Catalysis
Iluxia & Aventria

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.

Warning(s) for this chapter: None in particular.

Response to a review (from Carla): Thank you for reading the story; we appreciate it very much. As for the general length of this fic, I cannot give you an appropriate approximate, but I know that this will be beyond three-hundred thousand words (300,000). Way beyond novel-length. It's more of an epic. We could condense it into the barest essentials, but where would the fun be in doing that? We don't want to rob the readers of the details; they make fandom go round~.

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II : Debut

06

Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to always and forever be explaining things to them.
( Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince )

-

Nothing.

Edward came up with nothing relevant from the newspapers, apart from the bare facts he already expected to find and could have gotten by asking his neighbours. If this was indeed Mustang’s subordinates’ work, they were a painfully thorough bunch. Then again, this was Mustang. Mustang would have nothing less than the best of people for himself, just as he had his way with everything else. From what he’d heard from Gracia, Mustang was plenty influential within the military ranks, despite his young age and lack of rank. Lack of experience was something nobody could accuse Mustang of; the man was a veteran from the Ishbal War, and a more-than-adequate politician from how he had worked his way up so rapidly through the military.

But such was not his point.

The tight security protecting the information was maddening. He had, by nature, a curious soul, and he itched to know about those murders Mustang insisted on keeping from him. He did not blame the man for doing so, not at all—only, he thought that the man was a little bit too overprotective at times.

Alright, that was an understatement. The man was a fucking paranoid Bastard.

He gave a momentous sigh and stretched his limbs, sprawling all over his couch. The table was laden with his usual books, the flask, his references, and his notes; but over them, newspapers dating from February of the same year were spread in a systematic fashion. So far, he had nothing more than what he would bet the military had, probably even less. He did not have nearly the same amount of abundant resources the military had. He only had one library and very unreliable newspapers on hand.

What was he thinking, trying to poke his nose into Mustang’s business? The man was not playing a game.

The phone rang loud in his afternoon stupor, echoing against the walls. He swung up from the couch and grabbed the phone, following Mustang’s instructions to never say anything and let the other side speak first.

“Ed, it’s me,” Mustang’s voice filtered through.

“Oh, hey, Bastard,” Ed relaxed back into the couch. “You’re going to be late tonight, then?”

“About an hour or two, if you can wait. If not, go to Gracia’s house. Maes should be talking to her right now,” there was cacophony in the background, unusual for wherever Mustang worked. Perhaps he was not in his office? Ed did not even know if the man had one. (He probably did.) “We just have a little bit of extra work to deal with.”

“I can wait,” and Ed spent the next few minutes reassuring Mustang that no, he was not going out of the house, yes, the doors were locked, yes, he could wait, and no, he had not talked to anyone from outside. When they finally hung up, Ed was at the verge of giving into an intense impulse to rebel against Mustang’s now somewhat suffocating rules. Seeing the newspapers, however, was enough to discourage any rash action his deviant little brain could cook up.

He languished about, feeling unjustifiably useless and generally incompetent. Mustang would come home tonight tired, no doubt, again with that hollow, drained shadow in his eyes. Ed did not like those alien eyes; he liked the intense and fiery Bastard. But how was he to help relieve the burden if he was trapped here like a caged pet, unable to do what he was good at? These murders, from what the paper clippings said, seemed to have some sort of alchemical component involved; he could crack that, surely. And Mustang knew this, yet here he was, being kept away from the investigation. It was all sorts of infuriating, frustrating, and touching.

His eyes instinctively glanced over at the clock; it was nearing four in the afternoon. Today was a wasted day with no progress on his research—on the Xerxian book, or on the murders. He sighed again; he hated the lack of visible progress.

Mustang had said that he would come home an hour or two late—not very late, but late enough that the man would probably have no time to prepare a proper dinner for the two of them. Ed did not want to stress Mustang any further by demanding food, but he did not want to impose too much on Gracia either…

I could cook for him.

Ed paused at the thought.

Cooking was something he had never really tried his hand with, much less study. Mustang had been giving him pointers for the past few weeks, but pointers were really nothing compared to the real thing.

But isn’t experimentation what I do best?

He felt rather awkward about experimenting in Mustang’s immaculate kitchen.

I could easily clean up any mess I might make, and repair any damage I might incur…

Ed’s eyes idly wandered towards the far bookshelf near the back stairs, where there was a section for the culinary crafts. It was small, smaller than the other sections, but sizable enough for the basic and intermediate lessons. He gathered Mustang learned the advanced techniques from experimenting and improving upon the basic techniques.

Rising from his seat, Ed made his way to the kitchen. He had about three hours. That was more than enough.

-

By the time Ed heard the opening of the front door and the quiet noise of the military car leaving the driveway, he was finished with the final preparations. His meal was simple, a combination of two different dishes he had seen Mustang cook before. It was a simple salad, with a serving large enough to be a light dinner, with freshly baked bread. (Baking turned out to be easier than cooking—never mind that he had clapped.)

“Edward?” Mustang was removing his jacket when he stepped into the kitchen. Ed turned from where he was preparing the olive oil and spices (to dip the bread in); the salads were already laid out neatly on the table. Mustang gave a slow blink and once-over of the kitchen—free of mess and relatively orderly—before turning back to Ed. “What are you doing?”

“I clapped us some food,” Ed said proudly with a grin.

“…clapped.”

“Well,” Ed shrugged and explained (not whined), “your oven doesn’t seem to work for some reason, and the stove hates me. I managed to fry the chicken alright, but the breading was hell. I don’t know how you do it. So I just clapped. Oh, and I made the bread too.” He gave Mustang another grin.

“…are you sure it’s not, you know, poisonous?” Mustang motioned toward the table, apprehensive as if facing a rearing tiger.

Ed scowled. “I trust you enough to eat what you cook; it’s only fair that you trust me enough to eat my cooking!”

“Edward,” Mustang deadpanned. “Clapping isn’t cooking.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it so is!” Edward petulantly stomped his foot. “The Gate says that as long as you accomplish a certain temperature, it is so cooking!”

“I thought you didn’t like the Gate,” an eyebrow lifted in surprise, Mustang set down his jacket and slid into a seat, facing the food.

Ed prepared them three loaves of freshly baked (err, clapped?) bread, still steaming and soft, with extra-virgin olive oil with spices to dip them in. The salad was simple: spinach, roma tomatoes, red onion strips, fried onion rings, strips of fried bacon, crumbled gorgonzola cheese, with basic vinaigrette. On top was a chicken breast deep-fried with spices to seal in the taste, and then breaded (crusted with pecan sprinkles, Ed’s personal touch) and baked (err, clapped) into perfection. Then Ed cut it up in strips to make the eating easier. His meal was not as elaborate as Mustang’s meals, but he thought it was rather impressive for an amateur like him.

“I don’t like the Gate,” frowned Ed. “But my opinion or perception of it doesn’t affect in any way its accuracy.”

Mustang merely smiled, as if he had expected that. Ed wondered if he really was that easy to predict.

“I don’t know what wine goes well with this,” Ed confessed after a moment of silence. Mustang appeared to like the bread, enough to savour it slowly and carefully in his mouth. Ed sprinkled a little bit more of the spices into the olive oil dip saucer between the two of them.

“Mm,” Mustang stood and stepped over to the island, where his hand hovered over bottles until he seized one and carefully pulled it out of its little slot. With practiced ease, he opened it for them, letting Ed set out the two glasses and filling it halfway. “Chardonnay. Buttery taste. Perfect for cutting into the gorgonzola chalkiness.”

Ed swirled the wine in his mouth, grimaced when he found it was not chill enough, and clapped for their glasses and the bottle so that the wine would cool. Mustang observed his alchemy carefully; the man had expressed intense interest and fascination with it. Ed did not fault Mustang; he himself was very intrigued.

