AN: So, here we are, another chapter up after... yeesh... two months. Gotta work on my posting time, of course. But, hey, it's here. My Beta, JAW, has been loads of help keeping me on track. Now if I could just hurry a teensy bit more...

Disclaimer: FMA is the property of Hiromu Arakawa, and Youjo Senki is the property of Being X. I think I've run out of lame disclaimer jokes a few chapters back, so I'll spare you the trouble.


X. PHILOSOPHISING STONE, ELIXIR OF LIFE

INTERROGATION ROOM THREE, FORT BRIGGS, 5 APRIL, 1918

There's a lot that can be said about a traitor. A traitor holds no loyalties, and so they should be rewarded as a traitor deserves. That is to say, with the suspicion you might expect from someone who was willing to betray an army that she had once killed things for.

A traitor cuts off one tie, and establishes another that is extremely tenuous at best. No matter how many times she proves herself to be loyal to this new cause or superior, she will always be marked by the betrayal she committed against her previous benefactor.

Her old comrades will despise her for her abandoning the cause out of a perceived self-centeredness that goes against the principle of fighting for something greater than herself.

Those to whom she is assigned will not even see her as a comrade. She is an outsider in her own unit. A stranger who was brought here because she did something that some higher-ups found useful.

A traitor's life will be a difficult one, to say the least.

And for all intents and purposes, I am a traitor.

I betrayed the Empire for a chance at getting my parents back. I only hope that this alchemist will give me that chance...

Two large Amestrian soldiers, with their black, fur-trimmed winter coats over their blue uniforms, escorted me down the hall, to a section of the fort sealed with heavy metal doors. These opened up, and we marched into this restricted area, lined with pairs of doors, stopping at the third.

They opened one of the two doors, and led me inside, shutting it behind us.

The room was cramped, dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, its light directed down at an uncomfortable looking chair. Not so much uncomfortably utilitarian as it was intentionally uncomfortable. To increase the stress of its intended user… me.

At their gesturing, I sat down in the low-built chair, squeezing in as much as I could, as if the space between the cold steel armrests was only enough to accommodate a child.

Across me, on one end of the room, a black glass panel - presumably one-way - stood in place of a typical concrete wall. As expected of the two doors. One led to the interrogation room, and the other to a separate observation room. Who knows who stood behind that panel?

The two soldiers took their place and stood at ease on either side of the door.

A clock counted each second with a loud, conspicuous tick, as it hung invisibly somewhere in the darkness. Almost as if it were testing my patience and resolve, mocking me with its rule over time.

But I am a stone.

I breathe ever so slowly, like the northern wind passing through a winter forest on the slopes of the Iseta Mountains.

His breath is gentle, silent. It does not shake the snow from the leaves, nor does it bother the elk as they graze, and the wolves, as they hunt…

~O~O~O~

SUKHOI WILDERNESS, ISETA MOUNTAINS, 12 AUGUST, 1905

"I am a stone."

"But I'm not a stone, Grampa!" I giggle as I help him tie the elk we had just caught to the post. The animal whines like a badly oiled door. "I'm Visha!"

"And today, Visha will learn to be a stone." With a warm smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes, Grampa ruffles my hair. His beard is white as the snow that surrounds us.

Grampa always has something useful to say, like how the egg cannot teach a hen. Of course an egg can't teach a hen! The egg has not yet hatched! And a chick cannot teach a hen, because it has not learned anything yet! Only a hen can teach an egg.

We finish tying the elk to the post and step back to admire our handiwork. "He's very loud, Grampa. Won't the wolves come for him?"

Grampa takes my hand and we march uphill to a pile of snow gathered around some bushes. "The wolf always comes, Visha. The question is if you will smile or cry when he does."

I tilt my head, somewhat confused, as I follow him behind the snow pile. "But I should keep quiet so the wolf doesn't get me, right?"

Grampa only chuckles as he crouches behind the pile. He takes the hunting rifle he always carries around and hands it to me. It still feels heavy even after a week, but I'm starting to get used to the weight. He once said that it is an old model, even older than Papa. It doesn't have a magazine, so it can only hold one bullet at a time. But it is reliable, and hasn't broken in all those years.

I'd practised with it since Papa and Yuriy left me and Mama with Grampa last week. They said they were going to guard the rail line to the east, so we should stay here until they got back.

Out here in the Iseta, we need these guns to survive. So Grampa has been teaching me how to use it.

It started with a tree, and then some cans further away.

"Now," Grampa says, "We will hunt the wolf."

I nod slowly, still unsure. Can I shoot the wolf, before he eats the elk? But doesn't he also need to eat the elk so he can survive? "Does this mean the elk is bait?"

"Just like a worm on a hook, yes." Grampa compares hunting a wolf to fishing. Both require patience, practise, and skill with the main tool. For fishing, it is the rod and line. For hunting, it is with the rifle. "Remember what I said earlier, Visha."

"I am a stone," I repeat what he says, still not quite clear about what he means.

"Look around you." Grampa refers to the snow-covered mountain slope, broken only by shrubs and trees. "Where are the stones?"

I squint as I look around me. Snow is everywhere, from the ground below, to the leaves of the trees above. I can see boulders far away. But the stones… What stones? I shake my head.

