Fanfic Post - Nameless, Chapter 3
Apr. 23rd, 2011 10:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristenskTitle: Nameless
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: April 23, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Violence/some messy unpleasantness.
Genre/Continuity: AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.
Disclaimer: “Fullmetal Alchemist” belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.
Author’s Note: As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. And, since I forgot to say so sooner, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.
Chapter 3 - Tuesday
“Unh…”
Darkness surrounded him. Absolute darkness. Were his eyes open? He tried to open them but felt nothing. And, the darkness persisted.
“Where…?” He was sure his mouth hadn’t moved, but he heard his voice all the same.
“You’re awake?” a voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“Awake?”
“Not really then,” said the voice. “You should go back to sleep.”
“Sleep?”
Other voices joined the first.
“Sleep.”
“Still waiting.”
“Sleep.”
For an instant, he tried to argue. But, the voices were insistent. And, he could think of no compelling reason to stay awake. In fact, a faint niggling at the back of his mind suggested that sleeping had been his idea in the first place.
Fine then.
But, it seemed like there had been something.
Something about a clock and a smug jerk who thought he knew everything.
Letting it go, he let himself drift back into oblivion.
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Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist and sufferer of chronic headaches, did not enjoy mornings. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that he loathed mornings. Mornings meant waking from dreams he could never remember - though the fading impressions at the edges of consciousness assured him that he did, in fact, dream – to face another day of monotony. And, sometimes, mornings meant waking refreshed and well only to suffer the inevitable onset of pain as the familiar headache slowly built until it threatened to split his skull and send him home where he could find relief in sleep.
Of course, those were the bad days. Sometimes, there were good days. Days when he had a breakthrough and made progress in his research. Days when the headaches did not come or were mild.
And then, there was yesterday.
Yesterday had been… different, Fullmetal mused as he squinted against the pale light streaming across his narrow bed. And, not just the bizarre situation of his being entrusted with a real assignment. Yesterday, the headache had been oddly brief. He had felt it building toward the end of the first chapter’s worth of notes, but it never fully surfaced. Not like it usually did. And, not until he tried to remember if he had ever visited East City.
Frowning, he pushed himself up and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Dull throbbing near his automail ports announced another damp day, but he ignored it. Reflexively, he lifted his hands, one automail and one flesh, over his shoulders. Then, started when he found his hands grasping at nothing. That again. He lowered his hands to his lap, letting the left, flesh hand idly run through his short hair on the way. His hair must have been longer once. Maybe he had worn it long whenever he visited East City. But, he couldn’t remember.
With a groan, Fullmetal looked out the window. The rain he had predicted had yet to materialize, but a thick fog blanketed the city. He scowled at it and stood, crossing his tiny apartment to find the bathroom. As he turned on the shower and stepped out of his boxer shorts, he let his mind wander familiar pathways.
Everything always came back to his missing memories. The first twenty-five years of his life were a blank. He knew about them. Though it had given him an agonizing headache to do so, he had read his own file. It had offered only flickering images that gave him more questions than answers.
“Mother: Trisha Elric. Deceased.”
Long, auburn hair and a gentle, loving smile that made tears prick in his eyes and tore a gaping hole in his soul.
“Father: Unknown.”
The broad back of a tall man with golden hair who went out the door and never came back.
No other relatives were listed. And, yet…
A boy with dirty blond hair and brown eyes who smiled at him, scolded him, called for him, screamed, “Brother!” as he reached out with a hand that disappeared under his grasping fingers.
But, there was no brother listed in his file.
Fullmetal shook his head before tipping it back to let the shower’s lukewarm water wash over him. In twenty years, he hadn’t found any answers. There was no reason to think he would now.
Besides, before he had left the library yesterday, he had found the answer to the issue of the clock tower. And, for once, he had something to look forward to. Because he couldn’t wait to prove Colonel Smug wrong.
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Across town, Roy Mustang was feeling considerably less accomplished. Yesterday had ended with a few well-placed calls to keep himself abreast of the murdered alchemists case, a quick dinner and an even quicker shower before bed. But, despite turning in early, he had woken feeling more tired than he started.
The day had not improved from that point.
He had stopped by a café he frequented long enough to get a quick breakfast and take in the morning gossip. Sadly, while the murdered alchemists were featured prominently in the paper and the early morning chatter, no one had anything to say that he didn’t already know. What little else he managed to catch was useless as he didn’t particularly care about old Mrs. Grunwald’s drunken exploits along St. Louis Avenue. He would, however, take it as a reminder that little old ladies were not to be trifled with. Especially when they were armed.
Breakfast complete, he had made his way to the State Alchemists division and attempted to look up Ulrich Parker. Unsurprisingly, Parker’s records were as classified as his research. So, why hadn’t a copy of them been included in the file he was given?
With no other alternative, Mustang had found himself in his present situation. Waiting outside General Grand’s office and debating his arguments. Because he not only needed to convince Grand to allow him access to Parker’s personal records he needed to convince Grand to let him include his staff in this effort. The first request would hopefully be nothing but a formality. The second was likely to take more effort. It was also equally likely to fail. But, Roy Mustang did not intend to fail. He did, however, make contingency plans.
“Colonel Mustang.”
Mustang straightened and saluted quickly as Grand opened the door. “Sir.”
Grand eyed him shrewdly for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve already discovered something?” he asked as he waved Mustang into his office.
“No, Sir,” Mustang said as the door was closed behind him. “I wanted to ask you about the Reaction Alchemist’s personal file.” His eyes tracked Grand as the larger man moved around him to take up position behind his desk. “I thought comparing his official records against the account in his research might be useful.”
It was a reasonable request, but Grand had stiffened as he spoke. Then, it was gone, and the general was giving him a level look.
“That can be arranged,” Grand said at last. “Was there something else?”
“Yes, Sir.” Mustang kept his voice neutral. Grand’s unusual reaction to his “easy” request had him on guard. “As you know, the research is encoded in the form of a travelogue. Obviously, the places listed are important, however, the thirty year time gap is making verifying them difficult. That in mind, I would like to ask that I be allowed to assign members of my staff to research the locations in question.”