“How was work?” Ed asked now that they were settled into their food. He knew that it was futile to try and direct the conversation towards the direction he wanted, but that did not stop him from trying. And he was actually genuinely curious about Mustang’s workplace; he was slowly beginning to realize a want to see the outer world, a world beyond this house, and he wanted to see how Mustang was beyond this house. He knew Mustang’s softer, more personal faces, but that was not all of him. Ed was curious; Ed wanted to know all of him. It was only fair; Mustang knew nearly everything about him, after all.

“You’re not going to get involved with the investigation, Edward, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” Mustang wryly smiled over the rim of his wineglass, and then continued, “We were rather busy, as you might have already guessed. Hawkeye was as bossy and overpowering as usual. Things are just a little bit more… ahh, how should I say this—populous.”

“You don’t like it when other people step into your team,” that was so typical of Mustang.

“I do not like it when information is not ferried through me before action is taken. I should be the one to dictate action, but there are some people who perceive themselves competent when in truth they are not,” the stiff, condescending tone Mustang was using suggested intense dislike; perhaps a superior officer poking a nose within Mustang’s jurisdiction. Ed hated those too, the belligerent and quarrelsome idiots.

“So what do you do when you encounter people like that?” and Ed was surprised at how easy it was to make conversation with Mustang—because usually it was Mustang sparking their conversations—such that he did not even have to think too much about what he was going to say or ask. The words simply flowed.

Watching as the tension bled out of the set of Mustang’s shoulders, Ed relaxed against his seat and kept the conversation going. Talking was Mustang’s way of distraction tonight, a way of relieving his brain of the stress of work and murder cases. Ed figured that if he could not help solve the case directly by being a part of the investigation team, then he could at least help the team leader unwind at home, so that the night would be occupied by a nice, deep sleep, and the next day would surface fresh and ready.

-

-

Mustang was impressed with his cooking, though disapproving of his ‘shortcut’ methodology. Ed discarded the very word; alchemy was not shortcut. It required the same amount of work, only Ed was better at alchemy, therefore faster and more efficient. (Mustang said these were all excuses; Ed refused to listen.)

Every night, whenever Mustang came home a little bit late, Ed would cook for them, varying his dishes according to what he was reading or what he had seen Mustang cook. At times he would stop over at Gracia’s place, and Gracia would teach him different techniques, show him different dishes. Sometimes, he would even get a taste.

It was Gracia who initially gave Ed the idea of distraction. On Monday noon, before Ed had picked up that newspaper and found out about the sixth body, Gracia had told Ed about the Ishbal War and how Hughes and Mustang met. Gracia had mentioned feeling inadequate in the beginning of her relationship with Hughes; Hughes and Mustang were such close friends that it seemed to the rest of the world that they needed no one else. Hughes and Mustang were each others’ support systems. Gracia was essentially a third wheel.

But eventually, she told Ed, she found her place and her purpose in Hughes’ life. She was able to distract him from the war, and while Mustang remained the one friend Hughes sought to talk about work, she was able to teach Hughes how to begin to live life again, especially after the war.

Which of course led Ed to think: if Gracia helped Hughes, then who helped Mustang?

No one.

Mustang had no one, Ed quickly realized. This house was a beautiful house, but it was an empty house, and no doubt Mustang would have felt the stagnant loneliness pooling within these tall walls whenever he was alone at night, without anyone to talk to about the war. Sure, there would have been other friends he could have sat with, but from the looks of it, it was only Hughes who truly came close to understanding whatever Mustang went through.

Ed felt incredibly uncomfortable thinking about such things. He was unused to the practice of considering other human beings’ feelings this much, especially someone like Mustang, who was still a half-stranger to him. Barely three weeks in Central and he was already so immersed that he was worrying this much about Mustang’s wellbeing. Perhaps it was guilt, or some sort of manifestation of obligation, he did not know—but not helping Mustang in some way bothered him to his very core.

And he saw that at the very roots of this, there was his selfishness as well. It would never go away; Ed knew that it was in his blood. Just like Hohenheim, he was selfish enough to leave behind his family and pursue his dreams; today, Ed knew that he was being selfish by wanting to help Mustang. He wanted to keep Mustang healthy and happy, because by now, he considered Mustang a valuable mentor.

Granted, he could be underestimating Mustang’s resilience under stress, but every man had his limits. Even he had his limit, and he had come very close to it. (He had Mustang to thank for keeping him from that disaster, too.)

He voiced this to Gracia, and she did not even need to hear all of it before she said, “Just do what feels right, Ed. Trust your heart.”

Ed wanted to tell her that the seat of instincts and emotion was in the limbic system in the brain and nowhere near the chest, but refrained. He understood what she was saying, and found it incredibly amusing—and revealing—that since Resembool, he had yet to act in a purely instinctive manner. Everything seemed to be all about thinking ever since he came to Central. Perhaps it was Mustang, who discouraged impulse. Or perhaps it was simply the suddenness and shock of it that he was being overly cautious, as Gracia insisted. He did not know; he was not sure. But something had changed; he began to think too much.

Maybe Gracia is right. Maybe I should just follow what feels right this time around. Emotions are felt, after all. And that made perfectly logical sense, surprisingly enough.

Somewhere along the way of conversation, they got talking about the military generals, people Mustang particularly disliked, except for those few competent and sane ones. Mustang was in the process of deriding a certain general’s uneducated tastes in art; Edward was in the process of snickering his head off.

Apparently, two days ago on Wednesday night, an auction was held at one of the military-owned public museums. There was a general named Hakuro, who, despite obviously not having enough money to fight for a certain art piece, still went ahead and spent an extravagant amount of money on something entirely worthless. Edward listened as Mustang regaled about Hakuro’s pathetic attempts at showing the bourgeoisie just how ‘enlightened’ he was, while occasionally sipping cold tea spiked with raspberry flavour.

“But you said he’s a general,” Ed stepped into Mustang’s little rant. “How come he can’t afford the art piece?”

“Well, the… art piece—if you can call that piece of imitative junk a work of art—was going for roughly fifteen thousand marks—“ Ed choked, “—and there is just no way he can afford that much on military salary. Not with a wife and two children to support, and a house to pay for. That is three-fifths his monthly salary, and double mine.”

The calculations were quick in Ed’s head. Slowly, he blinked at Mustang and narrowed his eyes.

“So your monthly pay is eight thousand marks as a Lieutenant Colonel?” Mustang nods, and Ed continues, “But you paid more than two thousand for those clothes you bought me, nearly three hundred for food and stuff enough to last us two weeks—and I’m willing to bet the flask and the Xerxian book didn’t come cheap. Where the hell did you learn your budgeting?”

“Every month I gain more than double my salary from the park restaurant alone, Ed,” Mustang had that conniving little smile again. “The businesses I sponsor are more than enough to support me luxuriously, in truth. I stay in the military purely because of my ambitions, though of course, not many people are aware of that. To many, the military’s monetary benefit is already quite grand—and it is, by normal terms.”

“Ah, of course,” the slow drag of Ed’s tone is exasperated but amused at the same time. “Roy Mustang is far too great to be defined by normal terms.”

“Why, thank you.”

Ed scowled.

There was a stretch of comfortable silence, and then Ed piped up again, “What do you mean when you said that not many people knew about you staying in the military purely because of ambition? Doesn’t the military collect information about their employees’ properties and assets and whatnot?”

“They know I own a house and a car, but other than that, not much else.” Mustang gestured to the grand library surrounding them, towards the hall where rare and authentic paintings hung framed on the walls. “All of this is private property; I am not obliged to list it down. I am also not obliged to list private sources of income—businesses and such. They might track my movements—what I buy and where I go—but as for sponsoring the businesses, all of it is grassroots, done through personal connections. They don’t search that deep. All of them think that my financial standing is just like any upper-middle class citizen, living on a decent and marginally luxurious wage.”

