Title: Nameless
Author: Kristen Sharpe
Final Checking: April 19, 2011
Rating: K+
Warnings: Nothing this chapter.
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: Many thanks to Kayca for indulging my request for one last proofread and to my second artist on this project, dreamer1789, for the encouragement and an insanely awesome art piece I just saw that... well, will be posted on my LJ eventually ;)

Chapter 2 - Monday

The coffee was weak because he hadn’t given it time to brew properly, and his efforts to fix it after the fact had only created an unpalatable mess.  All the same, Mustang brought the cup to his lips for the third time in as many minutes and sipped it carefully.  The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn, and a night’s worth of research had yielded few answers.

His rank, silver pocket watch, and a few favors owed had gotten him into the National Central Library’s vaults last night.  It had required waking a few select staff members and more than a little sweet-talking.  Not to mention enduring the dire promises of one especially disgruntled librarian, who swore he would think twice before he found himself in the Colonel’s debt again.  But, the man had been practically sleepwalking.  With any luck, he would forget the whole affair and think he still owed Mustang a favor.

Still, all of the effort seemed wasted.  Little of the research on the Philosopher’s Stone was sound enough to even merit its filing in the restricted portions of the library.  And, of that little, most of it was theory and conjecture.  

The only explanation was that there must be more.  Classified documents that even a State Alchemist couldn’t access.  Documents that General Grand would, presumably, be releasing to him today.  Documents he wanted information on now. 

Mustang preferred to be one step ahead.  It paid to be one step ahead. 

Setting his coffee down, Mustang let his eyes scan the office.  2nd Lieutenant Heymans Breda and Warrant Officer Vato Falman were seated at the long table in front of his desk.  The red-headed Breda was leaning back in his chair with a folder held casually in one hand.  His lazy slouch belied the keen gaze he was focusing on the folder’s contents.  In contrast, the gray-haired Falman was the picture of studiousness, bent over a stack of records, running a single finger along the uppermost page as he searched for a particular detail.  Hawkeye had left a few minutes earlier to run some errands and, hopefully, head off some assignments he would rather not deal with today.

There was a rattle at the door, and 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc stuck his head into the office.  He quickly surveyed the room, taking in the papers spread across the desks and the profusion of empty mugs scattered among them.  Leaning his lanky frame against the doorjamb, he took a long drag on the ever-present cigarette between his lips.

“One of those days then,” he commented.

“Yo, Havoc.” Breda waved the folder in his hand at the papers strewn across his desk.  “Make yourself useful.”

Havoc sauntered over to the table and peered at the mess.  “What’s all this about?”

“Colonel’s got us doing some research on the Fullmetal Alchemist,” said Breda.

“Fullmetal?”  Havoc pulled out a chair and sat.  “Was he in Ishval too?”

Breda snorted. “They were too smart to send him to Ishval.”

“So, you’ve found something then, Breda?” Mustang interjected.  His voice was soft, and both men looked to see him watching them with dark, intent eyes. 

Breda straightened and looked across the table at Falman.  Raising his head, Falman gave him a short nod.

Opening his mouth, Breda paused as the door opened again.  This time, it was Lieutenant Hawkeye.  She inclined her head toward the three men at the table by way of greeting and then strode to Mustang’s desk.         

“Lieutenant Colonel Bristol agreed to take over the de Havilland case for the moment, Sir,” she informed him.

“Good,” he answered.  One problem solved.  “Breda?”

“We’ve found quite a bit,” Breda began.  He held up the folder he had been studying.  “Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.  Also, the youngest person to ever become a State Alchemist.  He passed the exam at twelve.”

“Twelve?” Havoc sputtered.

“Twelve,” Breda confirmed, “but that was over thirty years ago.  Anyway, supposedly, he received his State certification by performing a transmutation without the use of a circle.  Though I thought that was impossible.”  He looked to Mustang, as the only alchemist among them, for confirmation of this.

The Colonel was nodding.  “Alchemy requires a circle to focus and control the energy of the reaction,” he said.  It was a simplification, but now was not the time to give alchemy lessons. 

“Well, it looks like Fullmetal’s talent was real,” said Breda.  “Old General Hakuro apparently went to his grave claiming he saw it personally.  And, Fuhrer Bradley reportedly corroborated his story.”