Grand’s eyes had narrowed. “I believe I have already made it clear that this matter must be kept in complete secrecy,” he growled.
“I understand that, Sir.” Mustang carefully ran through his pre-planned arguments. This could still work. “I wouldn’t need to give them any specifics, merely places and dates so that they could collect the information. Furthermore, the earliest chapters concern the eastern region, where I was previously stationed. Since coming to Central, General Grumman from Eastern Headquarters has contacted me a few times for various favors. I could easily attribute the assignment to him.”
Good. Grand was starting to look more thoughtful than irritable.
“And, once you reach the end of the material concerning the east?” he asked.
“Perhaps, by then, Fullmetal and I will have cracked the code,” Mustang answered. Grand was seriously considering it. Maybe the morning was finally looking up. “However,” he continued, “if not, allowing my staff to continue assisting would, of course, be at your discretion. For now, I only request their assistance with the first chapters.”
Grand studied him carefully for several minutes. At length, he spoke. “Very well, Mustang. But, remember what’s on the line here.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
Feeling like the day had finally turned around for the better, but maintaining a neutral facade, Mustang turned to go.
“Wait,” Grand called behind him.
Mustang half-turned.
“How is Fullmetal working out?” Grand asked. He was watching Mustang with an odd intensity. “I understand that you’ve read his file.”
Hmm, perhaps he should have been more discreet about that. No help for it now.
“Yes, Sir,” Mustang said. “I admit that Fullmetal’s file was… worrying.” He faced Grand fully. “But, we’ve had no problems. I have no complaints regarding his work. He even noticed some details I had overlooked.”
“Did he?” Grand’s face was unreadable, but the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch under his moustache. “Well, good. Assigning him was a long shot, but perhaps it will pay off yet.” Grand settled into his chair, looking past Mustang in thought. “Yes, perhaps it will.” He focused on Mustang again. “I’ll have the Reaction Alchemist’s file delivered to you by this afternoon. Dismissed.”
Saluting, Mustang turned and left. As he made his way toward his own office to give his men their new assignments, he mulled over the conversation. He suspected that he had gotten what he wanted far too easily. And, he was finding that he didn’t like it at all.
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“Clock tower.”
Mustang took an involuntary step back and away from the book that had been thrust into his face as he entered the room. Recovering, he looked over the thick hardback and into the face of the Fullmetal Alchemist. The other man was scowling at him, but he could see a smirk hiding just behind it.
“Good morning to you too,” Mustang said at length as he stepped around the smaller man.
Fullmetal’s scowl deepened into a more genuine irritation. “I found the clock tower I was telling you about,” he said.
“I’m all ears.” Mustang pulled out the same chair he had occupied the day before and seated himself at the table.
Fullmetal followed him, resuming his former place as well. “It was in East City, right at the end of West Avenue,” he said, shoving the opened book across the table. “It was there thirty years ago. But, the clock stopped working properly, and they tore it down a few years later.”
Mustang gave the brief entry in the book a cursory glance. It was just a footnote in a larger historical account indicating that the clock tower in question had been built to commemorate some battle or another. And, subsequently torn down in the years after Parker wrote his notes. Mustang shoved the book away.
“Well, that answers one question.”
Fullmetal glared at him. He had clearly been hoping for more of a reaction. How childish.
“And, it means you aren’t the only one who knows something about East City,” he said, pressing the point.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that.” Mustang paused and studied his companion. “However, you said yesterday that you weren’t sure if you had ever been there.”
Fullmetal looked away. “I’m not. I don’t… remember things very well.”
As his file had indicated.
“On a regular basis or—?”
“What?” Fullmetal turned the full force of his scowl on Mustang once more. “I remember everything now.” Most everything anyway. “It’s anything before… about thirty years ago. I was—”
“Held as a prisoner of war in Drachma,” Mustang finished. Catching Fullmetal’s startled look, he shrugged. “I took the liberty of reading your file.”
“You—!”
“It’s accessible to any other State Alchemist or equivalently ranked officer.”
Fullmetal choked down his words and glared at the dark-haired man for a minute before finally grunting in resignation. “Well, then you know. So, maybe I was in East City back then, but…” He shrugged.
Mustang just nodded and let the topic go. “Now,” he reached for the folder containing Parker’s notes, “I’ve spoken with General Grand. Not only has he agreed to release the personal file on Mr. Parker, he’s given me permission to have my staff handle the fact-checking for us. Well,” he clarified, “at least for the eastern region. I’ve already gotten them started on East City. That in mind, I thought the best use of our time would be to compile the rest of the information they’ll need to look into.”
And, with a grudging agreement from the other alchemist, they started on the second “chapter”, which was apparently devoted to the city of Liore.
Ulrich Parker’s file arrived mid-afternoon, hand-delivered by none other than General Grand himself. His visit was oddly brief. He thrust the folder into Mustang’s hand, gave Fullmetal, who was massaging his temples again, an inscrutable glare and left, all with only the bare minimum of conversation.
It was odd enough to set off warning bells in the colonel’s mind as he resumed his place at the table. Something had happened, he thought, distractedly pushing aside the research notes and shuffling Parker’s file to buy himself some time. Something important enough to distract Grand from his pet project.
It almost prompted Mustang to come up with a sudden need for a particular reference within the next hour so he could escape upstairs and possibly get a message out. Neither the guards or Fullmetal would question it. By mutual unspoken agreement, they had all quickly accepted, “I need more reference materials,” as a euphemism for, “I’m visiting the men’s room”.
Momentarily, Mustang warred with himself. But, he could only use the bathroom excuse so many times, and Grand’s distraction might be some other business of the general’s. Perhaps even another team of alchemists working on this same project? Or maybe someone had discovered this little endeavor?
Mustang paused and turned the two thoughts over in his mind. Yes, both were possible. More than possible.
“Are you going to actually read that?”
Mustang looked up and across the table to find Fullmetal recovered and pinning him with one of his familiar scowls. Honestly, the man only had two expressions – scowling and pouting.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at the file again and frowning briefly. Then, he looked up and let his face slip into a condescending smile. “Do you need me to read it to you, Fullmetal? You know, I notice that I have been doing all the reading. If you need new glasses, you should just say—”
“I can read it myself!” With that, Fullmetal reached across the table to snatch the file from his hand.
