"

She is silent for a moment; her eyes flicker with something I can't recognize (What happened? What is she thinking of?) before she visibly swallows and nods slowly.

I can't help but crack another small smile. "Thanks, Mom, Dad." I smile at each in turn, and grasp the leather strap with one hand, making my way towards the door. "See ya later."

I don't look back as I open the door to bright morning light, step into the streets, and shut the door behind me, unable to help but shiver as the door clocks with an ominous click.

And, with that, I am outside.

The warm air hits me smack in the face; I cough, and I rub furiously at my eyes, the dusty air causing tears to well up. I pause; I look back at the house again— the window has been drawn to a close, and I hear nothing inside. I am afraid to rest my ear against the door in fear of being discovered, so instead I pull away, onto the street— and I find myself tearing through the people, the cars, my feet and hair flying, to a destination even I do not know.

People's faces whiz by— alarmed, surprised, curious, mildly irritated, not even paying attention: but I am unaware of it, and all I hear is the beating of my heart, the having of my breath— and the questions throbbing in my mind.

This is not right.

This is not right.

What is going on? What happened? Wha—

What time am I in? Where— where am I?

The answer comes with a little boy.

He's a small blond boy; his hair is somewhat darker, somewhat of a dirty-blond, giving him a bit of the appearance of a brunet (Oh, God, he reminds me so much of Warren—), and he has small dark eyes with fair skin, hints of a possible Asian parent or grandparent sprinkled within his features. He stops me, eyes bright and wide (or, at least, as wide as they could go) and taps my shoulder.

"Hello!" the boy chirps brightly; he beams at me. I notice the handbag slung across his left shoulder, the bundle of thick and rolled white, crisp papers tucked into the bag, and he's handing me one of the rolled up papers— a newspaper. "Miss! Would you care for a paper?"

A paper boy? Do they even have those in this time...?

"...sure," I finally say hesitantly, my voice coming out like molasses; I'm unsure of what to say, but I figure it wouldn't hurt.

He beams again, and I can't help but smile at him in return. He tells me the price— and I quickly rummage through my own things, trying my best to guess at to what these cenz are— and in not too much time I find myself alone again, having traded the boy the money for the paper, said newsboy already tearing down the street on his small, chubby legs in pursue of a new customer.

I'm pausing, for some reason; I'm hesitating, because I do not want to see what I'm sure I'm going to see, what I know I'm going to see— but there is no use in stalling, so with shaky hands I hold up the paper, my hands trailing up to the top of the cover page when I see—

The date.

15 September, 1914.

The headlines scream something about serial killers, and accidents, and theives— but I do not pay attention, I do not notice, aside from one, tiny, insignificant detail— they all mention alchemy.

Abruptly the noises are louder, the lights are brighter, the spinning is more evident, but I cannot pay attention, and I can only think of one thing before it all crashes and it all goes dark—

I am in... Amestris.

I am in... Fullmetal Alchemist.

I am not home.

A/N: That took a heck lot longer than I expected— ah, looks like almost two months...?

I apologize for the inactivity. Life hasn't... really been the best. I mentioned earlier how I was going to be in Creative Writing, yes?- well, it turns out... it really wasn't so. It's complicated, but, in a nutshell, seniors and juniors get first pick, despite all the efforts a pathetic sophomore puts in (aka talking to the guidance counselor, talking to the vice principal, talking to the teacher who taught the class, and talking to a bunch more adults than you had previously initialized when you're this shy little androgynous Asian girl who gets past her fear because of how badly she wants it) to get into the class (accounting up to, ah, perhaps a week's worth of it).

It's even worse when you manage to get into the class for one stinkin' day just to get called into the office and hear that you have to get out.

All personal turmoil aside— it's also a horrid combination of high-school swimming, Cambridge level classes, high-school insanity, and just plain old writer's block that's been keeping this particular chapter on hold. The entire time I was one-hundred percent aware of what exactly I wanted to write, but in my angst and insanity (and writer's block, let's not forget that) has muddled my mind on how, exactly, I should execute it. As you can see, I've managed to do it— to an extent. I didn't get all I wanted in, and I think this feels too much like a filler. Eh. I suppose it's fine.

On another note— no one's been asking, but I feel obliged to say it. So— no OC/Canon romance whatsoever. Gah, it's just that... I'm not the biggest fan of it, though it depends on the circumstances. FMA in particular is one of them— it has too many canon ships— both implied and hard canon— for me to really enjoy a good OC/Canon fic, despite how good the writing can really be. (And Ed with anyone other than Winry... she can be annoying, at times, but him with anyone else... it gets on my nerves, since he's a character I relate so much to on so many levels. It almost feels personal, ahaha.)

So on pairings and romance!— no OC/Canon romance, but perhaps there may be platonic, who knows? There's the typical canon ships such as EdWin, Royai, and perhaps even AlMei and LingFan that may slip its way into the fic, though it isn't granted and won't be too much of an important thing if it does, anyway. However— since this is an OC fic, and the fact that there will be a heck-lotta more Amestris OCs in this fic (other than Haylin from our world) there will be a particular OC/OC couple in here, if y'all don't mind.

Okay, then! Wow, that took a lot longer than expected. Hopefully next time updates'll come by faster and useless author's notes'll be shorter, but we can't know for sure. Until then— ciao!

—Ten Reasons