Mustang steepled his fingers in front of him and rested his chin against them, looking thoughtful. 

“Automail?” Hawkeye questioned.

“Hence the “Fullmetal” title,” Breda explained.  “He has a full automail right arm, and his left leg is automail from just above the knee.”

“Didn’t he get his title when he was twelve though?” Havoc asked.

“Yeah, he had the automail at twelve.”

Havoc whistled quietly.  “What’d a twelve year old kid do to end up with injuries like that?  Pick a fight with a bear?”

“It’s not in his file.  Anyway,” Breda resumed his narrative, “by the time they got Fullmetal out of Drachma, he was a wreck.  His mind wasn’t in any better shape than his body.  Says here he suffers from permanent long term memory loss and has concentration problems.  He can’t perform alchemy without a circle; he’s lucky when he can do alchemy at all.”  He snapped the folder shut.  “By all rights, Fullmetal should have been given a medal, an honorable discharge and a retirement package.  Beats me why they keep him around.  He’s been assigned a lot of piddly research projects over the last twenty years, but he’s never turned in any significant results.”

As Breda finished his report, Mustang was frowning.  Fullmetal certainly had a colorful history.  But, it was hardly one that qualified him for this latest assignment.  From the sound of it, he wasn’t qualified for much of anything.  As Breda had said, the man should have been retired.

“So, why—?” he murmured aloud.  He stopped himself.  There was a reason.  He just had to find it. “Is there anything else?” he asked.  “Falman?”

The older man straightened.  “Not much, Colonel,” he said gravely.  “I did some research on the Fullmetal Alchemist’s birthplace.  It’s a small farming town in the south called Liesenburg.  The town’s most notable feature is the train station.  Given the Fullmetal Alchemist’s injuries,” he nodded at Breda’s file, “I searched for any records of train accidents, but the railroad has never reported any in that area.”  Falman looked thoughtful.  “Of course, aside from the railroads, small communities like that are notorious for their poor record-keeping.  It could have been a farming accident.” 

Mustang waved a hand.  “It’s probably not important.”  Stifling a yawn, he looked down at the folder he had been studying earlier.      

At his side, Hawkeye, looked from the file to the Colonel and summed up his feelings succinctly.

“All that and there are only more questions than before,” she said.

“True.”  Mustang sat up and ran a hand through his night dark hair.  Suddenly, he smiled wolfishly.  “I suppose it wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t a challenge.”

----------------------------------------------------------

Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, adjusted his glasses and determinedly bent to copy down the equation he had fought for the last hour to realize.  It had been a long and frustrating morning.  Like always.  It was always hard to get his thoughts on paper, to get his thoughts out period.  Out beyond the static.  But, persistence had its rewards.

Slowly, he drew out the array he had been working on for the last two days.  It was a simple design, but that was the goal.  A simple but efficient transmutation circle that anyone with the least amount of training in alchemy could sketch out quickly.  Its purpose was cleaning debris from storm drains.

Fullmetal allowed himself a bitter smile.  This was all he was good for these days.  Creating and copying arrays for the most mundane of tasks and dumbing down the work of more skilled alchemists for use by the masses. 

“If it’s something that makes people’s lives even a little bit better, then it’s something worth doing.”

The whisper of memory floated to the surface, softening his smile into something more genuine.

“Alchemist, be thou for the people,” he whispered to himself.

Something fluttered at the back of his mind, but he didn’t pursue it. 

Instead, he leaned back and studied the array he had drawn.  After a moment, he nodded.  Everything seemed to be in order.  He would test it later.  Satisfied, he laid the paper with the new array on top of the small stack in his outbox.

Then, he stood and rotated his right arm.  The automail arm swung around silently and smoothly.  It was in good condition, but his shoulder ached where the metal port met flesh all the same. Grumbling, he massaged what exposed skin he could. 

“Feels like rain.”

The gray-haired alchemist stalked to his office’s single window and looked out at the sky.  Weak sunlight was straining to escape a blanket of slate gray clouds.  But, if his aching joints were any indication, it was a losing battle. 
For several minutes, he watched the sky.  It was the only thing worth watching from his window, blessed with a splendid view of the neighboring building’s blank concrete as it was.  With nothing outside to distract him, he let his mind drift back to the previous night.

