Author's Note:

Hi there fellow fanfiction readers! This is my very first story on this platform, so be nice (just kidding, I can handle the heat, no mercy!). Flame in the Dark almost specifically continues off from the Brotherhood series (I understand the manga ending was slightly different), and can almost be an AU as I divert from the canon ending.

Please review/favourite/follow if you liked it! Your support really makes a difference to us creatives! THANKS!

Jan 2020 Update: Hello again, old readers and new! Happy New Decade! Apologies for the unexpected hiatus (you know how it is... family, starting college, health issues, the like... But everything has finally settled down, I assure you).

If you've been around here before, welcome back! If not, I sincerely hope you enjoy my little contribution to the FMA fandom.

For old readers, Chapters 1, 2 and 3 have been rewritten and re-updated as of today. Chapter 1 might be worth a reread simply because it is vastly different from the original (but I did retain some aspects of the old one). Chapter 2 and 3 has an additional scene or two. I plan to revise and make some edits to the rest of the chapters after I finish updating this fic, but that remains to be seen.

Thank you for all your support guys! I'll try my damnest to make this story the best that I can!

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA (or the cover of this story).

Chapter 1 – Again

A single gunshot exploded in the train carriage.

The sound ricocheted off the narrow metal walls, shattering the air, bouncing back and forth long after the bullet itself had destroyed its target.

Several seats down from its source, the amber-eyed lieutenant, dressed unrecognisably in a turtleneck and summer-patterned skirt, dropped a hand to the hidden gun at her waist.

Of course we couldn't just have a regular return trip. That would be too easy.

It wasn't long before the screaming started.

Ten minutes ago

Outskirts of Central City, Amestris

1915

The lone woman stood amongst a forest of vinyl seats, accepting a cardboard tray nestled with takeaway coffee cups.

The floor of the dining carriage thrummed hypnotically beneath her feet as she paid the barista a handful of silver coins. "Here you go."

Even if it was strange for this particular passenger to be wearing a stuffy turtleneck in the oppressive heat of summer, the barista didn't bat an eyelid. "Enjoy your coffee!"

Smiling politely, the woman made her way to the exit, the tray casually balanced against her hip.

Just as she reached out for the metal handle, the door swung open, a brown travelling coat billowing into her field of vision.

She stepped back in surprise as a dark-skinned man strode into the carriage, nearly colliding into her.

"Excuse me," he murmured.

She glanced down to make sure she hadn't spilled any coffee on her skirt – those stains were a nightmare to wash out. "That's alright –"

By the time she looked back up, the stranger had already swept away, readjusting his hat before she could get a good look at his face.

She frowned thoughtfully. Bronze skin and a flash of white hair.

Shaking her head, she wandered outside, crossing the clanking metal platform to the adjacent passenger car. Every seat along the narrow aisle was occupied: travellers, vacationers, entire families. It was summer after all, and outside the grimy glass windows drifted miles upon miles of endless fields and rolling green hills.

Taking a breath to reassure herself – for surely they would be able to blend in seamlessly amongst this crowd – she strode down the aisle before sliding into her seat.

Armed with the sharply efficient manner with which she approached most tasks, she drew two coffee-stained cups out of their flimsy cardboard sleeves, set them down on the empty space next to her, then passed the half-empty tray into the hands of the man seated across the aisle.

He grinned boyishly; a wispy trail of smoke curled from a half-finished cigarette. "Damn, you're such an angel – ya know that, Hawkeye?"

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Keep telling me that and I might believe you."

The stout, rather rotund man seated opposite him snorted, his rusty hair neatly close-cropped. "You should've let Havoc do the coffee-run. It would've given him something useful to do, at least."

Havoc scowled, but before he could say anything in return, his red-haired friend had already swiped his share of coffee and was sipping it leisurely, arm draped over his chair. "Leverage gone. Just take the jab, Havoc."

"As if you are doing anything particularly useful," Havoc retorted weakly. "Hawkeye, tell Breda he isn't doing anything useful."

Hawkeye shrugged in fond exasperation and tuned them out.

Like Hawkeye, they were both dressed as casual travellers: nondescript coat, hat, fascinatingly boring khaki pants. The presence of the two men was merely cautionary – besides their responsibility of filling out tedious paperwork that the colonel (and even herself, she had to admit), recoiled at, they had no real need to tag along.

But perhaps, just perhaps, if she could ever bring herself to admit it, she simply didn't feel as confident as she should. As a soldier. As a protector.

Another hour's ride before they arrived in Central City. Just a bit further, and then she could breathe a little easier once they were off this claustrophobic death-trap.

Forcing herself to relax, she picked up her morning dose of caffeine, letting its warmth seep into her hands.

"Coffee's here," she told the slender figure seated opposite her.

She waited for a response, but she may as well have been speaking to thin air because none came.

It hit her then that it was absolutely unlike him to be this...silent, especially when a conversation, no matter how mundane, had been taking place. It was brief, but the panic still came – a tiny starburst exploding in her stomach.

The economy class seats were cramped, so it was a simple matter for her to lean forward, laying a hand on his knee.

"Co –" Hawkeye mentally kicked herself for almost breaking cover. "Did you hear me?"

Her words went largely unnoticed. His head dipped slightly to the front, hat slipping a little further to hide his eyes in shadow.

She realised, with almost comedic relief, that he'd simply dozed off. His elbow rested against the windowsill, hand supporting the side of his head as he snored softly. A breeze whistled from a gap in the window, rustling strands of raven-black hair, yet he hardly stirred.