Mustang let it go without complaint. “Just please read coherently and not in that snarl of yours,” he said.
He received a growl in response, but, after a moment, Fullmetal’s voice took up a normal, even pitch as he began to read aloud. Reaching for paper and a pencil to make notes, Mustang ducked his head to hide his smirk. Really, Fullmetal made it too easy.
Keeping his ears trained for the information he needed, Mustang let his mind wander again. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this assignment. How he felt about saving the State Alchemists program. But, he was sure that he wanted to know everything he could about the situation.
The next hour passed in relative calm. Fullmetal read in a steady voice that was tolerable if not a little monotone. Mustang busied himself taking notes. Regrettably, there were few interesting things worth noting.
Ulrich Parker, the Reaction Alchemist. His file was as boring as Fullmetal’s had been colorful. He had traveled widely, likely explaining his choice to encode his research in the form of a travelogue. But, the file condensed his travels into nothing but so much data, records of places and dates and reports filed. By and large, the places weren’t even those listed in the travelogue. It was disappointing, but not surprising.
Aside from that, Parker’s field of study had focused on the more esoteric details of alchemic reactions. A study that had led him first to various amplifiers for alchemic energy and, ultimately, to the Philosopher’s Stone. Parker’s official, unencrypted reports were fairly dense and, while he understood the bulk of it, Mustang admitted to himself that he would need to brush up on his own knowledge before he could say with complete confidence that he fully grasped every word of it. Whether Fullmetal understood it or not was debatable, but it had him scowling deeper than ever and rubbing at his head again.
Still, even at a glance, it was obvious that none of Parker’s efforts had been close to a Philosopher’s Stone. At least, none of his un-encoded efforts. All the same, the two alchemists soldiered on, slowly tackling each individual report, searching for anything that might indicate a change, a breakthrough, however small.
Halfway through the stack of reports, Fullmetal abruptly closed the file and tossed it down on the table.
“This is pointless,” he growled as he removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t, can’t!”
“Can’t let you!”
“Can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t!”
“Not necessarily.” Mustang’s voice cut across the buzz of far too many voices as he reached to retrieve the file. “But, it is more than enough for one day,” he said, looking over the other alchemist with a critical eye.
He hadn’t really looked at the older man for the last half hour. Now that he did… Fullmetal looked even worse than he had when they paused the previous day. His face was pale and contorted in a grimace. His hands were no longer rubbing but clutching at his head. The left, flesh hand had a faint tremor.
Mustang looked away and busied himself scanning over the notes he had made. Maybe Fullmetal would recover like he had before. If so, he would offer what privacy he could.
However, as the minutes ticked by, it became obvious that Fullmetal wasn’t going to bounce back this time. If anything, his tremors were becoming more pronounced.
“Hey, Fullmetal.” Mustang waited for the other man to look at him. “You don’t look good. Maybe you should go home.” He dug in a pocket to produce his State-issued watch and check the time. “It’s a quarter to five anyway.”
For a minute, it looked like Fullmetal would argue with him. His jaw was set in a stubborn glower and his eyes narrowed. But, then he jerked and winced so hard Mustang could hear his teeth snap together.
“Yeah,” Fullmetal said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, that would be good.” Reaching for his glasses, he forced himself to stand on shaking legs and make his way to the door.
The guards, taking in his ashen face, gave the gray-haired alchemist only a cursory inspection and let him go, obviously afraid they would catch whatever he had. It brought a bitter smile to Fullmetal’s lips as he made his way to the stairs. There was nothing contagious about his condition.
Never contagious. But, always predictable.
Parker’s reports had been absolutely fascinating. If Parker’s calculations for minimizing the amount of energy wasted in a transmutation were correct, the potential in applying them to his own work…
And, there the voices had intervened, as they always did.
But, now…
“Going now.”
“Going.”
“Going good.”
“Be quiet now.”
“Quiet. Quiet.”
And, indeed, the farther he got from the basement room, the quieter it got.
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Mustang stared at the closed door for several minutes after Fullmetal left, his lips pressed into a thin frown. There was something wrong there. True, it wasn’t uncommon for men to suffer the effects of war and torture for the rest of their lives. But, for Fullmetal, thirty years later, to end every day with a debilitating headache or worse… Either the man’s condition was worse than it appeared on the surface – again, prompting the question of why he hadn’t been discharged – or something about this assignment was triggering it.
His bet was on the latter.
His gaze shifted to Parker’s file. There was a connection. There had to be.
“I remember everything now. It’s anything before… about thirty years ago.”
Fullmetal’s words earlier that afternoon came back to him in a rush.
Thirty years ago.
Thirty years ago, Ulrich Parker had researched the Philosopher’s Stone. Thirty years ago, Fullmetal had been an impossibly young alchemic genius.
Mustang swore softly as he brought his fist down on the file.
It was suddenly starting to make a terrible lot of sense exactly why Fullmetal had been assigned to this project
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Clutching at the stairway railing for balance, Fullmetal made his way up to the library’s main floor. His head was growing quieter by the minute, but the pain lingered. He wanted nothing so much as to get back to his apartment and collapse. That in mind, he pushed open the stairwell door, squinting against the brighter light beyond. It hurt, stabbing into eyes that had adapted to the basement’s dim lighting and making his head throb all the harder. Blindly, Fullmetal turned and made his way toward the nearest exit.
As he navigated around the stacks, one hand out to steady himself against the shelves, Fullmetal became distantly aware of a familiar voice. One that wasn’t inside his head. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of General Grand’s large form amid a cluster of soldiers standing near the front entrance.
Fresh pain lanced through his head. He was failing again. After more than a decade of useless assignments, he had finally been given something important, and he was failing.
“They have not all been useless assignments.”
Yes, they were. Pointless busywork given to a useless alchemist.
No, not all… There had once been an assignment on using alchemy to fit and repair automail.
But, it was so little.
He wanted to do something worthwhile. He needed to do something worthwhile. He wanted to be useful again. If he could just make some kind of breakthrough on the notes and prove to the general that he wasn’t useless.
They had let him keep his job all this time. Didn’t he owe—?