Grampa smiles and plants his boot in front of me, using it to sweep the snow away to reveal a small, flat stone. "The stone doesn't move, so it goes beneath notice. When snow falls, the stone is not bothered. It remains still even when buried. When the sun shines, it will not cry at the heat."

I quietly nod. So the stone is strong.

"When you are a stone, Visha, nothing can shake you. And when nothing can shake you, your aim will be true."

Ohhhhh.

"I… am a stone…" I repeat it again, this time with more weight as the meaning of the words sink in. If I am strong and steady as a stone, my aim will be better. "Does it also mean that when the wolf comes, the stone does not run away?"

Grampa pats me on the head. "Exactly. The stone is not afraid that the wolf is coming to get them. Instead, she waits quietly for the wolf to line up with her sights for the perfect shot."

He inspects the hunting rifle to see if anything has gone amiss. After deciding that it is good enough to use without some cleaning, Grampa nods in approval and chambers a bullet. It's big, maybe enough to kill the wolf in one shot.

"This looks good," Grampa remarks, before taking aim with the rifle. I'm not sure what, though. There aren't any wolves yet that I can see. The trees, maybe? "Yes, perfect." He sets the rifle down between us, laying it against the snow pile, barrel pointing up. Soon, he too follows. "Now, it is time to keep watch." He hands me a pair of binoculars. "Once you spot the wolf, take the rifle and aim at his eye. I will assist you when that happens."

"What will you do in the meantime, Grampa?"

Grampa smiles and draws his pipe box from his rucksack. Opening it and preparing to smoke, he says, "I will just be here relaxing. Grampa is not getting any younger, but you, Visha, you have a long way to go." He lights the pipe and closes his eyes as he starts to smoke.

The smokey smell of Grampa's cabin fills the air around us. He always smokes indoors, but only when I'm playing or practising outside. By the time I come back in, he's done smoking and the air is mostly clear, but the smell lingers in the cabin. I don't really like it, but I've gotten used to it.

I sling the binoculars around my neck and start scanning the mountainside for the wolf. The elk continues to make noise, but not as loudly as a few minutes ago. It must be starting to get tired.

I take some time to look down again at the stones Grampa dug up near my feet. They might not look like much to most people, even to me. But today, I'm learning a new lesson about stones.

Suddenly, the elk's crying becomes panicked, and I look up, binoculars at the ready. There. Just behind a bush in the distance. I sea a gleam of reflected sunlight. In a few moments, the wolf emerges, creeping slowly in the snow, taking an indirect path as he hides behind a large rock now. He takes his time, not wanting to give the elk a chance to see him and escape.

But the elk can't escape. We have tied him to that post, so the wolf can get him.

I squat down and whisper. "Grampa! The wolf is here!"

Grampa smiles and taps his pipe against his other hand. The still burning tobacco falls out into his cold palm, and he drops it into the earth next to the stone, before covering it back with snow. "Good eyes, Visha," he says, and takes the binoculars from me to see for himself. In a few seconds, he nods. "Yes, this one will make you a handsome coat."

He points at the rifle lying against the snow pile between us.

"Now remember what I told you."

I nod and pick up the rifle, bracing the stock against my shoulder and setting the receiver on top of the compacted snow as I aim at the wolf's eye. Where the wolf moves, my sight follows, always trying to land on his eye. It's not easy. I've been shooting at cans for a week, but a wolf moves, and he does so like he knows someone might try to get him.

Every chance he gets, he gets behind a rock, or a bush, or a pile of snow, but each time, he's a little closer to the elk. Seeing it shrieking raggedly, I realize that my breathing is much like it.

"I am a stone," I mutter. I try to calm my nerves. "I am a stone."

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my other shoulder. Grampa starts to whisper as well. "I am a stone. I do not move."

My breathing slows down, as if my body obeys Grampa's words. The rifle sways less as I track the wolf, sneaking from cover to cover.

"I take my time. I let him come closer."

Now stones don't actually do those things, but this is not just a stone. This is Visha the Stone. Somehow, I'm starting to get used to the wolf's movements, and he becomes more predictable as he gets closer. "I keep my aim on his eye," I mutter.

"I need only one bullet."

Grampa really is clever. What used to make me worry at the start of the week was that the rifle could only chamber one bullet at a time. If I missed, the target was still standing. But he would always remind me: Never think, 'I have only one bullet'. Always think, 'I need only one bullet'.

This would encourage me, that I could hit with just one bullet. It doesn't always work, but over the week I could tell I was getting better.

"I tremble not. I fear nothing."

Fear and trembling go together, Grampa says. But fear is the cause of the trembling. Stop fearing. Stop trembling. Keep your sights on his eye, because you need only one bullet.

"I am a stone. I do not miss."

Gently, my finger rests against the trigger, ready to fire as the wolf gets behind his last hiding spot, a bush a short dash away from the tired bleating elk in the snowy clearing. The wolf really is a talented hunter. This whole time I've had to struggle just to keep my sight on his eye. Even then, I can never get a clear shot because of how well he hides behind cover. And now, the only thing standing between him and his food is me. "I am a stone," I mutter. "I make him stumble."