“They don’t know you’re obscenely rich, is what you’re saying,” Ed had to roll his eyes. “So where does this all go if you die or something?” and for good measure, added, “Not that I’m saying you’ll die soon or anything; I’m just curious.”

Mustang chuckled. “If it were any other person, Edward, I would seriously doubt that excuse. But since you’re you, I trust your curiosity.” Ed scowled, though feeling strangely flattered. “My will has Hughes and Hughes’ family as the primary beneficiary. A few close friends also have their parts.”

Ed had expected that. Cheekily, he quipped, “Are you sure you don’t want to adopt me?” adding a little charm by giving a beatific smile. It had Mustang laughing for a straight three minutes. Ed figured this whole going-with-what-felt-right thing was not all that bad of an idea, after all.

-

An hour later and Ed found himself still immersed in conversation. He listened attentively to Mustang’s line-up of up and coming events for Central’s arts, letters, and history districts for the approaching autumn season. He had mentioned a while ago that he wanted to see more of the city, and Mustang thought it was a good idea to take him to shows and events around the place. Ed found himself eager for it.

“The annual alchemy symposium is also coming up,” Mustang said, and Ed perked in his seat. “We’ll go to that one. I think you’ll find the variety of topics the guest speakers talk of highly intriguing and educational. They’ll probably host it in one of the public halls again, but I’ve heard talk of hosting it at a preparatory school, which might be a good idea. The students—curious young men and ladies, I’m sure—will benefit from it greatly.”

That made sense, Ed thought. They desperately needed more competent researchers, ones that were genuinely interested in the science and not just the monetary or statistic benefit. The young ones were the easiest and best to pick up.

“So have you ever spoken at one of those symposiums?”

Mustang shook his head no. “I rather prefer the smaller, more intimate discussions, than the big halls. I like enabling critics to speak up against me, and consequently arguing my points with them. Besides, there are plenty of other State Alchemists eager to fill that stage.”

Ed frowned as some tension bled into the man’s countenance. Mustang seemed to greatly dislike mingling with his fellow State Alchemists, for reasons Edward can somewhat understand. Mustang was one of a kind, unique within his league; the other alchemists were probably just dogs to use for the war or slaves for some classified experimental military project. (Now if there were four words that should never appear in one sentence together, they would be those four.)

Smoothly diverting the conversation to lighter matters, Edward jested lightly, “Shouldn’t you be sending me to school, then?”

Slowly, Mustang’s eyebrow rose. “Why?” the tone was very flat. “It’s not like you need it.”

Ed shrugged. “But isn’t that what good fathers do? Send their children to school?”

Mustang gave him a level stare, and for the longest while kept quiet. And then there was a shrug, “Alright, if you so want it.” The man craned towards the desk to reach for the slim leather contact log the size of a thin portrait notebook.

“I don’t want it,” Ed refuted. “Children are immature.” That earned him an amused look. “I’m just saying!”

But Mustang was already lifting the phone to call someone. Ed glanced at the clock.

“Hey, are you serious? It’s nearly midnight; I think schools are closed now,” and nervously, he added, “And I was just joking, you know.”

“I’m calling an acquaintance and leaving a message, Edward; I don’t plan to wake up early tomorrow morning to do this call,” Mustang was dialling. “And I think it might actually be a good idea for you to go to school. It might help you with your social skills.”

“But I already talk to you so much. Isn’t that enough socialisation?” Ed was getting really anxious now; Mustang was being serious. He damned his stupid gut; he was only joking! He should have known Mustang would take it seriously.

“Well, yes, and I would like for our conversations to remain the same, but obviously I can’t be with you at all times,” Mustang gave him a doting little smile. “It must get a little boring here when you’re all by yourself, no?”

Cursing to himself, Ed watched in horror as Mustang talked to the acquaintance on the other side. (Apparently, for the other person, eleven o’clock was still early enough.) He tried to calm his spinning mind by trying to convince himself that school would not be so awful. After all, it would not be his first time attending one with other children. (He then grimaced at that thought. The day school in Resembool had been depressingly lacking for both him and Al. Hopefully, this school Mustang knew would provide better education. They were in Central, after all.)

When Mustang was finished, Ed barked vindictively at him: “Putting me in school makes you my father. I expect to be on your last will and testament as the sole heir—sole heir—to these books, you hear me?”

This time, he had Mustang laughing for ten minutes straight.

“And the map! Don’t forget the map! And the tapestry! And the flask!”

Mustang laughed some more.

-

-

What he woke up to on Monday morning should have been enough to warn him of the awfully harassing day he would have. Mustang gently nudged him into awareness, and waking to the aroma of breakfast and Mustang’s admittedly melodic voice would have been pleasant, except Mustang just had to say:

“You don’t want to be late on the first day of school, Edward; come, get up and get ready.”

Pitifully, Ed groaned into his pillow. He was not dealing with immature little children this early in the morning. But ugh! Mustang isn’t giving me a choice, is he, the bloody officious twit! So he began to prepare for the day.

The ride to the school took a lot less time than Ed thought it would, but that was probably because he was anxious. He hoped it did not show too much.

“On your best behaviour, Edward,” Mustang warned as they stepped up to a large red Victorian structure. “Try not to terrorise the children on the first day.”

Ed rolled his eyes, deigning not to reply. He observed their surroundings as they walked up the stairs to the front doors of the subtly opulent private institution. There were four floors, and the building was wide. Behind it, Ed surmised, was a garden, and if he craned his head to look to the far ends of the wide building, he could see other structures behind it. This was a huge school, more than likely catering to children from the ages of six and seven to young lads and ladies aged sixteen.

They went straight to the headmaster’s office, where the paperwork was taken care of very easily. The headmaster’s name totally escaped Edward’s memory, but he figured he would not be seeing much of the very ordinary-looking man anyway. He accepted his schedule and ran a curious and admittedly critical eye over it, and soon after that, he and Mustang were stepping out of the office. He was finally left to his own devices when Mustang had to leave for work.

“You know where to call me if you need anything, Edward. I’ll send Havoc to pick you up at three.”

And so he was left alone.

The schedule for his particular academic level was broken up into two by an hour long lunch break stretching from twelve noon until one. Six hours, Ed steeled himself. Only six hours for today and he would be free. (He tried his damnedest not to think about tomorrow.)

The first class was literature and writing, in a classroom on the third floor. He found himself a seat by the windows and observed as the children around him tittered and talked amongst themselves. They were all approximately his own age, eleven or twelve, but so much more immature, childish. No, he was not being condescending at all; he was merely stating the pure truth.

One of them, a young boy with dark reddish brown hair and bright green eyes, looked particularly eager to strike up conversation with him, but luckily, the teacher stepped in before that and calmed the motley crew of privileged spoiled brats. Ed sighed in relief; he did not think he could actually hold a conversation with these children.

He moved through the lesson with ease, despite not having taken the prerequisite courses. He knew the book that was assigned, and he remembered Mustang talking about it. Sparingly, he took notes, if only to practice his automail hand; he really did not need them. The class lasted an hour until ten, then came the next class, which was in a room down and across the hall. Natural sciences, Ed grinned.

It turned out to be a pretty basic introduction into chemistry (which by the way Ed learned all by himself when he was four): molecular and atomic theory. He listened, rather annoyed, as the teacher babbled onwards a watered-down version of what he had studied. At least, Ed told himself, he has the principles down correctly.

“…and the atom is the smallest known unit of matter.”

Ed’s chin slipped off his hand in disbelief.

Blinking at the teacher, he (rather loudly) protested, “No, it’s not!”