She couldn't hide the light chuckle which escaped her lips. It was strange – how precious these small moments of everyday life had become. They felt snatched, almost stolen sometimes: a coffee, a friendly conversation, a nap.

Letting her own eyelids drop close, she sipped her drink. It was surprisingly nice, to just be Riza Hawkeye for once and not First Lieutenant Hawkeye.

Riza wasn't sure what rustled her senses, but her eyes almost immediately snapped back open. The back of her neck tingled; she sat up straighter and looked around.

Two men at the very back of the carriage slipped out of their seats – one of them moved swiftly and nondescriptly to fasten the deadbolt on the metal door leading outside.

Her eyes swivelled to meet Havoc's: sky-blue and alarmed.

Then the second man moved into the middle of the aisle and drew a familiar metallic shape from the folds of his heavy coat.

The words were out of her mouth before anyone else could react:

"Gun! Get down!"

Her voice was consumed by the maelstrom of noisy passengers. The invader held the gleaming muzzle of his weapon out to the side and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening, seeming to reach straight into her chest and ripping out every last shred of peace she'd found that languid morning.

Glass shattered. A single scream, high-pitched and piercing. Silence.

Then panic descended.

Riza hunkered down, hands already unbuckling and drawing her revolver from a hidden holster at her waist. She cursed under her breath – an enclosed space full of hysterical civilians and one brutal gunman ranked pretty damn high on every soldier's list of worst nightmares.

Around her, people screamed, parents crowded protectively around their children, others dove for cover under seats.

A few passengers fled for the other exit, but a third man seemed to melt out of the shadows and into their path, levelling a massive shotgun at the escapees. "Leaving already? But the fun's just beginning."

For a tremulous moment, Riza thought that he would shoot them all, leaving their broken bodies to bleed out on the cheap floorboards. Fortunately, he simply waved them back to their seats.

A voice sliced through the air as the man with the handgun strode down the aisle, his leisurely gait igniting a spark of hot fury within her.

"People, people! No need to be alarmed! No one here needs to get hurt, so long as everyone stays in their seats. No sudden movements, no heroic actions," his beady eyes glinted, predatory. "But if anyone were to try something...unsavoury..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but the threat – in the form of his loaded gun – was clear nonetheless.

Riza's eyes darted to the side, locking with Havoc, then Breda. Both lieutenants sat completely still, acting the part of meek hostages, but the careful tilt of their bodies to hide their drawn weapons hinted otherwise.

Her gaze moved back to the front, and with shock she perceived that her commanding officer was still asleep. He'd shifted, yes, probably turned uncomfortably to the side, but then lapsed back into slumber in the fearful silence which now hung over the passenger car.

How late was he up last night?

She had no time to ponder the issue though, for the beady-eyed man with the gun was already halfway down the aisle and only a handful of seats away.

Riza breathed in deeply, calm and in control. She was a terrible actress, so it wouldn't make sense to act scared, even if she could. Cold metal dug into her palm, strangely comforting, hidden carefully amongst the folds of her skirt.

The leader was approaching from the direction in which she faced, allowing her the opportunity to watch his every move without seeming too out of place. He was enjoying this – a hunter presiding over a flock of unarmed, harmless sheep.

However, she didn't miss how his keen eyes roamed the faces of every adult he passed, even leaning to peer underneath hats and hoods. Her mind raced.

This was no simple robbery or hijacking, she could discern that much. These people were looking for someone.

Criminals? Terrorists?

Another thought struck her. A more terrible alternative, and for once she hoped she was wrong.

Assassins.

The man loomed over her. She stared up at his face, his shadow spilling across her lap.

No masks. They must be feeling confident about not getting caught. A flash of inspiration. Or perhaps they aren't from around here.

The gun-wielder would most certainly have breezed past her without a second glance had she not so audaciously caught his gaze.

But that was the whole point.

He paused, looking down at her, probing for whether it was a fluke, a failed attempt at bravado, daring her to look away.

She didn't. Behind her back, she very carefully, and very slowly, flicked the safety of her gun off.

"What do we have here?" The man smiled, but it was far from pleasant. "Feeling brave today, are we?"

Riza remained silent. She realised she was still gripping her cup of coffee in her right hand. Steam drifted out of the small notch in the plastic lid.

A tense moment passed. Then another. The smile morphed from unpleasant, to cruel, to a brutal sneer – as if her silence was a direct challenge to his ego.

Without warning, the man grabbed a fistful of her honey blonde hair and yanked her to her feet. Surrounding passengers gasped in horror at the sudden display of violence.

Riza winced, but followed without resistance.

That's right. Eyes on me.

Behind his shoulder, Havoc's eyes were wide with distress. Riza met his stare, then looked slightly to her right, at the third man holding the shotgun. Understanding passed between them – Havoc clenched his jaw and nodded.

The gunman pulled her towards him, and she lost sight of Havoc as his breath hissed in her ear: "How would you like it if I blew your pretty little brains out right –"

Her hand swung up, dousing him with hot coffee. Even as he screeched in agony, she ducked, slid around him, and hooked his feet out from under him.

The gunman crashed face-first to the floor and lay there, stunned.

Taking advantage of his daze, Riza smoothly brought up her revolver and fired two rounds into his companion – the man who she'd first noticed dead-bolting the door – before he could even think about drawing his weapon.