"Get ready, Visha. He will make his move soon…"

I don't even nod. Nodding will set my eyes off the sight. I have to focus on the sight, and keep the sight on the wolf. This is it. He crouches down, and prepares to pounce. My finger tightens around the trigger.

In a burst of snow, the wolf runs toward the elk.

"Now, Visha!" Grampa yells.

It looks so strangely slow to me, like I can see every detail as he rushes forth.

My finger begins to squeeze the trigger. But it goes no further than that. I'm too caught up as I watch the wolf move. He's putting everything he has into this last sprint. His legs are full of power, pushing him forward in a surge with each step. He is desperate to catch the elk, even if he sees it can't go anywhere. His eye twinkles with starry focus and determination. He knows that if he is too slow, he won't be able to eat. Or maybe worse, he knows he will be shot. That is why the wolf is giving it everything.

He is now halfway to the elk. His jaw begins to open. He's preparing to bite.

I can shoot him now if I wanted to. My sights remain on his eye.

I can't. No... I can… but I won't.

He is beautiful. Not as a coat, or a trophy on the wall. Certainly not beautiful when dead. His beauty is right here, right now, when he is alive and hungry. How he lives by putting everything he has into living for another day. He thinks not about the fear of being killed, but only the carefulness of getting the food instead of getting caught. Because if he is caught, how can he eat? Nothing can move his determination. And nothing will stop him from eating his fill.

Not even me.

I take my finger away from the trigger, and set the rifle down, stock in the snow.

The wolf catches the elk by the leg, his jaw tearing deep into it on first bite.

"Visha…" Grampa speaks softly, as the wolf gets a taste of his meal.

I turn around to see Grampa looking confused. Maybe even disappointed. "I won't shoot him, Grampa," I say, while my mouth opens into a smile. "The wolf is a stone too!"

Grampa chuckles when he hears me say that. He relaxes and puts a hand on my shoulder, before lighting another wad of tobacco for his pipe. He takes a puff of smoke and sends it back out into the air, before speaking. "To think you would learn to respect the wolf so quickly. Yes, you're right. The wolf is a stone too."

He looks up wistfully at the clear blue sky. "Grampa?"

"I think the wolf has earned his meal for today." He says, as he starts packing our things. "We'll catch him next time. But for now, this lesson is enough. It's good that you've learned to smile at the wolf. To show him you aren't scared. To show him that he has earned your respect. One, the other, both… they all work out."

I help him pack, ejecting the bullet from the rifle. Behind us, after having eaten his fill, the wolf howls in satisfaction. And what a lesson it is… "I am a stone," I mutter with a smile, then whistle a happy tune as we prepare to head back to Grampa's cabin.

~O~O~O~

INTERROGATION ROOM THREE

"ARE YOU REALLY A DEFECTOR!?" I woke up startled, and looking up at a large, dark-skinned Amestrian soldier who was yelling in my face, his mouth so close I could smell what he ate this morning. Coffee and some kind of meat ration. But mostly coffee. Droplets of saliva flew at me, at least one landing in my eye.

"Well I-"

"OR ARE YOU A DRACHMAN SPY?!"

"Well I'm Drachman, but-"

"WHO IS YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER, SPY!?" Before I could finish, he opened his mouth again, this time with a different question. Not a follow-up on whether I was a spy, or anything related to the previous one. It was disjointed, different. What game was he playing here?

"His name is-"

"IS HE HERE TOO? IS HE ALSO SPYING ON US!?" … was it really natural for Amestrian interrogators to jump to conclusions without first getting an answer?

"I-"

"HOW MANY DRACHMAN SPIES ARE YOU WORKING WITH?!" Too many conclusions. How did they even get to there from the first question?

"WHAT PROVINCE ARE YOU FROM!?" Another interrogator barked, this time from the left side, rather than the right. This one was equally large and broad-shouldered, albeit fair-skinned and dark haired. His sideburns grew all the way down to the side of his face.

"I'm from-"

"IS IT WHERE THEY TRAIN ALL THE SPIES!?"

"Wha… my provin-"

"WHO DOES NUMBER TWO WORK FOR!?"

"I don't even-" Who is Number Two? I never heard of anyone called that. It's probably some kind of callsign, but certainly none I'm familiar with...

"WHAT AGENCY ARE YOU WITH!?" At this point, I started to wonder if they really wanted to learn anything I knew at all, or if they were just toying around with me. Messing with my mind for entertainment, before sending me off into that State Alchemist's custody.

"I'm not-"

"YOU'RE A LIAR, AND A DRACHMAN SPY!"

That wasn't even a question… And how could you tell I was lying, when you haven't even let me tell you anything yet?

I'm not one to consider myself an expert at interrogation, but this situation hardly seemed like it would be any sort of productive.

It all started when they locked me up in this dark room, in this uncomfortable chair, with a pair of guards quietly standing by either side of the door.

The clock was loud and intrusive, almost as if they wanted you to know that time was slowly ticking by, until that sound eventually melded into the background noise, and was subsumed into the mounting tinnitus in my ears. Then I'd lose track of time, right?