Pain, swift and piercing, shot through his skull.
“Nononononononononononononono!”
“Don’t!”
“Can’t!”
The words ran together, growing louder and louder until the voices dissolved into an incoherent scream dragged from a thousand throats. It was a senseless cacophony that felt like knives driven through his skull.
Fullmetal barely bit back his own scream as he slumped to the floor. His hands dug into his scalp, frantically gripping his head as though it might explode if he didn’t hold it together.
“I’m going!” he cried into his mind, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m leaving! I won’t do anything! You win!” Tears streamed down his face, trickling into his lips and over clenched teeth. “You win! You win!”
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, curled into himself, crying from the pain and his own inability to fight it. But, finally, the voices quieted, and he became aware of the world beyond the pain and the voices.
Somewhere a clock was chiming. Six? Was it six o’clock now?
He opened his eyes. The library would be closing then. Rolling his head back, he looked up. Spying a shelf at a good height, he raised his automail arm to grip the edge of it and pull himself up. His flesh leg quivered under his weight, and he slumped against the bookshelf. There was a dull buzz echoing in his mind as though his mental ear was ringing after the assault. His body, what wasn’t automail at any rate, was trembling. His breathing was ragged, and his vision was ringed by spots. But, he could not stay here.
Looking toward the door, he found that General Grand was gone.
Good. He didn’t want the general to see him like this.
Slowly, Fullmetal began to edge his way toward the door, the automail hand always holding tightly to the nearest shelf. His progress was slow, but, mercifully, all of the other patrons had already left or were holed up in private study rooms, unwilling to leave until the staff forcibly ejected them. Likewise, the librarians were absent, perhaps searching for those few, stubborn patrons. It was a gift he didn’t question.
Soon, he emerged, wincing, into the gray light of a rain-washed evening. But, he ignored the steady drizzle and instead focused on navigating the stairs, taking each one carefully. As he neared the bottom, he heard voices behind him. He thought he even heard the general again.
Gritting his teeth, he increased his pace.
He didn’t want anyone to find him. To see him shaking and tearstained. He was disgrace enough without that.
At last, he reached the bottom and, staggering off the final step, Fullmetal teetered around the corner of the library. A few stumbling steps and he had slipped into a narrow alley. It was roughly angling in the direction of his apartment. Maybe. He didn’t care. At least it was away from the library. Away from the general. Away from his obligations. Away from his failures.
Away from the voices, who were now only whispers.
But, the static remained, like a clinging fog in his mind.
Lost in the haze, he nearly slipped when his feet slapped into an especially deep puddle. Throwing out a hand to catch against the nearest wall, he steadied himself. Then, he looked down.
Red.
Why was there red wending through the puddle at his feet?
His eyes tracked the gentle trickle of red backward. Back to where it became thick and heavy. Back to a pair of shoes. Back to a limp hand. Back to a face that was nothing but red. So much red.
Fullmetal took an involuntary step away. Something hot and burning welled up in the back of his throat. Choking it down, he tore his eyes away from the body. Looked up.
And, into a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Eyes as red as the crimson stain at his feet.
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Roy Mustang gave the list he had written a final perusal. It seemed to be in order. He had skimmed through Parker’s travelogue and made a list of every town Parker had listed in the east as well as what few landmarks he thought the general would permit. It would be enough for Breda and Falman to work from.
His mind was only half on the list. He had spent most of his time since Fullmetal left debating Grand’s reasons for not telling him that Fullmetal had known Parker. Or worked with Parker. As a fellow researcher? An apprentice? There were so many possibilities. Did Fullmetal himself know? Or rather, had he been told? It was clear he didn’t remember, but he had been in Grand’s office when Roy arrived the night they were given the assignment. The general might have already briefed him on his connection to Parker.
Or Fullmetal might be completely unaware. Parker was, most likely, a deserter after all. If Fullmetal’s memory returned, he might choose to work against their efforts out of some loyalty to the man.
Mustang balanced a pencil between his fingertips, thinking. Grand’s sudden question that morning about how Fullmetal was doing now made sense. Grand was counting on Fullmetal to be the key to deciphering the notes.
“So, what’s my role? A backup? An unwitting spy?”
Mustang’s dark eyes narrowed. It looked like he was going to have some additional research to do. Privately. Because this wasn’t a question he could ask Grand. If he was meant to know, he would have been told. So then, why wasn’t he meant to know?
Loud voices in the hallway drew him from his musings. Before he could stand, the door was thrown open, and General Grand himself strode into the room.
“Colonel Mustang, where is Fullmetal?”
Mustang froze half out of his chair. “He left over an hour ago. He wasn’t feeling well. Didn’t the guards—?”
“Yes!” Grand snapped impatiently. “But, did he tell you where he was going?”
Mustang straightened slowly. “No. I assumed he was going home to rest given his condition.”
“He’s not at his apartment.” Grand whirled and stalked back to the door. “And, the Earth Alchemist, who was supposed to meet me two hours ago, is also missing.”
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Fullmetal stared numbly at the red-eyed man, taking in details without really processing them. Tall, well-built with a large x-shaped scar centered between those unnerving eyes. Dimly, he felt a sense of alarm building in the back of his mind. This was bad. There was a dead man at his feet. He should run, fight, something.
But, his limbs were still only half-responsive. And, the world was gray and distant, narrowed down to himself, the man and the body between them.
The red-eyed man watched him for several long seconds. Then, he slowly bent forward.
His body suddenly moving of its own accord, Fullmetal immediately raised his hands and took a step back.
But, the man was only retrieving a pair of dark sunglasses from the ground. Slipping them onto his face, he regarded Fullmetal once more. Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the deepening twilight.
Slowly, the world began to fade back into focus. The rain had become a steady patter against the pavement overlaid by a strange, harsh wheezing. For a minute, Fullmetal thought it might be coming from the body. But, no, even in the dim light it was obvious the body was too still. After a minute, Fullmetal realized that it was his own breathing.
Calm down. He had to calm down. He had to report this. He had to…
Ducking his head to catch his breath, his eyes landed on his hands. They were still held in front of him, palms nearly touching.
“What was I trying to—?”
Inside his mind, a soft murmur of voices whispered, “Won’t let you die.”