He went down. Two more explosive shots echoed against the metal walls. She heard a yell, a groan and a crash as the shotgun man went down as well.

Pressing the muzzle of her gun into her captive's back whilst kicking his weapon out of reach, Riza glanced up at Havoc and nodded once at him. "Nice job."

"Thanks." Havoc stood, his handgun cocked and smoking.

Breda merely grinned. "Damn, Hawkeye sure doesn't pull her punches."

The two lieutenants split up to secure the injured hijackers. Riza stayed where she was, holding the lead man firmly in place.

He squirmed and bucked, trying to throw her off. Riza pressed her gun a little harder into his back. "Who are you looking for?"

The man spat defiantly, splattering blood and saliva over the floorboards. "You think you've won, haven't you, little lady?"

Riza sighed. Classic intimidation tactics. "I won't ask you again. Who are you looking for?"

The gunman merely laughed, his voice hoarse. "You're dead. All of you."

A yell sounded from the other end of the compartment. Riza looked up sharply.

The man whom she'd gunned down earlier leapt to his feet, catching Breda by surprise. He shouldered the red-haired lieutenant out of the way, sending him crashing into a seat full of terrified passengers.

Bulletproof padding. Of course these people had to have military-grade equipment. Riza raised her gun as the man sprinted towards her, ready to neutralise him permanently. She paused before squeezing the trigger: the man was carrying a grey cylindrical object in his hand, something that looked very much like a –

"Grenade!" Breda shouted.

Riza's eyes widened as the man closed the distance between them, yanking out the firing pin as he ran. Too late to disarm –

A single black boot stretched out into the aisle, tripping up the man in the middle of his crazed sprint towards hell. He flailed magnificently, diving in an out of control spiral towards the floor.

His face hit the ground first, then the rest of his body. The grenade popped out of his grasp.

Riza lunged for the explosive weapon, catching it in mid-air. She swivelled, aiming her revolver at the closest window she could find. "Get out of the way!"

The passengers crowding said seat immediately scrambled out of range. She fired into the window, shattering glass, then tossed the grenade out into the moving countryside.

A full two seconds passed before a muffled boom sounded in the distance. She could only hope that the blast didn't destroy anything more significant than a field of wildflowers.

A single shot fired behind her, and Riza turned to see the lead gunman shrieking on the floor, one hand clutching his bleeding knee – a little gift from her blonde colleague for trying to sneak up on her.

Havoc approached from where he'd left the shotgun man handcuffed to a luggage rack, whistling appreciatively as he lowered his gun. "Talk about cutting it close."

Riza Hawkeye wasn't in the mood for clever quips. Instead, she crossed her arms, staring down at her dark-haired superior who was in the process of removing a pair of earplugs and dropping them into a coat pocket. Little wonder he didn't notice their train being literally hijacked in broad daylight.

"Glad to see you could finally join us, Colonel."

"Now, Lieutenant," he said, withdrawing his leg from the aisle to avoid tripping up anyone else. He flashed her that annoyingly charming smile which he used only when he knew he was in deep trouble. "I helped, didn't I?"

Riza remained unimpressed. Breda strode towards them, rubbing the back of his aching head and looking appropriately embarrassed. "Sorry Hawkeye, that guy caught me off guard."

"Relax, Breda. It happens to the best of us," Riza nodded at him. "We should find out what they're really here for and how many are left."

"I think I may have a pretty good idea on where to start." Riza returned her attention to the colonel, watching as he casually pulled on a pair of ignition gloves.

"Uh, are you sure you should –" Havoc started, but was quickly silenced by an elbow to the gut, courtesy of Breda.

"So," said Riza, checking her ammunition count. "I suppose I can't persuade you to sit this one out?"

Colonel Roy Mustang stood, a familiar smirk on his lips. "Not a chance, Lieutenant."

His signature transmutation circle flashed briefly on his hands, stark in bright red against white.

"Well, shall we?"

Resembool, Amestris

Alphonse Elric stepped cautiously through a wheat field, balancing precariously on the narrow path of cleared ground.

Stalks bearing golden grain radiated towards the far horizon, tall enough to brush his shoulders – one of the things he was still getting used to. Who knew it was so difficult to adjust back to living at average human height?

His cautious steps were now barely hindered by the weakness which had first followed his physical body's return from the Gate. Al squinted into the shadows between the stalks, looking for that tell-tale flash of movement.

A rustle off to his right, way too close for comfort.

Alphonse whipped around, forearms half-raised in preparation.

A ponytail whipping back in the wind; bright eyes, gold against gold; and suddenly there was a closed fist swinging out towards his face in a powerful right hook.

Al reflexively blocked and sidestepped. His golden-eyed opponent pressed his advantage, using his forward momentum to launch into a side kick.

Way too familiar with this style of fighting, Al attempted to grab his leg.

Sadly, Alphonse, being used to a much heavier and more metallic body, didn't foresee that his centre of gravity was off-balance. The force of the attack sent him careening into a waiting patch of wheat.

"Hey!"

As Al's arm was still wrapped firmly around his thigh, his opponent was unceremoniously dragged down too.

The two boys tumbled into a heaving pile, bulldozing a line of wheat stalks in the process. They stared at each other, tangled limbs and all, leaves in their hair.

Alphonse was the first to burst into laughter. "Br–brother! What in the world was that?"

"I should be asking you that question!" Edward Elric snorted indignantly. "Your balance was complete rubbish!"