Which I did, actually. I had no idea how long it had been when the door finally opened, and these two men stepped inside. Officers of some sort, from what I could see of their shoulder boards. The Army had given us some idea of what Amestrian ranks were, and while I paid close attention at the time, the simplicity of the ranking system made it so easy to categorize them, but eventually harder to distinguish between ranks within that class.

No gold stripes, a pure blue shoulder board, meant they were grunts. Buck privates. One stripe was an NCO. Three was a junior officer. Four was a field officer. Two regular stripes flanking a broad stripe was a general officer. The number of stars denoted how high one was within that particular category, usually starting from none or one, to three. The Führer had four, which sort of makes him very special, I'd imagine.

These two officers then grabbed some chairs and sat down against the wall with the one-way glass, across the room from me. They let the time go by again. Eventually, they were served some coffee, and the guards changed shifts. Then what felt like a short time later, they got more coffee, and some newspapers.

They probably had a hard time reading, seeing as nobody turned on the lights…

Then they got more coffee.

I suspect they were trying to disorient me. In which case, they were doing pretty good. I already lost my sense of time earlier. Now it had gotten even worse, if that were somehow possible.

Finally, after five or six servings of coffee, they stood up… and left the room.

I think it was about that time that I fell asleep.

And now, I had woken up to this. Still groggy, they bombarded me with questions, until I lost count of how many they'd asked, and what questions they were asking. Probably more disorientation…

Eventually, they stopped. One went back to stand next to their seats, as the other pulled out a revolver. Now, what…

"Shall we play a game?" A… game? "Drachman Roulette! I bet you know ALL about that, don't you, SPY?"

Oh.

The officer swung the cylinder open and unloaded all the bullets, pocketing five and holding up the last one for me to see. .38 calibre, from what I could tell. The specifics, not so much. It was Amestrian, after all.

"Yes, we heard about what your people did in Gregoria, to get the Reds to talk…" He slipped the round back into the cylinder and held the revolver up as he gave it a spin. When it stopped, I saw a glint of metal fall into his sleeve.

Surprising. I thought a Briggs officer wouldn't mind playing with death a little. Or perhaps, they were simply fearless, not stupid…

"So now let's see if you like the taste of your own medicine." He lowered the gun into view, and moved to close the cylinder… and the bullet fell back in, just as he snapped it shut.

Oh boy.

He held the gun up to his temple, as if attempting to demonstrate how it worked.

"You, um… might not want to do that. Your gun is loaded."

"Yes, I know, SPY! That's the POINT!"

Click.

Empty chamber.

"You don't understand. There is really a bullet in your gun."

He shoved the barrel in my face. No. No. No.

"Yes, and if you don't talk, now, SPY, it might blow your brains out!"

Click.

I've heard the stories of how Drachman Roulette worked. I don't know the exact odds, but I do know that for each time you pull the trigger, the more likely it is for the chamber to be a loaded one next time.

"I would talk, if you could just let me finish, Sir." Because really, none of what they're doing right now is necessary when you're fully cooperative.

"WHO DOES NUMBER TWO WORK FOR!?"

Not this again…

As he waved the gun in my face and began to pull the trigger, I decided that I wasn't going to die by some unfortunate interrogation accident. I kicked into the floor, and chair still stuck to my butt, I tackled his gut head first before the others could react.

He still managed to pull it though, as the loud discharge of a pistol in close quarters reported itself. In the chaos, the guards managed to restrain me, while someone turned the lights on.

I think their little charade is all messed up now. I hope nobody actually got hurt, though.

I looked around, and saw a hole in the door.

Said door opened, and a tall, lanky officer with greyed hair and a peculiar squint entered the room. Everybody saluted him, from the guards, to the earlier big scary interrogators… the latter, in much more of a panic, considering how this officer appeared to have lost a bit of hair on the left side of his head, likely thanks to that stray bullet…

Well… this was awkward.

After returning their salutes with his own, he walked up to me and held up a clipboard with some paper strapped on, presumably a list of questions, or space to take notes.

"I'm Major Vato Falman," he introduced himself with a voice that was completely calm, considering how he recently almost lost his head, "And I'm here to ask you a few questions."

Despite the ordeal, disorientation, the chaos of the last few moments, and the awkward feeling in my lower gut that I had to use the latrine pretty soon, I smiled back at him. Not really out of relief, though some could see it that way.

It was something else entirely...

The wolf had finally arrived, and I greeted him with a smile.

Because I am a stone.

~O~O~O~

VISITING OFFICER'S QUARTERS 403, LEVEL 4, FORT BRIGGS

This room is almost empty. Emptier than it has any right to be. When they said I was getting to stay at one of several visiting officers' quarters, I was hoping they at least had some kind of furnishing. Something more than just… a bed, an end table, a clothes chest, a chair, and a bare desk without any drawers. Inside the chest also sat a typewriter and a ream of papers, presumably for that inspection report I was going to write. Oh, well at least the heater's running just fine. A broken heater would be the death of anyone way up north.

But really? Not even a flower in a little vase on the desk? Okay, maybe not a living flower, that might be too much to ask. But… maybe a nice little framed picture? No? And that damn coffee. I have to pay for a fucking cup of coffee? I mean… I'm a libertarian. I will gladly pay for a cup of coffee in the proper context, even if it tastes mediocre - once I find out, though, I'll make sure to find a competitor that makes better coffee, so I don't have to expose myself again to an inferior product.