Given his… “problems,” why had General Grand chosen him for this assignment?  Because no matter what the doctors said, he hadn’t improved in the twenty years since it happened.  He was barely qualified for the work he was already doing. 

And, there was something familiar about this Philosopher’s Stone business.  Something from before.  Before the static.  If he could just remember…

Pain lanced through his head, and Fullmetal reflexively gripped the windowsill with both hands as the world spun around him.

“Won’t let you.”

“Can’t do it, can’t do it.”

With a groan, the alchemist stumbled back to his desk and threw himself into his chair.  Letting his head loll back, he waited for the spell to pass.  Slowly, the pain receded and the room grew still and silent, the quiet broken only by his harsh breathing.

Fullmetal didn’t move for several more minutes.  As always, trying to remember the years he had lost was agony.  It was why he usually didn’t bother.

Memories were overrated anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------

It was midday when Colonel Mustang and Fullmetal received their respective summons to meet General Grand at the National Central Library.  Upon arrival, they were directed through the massive library’s main halls to a side corridor ending in a narrow stairway that descended into the basement level.  Stale air tinged with the scent of old books and a less pleasant tang of damp decay greeted them below.  As did the general himself with a large binder tucked under one arm.

“You will be working here.”  General Grand gestured to a nondescript door, one of many lining the basement hallway.  The door’s sole distinguishing features were the blocky number seven painted on its face and the two uniformed men standing to either side of it.  “The research notes are not to leave this room while you work,” Grand growled.  “Nor are any notes you make.”  He nodded to the men by the door.  “They will collect the notes at the end of each day and search you as you leave to make sure you follow orders.”

Mustang grimly squashed the frown threatening to pull his face into a scowl.  This would make things difficult.  But, he forced himself to look professionally neutral and remain attentive.  The former was just good practice.  Never give away your true emotions in the face of an opponent.  The latter was equally prudent.  After all, listening to the rules in all their intricacies was the first step to circumnavigating them.

Beside him, Fullmetal made no secret of his own displeasure.  His face was set in a scowl worthy of a petulant child.

But, Grand ignored it and reached out with a large hand to open the door.  A gesture from the hand with the binder swept Mustang and Fullmetal inside.  There, they found one of the library’s large private study rooms reserved for State Alchemists.  There was a table in the center of the room with notebooks and paper stacked neatly on top.  Bookshelves filled with reference books lined the walls to either side.  The back wall was a blank expanse of cinderblocks broken only by an impressive swath of mold trailing up from the floor.

Mustang grimaced inwardly.  There was a reason these basement level rooms were used only by the most desperately reclusive alchemists.

“You’ve been provided all of the usual reference materials as well as everything from the library archives pertaining to the Philosopher’s Stone,” Grand informed them as they turned to face him again.  His bulk successfully barred the doorway.  “Lunch will be brought to you.  You will arrive here each morning and leave only in the evening or to retrieve additional references.”

It was tempting to ask the man if he expected them to ignore the call of nature all day.  Or perhaps they were expected to transmute a chamberpot from the concrete floor.  It would go well with the room’s dungeon atmosphere.  But, Mustang ignored his mind’s flippant suggestions out of long habit.  He had more important things to ask.

“Sir,” he began, “this will—”

“Your usual duties are suspended,” said Grand, anticipating the question.  “Remember the seriousness of this assignment.”  He glared over his narrow mustache at both men.  “I see you’ve already arranged for Lieutenant Colonel Bristol to take over the de Havilland matter.”  Grand turned the force of his glower on the other alchemist.  “And, Fullmetal’s research is never anything that can’t wait.”

Mustang saw Fullmetal grit his teeth at that, but the older alchemist said nothing.  For his own part, Mustang nodded.

“And, it goes without saying, but you are not to discuss this with anyone,” Grand continued, his fearsome scowl deepening.  “Not even your staff.”  This last was directed at Mustang.

The colonel had expected such an order.  It didn’t make it any less unpleasant, however. 

But, all he said was, “Understood, Sir.”

“Good.”  Grand extended the folder he had been holding.  “These are the notes I spoke of.  Written thirty years ago by an alchemist named Ulrich Parker, the Reaction Alchemist.  They’re our best lead on the Philosopher’s Stone.”   

Silently, Mustang cursed him for not offering the man’s name last night.  Maybe that would have turned up something useful. 

But, he accepted the offered folder wordlessly as Grand turned to leave.