Heads uniformly swivelled towards him, and some of the smarter students (or at least they thought they were smart) sniggered at him. They were probably thinking that he did not know what he was saying, really, but wanted to sound smart. Ed scowled. No; they did not know what they were saying. They were the ones who wanted to sound smart. Stupid kids.

“I’m sorry, Mr….” the teacher had to look at his roll sheet for his name, “Mr. Elric. Did you have a question?”

“I said,” Ed repeated very slowly, “no, the atom is not the smallest known unit of matter.”

The teacher looked at him with a raised brow. “I understand you have some basic background on the sciences, Mr. Elric, but I must insist. This is an advanced version of the chemistry course, and there will be details here that might be contrary to what you have read in the past.” The teacher took that opportunity to turn to the class and impart another bit of knowledge: “It has been proven that the atom is the smallest unit of matter by a certain alchemist named—“

“—Robert Mahler, research report published 1863, under the wing of General Lucas Armstrong, yes, I know,” Edward sighed. “It was a major breakthrough, and as you said the atom was considered the smallest unit of matter until eleven years later, 1874, when Abel Montague offered the world’s first peek into the structure of the atom, consequently discovering the subatomic particles: neutrons, protons, electrons and such.” The entire class was quiet now. Alarm bells rang in Ed’s head—Mustang had explicitly warned him not to cause trouble in class like this—but he continued anyway, “Therefore, the atom is not the smallest unit of matter. What you said was wrong.”

Slightly red-faced but sufficiently cowed for the moment, the teacher swallowed and straightened himself. “Well, it appears Mr. Elric is rather well-versed in advanced chemistry. Subatomic theory, however, is something we need not concern ourselves with for the moment.” The teacher turned back to the board, continuing rather awkwardly, “Although the atom is not the smallest unit of matter, as we have… established, it is, however, indivisible, and therefore—“

“Actually, that’s wrong too,” he had tried to grit his teeth and prevent from speaking up at all, but he was just unable to ignore such ignoble instruction. Oh, Izumi would be railing at the very thought! “The atom can be divided using certain alchemical procedures.”

The teacher slowly turned to face him again, adjusting the ugly horn-rimmed glasses. “I am not aware of any published research confirming the division of an atom, Mr. Elric.”

“Well, of course,” Ed rolled his eyes. “At the moment, it’s only theoretical. Research is still in progress. But there’s strong evidence that subatomic alchemy has been around for as long as since the Persians, perhaps the Xerxians.”

Scoffing now, the teacher gave him a patronising smile. “Child, you don’t know what you’re talking about. The Xerxian civilisation thrived two thousand years ago!”

“And how does that disprove their capability to perform subatomic alchemy?” Ed challenged, but before he could launch into a nice, loud, long rant, the bell rang.

Reclining against his seat, Ed held the teacher’s stare, only letting go as the class began to move. He gathered his things into the one leather folio he carried (enough space for two pens and a notepad), borrowed from Mustang’s extra stock of stuff. He was making for the door when the teacher called out, “Mr. Elric, I would like to talk to you for a moment, please.”

Well, he could not say he did not expect that.

Heading for the front of the room, he stopped short before the teacher’s desk and stood quietly, until the flustered teacher began speaking again, “I see that you are very widely read, Mr. Elric, and rather imaginative at that. But I will have to ask you henceforth to refrain from spouting fantastic theories about science. This is a class, Mr. Elric, not a story book reading. Please watch your remarks from now on.”

Edward stood there, rather incredulous, and released a huff of disbelief.

“So you really do think I was making all that up?” he rocked back on his heels. “Sir, the theories clearly show that an atom can be divided!”

“I make the facts as simple as I can to prevent any confusion on the students’ parts,” the teacher said, holding up a hand. “And I do not contest as much the atomic division theory; but Xerxians! Surely they cannot possibly—”

“Why not?” Ed petulantly demanded, stomping a foot. “Why is it not possible for them? They discovered alchemy for us! They developed it first, without our technology!”

Annoyed now, in no small amount, the teacher said, “Young man, until there is no proof or hard evidence of any such theory existing in pre-modern times, it cannot be taught as fact.”

But I have the evidence! Ed wanted to scream. He held his tongue; he was selfish. He wanted to keep that Xerxian book to himself. (And he could not very well tell a stranger about the Gate in his head, though the Gate was just about all the proof anybody could ever need.)

The teacher continued, “And on that thought, if the atomic division theory truly is sound, then why has there been no breakthrough, no successful experiment reported since?”

“Obviously because you die if you do the alchemical reaction!” it was Ed’s turn to be exasperated. “You’re a chemistry teacher! You should know this! Equivalent exchange! Basic alchemy! The energy required to pull off such a massive stunt of physics is near-impossible to gather! The array would swallow the alchemist for sure!” He meant that in a more than metaphorical way. Inside his head, the Gate purred with a wide diabolical smile.

Rightfully, the teacher was taken aback at his boldness. It took a few seconds of tense silence before the teacher spoke again, in forcibly measured tones this time, “Even then, I cannot teach this to my class. There is too little support for the theory, no proof from experiment, and not enough details on the process. It is best if they focus on the conventional side of things and learn of the basic without the complicated subatomic theories.”

“You’re saying that it’s best for them to learn things the old way, the insufficient way, just because it’s easier,” Ed shook his head in disbelief. “You’re supposed to give them their building blocks! Just because the theories are advanced doesn’t warrant you condensing and editing them! What you’re teaching them is wrong, incompetent idiot!”

And that was how Edward found himself sitting sullenly in the headmaster’s office, no later than two hours into his first day of school. Mustang was going to be so impressed.

-

-

Upon stepping into the office, the first thing Mustang said to him was: “Edward, what did you do.”

The man’s tone was with such dread that Edward just had to bristle in indignation. “It’s not my fault! He was teaching the wrong things!” he stabbed a finger towards the science teacher. “He said that an atom is the smallest unit of matter. And after that, he said that an atom is indivisible, the misinformed old fart! Misconstrued, I tell you!”

Sighing, Mustang surrendered to Ed’s ire with a learned patience. “I told you this school was a bad idea.” The headmaster gave an appalled gasp.

Ed scowled. “I told you I didn’t actually want to go to school! I was just joking! And no; you said it was a good idea!”

“For you to socialise, not for you to learn from a school,” Mustang gave Ed a dry stare. “No preparatory school would be fit to accommodate you. You need a university.”

“Yes, please!” Ed threw his hands into the air and collapsed back into his squishy chair. Sulkily, he refused to say any more.

“Really, Mr. Mustang,” the teacher appealed, casting a disparaging glance at Edward. “He needs to be disciplined. And I believe he reads too much of the wrong kind. Perhaps too many fantastical tales? There is neither valid proof for his subatomic theory, nor solid evidence for the existence of such in the first century!”

“Actually, I am in the process of researching several Xerxian artefacts which may contain strong proof towards the very thing,” Mustang provided gracefully; the teacher gaped. “You will pardon Edward’s assertiveness, I hope; it’s in his personality to always seek for accuracy and truth. I never discourage such… desirable traits.”

Ed threw Mustang a nasty glance; he just knew that one was a backhanded insult.

“And regarding Edward’s reading—well,” Mustang bowed his head. “If you truly think that through his reading he is ill-educated, then we have significant… ah, differences in our opinions of good and bad literature.” Mustang’s tone was casual, but his eyes were frosty and hostile. Ed thought the teacher deserved a few well-placed barbs; nobody was entitled to insult such a perfectly wondrous library as Mustang’s and get away with it scot-free.

Mustang then turned to Ed and motioned, “Come along, Edward. We’re leaving.”

“You said I needed socialisation?” but Ed was already rising from his chair.

“I can provide you with all the socialisation you should ever need,” and the matter was dismissed with an idle wave of a hand. Mustang returned to the men and bid them, “Please do excuse myself and my charge. We shall be leaving you to your classes, as I’m sure you need to attend to them.”