But this is the military. Everything is issued to you. Especially essentials like coffee and tea. Yes, it might be rationed, especially here up north, but everyone gets an equal cut. Which only makes sense, because as someone once said, the modern military is a social welfare program, not a private enterprise. Taxes fund it, not capital investments. The closest we get to a private military enterprise - not counting mercenary units, of course - is the pre-Marian Roman Army, where only landed taxpayers were allowed to enlist, and had to buy their own equipment. Units were divided by class, with the skirmishers - who could only afford javelins - at the bottom, and the cavalry - who could afford horses - at the top.

So unless the State Military was somehow run and funded like the pre-Marian Republican Army - which it's not - then I expect to get my entitlements. Socialism might be an ugly, inefficient thing, but that doesn't mean I won't exploit an existing social program's benefits if I happen to be entitled to them. Which is why having to pay for coffee in the military is such an egregious anomaly to me.

I leered at that cup of coffee on the desk, faint steam still rising from it despite the arctic temperatures in this region. It had cost me quite a bit to get. More than the cenz I had to fork over, there was a certain dignity I lost…

MESS HALL, LEVEL 3, FORT BRIGGS

"They told me I had to pay for the coffee around here," I looked up at the cook at the mess counter, minding his own business as he dished out today's rations to a short line of people fortunate enough to be off-duty. Said rations consisted of gruel, salt and pepper packs, a couple of hardtacks, and some kind of smelly meat product of unidentified origin, which looked like it had been passed through an industrial grinder at least three times, just to pulverize the bone into off-white speckles that seemed to be evenly distributed throughout the pinkish brown mass.

Good thing I was only here for the coffee…

"So how much are we talking about for a standard cup?"

The cook made a confused sound as he looked to the left, then to the right, and seeing nobody, scratched his head. It was only when I cleared my throat that he looked down in my direction. What, didn't he see my fidgety cowlick wiggling about as I grew increasingly impatient? Jeez. "Oh. Huh." He blinked and checked the shoulder boards on my winter coat. "Major? Now that's something you don't see everyday..."

"Yes. I am a State Alchemist, and have completed sixteen weeks at BEOC, which is why I am a Major despite how I look." Great. He's making a scene. Not only is he holding up the food line, but now some of the folks nearby are starting to look…

"Well, Ma'am, that's all well and good," the cook started, "But ain'tcha a little young for coffee?"

I had to bite my lip to keep myself from shrieking. Hakuro was arrogant as any pencil pushing general you'd expect. But at least he could put up the illusion that he was competent enough to hold his rank. This cook had such sincere and blunt ignorance that you could use it to bludgeon someone to death.

"Your concern for my well being is duly noted," I managed to say. It defused the mounting annoyance somewhat. "However, I know my body well enough to say that I can take a little coffee. So. How much?"

"Hundred cenz, Ma'am," he said as he turned to reach for a tin mug and the ladle in the large multi-gallon pot where they kept the grounds steeping. "We don't have milk or sugar for it either."

"That's fine," I brushed a hand aside while another reached into my pocket for the indicated loose change. "I prefer mine black anyway."

"Woowee," the cook shook his head as he ladled the coffee into the cup and set it down on my tray. "Sounds like you're growing up mighty fast, Ma'am. Better watch out. Adulthood's a real bitch, if you could pardon my Aerugan."

"Trust me on this, I think I can handle adulthood pretty well." I set the change down on the tray, which he then picked up, completing our transaction. I picked up the tray and headed back to my room.

The interesting thing about cenz, is that based on the prices, its buying power seems to be just about the same as your modern Japanese Yen. In what is clearly an early 20th century European nation.

VISITING OFFICER'S QUARTERS 403

I blew the steam away as I took my first sip of this coffee. The cup touched my lips, and a teaspoonful went in…

I had to hold myself back from spitting it out. This is the worst coffee I have ever had, even when you count that cheap instant stuff that comes in sachets.

It seems that in this particularly dreary environment that is Briggs, not only is it full of beggars who can't be choosers… the beggars have to pay for what is possibly the worst coffee in two worlds.

I sighed and set the cup down to one side of the desk, then unloaded the documents in my backpack onto the other side, spreading them out in a way that I could conveniently see the big picture that I've been assembling over the past year.

Dublith: Edward cites the brothers' reason for being here as a return to their Teacher, who lives at a butcher shop, in search of answers for a previous puzzle concerning a place he called "Atelier".

The search proved somewhat fruitful. While none of the butchers acknowledged being alchemists, the last one, the Curtises, appeared to have a particular disdain for me, and were not at all fazed by the fact that someone my age held a State Certification. "Looks like the Dogs are getting as young as pups these days", Mrs. Curtis said, and denied knowing anything about "Atelier", while claiming to be just a housewife.

I decided not to pursue that course, as it would require me to reveal that I had Edward's notes. She probably would've beaten me to within an inch of my life in such a case.

The next entry spoke of a violent bar encounter with a particularly die-hard man known as "George". The fight was interrupted by Southern Command's intervention as they raided the bar for terrorists.