“I expect results by the end of the week,” the general said.  He suddenly looked back and pinned Fullmetal with a stare.  “That’s an order.”  Then, he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

“Well,” Mustang sighed, “I suppose it’s time to look at these notes.”

His companion was silent.  Glancing at the other man, Mustang found Fullmetal clutching at his head with his left hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Fullmetal shot him a quick glare punctuated with a wince.  “I’m fine,” he said. 

It was obvious he was not, but Mustang didn’t pursue the matter.  Fullmetal looked like he was having a migraine, not a heart attack, so it wasn’t any of his business.  He expected he would have a migraine of his own before this was over.

Giving the other alchemist a moment to collect himself, Mustang turned to the room’s single table and moved to lay the folder he had been given down on it.  Flipping the folder open, he leafed through the first few pages. 
It was immediately apparent that this was not the alchemist, Ulrich Parker’s, original notes.  Instead, it was a printed copy.  Likely Parker’s “official” findings.  All State Alchemists submitted their research annually to be printed and archived in the library, or in the military’s archives if it was classified.  This was one such copy. 

Mustang allowed himself a quiet curse.  If Parker had “disappeared” as Grand said, which likely translated into a variety of things ranging from, “gone AWOL,” to the less pleasant, “was made to disappear,” the chances that this was his completed research were slim.

A second curse sounded at his shoulder, and Mustang was surprised to find Fullmetal leaning past him to study the notes as well.  Without so much as a word, Fullmetal took the folder out from under his hands and began to flip through it himself. 

“Well, this is just great,” he muttered, fanning the pages to skim through the entire document.

Mustang cleared his throat.  “I can’t say I’m happy with this turn of events either, but perhaps it would be wise if we decide how we’re going to begin?”

Fullmetal turned to look at him and, for a minute, Mustang was surprised.  The other alchemist’s eyes were an unusual cat-like yellow color, but stranger still was that, for all their intensity, they were somehow… empty.  It was unnerving.  But, after a moment, Fullmetal grunted and put the folder back on the table.

“How are we going to do this?” he asked.  

Mustang frowned.  It was an awkward situation.  He usually conducted his private research alone and delegated case research to his subordinates based on their specialties.  And, while he outranked Fullmetal, who held only the default rank equivalent to major given to all State Alchemists, the man had been hand-picked for this assignment.  It would be improper to order him around like another subordinate. 

Mustang eyed the single folder they had been given. “Alright,” he held up a finger, “what if one of us reads and the other writes down anything that might be a keyword?”  He glanced at the uppermost page.  “It seems to be written in the form of a travelogue, so the names of people and places are probably important.”

“Obviously,” Fullmetal muttered irritably.  But, after a moment’s thought, he had to concede that the idea was a good one.  “Fine.”  He moved around Mustang to pull out the nearest chair and sit down at the table, reaching for a sheet of paper.  “You read, I write.”

Mustang arched a brow.  But, he chose not to challenge the other alchemist.  Yet.  Instead, he nodded and, taking the notes, stepped around the table to pull out his own chair.  Inwardly, he made note of Fullmetal’s attitude, adding it to the small mental file he was building on the man.  A file he added to further as he thumbed through Parker’s research a bit while unobtrusively watching the other alchemist hunt for a sharpened pencil.

Now that he could better study him, he was once more struck by Fullmetal’s size.  The man was not only short; he was small.  His body was rail thin.  But, it wasn’t the frail, wasting small of an old or sickly man.  Fullmetal was only forty-five in any case, and he seemed to be in good health.  No, his scrawny frame more reminded Mustang of a teenager still growing into himself.  In fact, if it weren’t for his steel gray hair, Fullmetal could have passed for a boy decades younger from the back. 

Oh, all the features of a man heading toward middle-age were there.  Especially in his face.  The lines around his mouth and eyes were well-defined and even deeper than his age merited.  His skin had lost the smoothness of youth and was starting to sag. 

It was almost as though parts of him had aged normally while others just hadn’t gotten the memo that it was time to grow up.

And then, there were the marks of old injuries.  His nose was such a mess of angles it had probably been broken repeatedly and allowed to heal as it would.  And, there was something off about his jawline that indicated the bones there had probably suffered a similar fate. 

A disgruntled snort pulled him from his thoughts.