"Seems to me that I have vanquished the self-proclaimed greatest alchemist of our generation with said 'rubbish' sense of balance." Al raised both eyebrows, tone mocking.

"Developing a sense of humour now, are you?" Edward attempted to grab his younger brother in a headlock, but Al dodged deftly.

Having missed, Edward plunged headfirst into another patch of wheat. Alphonse started laughing again. "If Teacher had seen that, she'll gut you and hang you out to dry herself!"

Even Edward couldn't suppress a mild shiver at the thought as he rolled over onto his back. "Don't you dare say a word to Teacher."

"I won't if you won't."

Edward rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his lips nonetheless. Alphonse joined him, falling back into the soft ground with a muffled sigh of pleasure.

The summer sky – azure and vast and cloudless above them – was the most magnificent thing Alphonse had ever seen.

A piercing whistle sounded in the distance. The brothers sat up almost simultaneously, watching as the dark form of a train rumbled across the horizon, leaving a wispy trail of smoke in its wake.

Edward gazed silently at the horizon long after the train had chugged out of sight, his expression pensive.

Alphonse inhaled, about to ask what was on his brother's mind when the tinkling of a bell interrupted the moment.

A teenager their age – Joshua, from a few houses down – had paused on his bicycle to shout a greeting. "Hey Al! Shorty!"

Ed's head whipped around, face alarmingly red. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SHORT!?"

Joshua remained cheerfully unperturbed even as Ed leapt to his feet and started striding across the field towards the main path. "Just thought I'd let you guys know that there's a big delivery on your doorstep! I saw it riding past the house!"

"Oh uh, thanks!" replied Alphonse, hurrying to catch up with his brother.

Before Edward could reach him, Joshua jumped back on his bicycle and zoomed off at full speed, kicking up a cloud of dust in Ed's face.

Ed coughed and spat, shaking a fist at Joshua's rapidly receding back. "JUST WAIT TILL I SEE YOU NEXT, YOU –"

He cut himself off, realising that there was not much point in screaming at someone who wasn't listening anymore. A lesson he had apparently not bothered to learn throughout his various spats with the colonel, but hey, at least he was wising up now.

As Al reached his side, Edward scoffed and brushed off his clothes. "No respect anywhere for a State Alchemist these days."

"A retired State Alchemist," Alphonse corrected. "Besides, you don't have much respect for State Alchemists either."

Edward shrugged as they began their walk home, making no attempt to negate the point. Out on the main road, the whirring and clanking of Ed's automail leg was more audible, filling the comfortable silence between them.

Alphonse glanced briefly at it, suddenly remembering the days his brother had an automail arm to match the leg – back when people called him the Fullmetal Alchemist.

It seemed so long ago, and yet, not long at all. He sometimes wondered if the world had forgotten about them, the Elric brothers – secluded here for five peaceful months after years of constant strife.

Then they reached the front porch of the Rockbell house and Alphonse saw the boxful of colourful letters overflowing onto the doormat.

All thoughts of being forgotten instantly vanished.

"What the…" Edward shook his head in disbelief as he scooped the scattered letters back into the box and hefted it into his arms.

With Granny Pinako and Winry out visiting a new customer, the house felt emptier than usual this afternoon. The brothers might even have been bothered by the silence if they weren't already bubbling over with excitement.

"I can't believe it!" said Alphonse in delight, shutting the door behind them. "Everyone wrote!"

"Yes, everyone, apparently." Edward was still shaking off his daze as he emptied the box out on the dining table. Delicate stationary slid across the rough oak surface.

Alphonse hopped onto the chair opposite him, giddily sifting through the letters. "Look! One from Mrs. Hughes!"

Gracia Hughes had sent them a beautiful postcard embellished with an old photograph of Central Command. Alphonse flipped the card over to reveal a short message, which he read out to his brother:

"I hope you don't mind that I've taken the liberty of collecting letters from all your friends in Central; I know you haven't heard from most of them in months. I certainly didn't expect to end up with so many. I am doing very well here with Elicia. Remember to swing by our apartment if you two happen to visit!"

Alphonse put down the postcard, unable to stop a wide grin from spreading across his face. That was another thing he was still getting used to – smiling. "I can't believe it. This… All this is so nice of her!"

The brothers attacked the pile of letters, tearing open envelopes and skimming through their contents, laughing at some, raising eyebrows at others.

Most of the letters were well-wishes and demands for an update on their sedentary lives in the countryside. There was a joint one from Brosh and (a newly reinstated) Ross, gleefully telling the brothers about their recent promotion. Even Sceskha had found some time to write them a messily blotched letter.

Major Armstrong had written the brothers an almost overwhelmingly sweet well-wishing card in flowery, cursive script. The paper glittered suspiciously with pink sparkles – Edward shared his conspiracy theory that Armstrong's pixie dust was alchemically concocted, but why or how was completely beyond him.

And amongst the large pile were many short notes and cards from people the Elrics had only seen in passing, but whose lives they had saved on the Promised Day. Officers whom they barely knew thanked the brothers for everything they had done, wishing them all the best for the future.

It was quite disorientating, to say the least. The brothers exchanged glances more than once, bemused and stunned.

And of course, at the bottom of it all were six plain white envelopes, the brothers' names written neatly on each cover. Alphonse paused before tearing open the first one, almost awed by how achingly familiar each set of handwriting was.