I rang them up and they explained that the data on this particular 1914 raid had been expunged by the Southern Commander… who was later arrested for involvement in the Central Conspiracy. So it looks like the Elrics might have gotten caught up with that madness, and perhaps even contributed to taking it down… just like a Shounen manga. Heh.

Rush Valley: Here, aside from assisting in the delivery of a baby, Edward encounters one Ling Yao from Xing. A slippery tourist who not only had a voracious appetite and would end up making you pay for it by feigning ignorance of English, but also had what sounds like ninja bodyguards.

Central: Where do I start… it's a jumble. Edward is distraught to find out that his friend, one Lt. Colonel Hughes, has been murdered… likely in relation to "Atelier", he writes. Someone high up had warned them about it, apparently…

This takes an abrupt turn to the legendary ruins of Xerxes - now a famous tourist attraction - via his hometown of Resembool. Now Xerxes is a major point of interest with Edward… which only makes sense. Much of his notes are dedicated to hiding alchemic coded symbols within the narrative.

I'm not even sure if "Captive Sun" is in reference to the literal hostage situation he was almost caught in, or a metaphorical where someone is plotting to bring God down a peg. My own trip to Xerxes didn't help. Armstrong Industries had established a tourist resort there. They refurbished the Xerxian palace, and in the process, some idiot accidentally spread paint thinner all over what they had intended to be the centerpiece: the throne room, which apparently once held a mural of potential alchemic significance…

Edward then goes home to Resembool and gets into a spat with his long lost father, who had come to visit his late mother's grave after being gone for so many years. Oh. Typical… Somehow, this leads to an important revelation that he believes can help cure some kind of… illness that Alphonse has been stricken with for the longest time.

Oh, but Alphonse himself was rather secretive about it. So was May. They mostly stuck to the journal entries details when prodded. But it involved an intense numbness, if the details were anything to go by. I shuddered at how he could have survived with such sensory deprivation back then…

Ultimately, this would all lead to a confrontation with an "Old Bastard" of some sort, and a northerly search for a Xingese Alkahestrist girl with a "vicious cat"... which brings us here to Briggs.

It's pretty clear of course, that she turned out to be none other than May Chang.

The Old Bastard seemed to have been extremely powerful, politically, for sure… but I can't shake the feeling that his power also extended to a literal sense. Perhaps even an alchemic one…

If I've seen enough stories like this, I'd say this man was the puppeteer pulling the strings behind the Central Conspiracy. And he executed these schemes with certain individuals who he described as apparently having particular sets of skills: "Gary", who was a simple-minded brute but was voraciously effective at removing evidence.

"George", who… I can't tell if this was the George from Dublith, or someone similar who held Ling hostage or something… in either case, he was very similar to the first George, so let's just say it's the same one. Or his twin brother. Because with how manga-like this is getting, I wouldn't be surprised if they really were twins.

"Elvis", a master of disguise who was also particularly brutal in hand to hand combat.

"Laura", a ruthless sharpshooter who almost killed Alphonse had General Mustang not intervened... It's amazing how many of those there are around here. Though I shouldn't be surprised, given Amestris' brutal history.

"Walter". Apparently the Old Bastard's front man. A higher-up in the military who possessed frightening insight and close quarters skills. Edward was careful not to actually name him, suspiciously enough…

And lastly, "Seth", bigger, slower, and even dumber than "Gary". So much in fact that he accidentally found his way into Briggs… by getting lost? And so hard to kill that a tank had to come into play.

Were these individuals alchemists? No, how could idiots like Gary and Seth become alchemists? But were they really just humans with incredible talents? No, that can't be right. How does "so hard to kill even a tank isn't enough" count as a talent? Oh sure maybe he could be saying Seth was really good at dodging bullets… but he was described as slow, lumbering…

Perhaps they were top secret chimera operatives developed by the military under the Old Bastard's stringy machinations. Yeah, that makes the most sense. I've heard the rumours of chimeric super soldier programs before. Even Creta makes use of chimeras that are essentially werewolves, if some reports are to be believed.

But surely, Edward and Alphonse didn't start out their journey specifically to uncover some grand conspiracy and undo it, right?

No, their motives were personal. After starting over from the beginning, it was clear that he wanted to cure Alphonse of this terrible illness, no matter the cost. A truly brotherly love, it seems…

He also just happened to be a good guy who fixed problems wherever he went, whether by choice or circumstance. By no means perfect. Sometimes, Alphonse would joke about his brother's temper, for example. But a good guy nonetheless.

Okay, so that's the problem down. But what about the solution? What did Edward seek that could cure his brother's disease? Actually I might be thinking of this backwards… what kind of sickness could be so terrible that it takes a long journey of alchemic discovery to find a super solution to cure it?

Perhaps the same plague that killed their mother? But no, we have documentation of what the plague was like. They died fast. Edward doesn't mention anything about transmuting medicines either.

This working hypothesis isn't working out so well. All this time, I've failed to definitively separate the narrative from the code. What little tidbits I feel confident enough to declare to be 'pure code', I fail to decode. Every night I feel like I might happen on a breakthrough, but the more I go over it, the blurrier the lines get.

