Disclaimer: I own nothing. Though, I think Arakawa should give me Greed and Kimbley. I would make them so happy together. XD

AN: This is it. This is what I have been perfecting for the LONGEST time.

My ultimate GreKim. O:

That is... I'll only know if it is ultimate once you tell me so. C:

This first chapter will probably make no sense, believe me. Trust me. It WILL make sense after you begin to read more and more. Hell, you might get it almost as soon as you start reading it. I suggest, though, before reading, that you have seen all of FMA, including the movie. Please. Otherwise, none of this will make any sense. You have been warned. Also, this IS yaoi between Greed and Kimbley. You will be warned only once. I dislike bashers, so just don't do it. And I apologize ahead of time, but I can't take requests with that happens in the storyline. Sorry.

This is my own ending to the untold story of Greed and Kimbley. Please enjoy, and feel free to leave a lovely review. C:

I: Tooku Tooku Omoi Hatenaku

Suddenly, he was sitting up, sweat pouring from his face.

"Just a nightmare," he whispered to himself, clutching the covers around himself as if they could actually protect him from the demons circling the interior of his mind. The many demons that he knew he could never erase-- the many demons he regretted bringing into existence.

Even though he was sweating bullets, he realized it was freezing cold in the room. Looking up, he could see a slow-spinning fan, making its lazy rotations every seven seconds.

Where was he? This place didn't look at all familiar to him. He was suddenly feeling out of place, a very awkward feeling for him to have.

He put his feet slowly onto the floor, feeling the soft plush carpet under his toes. He pulled the covers from the bed, dragging them along behind him toward a mirror leaning up against the wall. As he got closer, his reflection came into view, and the more it came into view, the more alien everything felt to him.

There, in the mirror, was him-- but not him. It was a younger version of himself, with long back-length hair pulled back into a ponytail. A few strands fell over his shoulders and into his hazel-golden eyes that stared incredulously at this "reflection."

This was not the face he remembered. It was… but was not.

He stepped away from the mirror, his shoulders shaking. Examining his hands, he could see his skin-tone was a shade paler than he recalled. He turned the backs over to examine his palms, and his heart sank.

The tattoos-- the moon and the sun-- that he had faintly remembered needling into his hands when he was barely a teenager, or perhaps in a dream, were gone, as if they had never even been there in the first place.

He had never been one to panic, but it was now that he counted as a time to do such.

He ran over to the door and into a small hallway, his heart racing a thousand miles a second.

'Think,' he told himself, looking wildly around to grasp any kind of familiarity with his surroundings, 'What can you remember?'

His mind flashed a thought-- a single, bone-chilling thought.

He remembered death.

He remembered lying among piles of rubble, bleeding, his thoughts fading. The words he said were muted, silent, cut out by a thick ringing in his ears.

He remembered, as his thoughts fell from his mind like dying leaves from an autumn tree, that he had wanted to say he was sorry, but that it was far too late to do any such things as apologizing.

He stumbled through the hallway, grasping the wall for support, trying to get his head around what was happening.

Ahead, he could see a dim light, and he tripped towards it, hoping that it could prove to be a guiding light of some kind.

It turned out to be a small reading light, not a guiding light of any kind by his standards, set on a single table in the middle of a tiny room filled with cutting implements, a stove in one corner, and a sink in the other. Both the sink and the stove looked very strange, but it was probably just his imagination.

There, at the table, he saw a woman sitting there, her curly black-and-grey hair falling into her face as her thoughts were engrossed in a book.

As he approached, she suddenly realized he was there, and she looked up at him, smiling. She placed a crimson-painted nail into the middle of the book, looked to him with bright cerulean eyes, and said simply, "Something wrong, Zachary…?"

Zachary…?

For a moment he thought she may have been addressing someone else, but when he realized she was addressing him, he replied, "No, nothing. Just…"

He paused, not sure of how to answer. He couldn't let her know that he was suffering from some sort of an amnestic trauma, so he decided to be truthful.

"Just had a nightmare."

The woman sighed.

"You mean you still haven't outgrown bad dreams, Zach? I'd expect that by sixteen, your dreams would turn to different subjects…" she said haughtily, obviously being sarcastic.

From the way she spoke, her obvious tone, and the reference to being extremely familiar with his past (which he himself was not aware of), he could only guess she was his mother. He decided to give it a shot.

"Hey, Mom, what time is it?"

The woman looked up to the clock (which he was glad that she hadn't told him to look for himself, given that he didn't even know it was there) and said flatly, "Four."

He sighed in relief. He had guessed right at her being his mother, at least. He could deal with that little fact. It was a start.

"You do know you have school tomorrow, right?" she continued on.

School?

He hadn't gone to school in years.

Or, maybe he had always been going to school.

Or... maybe he was just getting his mind all twisted into nasty knots.

"Sorry, Mom. I'll get back to bed. I was just… feeling lonely."

"Well, honey, just go on back to bed, and let me know if you need anything," she said affectionately, her kind blue eyes averting their gaze back into her book.

It was true. The one thing that stuck out most in his mind was that he felt lonely, more than anything.

Besides that, he remembered that he had lived his life completely alone and partially miserable. He had gone through his whole life, as he recalled, bitter and impartial to others' feelings.

He also remembered a single person, whom he feared, yet strangely loved, that he recalled that he wanted to tell he was sorry. He could remember nothing more-- no name, no face, no anything.

Other than that, he was a blank slate.

He made a decision right there as he turned and stalked back to his room, his eyes drooping with sleep.

If this was some sort of a second chance, or some sort of a purposeful journey into unknown and uncharted waters, he was ready to take it.