mommypleasedontletmegoitshardtoseeyoulikethispalea ndsweatdripsdownpleasedontletgomommystopityourelet tinggoifeelyourbonesandmusclesgoinglimpthebloodits topsitscoldyourecoldICANTTAKECAREOFHIMmommypleasen ononononononoillburnyourfaceillburnyourfootstepsil lburnusdown

A little blond form, cloaked in scarlet, said nothing at all. He inhaled the scent of hell, of charcoal, of exploding jugs of rotting milk. Eventually, he thought, licking his fire-chapped lips, the house will collapse on itself, on the blood in the basement and daddy's evil books, and mommy's chinaware will slip through the cracks and break and turn to dust.

The behemoth beside him (his precious little brother, who smelled of wheat and innocence in human form) was quiet, somber, calming. He was the cool wind to Edward's spark. And Ed smiled at him, at the hulking metal body, at the glowing emblems of sight, at the intimidating glower of a soul without flesh. The children were stolen from themselves, long ago, and now they reaped the consequences, destroying everything that had defined them.

He had a theory that the world was a false mirror. When you burned matter, broke it down to its fundamental components, it showed its true form, and that form was perpetual blackness. The soul itself was black as rot, death revealing truth. The mirror, the false looking-glass, the painted cave walls; it was all just a series of mirages, drawn in detail for the starving spirit's decay.

Serpents of liquid fire dripped down the walls, consuming the evidence of their sins. They stayed at a safe distance, eyes flickering and passive, throwing more fuel on the flames. Their beds. Their clothes. Their forgotten books and playthings—gone to smoke. What was innocence, anyway? Ignorance, indulgence in your desires.

The kiss of night. The hiss of steam. Wood and brick crumbled into hellfire, and Edward smiled grimly, regretting nothing—

He opened his eyes. He remembered empty suits of armor, cutting his half-metal body to ribbons, and a woman called Lust demanding he sacrifice sinners, and a soldier holding him close as his own power devoured him in a white-hot flash. An alchemy-induced seizure. The reaction had been immediate: his touch, the red water, the possession. It must have detected the alchemical fervor in his blood.

The bed was clean, white. The walls. The bedpan. His wrappings. A hospital; so that was where his impulsive, reckless behavior had landed him (again). It was not entirely his fault he had gone to laboratory five, unattended by any trained companions. Alphonse had been there, completely able to stop him, and yet his brother had gone along for the ride. Desperate as he was for a true body, Ed did not blame him.

Where was Alphonse, anyway? Ice lodged in his capillaries. The last he had seen of his precious brother, the armor had been falling apart, and the blood seal was being tampered with. He clenched his metal hand into a silver-bright fist, staring at his harrowed reflection. Stringy bangs, a forehead damp with fevered sweat, and the crust of blood beneath a bandage. He had flesh wounds, and Alphonse was either unharmed or damaged irreparably.

He did not wish to translate the euphemism.

Waking up was strange and surreal. This felt unnatural, wrong, even. Perhaps it was because Alphonse wasn't there. Yes, that was it. Alphonse was gone, off to the vending machines to fetch a snack for his elder brother, or else making a phone call to Winry to spare him from her threats and accusations.

He huffed out a breath, the air ruffling his bangs, and then looked at the pane of glass in the door. He was not looking forward to her visit. He had trashed his arm. Wires poked out of the plating, screws were missing, and a finger or two had mysteriously disappeared. He was sometimes a little too careless with the arm. Because he didn't necessarily have to worry about that limb, he treated it with the sort of expendability you would use with a weapon. But wasn't that what it was? A weapon?

A familiar face pressed up against the glass, smiled, and then the body attached entered the room alone. "Edward. You're awake," Major Hughes said, green eyes attentive and full of mirth. Ed was sure the visit would soon become dusky with foreboding (this was an important military issue, after all), but nonetheless returned the favor.

"Major, good to see you," he said, grinning. "Survived the night. Can't believe it. What the hell happened? Where's Al?"

A brief, puzzled look crossed the man's features, but in a flash it was gone and the same quirky confidence was back. "I was about to ask you the same question," he said, taking a seat in the chair beside the hospital bed. "Hoping you could tell me. You caused quite the ruckus."

"Yeah," Ed said apologetically, looking away. Hughes had spent a lot of time and energy and men trying to find them. He hadn't thought about that beforehand, had just assumed that everything would turn out okay, even though he should have known from experience that his plans normally went wrong. "Sorry."