Confused now, the headmaster said, “Ah, but—Mr. Elric has afternoon classes, sir—“

“I am withdrawing Edward from the school. I see no point in letting him continue to take classes that are obviously far below him. As I had initially surmised, individual instruction will be for the best.”

The headmaster looked sufficiently devastated at the sudden loss of a patron. Scrambling to pull up the falling pieces, the man added, “Perhaps you would like to hire one of our private tutors, then? We do provide one-on-one instruction for the, ah, special cases.” Ed scowled; that made him sound like a retarded invalid!

“That won’t be necessary. I shall instruct him myself.”

Disbelievingly, the teacher looked at Mustang. “Not to mean any disrespect, Lieutenant Colonel, but while working with the military? Surely, your schedule—“

“—is well-managed and spacious enough to afford Edward daily lessons over a wide variety of topics and genres, as we have been doing for the past few weeks,” Ed avoided that pointed stare. “Rest assured I will give him the best education possible. Edward is also plenty capable of learning by himself. Now, if you will excuse us; my lieutenant is waiting out front.”

“Sir—I must insist,” the teacher pushed, totally unwilling to let Ed go, the bloody cow! “There is only so much a child can learn individually.”

Ed hissed in severe offence. “I learned everything I know today by myself, you know!”

Mustang sighed. “Professor, Edward is an alchemist. Self-taught, self-styled. He is more prolific than any alchemist I know, myself included—a genius hardly worthy of being trapped within conventional education. He can take care of his studies with minimal assistance. He conducts research and experimentation on his own.”

The shatter of china on wood startled all of them into silence. The headmaster had been pouring tea for himself, but had let slip the teacup after hearing Mustang’s statement.

Ed supposed it might come as a shock that somebody his age would be doing individual alchemical research. He saw the open disbelief in the two men’s faces, so he sighed and brought his hands together in a clap, using the convenient situation to demonstrate. Touching a broken fragment of the china on the floor, he watched as the crackle of light easily pieced the parts back together—and the teacup was whole again.

The headmaster was left dumbfounded, the teacher gawping. Ed happily tucked his portfolio under his arm, following after Mustang, who strolled out of the office then.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Ed grinned. At this rate, they were going to play the blaming game for days, maybe weeks, but Ed was going to relish every moment of it. After all, such an abundance of opportunities to tell Mustang, “I told you so,” was not so easy to come upon.

“That doesn’t justify shaming the teacher in front of his students, Ed.” They stepped out into sunlight, Mustang guiding him towards the car. “Consider people’s pride a little bit, will you?”

“Be thankful that I even consider yours,” grumbling, Ed quieted down as Mustang instructed their chauffeur to some restaurant nearby for lunch.

After finishing with Havoc, Mustang returned to Ed and said: “Why, thank you, Edward. I’m glad to know that I’m that important to you.”

“Bastard,” Ed spit, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, you only said I couldn’t terrorise the children; you didn’t say anything about terrorising the adults,” his cheeky grin said it all.

-

-

The rest of the week was spent uneventfully, except for one incredibly tiring dinner with the Hughes household, wherein they (excepting him) spent the entire night laughing at and regaling his scholastic misadventures. Ed knew they did not mind his oft scathing attitude towards incompetent fools (goodness knows Mustang was just as ruthless) so he did not bristle when they poked fun at him. He scowled at Mustang, though; the man was making it look like it was entirely his idea, when in truth it was not.

That aside, he spent his days buried gratefully within his books. Two mind-numbing drone hours inside that posh prep school was enough to ensure his forever-lasting loyalty to the privacy of the library and solitary learning. He was glad to find that with renewed fervour (and with less talk of uncaught serial murderers), he could make more progress on his research. Bit by bit, he was beginning to unravel the flask using the Xerxian book. The flask itself would not take long to decode, if he kept going at the same rate; the next challenge (a challenge he so truly looked forward to) would be to piece apart and analyse the Xerxian tapestry. The Persian book he would leave to Mustang; the script was closer to Xingese than it was to Xerxian, and damned if he was going to let that torture him when he could let Mustang take his place.

On Saturday afternoon of the same week, Mustang wound into the library’s massive shelves and retrieved a slim little book for him. It was obviously a new copy of the book, with the cloth cover in excellent condition. (Then again, very few of Mustang’s books were in deplorable condition; they were treasures, and he was sure as hell Mustang spent money on keeping them alive and healthy.)

Wordlessly, Mustang handed him the slim book, and wordlessly, he accepted it. The cloth cover was black and red, with the title embossed on the side and front: “The Prince” by Niccolo Machiavelli.

“...it’s not some fairy tale, is it,” he deadpanned.

“Do I seem like the type who reads and collects fairy tale books, Edward?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Mustang coughed. “It’s a book on political philosophy. You’ll gain much from it, I’m sure. Every good and sane politician must and probably have read it. I deem it essential to success.”

Ed raised a brow, “So you’re letting me into your trade secrets? How unnaturally trusting of you, Bastard.”

“Ah,” Mustang said, “but that’s just it. They aren’t secrets at all. In fact, most of that book is common sense expanded into scenarios. The philosophy in that book is nothing new—it has been around for centuries before that was written, and will continue to exist onwards. But the catch—”

“Let me guess,” Ed cut in, flipping open the book and replacing the ribbon marker from somewhere in the middle to the first page. “Not everybody can do it.”

At that, Mustang smiled what Ed thought was a proud smile. Ed could not help the feeling of warmth when Mustang reached over and ruffled his hair; it felt comforting, familiar. Safe.

Home.

“It isn’t that long,” Ed shrugged. “I’ll finish it by tomorrow.”

Mustang nodded, “Then tomorrow we will discuss it. Be sure to take notes; I’m certain you will have plenty to tell me afterwards. And you can keep that copy; it’s yours.”

Ed watched as Mustang disappeared into the kitchen to begin preparing for dinner. No doubt they would have something extravagant once again tonight; Mustang liked having fine food just as much as he did making it. Ed could not find fault in this, not when he too was beginning to settle into the habit of being fed great food on a daily basis. He made a note to begin running laps around the house to burn some of the energy off. Granted, his brain worked and burned twice as much as most other people’s brains, but he had no desire of becoming fat. It would be extremely embarrassing if he fell out of shape and ended up unable to fend for himself like so many of those brains-only alchemists his teacher Izumi so loathed. She saw them as imbalanced souls, unsightly and disgusting. (He did not want her disgust. Her disgust had the tendency to be rather painful, not to mention fatal.)

Attention gravitating away from Izumi’s fists and back towards Mustang’s dinner, Ed rested his back against the long couch, watching as the last of the sun’s rays slanted through the tall library windows and cast the shelves into a most stunning colour of burgundy fire. The nooks and crannies of the house—especially the library and the kitchen—were now so familiar to him that he was completely free of the edge that accompanied him every time he was apart from Resembool. Even Dublith had been foreign to him, and remained foreign throughout their two-year training. Home was Resembool and their mother, and nothing could change that. Or at the very least, he liked to think nothing could change that.

He closed his eyes and sighed. More and more these days, however, he would catch himself thinking ‘home’ whenever he was inside Mustang’s house, or outside and thinking of the house. He would feel the edge of the inborn subtle paranoia dulling whenever Mustang was around, vanishing whenever they were both home.

Ugh, there it goes again. Home.

Absently, he wondered if the Gate had somehow messed with his mind even more than he had thought it did. The Gate bristled, though, as if an offended cat woken from its sleep by its master accusing it of destroying a piece of furniture it had not touched at all. Ed sighed, and, feeling ridiculously insane while doing it, began to pet the Gate back to sleep. It was kinder when it was asleep and generally incapable of spitting insults.