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: April 23, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Violence/some messy unpleasantness.
Genre/Continuity: AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.
Disclaimer: “Fullmetal Alchemist” belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.
Author’s Note: As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. And, since I forgot to say so sooner, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.
Chapter 3 - Tuesday
“Unh…”
Darkness surrounded him. Absolute darkness. Were his eyes open? He tried to open them but felt nothing. And, the darkness persisted.
“Where…?” He was sure his mouth hadn’t moved, but he heard his voice all the same.
“You’re awake?” a voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“Awake?”
“Not really then,” said the voice. “You should go back to sleep.”
“Sleep?”
Other voices joined the first.
“Sleep.”
“Still waiting.”
“Sleep.”
For an instant, he tried to argue. But, the voices were insistent. And, he could think of no compelling reason to stay awake. In fact, a faint niggling at the back of his mind suggested that sleeping had been his idea in the first place.
Fine then.
But, it seemed like there had been something.
Something about a clock and a smug jerk who thought he knew everything.
Letting it go, he let himself drift back into oblivion.
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Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist and sufferer of chronic headaches, did not enjoy mornings. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that he loathed mornings. Mornings meant waking from dreams he could never remember - though the fading impressions at the edges of consciousness assured him that he did, in fact, dream – to face another day of monotony. And, sometimes, mornings meant waking refreshed and well only to suffer the inevitable onset of pain as the familiar headache slowly built until it threatened to split his skull and send him home where he could find relief in sleep.
Of course, those were the bad days. Sometimes, there were good days. Days when he had a breakthrough and made progress in his research. Days when the headaches did not come or were mild.
And then, there was yesterday.
Yesterday had been… different, Fullmetal mused as he squinted against the pale light streaming across his narrow bed. And, not just the bizarre situation of his being entrusted with a real assignment. Yesterday, the headache had been oddly brief. He had felt it building toward the end of the first chapter’s worth of notes, but it never fully surfaced. Not like it usually did. And, not until he tried to remember if he had ever visited East City.
Frowning, he pushed himself up and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Dull throbbing near his automail ports announced another damp day, but he ignored it. Reflexively, he lifted his hands, one automail and one flesh, over his shoulders. Then, started when he found his hands grasping at nothing. That again. He lowered his hands to his lap, letting the left, flesh hand idly run through his short hair on the way. His hair must have been longer once. Maybe he had worn it long whenever he visited East City. But, he couldn’t remember.
With a groan, Fullmetal looked out the window. The rain he had predicted had yet to materialize, but a thick fog blanketed the city. He scowled at it and stood, crossing his tiny apartment to find the bathroom. As he turned on the shower and stepped out of his boxer shorts, he let his mind wander familiar pathways.
Everything always came back to his missing memories. The first twenty-five years of his life were a blank. He knew about them. Though it had given him an agonizing headache to do so, he had read his own file. It had offered only flickering images that gave him more questions than answers.
“Mother: Trisha Elric. Deceased.”
Long, auburn hair and a gentle, loving smile that made tears prick in his eyes and tore a gaping hole in his soul.
“Father: Unknown.”
The broad back of a tall man with golden hair who went out the door and never came back.
No other relatives were listed. And, yet…
A boy with dirty blond hair and brown eyes who smiled at him, scolded him, called for him, screamed, “Brother!” as he reached out with a hand that disappeared under his grasping fingers.
But, there was no brother listed in his file.
Fullmetal shook his head before tipping it back to let the shower’s lukewarm water wash over him. In twenty years, he hadn’t found any answers. There was no reason to think he would now.
Besides, before he had left the library yesterday, he had found the answer to the issue of the clock tower. And, for once, he had something to look forward to. Because he couldn’t wait to prove Colonel Smug wrong.
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Across town, Roy Mustang was feeling considerably less accomplished. Yesterday had ended with a few well-placed calls to keep himself abreast of the murdered alchemists case, a quick dinner and an even quicker shower before bed. But, despite turning in early, he had woken feeling more tired than he started.
The day had not improved from that point.
He had stopped by a café he frequented long enough to get a quick breakfast and take in the morning gossip. Sadly, while the murdered alchemists were featured prominently in the paper and the early morning chatter, no one had anything to say that he didn’t already know. What little else he managed to catch was useless as he didn’t particularly care about old Mrs. Grunwald’s drunken exploits along St. Louis Avenue. He would, however, take it as a reminder that little old ladies were not to be trifled with. Especially when they were armed.
Breakfast complete, he had made his way to the State Alchemists division and attempted to look up Ulrich Parker. Unsurprisingly, Parker’s records were as classified as his research. So, why hadn’t a copy of them been included in the file he was given?
With no other alternative, Mustang had found himself in his present situation. Waiting outside General Grand’s office and debating his arguments. Because he not only needed to convince Grand to allow him access to Parker’s personal records he needed to convince Grand to let him include his staff in this effort. The first request would hopefully be nothing but a formality. The second was likely to take more effort. It was also equally likely to fail. But, Roy Mustang did not intend to fail. He did, however, make contingency plans.
“Colonel Mustang.”
Mustang straightened and saluted quickly as Grand opened the door. “Sir.”
Grand eyed him shrewdly for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve already discovered something?” he asked as he waved Mustang into his office.
“No, Sir,” Mustang said as the door was closed behind him. “I wanted to ask you about the Reaction Alchemist’s personal file.” His eyes tracked Grand as the larger man moved around him to take up position behind his desk. “I thought comparing his official records against the account in his research might be useful.”
It was a reasonable request, but Grand had stiffened as he spoke. Then, it was gone, and the general was giving him a level look.
“That can be arranged,” Grand said at last. “Was there something else?”
“Yes, Sir.” Mustang kept his voice neutral. Grand’s unusual reaction to his “easy” request had him on guard. “As you know, the research is encoded in the form of a travelogue. Obviously, the places listed are important, however, the thirty year time gap is making verifying them difficult. That in mind, I would like to ask that I be allowed to assign members of my staff to research the locations in question.”
Grand’s eyes had narrowed. “I believe I have already made it clear that this matter must be kept in complete secrecy,” he growled.