"Tell me what happened," Maes said, waving off the apology. "We can go over the specifics later. As for Al—I saw him some time this morning. He should be back soon. Don't worry about it too much, okay, kid?"

Ed nodded, not quite sure he believed that, but decided to tell his story. He told Hughes about sneaking into Laboratory Five through the building's ventilation shafts. He had somehow found himself in an underground corridor, full of bestial chimeras, which eventually led him to the Slicer Brothers and their wicked knives. He had escaped, barely, only to come across another sin from his past: Shou Tucker, now a chimera himself, working fruitlessly to resurrect his daughter.

"It was disgusting," he said, barely disguising the horror in his voice. "The way he thought he could do it. He was so full of hope. I felt sick. I felt—like he didn't deserve to feel sad or remorseful. He's a fucking idiot and he's worse off than he was then. Ironic, right? Sacrifice your daughter to keep your livelihood, then find yourself a monster hiding in a basement."

Hughes was quiet for a moment, his eyes dancing around the room as he tried finding something to focus on. The IV in Edward's arm went drip, drip, drip, and the man wondered if the medication was beginning to run its course. "Go on, Ed. Tell me what happened next."

Ed hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't remember. It was that he wouldn't be believed. And how could his story be true? Those things weren't supposed to exist, they were horror tales, they were monsters adults created to get children to sleep at night.

"Ed?"

"Homunculus," he said at last.

"What?"

"Soulless humans."

There was no fog of judgment in the green dimensions of his eyes, no hint of disbelief that Ed had become reluctantly accustomed to. Lately it had been doctors and soldiers who obviously couldn't begin to fathom the boundaries of alchemical science—or those who wanted to manipulate it for genocide's sake. "Edward, can you tell me what this – homunculus looked like?" Hughes said.

Ed shrugged, looking off to a fly on the ceiling. He wondered how it defied gravity. "I could draw you a picture," he suggested, not an altogether verbose person. He wasn't a very good artist, either, but it would leave him with leverage. If they really wanted a drawing, they would tell him where his brother was.

"Thanks, Ed." Hughes offered a warm smile, etched with stress lines, and Ed knew he was contemplating what evidence of living, breathing homunculi meant for the rest of the military.

Ed remembered his wrecked arm, wrapped in a sling with most of the pieces on the bedside table. "Lieutenant," he called, "has anyone reached my mechanic? Me and Al have both been busted up pretty bad, and I mean—I could call her myself, if you want."

Hughes' face betrayed nothing in the pause that followed. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "I'll give her a call for you, alright?"

Ed ignored the sinking feeling in his chest. He knew they fought, but he didn't understand why he wasn't allowed to call her. "Okay."

"I don't understand," the nurse said. "Why aren't you letting him see his brother?"

Hughes wasn't entirely sure what to say, especially to someone who didn't know the whole story. He glanced at Mustang, who nodded for him to continue, and cleared his throat. "His brother is dead, ma'am. He's been dead for quite some time." He remembered the stink of blood and death, and from the dark shadows under his partner's eyes, knew Roy did as well. It had been a horrific scene. "Do you recall the incident in Resembool, four or five years ago?"

"Oh, my," the woman whispered in epiphany. "You mean that's him?"

"Afraid so," Hughes answered, offering a sympathetic expression to Edward's door.

Inspector Roy Mustang folded his arms across his chest; his police uniform threw a striking blue against the limestone walls of the hospital ward. "Awful stuff. The boys' father, you may remember, was the leader of the Church of Xerxes. After he abandoned his family for a harem of young disciples, the mother perished from tuberculosis. It seems that neglect and carbon monoxide poisoning drove the brothers to…" He trailed off, leaving the gory details to himself and to Hughes.

Captain Hughes decided that was probably for the best. The general public needn't hear about the blood and gore and demonic circles painted all over the cellar floor. Nor did they need to hear about Alphonse Elric's mutilated corpse, or that his elder brother managed to saw off his own arm and leg before succumbing to shock. If it hadn't been for Officer Mustang, out on patrol in that desolate town through an administrative error, both children would have perished. As it was, the man was plenty disturbed that he hadn't thought to take the boy into custody sooner; a year later, he burned his home to the ground.

Roy looked towards the room where the surviving Elric waited for his brother. Always waiting, perpetually living in a fantasy world of his own creation. Edward Elric claimed his arm was made of silver, ingenious mechanical engineering created by the little blond girl in Resembool. If only. It's plastic and rubber like everything else.

"That house is still there," the captain said. "The one he torched. No one'll go near it—they say it's haunted."