“Are you going to read that or not?” Fullmetal groused.

“Yes,” Mustang answered simply, deliberately taking a few more seconds to arrange the research and himself.  Then, he began reading what sounded like nothing so much as the ramblings of one very opinionated travel reporter.

“Having traveled from one end of Amestris to the other – yes, all 763.2 kilometers, east to west –”  a glance confirmed that Fullmetal was dutifully writing the distance down, “I can safely say that I’ve stayed in a good sampling of every type of hotel, hovel and haystack this country has to offer.”  Hmm, he even appeared to be making note of the alliteration.  Good.   “I’ve seen the sites, such as they are.  And, I’ve sampled the food from the south all the way to the Briggs Mountains in the north.”

And, on it went for a couple pages worth of introduction.  Places, directions, distances.  All potential clues couched in what promised to be a scathing review of Amestris’ lodgings, innkeepers and tourist attractions.  Only the food seemed to get a pass.

Then, they reached the first chapter.                                                               

“We’ll start in East City, where I began my first journey,” Mustang read.  “The hotel I stayed at, Madison’s, is a decent establishment with clean rooms and reasonably good service.  The café next door serves what would be a splendid breakfast if the staff didn’t feel the need to lecture customers on their eating habits.  Their insistence on presenting this particular traveler with a glass full of cow excrement he explicitly did not order did nothing to endear them to me.”

There was a snort from Fullmetal.  A quick glance confirmed that this was different from his previous irritable noises.  No, his lips had clearly turned up ever so slightly in a faint, amused smile.  However, when he noticed Mustang watching him, the smile faded.

“What?” he asked.  “It was funny.”

Mustang arched a brow.  “I suppose.  It’s an… unusual way to refer to… milk, I’m guessing.”

“Milk.”  Fullmetal sounded confident of this.  “And, he's right.”

“Oh?”  A smirk twitched at the corners of Mustang’s own lips.  “You’ve had the dubious pleasure of sampling cow excrement for comparison?”

Fullmetal scowled immediately.  “No.” 

“Probably for the best.”  Mustang turned his gaze back to the notes.  “Make a note about milk.  There might be something to that.” 

Or it could be a genuine sentiment included on a whim.  Mustang had, in the past, occasionally made a game of attempting to decipher which of an alchemist’s notes were purely devoted to the research at hand and which were doubling as personal commentary.  It could offer interesting little personal insights into the alchemist’s character.  This was no game, but more information on Parker might prove useful.

So, Fullmetal dutifully made a note about the milk, though not without shooting Mustang a dirty glance or three, and they continued.

It seemed that East City was the focus of the first “chapter” of Parker’s research.  How convenient.  East City had been Mustang’s first post after Ishval.  It was familiar territory.  Thirty years separated his and Parker’s vision of the city, but many details remained unchanged.  Oh, whatever café had made the egregious error of serving Parker milk had probably gone out of business decades ago.  Likely not for serving milk to irritable patrons though.  But, the hotel Parker mentioned was still there, as were the familiar streets and landmarks.  It would speed their work along considerably.  Because everything Parker reported inaccurately was just as important as everything he recorded truthfully.  The discrepancies were potential clues, as were the points at which he chose to swap from fact to fiction.

That in mind, Mustang noted aloud what facts he could personally verify.

“…stopped to rest in a plaza at the end of West Ave.  There is a small clock tower there and an impressive view over the city’s west side.  If you take the stairs down…”  Mustang paused.  “I’m familiar with the plaza.  There’s no clock tower in that area.”

Fullmetal grunted and bent to add that detail to his notes.  Then, he paused.

“Are you sure there’s no clock tower?”

Mustang arched a brow.  “Clock towers tend to be rather conspicuous, so, yes, I’m sure.” 

Fullmetal frowned.  “There should be a clock tower,” he muttered, tapping his pencil against the table in an agitated, irregular rhythm.

“Have you ever visited East City?”

“I—”  The pencil’s rhythm faltered.  “No.”  Fullmetal grimaced suddenly.  “Maybe.  A long time ago.”

Mustang studied the other man carefully.  “As I mentioned, I was posted at Eastern Command for—”

“I know!” Fullmetal cut him off.  “I just—  There should be a clock tower.”  He abandoned his pencil in favor of massaging his left temple.