“I understand that, Sir.” Mustang carefully ran through his pre-planned arguments. This could still work. “I wouldn’t need to give them any specifics, merely places and dates so that they could collect the information. Furthermore, the earliest chapters concern the eastern region, where I was previously stationed. Since coming to Central, General Grumman from Eastern Headquarters has contacted me a few times for various favors. I could easily attribute the assignment to him.”
Good. Grand was starting to look more thoughtful than irritable.
“And, once you reach the end of the material concerning the east?” he asked.
“Perhaps, by then, Fullmetal and I will have cracked the code,” Mustang answered. Grand was seriously considering it. Maybe the morning was finally looking up. “However,” he continued, “if not, allowing my staff to continue assisting would, of course, be at your discretion. For now, I only request their assistance with the first chapters.”
Grand studied him carefully for several minutes. At length, he spoke. “Very well, Mustang. But, remember what’s on the line here.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
Feeling like the day had finally turned around for the better, but maintaining a neutral facade, Mustang turned to go.
“Wait,” Grand called behind him.
Mustang half-turned.
“How is Fullmetal working out?” Grand asked. He was watching Mustang with an odd intensity. “I understand that you’ve read his file.”
Hmm, perhaps he should have been more discreet about that. No help for it now.
“Yes, Sir,” Mustang said. “I admit that Fullmetal’s file was… worrying.” He faced Grand fully. “But, we’ve had no problems. I have no complaints regarding his work. He even noticed some details I had overlooked.”
“Did he?” Grand’s face was unreadable, but the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch under his moustache. “Well, good. Assigning him was a long shot, but perhaps it will pay off yet.” Grand settled into his chair, looking past Mustang in thought. “Yes, perhaps it will.” He focused on Mustang again. “I’ll have the Reaction Alchemist’s file delivered to you by this afternoon. Dismissed.”
Saluting, Mustang turned and left. As he made his way toward his own office to give his men their new assignments, he mulled over the conversation. He suspected that he had gotten what he wanted far too easily. And, he was finding that he didn’t like it at all.
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“Clock tower.”
Mustang took an involuntary step back and away from the book that had been thrust into his face as he entered the room. Recovering, he looked over the thick hardback and into the face of the Fullmetal Alchemist. The other man was scowling at him, but he could see a smirk hiding just behind it.
“Good morning to you too,” Mustang said at length as he stepped around the smaller man.
Fullmetal’s scowl deepened into a more genuine irritation. “I found the clock tower I was telling you about,” he said.
“I’m all ears.” Mustang pulled out the same chair he had occupied the day before and seated himself at the table.
Fullmetal followed him, resuming his former place as well. “It was in East City, right at the end of West Avenue,” he said, shoving the opened book across the table. “It was there thirty years ago. But, the clock stopped working properly, and they tore it down a few years later.”
Mustang gave the brief entry in the book a cursory glance. It was just a footnote in a larger historical account indicating that the clock tower in question had been built to commemorate some battle or another. And, subsequently torn down in the years after Parker wrote his notes. Mustang shoved the book away.
“Well, that answers one question.”
Fullmetal glared at him. He had clearly been hoping for more of a reaction. How childish.
“And, it means you aren’t the only one who knows something about East City,” he said, pressing the point.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that.” Mustang paused and studied his companion. “However, you said yesterday that you weren’t sure if you had ever been there.”
Fullmetal looked away. “I’m not. I don’t… remember things very well.”
As his file had indicated.
“On a regular basis or—?”
“What?” Fullmetal turned the full force of his scowl on Mustang once more. “I remember everything now.” Most everything anyway. “It’s anything before… about thirty years ago. I was—”
“Held as a prisoner of war in Drachma,” Mustang finished. Catching Fullmetal’s startled look, he shrugged. “I took the liberty of reading your file.”
“You—!”
“It’s accessible to any other State Alchemist or equivalently ranked officer.”
Fullmetal choked down his words and glared at the dark-haired man for a minute before finally grunting in resignation. “Well, then you know. So, maybe I was in East City back then, but…” He shrugged.
Mustang just nodded and let the topic go. “Now,” he reached for the folder containing Parker’s notes, “I’ve spoken with General Grand. Not only has he agreed to release the personal file on Mr. Parker, he’s given me permission to have my staff handle the fact-checking for us. Well,” he clarified, “at least for the eastern region. I’ve already gotten them started on East City. That in mind, I thought the best use of our time would be to compile the rest of the information they’ll need to look into.”
And, with a grudging agreement from the other alchemist, they started on the second “chapter”, which was apparently devoted to the city of Liore.
Ulrich Parker’s file arrived mid-afternoon, hand-delivered by none other than General Grand himself. His visit was oddly brief. He thrust the folder into Mustang’s hand, gave Fullmetal, who was massaging his temples again, an inscrutable glare and left, all with only the bare minimum of conversation.
It was odd enough to set off warning bells in the colonel’s mind as he resumed his place at the table. Something had happened, he thought, distractedly pushing aside the research notes and shuffling Parker’s file to buy himself some time. Something important enough to distract Grand from his pet project.
It almost prompted Mustang to come up with a sudden need for a particular reference within the next hour so he could escape upstairs and possibly get a message out. Neither the guards or Fullmetal would question it. By mutual unspoken agreement, they had all quickly accepted, “I need more reference materials,” as a euphemism for, “I’m visiting the men’s room”.
Momentarily, Mustang warred with himself. But, he could only use the bathroom excuse so many times, and Grand’s distraction might be some other business of the general’s. Perhaps even another team of alchemists working on this same project? Or maybe someone had discovered this little endeavor?
Mustang paused and turned the two thoughts over in his mind. Yes, both were possible. More than possible.
“Are you going to actually read that?”
Mustang looked up and across the table to find Fullmetal recovered and pinning him with one of his familiar scowls. Honestly, the man only had two expressions – scowling and pouting.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at the file again and frowning briefly. Then, he looked up and let his face slip into a condescending smile. “Do you need me to read it to you, Fullmetal? You know, I notice that I have been doing all the reading. If you need new glasses, you should just say—”
“I can read it myself!” With that, Fullmetal reached across the table to snatch the file from his hand.