He decided to return to his newly assigned book and began reading the introduction. In the end, he could find nothing wrong with feeling safe with someone in the world, someone else outside of his family. Mustang was trustworthy, though a Bastard at times, and kind. (Kind of.) Intelligent, generous, a good cook, filthy rich. Ed considered himself so bloody lucky; if things were to change into something different, something less than what he had now, he would cry.

...well, crap. I have become a self-consumed ass.

But as Roy often said, humans were made to be selfish. Otherwise, there would never have been an existing and persisting concept of self within the human being.

Perfectly sound logic.

-

-

“...and he made me walk a billion times back and forth the tailor’s shop, like I was some sort of show!” Ed spluttered to a very amused Gracia. Hughes and Mustang laughed to each other over a game of chess; tonight, Ed was helping Gracia prepare them dinner for four-and-a-half. (The baby inside Gracia was greedy.)

Earlier in the morning, they had stopped by at the tailor’s shop to pick up Ed’s finished clothing (and shoes, from the tailor’s shoemaker brother). Another week had passed in silence since he was given the Machiavelli book. Saturday was a good day for the tailor to have finished the clothes, Roy had said; they had plenty of time to make sure things were in order. Ed had not understood what that meant until much later, when his feet were aching and his back was hurting from all the stiff walking and training Mustang mercilessly put him through.

The clothes had fit dashingly, except Mustang had claimed that he had a graceless drag to his walk and a lazy slouch to his back. Thus began a torture session, through which Ed was introduced to the many intricacies of grace and mobility combined in one atrocious, hurtful form, also known as posture.

By the end of the painfully long day, he had modelled all of his new clothes and walked just about one thousand five hundred twenty-something times back and forth across the store’s back room. By the end of the painfully long day, his gait and sway swung like Mustang’s. He was not amused.

“My body’s not even obeying me anymore!” he whined to Gracia, who patted his shoulder in a comforting manner. “My legs walk like the Bastard now!”

“It’s good for you, Edward,” she assured him. “The right posture will ease tension from your back. Since you read a lot, I’m sure you slouch over your books, so you mustn’t do it too while standing.”

“And besides,” Mustang began; Ed threw him a dirty, disgusted glare, “a certain element of your gait gives away your combat experience. The posture training will hide that. It’s always an advantage to have people think of you less than they think of themselves. It’ll be easier for you to catch somebody off-guard.”

“Paranoid Bastard,” Ed spat, sulking over his curry. The sauce was still steaming; he blew on it. If he had known that the one week of comfortable, perfect quiet was payment for this Saturday’s horror, he would have ensured that each day of his week had been disturbed by something, if only to avoid this. He did not like this, thank you very much.

But Mustang insisted, so he had to continue. Over the week, whenever Mustang caught him slouching or dragging about, Mustang would snap and singe a sleeve to snap him out of his inattention. The bloody Bastard was a slave-driver!

Ed frowned through Monday, grimaced through Tuesday, scowled through Wednesday, and ground his teeth at Thursday. By Friday afternoon, he tired himself out by rebelling and so he was docile and compliant. Mustang was triumphant; Ed could not find the energy to snarl at the Bastard for flaunting it.

-

Saturday night, nearly a fortnight after his scholastic misadventures, Ed was having dinner as per routine with the Hughes household and Mustang, when a call from the military came in the middle of dessert. Greedily polishing the custard cake off his plate, Ed allowed Hughes and Mustang to handle the call, remaining glued to his seat. No amount of persuasion was going to separate him from Gracia’s cooking, not tonight. He was so pleasantly full and sated that it felt like heaven simply staying gracelessly slouched against his chair.

However, when Hughes motioned Mustang up and gave a quick peck to Gracia’s cheek, Ed rose from his satiated stupor. There was tension visible in the corners of Hughes’ eyes, and he was not the only one to pick up on it. Gracia and Mustang both noticed immediately, Mustang stiffening up and rising briskly from the table. Gracia took everything in stride with the grace of an experienced military wife, but Mustang was obviously not all too pleased.

Ed jumped in. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

“Work, Ed,” Mustang’s words were clipped. “You don’t have to wait up for me. Stay inside, alright? I’m sure Gracia can use some company for the night. We’ll be back by morning, hopefully.” Ed was about to rise from his chair, but the heavy hand descending to ruffle his hair was heavy, as if intent to hold him in place, secure and safe.

Smiling, Gracia followed, “You’re welcome to stay the night, Edward. We have a spare room. I’ll feel much better if I know you’re not all by yourself in Roy’s house.”

Ed watched as Mustang slipped gracefully into his jacket and followed after Hughes towards the entrance hall, all the while checking for his State Alchemist watch. Ed watched and felt the tension brimming under his fingertips—and suddenly, through lightning-quick deduction, he knew.

“There’s been another murder,” he frowned, stopping both men in their tracks just as they were about to step out of the door. Outside, there was already a military car parked and waiting. Immediately, Ed strode after them. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

The snap of reprimand was quick and abrupt, stuttering Ed’s steps. With a scowl, he faced Mustang squarely.

“Why not.”

Mustang’s jaw tensed, perhaps at his boldness, but Ed was not backing down. Ed had faced Izumi and survived; he could face Mustang.

“This isn’t for you to worry about, Edward,” Mustang’s tone was forcibly imbued with calm. Ed was pushing the right buttons, alright. “Stay here. You’re safe here.”

“I can take care of myself!” he snarled indignantly. “Why won’t you let me help? I can help! You know I can help. Those murders, they have something to do with alchemy, and nobody’s figured it out yet. Maybe I can figure it out. You’re the one who keeps saying I’m a prodigy. Have you lost your faith, now?”

As if physically struck by the words, Mustang stepped back, regarding him with critical eyes. There was concern there, plain for him to see, and Ed appreciated that, he did—but he wanted to help, and he wanted Mustang to let him. Because, as much as Ed wanted to deny it, he now sought Mustang’s approval before stepping into anything, and he would not be able to put a toe beyond the line if Mustang said no. This was how much he respected the man now; this was how much obedience he was willing to give.

“He is a genius, Roy,” Hughes quietly added, after a taut stretch of silence. “He might give us the break we need. We need it even more so now—this is the seventh victim, and if we don’t act fast, we’re going to have an eighth before we know it.”

Mustang’s expression was grim, but defeated. Ed knew that Mustang knew that he could help the investigation immensely if he was allowed, only Mustang’s paranoia and overwhelming concern kept the man from allowing him on board. It was as if he was a baby, Ed thought, and Mustang was a first-time father. Mustang was afraid that somehow he would crawl off and fall overboard.

“Look, you can keep me as close as you want,” Ed insisted, stepping up closer and grasping at Mustang’s second thoughts. “You can keep me within your sight at all times. I won’t wander away from your watch. And I have my alchemy with me wherever I go—you know that. Let me help. Please.”

It was another three heartbeats of silence until Mustang finally surrendered. Jaw still clenching, Mustang took Ed’s jacket from Gracia’s hands (how Gracia knew Mustang would eventually cave in, Ed had no idea) and draped it around Ed’s shoulders. Ed slipped into them as Mustang began citing out instructions.

“You are not to say anything unless you are asked,” Ed nodded along, “and if you are asked, you will not give out important information. Tell them you are my charge, and nothing beyond that. If they insist, tell them to talk to me.” Mustang took him by the shoulders, and continued, this time with a heavier emphasis, “You are only a consultant; you have no jurisdiction with this case, so you must ask permission before touching anything. You stay with me at all times, do you understand? At all times. I don’t want you out of my sight. There is a great chance that this killer is watching the investigation from somewhere nearby; I don’t want you too noticeable. Keep your head low. I want you safe.”