Much as I hate to admit it, it's starting to look as though I won't be able to crack these notes by myself.

I took another sip of that disgusting slop of 'coffee', long gone cold by now due to the inordinate amount of time I spent going over these journals and my plan.

So what now? Between Alphonse's mystery disease, and their historical pursuit of the equally mysterious "Cure"... which they evidently managed to get, otherwise Alphonse wouldn't be able to honestly compliment May every time she cooked something delicious… And he of course could definitely taste it, because his descriptions sounded on point. So he wasn't lying or anything…

Oh, but Alphonse and May are only uncooperative because they know I have a motive for asking them these questions. What if… what if I went to interview the people in these journal entries? At least… the ones who're still alive. Yeah, that sounds like an obvious plan. And the only reason I hadn't thought about it until now was…

Sigh.

Pride.

Being X must be laughing at me right now. Saying nothing so I'd go on a wild goose chase that I couldn't possibly solve on my own, hoping I'd waste my whole life trying to crack Edward Elric's code all by myself.

But we'll see who'll be laughing soon enough. The blinders are gone, and I can see clearly now.

I spent ten years in human resources. I should be going out there and talking to these people instead of trying to guess what it's all about from the personal observations of someone who's out of reach.

… besides, if Alphonse himself couldn't crack these notes - and the brothers were extremely close if this was anything to go by - then who am I to even try decoding them?

That's it, then. It's settled.

I picked up all my documents and packed them back into the backpack. It's time to start over, but fortunately, it's only been eight months. I've got a whole lifetime to figure this out! I mean, Edward's notes is more of a personal goal than a career objective, but I've proven that I can balance work with life. So there's no rush. All things considered, I'm doing a pretty good job setting myself up for a lucrative post-military career, after all. For now, all that's left to do here is take the rest of the day off, and then get my inspection done tomorrow.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Major Degurechaff," Lieutenant Hesnschel called out from the other side, "Major Falman wants to know if you'll be performing that inspection today or tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow morning will be fine, after you've completed the cleanup," I replied, putting the personal documents away while I pulled out more work-related things, such as the inspection material and whatnot.

"Understood, Ma'am. Oh, and by the way, the Major sent someone over to see you. You might wanna let em in, and I'll see myself out."

"Sure, go ahead, Lieutenant." Huh? Who could Falman possibly be sending my way?

"Ma'am." Henschel's voice on the other side acknowledged with a pause, and after a few moments, the sound of his boots echoed down the hall until he was gone.

I stood up and slid the chair back under the desk and opened the door. What greeted my face was a rather impressive bust clad in snow-white field uniform. I tilted my head back to see the face of the owner of said bust.

She had long brown hair, bright blue eyes, and despite the presence of a bandaged bruise on one side of her face, a smile that made you think that she didn't have a care in the world. "POW-DF, Former White Army Private Viktoriya Ivanovna Serebryakova, is now being transferred to your custody, Major Alchemist." She saluted.

I returned the salute. "Major Tanya Degurechaff, Sylphid Alchemist, is accepting the POW-DF custody transfer. I will take responsibility for your safety and wellbeing until you can be brought to an appropriate State Military training facility and reprocessed for service in the Amestrian State Military."

… well, I didn't expect this to happen so quickly, but good for me, it appears Briggs is exceptionally skilled at interrogating people. Means I can go grab her as soon as tomorrow, and be done with this place after typing out my inspection report.

"Come on in, Private Serebryakova," I stepped aside and presented my humble quarters… which were probably better than the prison cells, but not by much. "We've got a lot to talk about."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Major Degurechaff." Serebryakova beamed as she took my offer and showed herself inside.

And with that, we would spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know each other a little better…

~O~O~O~

GORINICH CRASH SITE, BRIGGS VALLEY, 8 APRIL, 1918

Huskisson yawned as he shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets. The sky was clear and blue when they arrived at the Fort this morning, but now the clouds were rolling in from the north, which bode for poor weather sometime before sunset. The train was comfortable enough, at least. With the North City-Briggs Line having completed its maintenance repairs just literally yesterday, he had quietly feared that the team would have to take a half-track and plough through the snow to get here.

Fortunately, the repairs were completed just in time for them to continue riding all the way to the end. After being accosted by the sentries and receiving a highly invasive pat-down - in case they were Drachman Spies - the team was finally allowed through, and presented their papers from Central Command.

The Executive Officer, Major Falman, then briefed them on the situation, and the details on their purpose for being here. A few days earlier, the Drachmans deployed a heavily militarized airship the likes of which had never been seen before. After a daring boarding raid, a State Alchemist named Tanya Degurechaff planted a jury-rigged 5-ton bomb next to the power plant, destroying most of the vessel.

And of course, as one might expect, their job was to go over the wreckage and see if they couldn't reverse engineer it somehow.

But that wasn't why Huskisson was here. Well, it was, but technically, he wasn't part of the initial group contacted. It wasn't until several of the troops inspecting this particular big, bulky section of the wreckage collapsed that he was called in.

Why?

Because the attending doctor found signs of radiation poisoning.