Mustang let it go without complaint. “Just please read coherently and not in that snarl of yours,” he said.
He received a growl in response, but, after a moment, Fullmetal’s voice took up a normal, even pitch as he began to read aloud. Reaching for paper and a pencil to make notes, Mustang ducked his head to hide his smirk. Really, Fullmetal made it too easy.
Keeping his ears trained for the information he needed, Mustang let his mind wander again. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this assignment. How he felt about saving the State Alchemists program. But, he was sure that he wanted to know everything he could about the situation.
The next hour passed in relative calm. Fullmetal read in a steady voice that was tolerable if not a little monotone. Mustang busied himself taking notes. Regrettably, there were few interesting things worth noting.
Ulrich Parker, the Reaction Alchemist. His file was as boring as Fullmetal’s had been colorful. He had traveled widely, likely explaining his choice to encode his research in the form of a travelogue. But, the file condensed his travels into nothing but so much data, records of places and dates and reports filed. By and large, the places weren’t even those listed in the travelogue. It was disappointing, but not surprising.
Aside from that, Parker’s field of study had focused on the more esoteric details of alchemic reactions. A study that had led him first to various amplifiers for alchemic energy and, ultimately, to the Philosopher’s Stone. Parker’s official, unencrypted reports were fairly dense and, while he understood the bulk of it, Mustang admitted to himself that he would need to brush up on his own knowledge before he could say with complete confidence that he fully grasped every word of it. Whether Fullmetal understood it or not was debatable, but it had him scowling deeper than ever and rubbing at his head again.
Still, even at a glance, it was obvious that none of Parker’s efforts had been close to a Philosopher’s Stone. At least, none of his un-encoded efforts. All the same, the two alchemists soldiered on, slowly tackling each individual report, searching for anything that might indicate a change, a breakthrough, however small.
Halfway through the stack of reports, Fullmetal abruptly closed the file and tossed it down on the table.
“This is pointless,” he growled as he removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t, can’t!”
“Can’t let you!”
“Can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t!”
“Not necessarily.” Mustang’s voice cut across the buzz of far too many voices as he reached to retrieve the file. “But, it is more than enough for one day,” he said, looking over the other alchemist with a critical eye.
He hadn’t really looked at the older man for the last half hour. Now that he did… Fullmetal looked even worse than he had when they paused the previous day. His face was pale and contorted in a grimace. His hands were no longer rubbing but clutching at his head. The left, flesh hand had a faint tremor.
Mustang looked away and busied himself scanning over the notes he had made. Maybe Fullmetal would recover like he had before. If so, he would offer what privacy he could.
However, as the minutes ticked by, it became obvious that Fullmetal wasn’t going to bounce back this time. If anything, his tremors were becoming more pronounced.
“Hey, Fullmetal.” Mustang waited for the other man to look at him. “You don’t look good. Maybe you should go home.” He dug in a pocket to produce his State-issued watch and check the time. “It’s a quarter to five anyway.”
For a minute, it looked like Fullmetal would argue with him. His jaw was set in a stubborn glower and his eyes narrowed. But, then he jerked and winced so hard Mustang could hear his teeth snap together.
“Yeah,” Fullmetal said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, that would be good.” Reaching for his glasses, he forced himself to stand on shaking legs and make his way to the door.
The guards, taking in his ashen face, gave the gray-haired alchemist only a cursory inspection and let him go, obviously afraid they would catch whatever he had. It brought a bitter smile to Fullmetal’s lips as he made his way to the stairs. There was nothing contagious about his condition.
Never contagious. But, always predictable.
Parker’s reports had been absolutely fascinating. If Parker’s calculations for minimizing the amount of energy wasted in a transmutation were correct, the potential in applying them to his own work…
And, there the voices had intervened, as they always did.
But, now…
“Going now.”
“Going.”
“Going good.”
“Be quiet now.”
“Quiet. Quiet.”
And, indeed, the farther he got from the basement room, the quieter it got.
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Mustang stared at the closed door for several minutes after Fullmetal left, his lips pressed into a thin frown. There was something wrong there. True, it wasn’t uncommon for men to suffer the effects of war and torture for the rest of their lives. But, for Fullmetal, thirty years later, to end every day with a debilitating headache or worse… Either the man’s condition was worse than it appeared on the surface – again, prompting the question of why he hadn’t been discharged – or something about this assignment was triggering it.
His bet was on the latter.
His gaze shifted to Parker’s file. There was a connection. There had to be.
“I remember everything now. It’s anything before… about thirty years ago.”
Fullmetal’s words earlier that afternoon came back to him in a rush.
Thirty years ago.
Thirty years ago, Ulrich Parker had researched the Philosopher’s Stone. Thirty years ago, Fullmetal had been an impossibly young alchemic genius.
Mustang swore softly as he brought his fist down on the file.
It was suddenly starting to make a terrible lot of sense exactly why Fullmetal had been assigned to this project
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Clutching at the stairway railing for balance, Fullmetal made his way up to the library’s main floor. His head was growing quieter by the minute, but the pain lingered. He wanted nothing so much as to get back to his apartment and collapse. That in mind, he pushed open the stairwell door, squinting against the brighter light beyond. It hurt, stabbing into eyes that had adapted to the basement’s dim lighting and making his head throb all the harder. Blindly, Fullmetal turned and made his way toward the nearest exit.
As he navigated around the stacks, one hand out to steady himself against the shelves, Fullmetal became distantly aware of a familiar voice. One that wasn’t inside his head. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of General Grand’s large form amid a cluster of soldiers standing near the front entrance.
Fresh pain lanced through his head. He was failing again. After more than a decade of useless assignments, he had finally been given something important, and he was failing.
“They have not all been useless assignments.”
Yes, they were. Pointless busywork given to a useless alchemist.
No, not all… There had once been an assignment on using alchemy to fit and repair automail.
But, it was so little.
He wanted to do something worthwhile. He needed to do something worthwhile. He wanted to be useful again. If he could just make some kind of breakthrough on the notes and prove to the general that he wasn’t useless.
They had let him keep his job all this time. Didn’t he owe—?
Pain, swift and piercing, shot through his skull.
“Nononononononononononononono!”
“Don’t!”