“I understand,” Ed pushed certainty and alertness into his voice, if only to convince Mustang that there was no need to worry so much. Ed had to admit, though, that he was pleasantly flattered that somebody cared for his safety with such intensity.

He walked along as Mustang steered him, a shoulder under hand, towards the military car. Behind them, Hughes was bidding Gracia a good night, and promised he would call first thing in the morning. Havoc was again the one driving them. Immediately as they stepped into the cramped car space and the vehicle began moving, Havoc launched into a quick briefing, through which Ed picked out about an entire list of new information he had not found in the papers. The military really was thorough—or at least, Mustang’s team was.

-

A ride that would have taken thirty took ten minutes as they sped through the mostly empty roads, and before long, they were stepping out of the car again, into the cool shroud of night. Further down the road, there was a cluster of soldiers in uniform cordoning off an area by a corner alley. A coroner was standing by, but was looking incredibly bored; the man must have stood there for quite a while now, waiting for the military to be over with the scene so he could collect the body.

Ed approached with the smallest bud of trepidation seeding in his chest. As promised, he kept close to Mustang; he had no wish of wandering too far away.

Havoc cleared his throat from behind them, casting a doubtful glance towards Ed. The man removed his cigarette and said, “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

Blinking, Mustang turned the slightest fraction towards Havoc and pre-empted, “If you’re wondering about Edward, he’s with me. He might be able to help with the investigation. Pull the other men away; I want only my team and Hughes’ people on the scene tonight. We’re more than enough. Have whoever else is spare guard the periphery and patrol the neighbourhood.”

“Yessir!” Havoc turned sharply on his heels and sprinted towards a uniformed personnel Edward presumed was the captain of the lower-ranked soldiers.

“Come on,” Mustang said, ushering Ed forth. They made their way through the small throng of people, and when they got there, the sight that welcomed Ed was something else entirely. He had to turn around and take four steps back the way they came, a hand clapped over his mouth in an effort to push his rising bile back down. The papers had definitely been censored.

Ed could feel Mustang’s heavy gaze on the back of his neck, but before Mustang could say anything—most likely to ask if he was alright—another soldier, perhaps one of Hughes’ men, approached them and announced that inquiries into the missing persons database had turned up with no results. They had an unidentified body—an unidentified dead child—in their midst.

“Have you checked the recent reports from the smaller precincts? From today, perhaps,” Hughes asked. “You know there’s a lag time before they get into the general registry.”

“I took the liberty of checking for that, sir,” a diminutive young soldier in thick-rimmed black glasses piped up. To be involved in such an investigation at such an age, Ed figured the young soldier must have some sort of specialty or talent. He looked like he was in Mustang’s team. The young soldier continued, “None turned up. Nobody’s reported a lost child of around this age today.”

“So the parents have yet to notice that he’s missing,” Hughes deduced. “But how unlikely is that? It’s nearly twelve midnight. Most parents would be worried, wouldn’t they?”

“Not if they think the child’s tucked into bed and asleep already,” the blonde lady with two guns pointed out. Ed knew she was the faceless but formidable Hawkeye, ever-present in Mustang and Hughes’ workplace stories.

“Or if the child has no parents and family. A street kid,” Havoc was back now, fumbling anxiously for a missing lighter. When he could not find it, Mustang reached over and snapped, lighting a minute fire at his gloved fingertips. Havoc thankfully lit his cigarette, obsessively puffing as if he felt he would die without the smoke. “We can’t rule out the possibility; there hasn’t been a pattern from the past seven kills. Anything’s possible, right?”

Mustang was about to agree and perhaps issue an order, but Ed stepped in.

“No,” he said, calling everybody’s attention. “No; that kid has a family, I’m sure.”

Ed’s eyes happened to pass over Hawkeye’s face at that moment; there was disapproval tight in her eyes, as if Ed’s very presence irked her. Steeling himself, Ed glared right back.

Hawkeye began, “With all due respect, sir, he—“

“—is Edward, my charge, and will be helping with the circle tonight.” Mustang sighed, “I know, Hawkeye; I didn’t want to take him either, but he insisted.”

“And Ed’s an alchemical genius!” Hughes exclaimed, as if that was enough of a reason for his presence. Ed agreed; it was more than enough. “He already has something to contribute, see? You were saying, Ed?”

The corner of Ed’s mouth twitched, but he could not bring himself to smile. The very reason was right before them, sprawled on the bloodied cobblestone side-alley. “I know this kid,” he declared.

Mustang’s arm jolted beside him, as if to keep him away; it was indeed alarming that he knew the seventh victim of the very murderer Mustang was investigating at the moment. It could mean anything, but it could also mean that he could be targeted.

Continuing nonetheless, he peered at the victim’s reddish-brown hair underneath the mat of blood. “He went to the school. That school you put me in,” Ed looked up at Mustang, who was wearing an expression of surprise, and then back down at the head. “He tried to talk to me, but the bell rang, if I remember clearly.” After a pause, Ed added, “He had the most vivid green eyes I’d ever seen,” though he did not exactly know how that little detail was important in the bigger scheme. His instincts were roiling underneath his skin, however; there was something about the eyes… “Hey, weren’t the eyes missing from the other corpses too?”

Mustang nodded. “They eyes and the overall thematic of the array are the two things that connect this murder to the other ones, in truth. This body is intact; the other ones were decapitated first.”

“What’s so different about this sacrifice?” Havoc was wondering aloud, probably, but it piqued Ed’s attention.

“Sacrifice? What—like a religious sacrifice?” he rounded the body, carefully keeping away from the chalked array. The last thing he wanted was to activate it by accident. It was foolishness to activate a circle without first knowing what it could do.

“Well, the other bodies—except for the first one—were all decapitated, with the body thrown aside, and the head placed in the middle of this strange array, which I’m not sure even works. It certainly doesn’t look normal to me,” Hughes shrugged. “At first we thought it was just an individual, except the array style differs with every kill. The fundamentals remain—missing eyes and decapitation (except for the first one and this one). Oh, and the salt rubbed on the neck, for the decapitated ones. Well, after seeing how each murder’s array seems to have a certain unique touch to it, we thought that maybe it’s done by a cult, except they do it one by one.”

“The people in the cult might be competing with each other to see who can do an altogether cleaner, worthier sacrifice,” said another soldier who had all along been standing in the corner. The man had grey hair (strange, Ed thought) and slightly slanted eyes, but was clearly not of Xingese descent. “There are a number of cases where members of a small organisation—religious, mostly—try to beat each other at some sort of game where they use the victims as prey or sacrifices. Whoever wins gets to lead the organisation, so goes the common theme.”

Ed stood there and stared at the body, as if intent to ingrain the very image into his retinas. But in truth, he was looking inwards, rearranging the basic details into a table, piecing them together and pulling them apart in an attempt to see a connection. Hawkeye was saying something in reply to what Havoc had said—about this one being a different sacrifice—but Ed was not listening at all.

The things he knew for certain went such:

The standard from the second to the sixth murder was decapitation. There would be salt rubbed on the neck where the head was severed from the body. The body would be cast aside, nearby but far enough to indicate that it was not necessary to whatever was being done. The head would be in the middle of the circle. The eyes would be missing. The circle would be the same thematically, but some of the sigils and scripts placed and strung differently each time.

Ed fell into a squat, observing the body up close. The empty eye sockets gaped up at him. His stomach roiled, but he ignored it. (He was not going to give up Gracia’s scrumptious dinner.)

This body was intact; the seventh victim was whole. The eyes were still gone, yes. But the body was intact. The array subtly different, the body placed in the middle of the circle.

(With the head.)

Ed jolted at the Gate’s voice in the very back of his mind. It was but a faint whisper, a one-time thing, but it was there.

With the head, the Gate had pointed out.

With the head.