That was where Huskisson came in. After all, he was Amestris' leading authority on a fascinating new field of physics, a talented young scientist whose studies on radioactivity led to a number of seminal papers. One particular piece he published four years ago involved the development of a hypothetical superweapon, an ultra high-yield bomb, powered by the "Ultimate Energy" released from splitting the atom of the radioactive element uranium.

This got Bradley's attention, and he was interviewed by some eggheads from Central.

Oh, the bomb wasn't around yet, but he was getting rather close.

The problem was that his personal funds were starting to run low, and the new Führer seemed to be more on the path to peace. Alas. But perhaps, with this new potential arms race, his ideas might find favour with the new administration?

Well this machine clearly wasn't an unexploded bomb… in fact it was too big, too complex, to be a bomb. So what else might it have been?

The answer was obvious, really. It was some kind of power plant. Based on the description of the ship, it was extremely heavily armoured such that it couldn't have been kept aloft merely by light air. It made use of some sort of exotic propulsion system to supplement this… and more likely than not, it was powered by this device.

After all, if you weren't going to use an atom splitting chain reaction for a bomb, then the next best use for it was as fuel.

Huskisson frowned. How dare the Drachmans invent a functioning uranium device before he did! His uranium bomb was supposed to be the toast of the town! Not a power plant built by some backward bloated nation that was still largely stuck in the previous century!

Oh, he was going to enjoy picking this thing apart and then building something even better!

The physicist cleared his throat and got the Major's attention. Falman, dressed in the most protective clothing available, as Huskisson requested, cautiously approached. "Yes, Doctor Huskisson?"

"Well, Major, upon initial inspection, this device appears to be some sort of power plant. But instead of coal or petroleum, my guess is that it utilizes a radioactive element as fuel. Which explains why your men acquired radiation poisoning after exposing themselves to it. I'm guessing it has some sort of leak, which must be sealed immediately."

Falman nodded and scribbled this down in his notebook. "We could bring it inside and set up a quarantine in one of our engineering bays. With the proper protective measures, and this leak sealed up, you should be able to study it all you want."

"Excellent!" Huskisson raised a finger as if to emphasize his excitement. "Please do so with due haste, Major. We wouldn't want any of its contents to seep out into the ground."

"Understood, Doctor." Falman nodded and rejoined his escort to issue orders.

Huskisson, in the meantime, made his way over to another member of the team, who was busy dismantling what appeared to be an overgrown nozzle with a fan of some sort built into it. "Found anything of interest on your end?"

"Oh yes, this craftsmanship is simply delightful!" The scientist laughed, the messy mass of long dark hair wiggling on his back. "An envious piece of work, if I do say so myself."

"I'm guessing it feels like something you've only dreamed about and wished you could have been the first to develop?" That was the thing with inventors such as themselves. In this day and age of innovation, everybody seemed to want to have some revolutionary patent to their name.

"Certainly, without a doubt, Doctor Huskisson," the scientist grabbed a crowbar and began to pry the nozzle open. "But! Once we take it apart and see what makes it tick, making our own variation will be a cinch!"

Huskisson shrugged. "I suppose there's that. Although my idea was more about developing a weapon than a power plant…" A piece of rubble, unhinged by the messy-haired scientist, flew in his direction, forcing him to duck. "Uhh… you realize we can just dismantle it inside one of the Fort's engineering bays, right?"

Another part flew past.

"Right?"

And another. The engine was quickly falling apart.

"Doctor Schugel!"

The scientist's head whipped around at the mention of his name, adjusting his monocle as he did so. "Yes? Doctor Huskisson?"

"I said, we should have it taken inside first, so that we can dismantle it in an engineering bay, where the machinery is protected from the elements, and you have zero risk of losing any parts."

Schugel rubbed his chin in thought. "Yes, actually, I think you might have a point there, Doctor!"

"Just being commonsensical."

"Very well!" Schugel bounded over the snow, leaping in excitement in the direction of the Major and his men, to request that they bring his discovery into the fort.

Huskisson merely shook his head. That man seemed to be truly mad. And it only made sense: there was a very thin line between genius and madness.


AN: I'm assuming you've figured out the first part of the chapter title already. Who it refers to and such. I'm hoping the second part also became clear enough, considering how big a deal Tanya makes it out to be... yes. I'm talking about the Briggs coffee. Terrible stuff. Everything about it. But, that's just how hard life is in Briggs!

Also, is it just me, or is Briggs obsessed with Drachman spies? I mean, I can't blame them, that's probably their number one threat. But I swear, I think I hear someone refer to Drachman spies at least once an episode during the Briggs arc.

Those of you familiar with the 2003 series might have seen the movie Conqueror of Shamballa. Those of you who haven't, simply put, Huskisson is a guy who shows up in the first scene, who invented an atomic bomb to sell to Central. Now obviously we're going by the Mangahood continuity here, so whatever happened in the movie doesn't count (a number of folks also say the 03 continuity in general doesn't count, but this isn't the place for that). Doesn't mean that I can't recycle the character concept where it suits me, though.

I must admit that I have sympathies for 03. I don't think it's as horrible as others make it out to be, and enjoy both series for what they are. Not to mention, I'm very grateful that it introduced me to FMA. So those of you who've seen it, well... yeah. There you go.

Hopefully we can get some more stuff done next chapter!