“Can’t!”
The words ran together, growing louder and louder until the voices dissolved into an incoherent scream dragged from a thousand throats. It was a senseless cacophony that felt like knives driven through his skull.
Fullmetal barely bit back his own scream as he slumped to the floor. His hands dug into his scalp, frantically gripping his head as though it might explode if he didn’t hold it together.
“I’m going!” he cried into his mind, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m leaving! I won’t do anything! You win!” Tears streamed down his face, trickling into his lips and over clenched teeth. “You win! You win!”
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, curled into himself, crying from the pain and his own inability to fight it. But, finally, the voices quieted, and he became aware of the world beyond the pain and the voices.
Somewhere a clock was chiming. Six? Was it six o’clock now?
He opened his eyes. The library would be closing then. Rolling his head back, he looked up. Spying a shelf at a good height, he raised his automail arm to grip the edge of it and pull himself up. His flesh leg quivered under his weight, and he slumped against the bookshelf. There was a dull buzz echoing in his mind as though his mental ear was ringing after the assault. His body, what wasn’t automail at any rate, was trembling. His breathing was ragged, and his vision was ringed by spots. But, he could not stay here.
Looking toward the door, he found that General Grand was gone.
Good. He didn’t want the general to see him like this.
Slowly, Fullmetal began to edge his way toward the door, the automail hand always holding tightly to the nearest shelf. His progress was slow, but, mercifully, all of the other patrons had already left or were holed up in private study rooms, unwilling to leave until the staff forcibly ejected them. Likewise, the librarians were absent, perhaps searching for those few, stubborn patrons. It was a gift he didn’t question.
Soon, he emerged, wincing, into the gray light of a rain-washed evening. But, he ignored the steady drizzle and instead focused on navigating the stairs, taking each one carefully. As he neared the bottom, he heard voices behind him. He thought he even heard the general again.
Gritting his teeth, he increased his pace.
He didn’t want anyone to find him. To see him shaking and tearstained. He was disgrace enough without that.
At last, he reached the bottom and, staggering off the final step, Fullmetal teetered around the corner of the library. A few stumbling steps and he had slipped into a narrow alley. It was roughly angling in the direction of his apartment. Maybe. He didn’t care. At least it was away from the library. Away from the general. Away from his obligations. Away from his failures.
Away from the voices, who were now only whispers.
But, the static remained, like a clinging fog in his mind.
Lost in the haze, he nearly slipped when his feet slapped into an especially deep puddle. Throwing out a hand to catch against the nearest wall, he steadied himself. Then, he looked down.
Red.
Why was there red wending through the puddle at his feet?
His eyes tracked the gentle trickle of red backward. Back to where it became thick and heavy. Back to a pair of shoes. Back to a limp hand. Back to a face that was nothing but red. So much red.
Fullmetal took an involuntary step away. Something hot and burning welled up in the back of his throat. Choking it down, he tore his eyes away from the body. Looked up.
And, into a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Eyes as red as the crimson stain at his feet.
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Roy Mustang gave the list he had written a final perusal. It seemed to be in order. He had skimmed through Parker’s travelogue and made a list of every town Parker had listed in the east as well as what few landmarks he thought the general would permit. It would be enough for Breda and Falman to work from.
His mind was only half on the list. He had spent most of his time since Fullmetal left debating Grand’s reasons for not telling him that Fullmetal had known Parker. Or worked with Parker. As a fellow researcher? An apprentice? There were so many possibilities. Did Fullmetal himself know? Or rather, had he been told? It was clear he didn’t remember, but he had been in Grand’s office when Roy arrived the night they were given the assignment. The general might have already briefed him on his connection to Parker.
Or Fullmetal might be completely unaware. Parker was, most likely, a deserter after all. If Fullmetal’s memory returned, he might choose to work against their efforts out of some loyalty to the man.
Mustang balanced a pencil between his fingertips, thinking. Grand’s sudden question that morning about how Fullmetal was doing now made sense. Grand was counting on Fullmetal to be the key to deciphering the notes.
“So, what’s my role? A backup? An unwitting spy?”
Mustang’s dark eyes narrowed. It looked like he was going to have some additional research to do. Privately. Because this wasn’t a question he could ask Grand. If he was meant to know, he would have been told. So then, why wasn’t he meant to know?
Loud voices in the hallway drew him from his musings. Before he could stand, the door was thrown open, and General Grand himself strode into the room.
“Colonel Mustang, where is Fullmetal?”
Mustang froze half out of his chair. “He left over an hour ago. He wasn’t feeling well. Didn’t the guards—?”
“Yes!” Grand snapped impatiently. “But, did he tell you where he was going?”
Mustang straightened slowly. “No. I assumed he was going home to rest given his condition.”
“He’s not at his apartment.” Grand whirled and stalked back to the door. “And, the Earth Alchemist, who was supposed to meet me two hours ago, is also missing.”
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Fullmetal stared numbly at the red-eyed man, taking in details without really processing them. Tall, well-built with a large x-shaped scar centered between those unnerving eyes. Dimly, he felt a sense of alarm building in the back of his mind. This was bad. There was a dead man at his feet. He should run, fight, something.
But, his limbs were still only half-responsive. And, the world was gray and distant, narrowed down to himself, the man and the body between them.
The red-eyed man watched him for several long seconds. Then, he slowly bent forward.
His body suddenly moving of its own accord, Fullmetal immediately raised his hands and took a step back.
But, the man was only retrieving a pair of dark sunglasses from the ground. Slipping them onto his face, he regarded Fullmetal once more. Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the deepening twilight.
Slowly, the world began to fade back into focus. The rain had become a steady patter against the pavement overlaid by a strange, harsh wheezing. For a minute, Fullmetal thought it might be coming from the body. But, no, even in the dim light it was obvious the body was too still. After a minute, Fullmetal realized that it was his own breathing.
Calm down. He had to calm down. He had to report this. He had to…
Ducking his head to catch his breath, his eyes landed on his hands. They were still held in front of him, palms nearly touching.
“What was I trying to—?”
Inside his mind, a soft murmur of voices whispered, “Won’t let you die.”
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12-A 12-B 13 14 15 16 17-A 17-B