Breda and Falman had kept theirs short and mostly professional, briefly detailing what the team had been up to since they last parted. Mostly boring meetings and damage control, it seemed like. Falman's letter was more mysterious, hinting that he had finally met the girl of his dreams in Briggs, but that Mustang's ambitious plans for Ishval had kept him and the others in Central most of the time.

Fuery's letter was long winded and cheery, offering them news of the latest betting pool in Central Command – whether Black Hayate or Roy Mustang would ultimately win Riza Hawkeye's affection first. It was a betting pool that could get them all shot, and Ed couldn't stop sniggering after reading that one.

Lieutenant Hawkeye's letter, like herself, was neat, to the point, and left Al with a warm feeling in his stomach. She curtly reminded both brothers to not do anything reckless, before going into the latest news from Central: Fuhrer Grumman – she explained – had been purging their ranks to the very last corrupted officer. It was possible that both herself and the colonel were looking at a promotion very soon, to fill in the gaps the upper echelon had left after Bradley's defeat.

Alphonse was happy for them, but Edward simply rolled his eyes as the letter was read out.

"What?" asked Al, carefully folding away Hawkeye's letter. "I think they deserve it."

"Can you imagine how smug he's going to be once he becomes a general?" said Edward, folding his arms. "No one's ever going to get Colonel Bastard off his high horse after that."

Alphonse shook his head in exasperation as Edward opened the letter he had been holding. He scanned it quickly, his face turning a brighter and brighter red at each consecutive word, before throwing it down with a huff.

"Stupid Colonel Matchstick!" Ed swore to the ceiling, continuing to splutter obscenities at a man roughly three hundred miles away as Al casually picked up the discarded letter and smoothed it out.

Alphonse didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it was certainly not a few short lines of text, the words slightly lopsided as if they had been lazily penned while he was half-asleep over paperwork:

I'm sure everyone has been wishing you well, Fullmetal, so I'll forgo the formalities and get down to what's really important. Propose to Winry Rockbell immediately before she regains her senses and realises that her choice in men is rather...stunted. That's an order.

Alphonse, I hope you've adjusted to your body well. Know that you and your cats are always welcome in my office.

"That was nice," commented Alphonse, biting his cheek to hold back his own smirk.

"You're smirking, aren't you?" growled Edward. "Traitor!"

"Alright then, moving on." Alphonse quickly picked up the final envelope in order to change the subject, ripping open the seam with a fingernail.

He was surprised to find a photograph nestled within instead of paper. Drawing it out with two fingers, Alphonse read the short message inscribed on the back aloud:

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I thought you two might appreciate this one. We took it my first day out of physical and back on duty. –Havoc."

Al flipped it around as Ed crowded a little closer to examine the picture.

It mirrored the beloved framed photograph that Alphonse had seen sitting on the colonel's desk for years. Al ran his eyes over each face, taking in the smiles and relaxed expressions, thinking in satisfaction that oh yes, they deserve this.

His gaze lingered the longest on what seemed to be the centrepiece of the photo: the colonel and the lieutenant standing side by side, Black Hayate, a slightly bigger dog now, sitting at Hawkeye's feet. Mustang, from his unruly pitch-black hair to the impeccable military uniform, hadn't changed at all, though his expression seemed uncharacteristically sober.

Al found himself smiling wistfully, surprised to realise that he did miss them all terribly.

For in the years that Edward had been assigned under Colonel Mustang, his unit was the closest thing both brothers had to a family away from home.

"I'm glad everything turned out okay," remarked Alphonse in the silence that had fallen, and even though Ed was still fuming, his brother couldn't help but flash him a smile.

Edward held out his hand expectantly. With a raised eyebrow, Alphonse handed him the photograph.

Ed strode over to the wooden board hanging just beyond the hall, smirking to himself as he pinned its newest addition onto an empty space in between a picture of Edward in his red coat and a childhood photograph of Winry. The board was getting increasingly congested.

Edward stepped back to admire his handiwork.

He frowned, blinked, readjusted the photograph, stepped back, and frowned again.

Alphonse rose from his seat. "What is it, brother?"

Instead of answering, Edward scanned the photograph one more time, scouring the faces with great scrutiny. His eyes widened. "It can't…"

In a sudden burst of movement, Ed snatched the photograph off the wall to check the date it was taken.

Photo clutched in hand, as if he had forgotten he was still holding it, Edward rushed back into the kitchen.

"Brother?" Alphonse was getting concerned at the strange shift in mood.

Edward rapidly dialled a number on the Rockbell phone.

"Shush, I need to make a quick call." At first Al thought it was the light, but Edward was visibly pale.

"Brother," Al's voice was a little harsher. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what it is."

Ed angled his head up, his golden eyes pained.

"The colonel, Al." As if that explained it all.

While the Elric brothers had a near-perfect understanding of each other, Alphonse often felt the urge to remind his elder brother that no, contrary to popular belief, there was no such thing as Elric telepathy. "What about the colonel?"

Ed sucked in a breath to reply when the line clicked and a voice belonging to the last person Alphonse imagined his brother would call emerged from the receiver:

"Hello? Dr. Marcoh speaking."

Roughly three hundred miles away on a train speeding onwards at seventy miles per hour, the colonel and the lieutenant stood together on a narrow metal platform, their backs pressed to the exterior of the first-class carriage.

Riza had been silent since leaving their passenger car, attempting and failing to relax her tense grip on her weapon. This entire plan had her on edge, for many, many reasons, most of them having to do with the alchemist standing next to her, hands tucked in his pockets.

Said alchemist probably interpreted her silence a little differently.