-

Mustang was issuing orders to interview residents and frequent passersby of the area for any possible witnesses. It was a long shot, but Mustang was anal that way; the man would not let the slightest detail rest.

Well, neither would Ed.

“It’s not a cult,” Ed declared, halting everybody else’s respective conversations and pulling attention to himself yet again. The grey-haired soldier opened his mouth to argue, but Ed raised a hand and amended, “I’m not arguing against the established fact that there have been cults with members operating individually, and yes, at first sight, this serial case might seem like that. But it’s not.”

He rose from his squat.

“The papers I read at home didn’t have information on the first body, because they didn’t think to equate it with the rest of the five murders after it,” he tucked his hands into his pockets, “but I’m going to hazard a guess.” Mustang was listening. “The first body was intact, but the face was cleaved off. It was placed in the middle of the circle like this one. The eyes were not missing—or at least, not all of them. Bits of them were probably left there, if your forensic people do their job well enough to see them.”

Havoc let out a low whistle. “You really didn’t tell him, did you, Boss?”

Mustang shook his head no. Hughes just had a curious little smile, as if he had expected all along that Ed would accurately put things together.

“Did you take photos of the circles from the first murder onwards?” as soon as he finished his sentence, the diminutive bespectacled young soldier had a folder containing the pictures ready. Ed murmured his thanks and said to Mustang, “You can tell the coroner to take the body now. Poor guy’s been waiting for forever.”

Ed moved towards the car, where on its hood he laid out the photographs chronologically as they were labelled from the first to the sixth one. Mustang’s team and Hughes followed after him; Hughes’ team began clearing out the body with meticulous care to avoid tripping the circle.

For a few moments, he simply peered from one array to the next, quiet and unmoving, except for the flick of his irises. Mustang and Hughes both knew to wait, but Havoc was getting impatient, and the diminutive soldier was fidgeting in the silence.

And then Ed let out a bark of derisive laughter. Havoc nearly dropped his cigarette; the diminutive soldier jumped, affright. “No wonder you were confused!” Ed exclaimed to Mustang. “Whoever this idiot is, he fucking sucks!”

“Language, Edward,” Mustang reprimanded, but it was half-hearted. Mustang was more curious than anything. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Look,” said Ed, pointing to a certain string of script on the first array. He then moved his finger to the second and third one: there was a new collection of sigils added. On the fourth was another string of script, on the fifth and sixth narrower baselines for the circle in general. “Don’t they look familiar to you? They should.”

Mustang pushed Hughes aside and squinted closer, looking back and forth between the pictures. And then he rose, with an incredulous face. “Four,” he said. “Four. Why did I not see that.”

“What?” Hughes pressed. “What? What?”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Ed absently patted Mustang’s arm. “The idiot fucking sucks. It’s his fault for being so stupid he’s barely intelligible. You’re just too smart for him, that’s all. He could have done this the modern, simpler way! Was he so stupid that he didn’t even realize that? He didn’t need to use four different Xerxian theorems and piece them together—which, by the way, he does so clumsily it’s a surprise the bloody thing works at all.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Hawkeye had an irritated look on her face. Her hand was inching towards her gun.

“One person did this, indeed,” Mustang nodded now, launching into an explanation for the less alchemy savvy people. “And whoever it is wished to seem arcane and—exotic, for the lack of a better word, by using Xerxian arrays: a very old, very difficult style to master. Perhaps he wanted to hide himself too by not using his usual alchemical style, but I think it’s more of ego.”

“Except he sucked,” scoffed Ed, crossing his arms and turning his nose up at the arrays. “Still sucks.”

Mustang had a fond little smile to offer Ed for that remark. “Most of you aren’t versed in alchemy, so you might not know this, but the Xerxian style is nearly extinct. There are very few people who can use it, let alone master it. I can understand it, but not as much as Edward can.”

“He knows this old alchemy too?” Hawkeye was surprised. Ed somehow felt he was being judged because of his age yet again.

“Edward uses it. On a regular basis,” Mustang’s voice was still incredulous, even though the man had already repeatedly seen Ed’s alchemy. Maybe Mustang was incredulous because he had seen it repeatedly. Ed knew he was that awesome.

“See!” Hughes grinned. “It was the right decision to take him along, after all! I told you so.”

Mustang threw him a passing glare.

“So why did the Boss not see it at first?” Havoc asked, perhaps a little tactlessly.

Edward explained, “Xerxian is very similar to old Amestrian, which is the basis for the modern alchemy. Sometimes, it can be hard to distinguish between them—particularly in this case, because the Idiot pieces together different parts of different systems, instead of just using one cohesive system. If he wanted to do this the true Xerxian way, he would’ve had to make his own Xerxian circle from scratch, which he probably failed to do, so he looked up premade theorems and took the pieces he needed, gluing them together in some—amateur collage.”

“Give it a rest, Edward,” Mustang smiled indulgently. “Not everyone is as smart as you.”

“So what does the circle do, exactly?” Hughes asked. “In plain language, please.”

“Well,” Ed looked at them again, “they cleave out the eyes.”

There was then a permeating silence that cloaked over the group.

“But—weren’t the eyes taken out by scalpels? The eyelids are gone,” the grey-haired soldier pointed out.

“No—I looked. The sockets didn’t even have striations,” and it was during times like these that Ed found himself immensely grateful for the biomedical background he had from living in close proximity with Winry’s family. “The cut is too precise, too perfect, to be done by human hands. Or machines, for that matter. The only thing I know that can cut that cleanly is alchemy.”

He repressed the urge to clutch at his shoulder, but his automail hand twitched nonetheless—the bloody thing was sometimes far too sensitive—and Mustang saw it. Thankfully, the man said nothing.

“This still doesn’t prove that it’s not a cult,” the grey-haired soldier pushed. “Why the salt?”

“Of course,” Mustang nodded. “The salt is there to keep the blood in the head. It encourages clotting, so the blood doesn’t bleed out entirely when the head is separated from the body.”

“Because if the blood bleeds out entirely, the eyes are damaged, and the bloody fucker—an eye collector!—doesn’t want that,” Ed could not help it; his face was contorted in a disgusted snarl.

“He collects eyes,” Havoc’s tone was flat, disbelieving. “He killed all of those people for their eyes.”

“Certainly what it seems like,” Hughes sighed. “But we haven’t a way to get him, even if we know the why and roughly the who.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Ed turned to Mustang, tugged a pen out of the man’s jacket pocket, and snagged a piece of paper from Hughes. “Have your people search the library logs for whoever borrowed these books in the last few months or something.” When he finished writing the short list of commonly known Xerxian references, he handed it to Mustang. “The libraries do keep logs, right?”

“Why, yes, they do,” Mustang passed the list to Hughes, who passed it to one of his people to spread it. Hopefully, Ed thought, by tomorrow they would have enough leads to begin arrests and individual investigations into the most probably suspects.

He stood quietly aside as Mustang and Hughes both finished up. The clean-up squad came to scrub the blood and chalk off the pavement, now that the body was retrieved and the forensics had had their run over the place. It was only now that Ed noticed there were people peering through curtains and windows from the surrounding townhouses. The first floor shops and establishments were darkened, closed, but he was willing to bet that there were people in there listening. He scowled. He was glad that he had kept his voice low.

Soon enough, Mustang was separating from his team with a few last minute instructions, most of them for Hawkeye. Havoc was already waiting in the car; Mustang approached Ed with Hughes following along.

Ed looked up at Mustang and said with a self-satisfied little smile, “I helped, didn’t I?”

Mustang rolled his eyes, but pride was heavy and warm in his hand, and Ed could feel it when said hand ruffled his hair and came to rest on his shoulder. “Yes. Yes, you did. Thank you.”

-

tbc
arc II chapter 06 ver.1-02
first draft: 2009.10.24
last edited: 2009.10.24