“Well, maybe it’s a very small clock tower, and I overlooked it,” Mustang allowed, as irritated as he was puzzled by the other alchemist’s odd insistence.  “Perhaps,” the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk, “it’s more noticeable to someone of your stature.”  

For a minute, Fullmetal stared at him blankly.  Then, his eyes suddenly blazed to life. 

“What was that?” he hissed.

Well, well.  Apparently, his size was a touchy subject with Fullmetal.

Shrugging, Mustang waved a hand dismissively.  “I’m merely noting that, at your height, you’re far more likely to notice things that are closer to the ground than someone like me,” he said.

“You’re not all that far from the ground yourself,” the other man shot back.

“However, I am, at least, of average height.”

“Average is just another word for boring.”  With that, Fullmetal reclaimed his pencil and scribbled a quick note with a viciousness that the innocent paper did not deserve.  “And, there is… or was a clock tower there.  I’m sure of it,” he added in a tone that dared Mustang to argue the point further.

Mustang decided to let it go.  “Fine, if you insist.”  It was a simple enough matter to look it up later after all.

There was little talk after that.  Mustang read; Fullmetal made notes. 

It was as he neared the last couple pages of the first “chapter” that Mustang noticed something amiss.  Fullmetal was again rubbing at his head. This time with his free hand, the automail one, as he wrote.  Something in the set of the other man’s jaw told Mustang that this wasn’t just frustration or strained eyes.  Well, he had intended to pause after the chapter anyway.

Glancing at Fullmetal periodically, Mustang read the last pages in the same even voice he had maintained throughout.  Finishing, he looked up.

“That’s the end of the first chapter,” he said.  “We should stop there and see what we have.”

Fullmetal grunted a wordless agreement and pushed the notes he had made toward Mustang.  “I put checks by all of the places you recognized – and the clock tower,” he said, sliding off his glasses.  “Then, dashes by the names and places you said were wrong and stars by everything that might have changed in thirty years.”

“Good.” 

It was a simple and effective enough system.  But, only half of Mustang’s attention was on the notes.  The other half was focused on studying the gray-haired alchemist at the other end of the table.

Fullmetal had laid his glasses to the side and was now rubbing his temples with both hands.  His brow was furrowed into lines so deep they must have been familiar haunts for his puckered skin.  And, there was a hitch in his breathing that hinted at genuine pain.

Was this a product of the “concentration problems” mentioned in Fullmetal’s file?  But, the notes in his hand were accurate, complete with some details he himself had missed.  They were organized clearly and legibly despite being written in a cramped, awkward style that suggested the writer was not naturally left-handed.

Mustang glanced back at Fullmetal and was surprised to find his odd golden gaze staring back.

“Start fact-checking from the beginning then?” he asked, seemingly recovered.

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” Mustang allowed.

Fullmetal nodded sharply and reached for his glasses.  “I’ll check the distance across the country.  That was first, right?  And, the clock tower.”

----------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, Mustang finally escaped the tiny basement room, Parker’s notes, which had only begun to yield the first hints of information; and his peculiar partner.  He had been correct that Grand had not made allowances regarding visits to the men’s room, so that was his first stop on the way out.  If this continued tomorrow, he might seriously consider that chamber pot idea. 

As he stalked, blinking, out of the library’s main entrance and into the dull light of evening, he became aware of a voice calling him.

“Colonel!”

Mustang turned to see Lieutenant Hawkeye briskly making her way toward him up the library’s wide stairway.  Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes, ostensibly focused on him, were scanning the area in darting glances. 

“Lieutenant,” he said, one hand slipping into his right pocket.  “Has something happened?”

“Just an hour ago, Sir,” she began.  “Two State Alchemists were found dead outside the presidential prefecture.”

“How—?” 

“Investigations is still looking into that.”  Hawkeye fell into step beside him as he descended the stairs.  “Based on the surrounding area, they didn’t have time to put up much of a fight.  Which is probably why no one noticed until it was over.  Additionally, neither alchemist had any obvious fatal wounds.”  Her lips twisted into a frown.  “On the outside anyway.  They were both bleeding from every orifice, particularly around the face.  It’s as though…” 

Hawkeye paused, collecting her thoughts.  “It’s as though they were killed from the inside out.”   

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Yes, I know Ed's hometown of Resembool is in the east, not the south. I'll let you ponder that ;)