"You aren't still mad at me about the earplugs, are you?"

Riza glanced his way. "No."

Roy frowned. He'd gotten ridiculously good at reading tone as of late. "I was tired. I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet."

Riza observed dryly that 'Flame Alchemist' and 'peace and quiet' weren't usually terms which went together. "Of course, sir."

Roy, as always, was persistent. "But?"

Riza sighed deeply. "Just… You really have to be more careful."

A flash of mild annoyance – and perhaps a touch of frustration – crossed his features briefly. "You know me, Lieutenant," he grinned, trying to ease into his usual laid-back demeanour. "I'm always careful."

Riza cocked one eyebrow, choosing not to dignify that with a response.

There was an awkward beat of silence before Roy cleared his throat. "I understand your concern, but I know how to handle myself," he paused. "Don't you trust me?"

It was a strangely difficult question to answer. On one hand, of course she did. On the other…

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by three short knocks coming from just above their heads – the agreed signal. If one were not actively listening for it, the sound would have been conveniently disguised as yet another one of the many clicks and clacks emitted by the moving gears of the train.

Both officers fell silent as Riza firmly knocked two times back, indicating that they were going ahead with the plan.

Steeling herself, she peered cautiously into the small rectangular slit built into the door of the carriage.

Through the narrow window, Riza surveyed the scene. The interior of the first-class carriage consisted of a row of closed-off compartments (for that extra bit of privacy), accessible by a single corridor lined with doors. The carpet was luxurious, the walls panelled with wood and metal.

Currently, a group of gun-carrying men – she counted five of them, so it was a larger group than the one in their carriage – were systematically combing through each compartment, guns trained on their richly-garbed occupants as luggage bags were overturned and identities were checked.

A ridiculously well-built man towered over the proceedings, his authoritative presence marking him as the true ringleader of this operation.

"They're keeping the passengers in their compartments," relayed Riza, keeping her voice low. "Seems like their search hasn't yielded much."

"Good. Just as expected," Roy tugged at his gloves, a tense habit of his which emerged occasionally. "Let's go."

Riza cocked her gun. "Yes sir."

He reached out, hand skimming the metal surface before his fingers landed on the handle.

The two officers braced themselves, and Roy swung the door open.

Here we go again.

The elite mercenary known simply as Mr. Wisp (for reasons better left unsaid) was not having the greatest day.

As one of the best in the industry, a job like this should have been a simple in-and-out affair. Yet, here he was with his assembled team of mercenaries and miscreants, left on a train with no target in sight.

It was a situation which left the tanned, muscled mercenary very short on patience.

"Perhaps our information was wrong, uh, Mister Wisp sire," suggested one of his lackeys awkwardly.

Wisp narrowed his eyes at the mercenary, who immediately scurried back to his post. He then turned his razor sharp gaze onto his second-in-command, a scarecrow-esque man who went by the name 'Pitch'.

Pitch raised his hands in mock surrender. "Don't look at me. High ranking military officials always travel first-class – one of those job perks, I suppose – and our informant was certain that this is the only train the target could have boarded."

Wisp held Pitch's gaze for a second longer before returning to the matter at hand. As much as he found a botched job unacceptable, they also needed to get off this train before they hit Central City. "You, over there with the rifle – Cody, was it? Scurry over to the other compartments and check if the other groups have found anything. You have ten minutes to report back."

The mercenary referred to as Cody started at his name. He hastily nodded, cocking his weapon as he strode towards the exit leading outside.

He was still ten steps away when the door creaked open.

The mercenaries weren't overly worried – they were expecting one of their own to return with news for their leader.

What they didn't expect, however, was for a complete stranger to sweep into the carriage. Pressing his palms together, he immediately reached out one gloved hand to touch the adjacent wall.

A crackle of blue electricity erupted from the point of contact, streaking lightning-fast along the wall. To the shock of both the hijackers and the captive passengers, the doors to each private compartment slid shut, sparks flaring and metal groaning as their locks were alchemically bent beyond repair.

The passengers were now locked in, as sure as the mercenaries holding them at gunpoint were locked out.

The stranger stepped towards the middle of the corridor, clasping his hands behind his back. He smirked in self-satisfaction. "Oh, my apologies. Did I interrupt something?"

The hijacker closest to the exit, who just so happened to be Cody, was the first to react. With a yell which jolted his companions out of their temporary astoundment, he raised his rifle.

A gunshot rang through the carriage as a second figure stepped in, a woman with flaxen hair and a smoking handgun. Cody screamed and dropped his weapon as his hand sprayed red.

Mr. Wisp instantly responded, raising his own shotgun and taking aim. "Fire!"

Weapons burst to life seconds after part of the train's metal wall was ripped free in a flash of light, bending inwards to create an impromptu defence.

Bullets pinged harmlessly off the barrier. Mercenaries dove frantically to avoid those which ricocheted back as Wisp waved his hand, signalling them to cease fire.

For a tense moment, there was only silence as both parties waited for the smoke to clear. Wisp watched the crumpled mass of metal warily, cursing under his breath. He had not expected to be taken by surprise on a civilian train.

A voice drifted from behind the barrier. "Relax. I just want to talk."

Wisp gestured for one of his men to retrieve a hostage as leverage. The hijacker experimentally jiggled the handle on one of the doors, but it simply came off in his hand.

"Those doors aren't opening anytime soon," said the voice, a cocky edge to it which grated on Wisp's nerves. "I'd suggest you leave the passengers alone."

Wisp remained silent, rapidly accessing the situation. The stranger's face had been mostly hidden, but Wisp had caught that flash of black hair. Couple that with the alchemy and the gloves, and he had a pretty good match to his employer's description.

"What are you up to, Flame Alchemist?" If Wisp could buy time for one of his men to circle around the barrier, he could still finish the job.

"So, you've heard of me," remarked Roy Mustang flippantly. "I'm flattered. You're not from around here, are you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Besides the accent? The fact that you think you can get away with this."

Wisp smiled humourlessly. He could see how this man made his enemies. "You're outnumbered here, alchemist. You're stalling the inevitable."

"Just making polite conversation," said Mustang.

While they were talking, two of Wisp's followers had been slowly edging towards the barrier, guns aimed at the empty space next to it. Wisp nodded at them. "Let's skip the small talk, shall we?"

At Wisp's signal, the two men sprung into action, but before they could get too close, gunfire opened on them from behind the crumpled wall, forcing them to retreat.

Wisp scowled. Mustang's backup was proving to be irritatingly competent. The State Alchemist continued to drawl on unconcernedly. "I agree. Let's get right down to business. I don't suppose you'll tell me who hired you?"

Wisp bared his teeth, his frustration building. "That's confidential."

"Fair enough. You know, you didn't actually think that you could get away with assassinating a military officer, did you? Once you hit the station, you and your motley group would be swarmed by military police."

"I'm not stupid enough to allow this train to –" Wisp paused in mid-sentence, the truth dawning on him.

The Flame Alchemist was stalling for time.

"Men!" barked Wisp. "Back to the driver's compartment!"

The other mercenaries didn't question their leader. They backed up quickly towards the other exit, keeping their weapons trained on the enemy.

Flanked by his men, Wisp strode right up to the door and proceeded to pull it open.

It didn't budge.

Wisp tugged on the handle again, but no amount of force would dislodge the door.

A pair of eyes framed by rust-red hair appeared in the door's small window. "Sorry boys, but we've retaken control of this train," the officer grinned widely. "Colonel, they're all yours!"

This last statement was shouted over their heads as the officer immediately ducked down, saving him from a barrage of shotgun rounds from Wisp which shattered the window.

Glass rained at his feet, and Wisp swivelled back around, realising that for the first time in his career, he was well and truly cornered.

With no other option available, Wisp bellowed: "Keep firing at them!"

His men obliged, pummelling the alchemised barrier with an onslaught of bullets. Perhaps they might even have managed to destroy it, given enough time.

Unfortunately for them, the clattering of firing weapons was punctuated by a sharp snap.

The sound was instantly followed by a streak of light which arced elegantly towards them.

With nowhere to retreat, Wisp barely had time to shield his face before the flames erupted in front of him, the force of the explosion throwing every single one of them off their feet.

As Major Alex Louis Armstrong strode past the military cordon, the Strong Arm Alchemist reflected with fond amusement that once again, Central's most infamous colonel had managed to stir the military into an uproar.

He nodded at the harried officers who paused briefly to salute him before scurrying off to contain this disaster. Lifting the ribbon of yellow tape which barred his entry and ducking below it, Armstrong scanned the platform.

Platform Seven of Central's primary train station had been temporarily closed, the usual crowd of travelling civilians replaced by military officers hurrying around with their arms full of tools or documents.

Due to his impressive height, Armstrong spotted a familiar face in no time at all.

Colonel Mustang was sitting on a metal bench, seeming bored out of his mind as he fiddled with his State Alchemist watch. A short distance away, Lieutenant Hawkeye was speaking to an officer on damage control duty.

The crowd parted almost magically around Armstrong's intimidating bulk as he strode up to his old acquaintance, snapping into a polite salute.

"Colonel Mustang! I'm so glad you're unharmed!"

Mustang jolted upright at the sound of Armstrong's voice.

"Major Armstrong," he smiled, holding his hands out to discourage Armstrong from launching into one of his emotional bear hugs. "I assure you, we had the situation completely under control."

"Personally, I wouldn't call destroying part of the train 'under control', sir," Lieutenant Hawkeye said as she appeared at his side. She and the major saluted each other. "Central Command isn't going to be too thrilled when they hear about this."

Major Armstrong glanced towards the end of the platform, where military police were leading a string of slightly scorched mercenaries off the (rather battered) train. Some of them were going to end up with a few nasty burns from the encounter, but they'll survive.

"It was a small, localised explosion," defended Mustang. "And I thought my aim wasn't too bad this time."

"I clearly said eighteen feet, not twenty," reminded Hawkeye, but there was a small smile on her lips.

Mustang grinned back, undeterred. "Surely I deserve a gold star for effort."

Armstrong smiled broadly. Many things had changed since the Promised Day, but this, at least, would remain the same.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Armstrong raised his hand, flourishing the folder of documents he'd been holding. "I have that report you requested, Colonel."

He reflexively moved to hand Mustang the folder, but as a sudden thought struck him, Armstrong hesitated.

The papers hung awkwardly in the air, the major's arm half-outstretched.

Fortunately, Hawkeye plucked the folder from his grasp, saving all of them from more unnecessary awkwardness. The lieutenant flipped it open, skimming through the pages.

"Seems like you were right, Colonel. Among all the hijackers on that train, only a few were Amestrians. Most of them, including their ringleader 'Wisp', are Aerugonians. Wisp allegedly built his fame off high-profile kills who all happened to be public political enemies of Aerugo."

"Sounds like Aerugo is getting antsy," said Mustang.

"About the Restoration Program?" asked Armstrong, folding his arms.

"Most likely. There's no other obvious reason why a group of Aerugonian mercenaries would be after me this time of year," he smiled, half-joking.

"After all," added Hawkeye, snapping the folder closed. "Aerugo has always relied on Ishval – especially during the Civil War – to distract Amestris from our border conflict. Even after the war ended, the inhospitable, abandoned region of Ishval acted as a buffer of sorts since it sits on the Aerugonian border."

"Amestris making peace with the Ishvalans, and even potentially rebuilding Ishval, would only disadvantage Aerugo," Armstrong realised.

Mustang shrugged, unconcerned. "All Aerugo's attempted interference means is that we're getting very close to our end goal."

Armstrong beamed. "I take it the meeting with my sister was a success?"

"Oh, it was terrible. I got completely chewed out," Mustang counted on his fingers. "She called me incompetent, unprofessional, a complete blundering fool, and –"

"And we officially have General Armstrong's support for the Program and the peace treaty," Hawkeye cut in. "Which concludes our visits to key military figures."

"You know, Colonel, most people would just send letters."

Mustang shrugged again. "I needed to be sure that no one would oppose our plans right before they launch. We've worked too hard to get this far."

Armstrong nodded, his respect for his fellow State Alchemist continuing to grow. Known throughout Eastern and Central Command as a serial slacker, even his subordinates were surprised when the colonel had jumped straight into tireless preparatory work for what he termed the 'Ishvalan Restoration Program' barely a week after Bradley's defeat.

"We just have to wrap up some final details with the Ishvalan Grand Cleric, then we can finally start rebuilding," continued Mustang. "We're heading back East the day after tomorrow for the meeting."

Major Armstrong started to answer, but was interrupted by a young sergeant tapping him on the shoulder. He turned to address the newcomer kindly. "Yes?"

The sergeant saluted. "Major Armstrong, sir. We request your assistance with the uh," he glanced imperceptibly at the colonel, who was not-so-subtly eavesdropping on their conversation. "The locks on the first-class compartment doors. They have all been irreparably twisted out of shape, and we can't get the passengers out."

Mustang winced guiltily. "You know, I don't mind helping with that."

"Oh, uh… We couldn't possibly ask you to deal with it, Colonel Mustang! I mean –" The sergeant immediately shut his mouth at a sharp look from Hawkeye.

Mustang blinked, not sure how to take this blatant refusal of his assistance in stride.

"I'm sure all the good officer meant is that I have more experience dealing with metal," said Major Armstrong, stepping in to salvage the situation. "I'll be happy to help, young man."

The sergeant nodded quickly, relieved at the save. Seeing that her superior officer was still struggling to hide his disappointment, Lieutenant Hawkeye said quietly: "We'll be late for that lunch appointment with Fuhrer Grumman if we don't leave now."

Mustang perked up. "Fair point, Lieutenant. I guess you're stuck with clean-up, Major Armstrong."

Raising a hand in farewell, the Flame Alchemist stood, straightened his clothes, and strode off confidently. Hawkeye followed, glancing warily at the rounded-up mercenaries to make sure none of them tried anything desperate.

With the train schedule being the mess that it was, someone had left a pile of abandoned luggage in the middle of the platform. As most of the officers milling about simply avoided it, no one had bothered to move the bags out of the way.

The colonel walked right up to the pile, showing no signs of slowing down. Hawkeye glanced back a second too late. "Col –"

His foot snagged on a heavy briefcase. With a surprised "Ack!", Colonel Mustang tipped over and plunged towards the floor.

His fall was fortunately cushioned by a particularly large suitcase packed with clothes. For a moment, he simply sat there, stunned and embarrassed.

Major Armstrong winced in sympathy, but knew better than to offer his assistance. If anyone else in the military noticed the undignified tumble, they all pointedly averted their gazes and said nothing at all.

Hawkeye leaned over. "You okay, sir?"

Mustang rubbed the back of his head, flushed slightly red. "Just fine," he allowed her to help him up. "I guess I deserved that for being overconfident."

Hawkeye firmly guided his hand to grasp the crook of her elbow. "Confidence is always a good thing, sir."

And whilst every other military officer, including Armstrong, pretended not to notice Hawkeye carefully leading the colonel out of the station (and even if they weren't pretending, they certainly refrained from commenting), a single pair of eyes followed their progress from the very end of the platform.

Defeated mercenary Mr. Wisp snorted to himself.

He would even have found the situation funny, if it weren't currently him being escorted in handcuffs to a lonely holding cell. "What do you know? The rumours were true."

Bitterly, he reflected on how he had accepted this job with the promise of an easy, helpless target – he had not signed up for a full-blown gunfight with a functioning alchemist.

He shook his head, vowing to himself to never again underestimate another Amestrian.

Alphonse Elric watched as his brother slowly replaced the receiver.

For a moment, the kitchen was completely silent. Edward's expression was one of numb shock, his fingers still clenched tightly around the phone. "I can't believe it…"

Alphonse was almost afraid to ask. But he had to know.

"What did Dr. Marcoh tell you?"

Ed took a deep breath as if bracing himself. "The colonel – he…"

Alphonse could already feel his stomach sinking. Deep inside, he could tell where this was going.

Edward didn't meet his eyes.

"He never got his sight back."