Diplomacy
To the Fuhrer-President,
Given the circumstances, you are well-knowledgeable of the uneasy relationships with our country and yours, and the plight between your state alchemists and our magical community.
During the previous letter you sent us, with “decisions to improve our countries’ two-way relations,” the Ministry and I have held your words in thorough discussion and deep thought, and have finalised a decision on our plan.
Enclosed in the accompanying envelope are further details.
Yours sincerely,
Cornelius Fudge
Minister of Magic
/-/-/-/-/
To Fuhrer-President King Bradley,
With the sources we have discussed earlier, what are your future plans with your representatives? They will be tended with the Order at their arrival. Please respond urgently with the accompanying owl. We have no time to waste!
Albus Dumbledore
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
/-/-/-/-/
Diplomacy . That was the word in English, in the book that translated Amestrian words into English, a book with simple phrases and sentences from that certain universal language. One of several books in his case about the English language and how to speak it. Pronunciation – di-plo-ma-si (noun). 1. The profession, activity, or skill of managing international relations, typically by a country’s representatives abroad. 2. The practice of dealing with situations in a tactful, sensible way.
So that was how you said the word. It was a very strange one. But it had made perfect sense, Edward Elric mused, to use that word to describe a situation – his current situation, to name a certain one. There had only been one catch, however.
Neither meaning of the word diplomacy had said anything about said country’s representatives being forced upon this against their own will.
Ed felt that he should have been expecting this, however. After all, he had accepted to be the State Military government’s lapdog in exchange for resources normal alchemists could barely dream of accessing. Being their lapdog meant unwavering loyalty to the military, and doing whatever they told him to do.
War and conflict and situations such as the Ishval Civil War had crossed his mind whenever he thought about the circumstances the military could and would put him into (and wished that he would never be involved in). He never expected this.
He sighed and closed the book, almost with brute force and stuffed it into his case.
He scanned his eyes around his surroundings. The huff and puff of the train mechanics, the hustle and bustle and chatter of the Amestrian crowd and the smell of the steam were all familiar to four years’ experience on travelling around the country with his brother. He heard the stationmaster call the time out to the crowd waiting on the platform, the next train express that would be arriving (in half an hour), and the route it would be taking. Ed almost scoffed; everyone had seemed too preoccupied with their own business to bother listening to him. The stationmaster had noticed this too, surprisingly – he cut short in the middle of his sentence, then ambled away.
Ed had arrived an hour early at Central Station, but he had already forgotten his reason. Was it simply because he wanted to taunt Colonel Mustang for his ‘tardiness’? Or maybe it had been no reason at all?
His brother sat next to him, holding a map of all the express train routes in the country, scanning his gaze over the one Ed would take. Al was the only one out of the two who had remembered it was the day of the mission anyway. He had woken his older brother up from his Central Hotel bed and had reminded him of the mission.
Maybe that was why he was regretting his decision to be part of the mission. It had ruined his sleep.
“I would like to go,” Alphonse said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “To meet the magical community and read books from their school library and see what they think alchemy is.” He tapped his armoured chest. “But with this body, they’ll probably think I’m an automaton.”
Ed scoffed. “If we could, I’d be happy to trade places with you. But why, though? There’s nothing fun about going on a mission when we could be looking, you know, for the Stone…”
If his brother’s face could pout, Ed was sure Al would be pouting now. “Brother, you get to learn new information about the community, and you get to make friends-”
“That’s a bold assumption from you, Al, thinking I’ll be making friends there, or even talking to them at all.”
Al sighed, then returned to his own thoughts, and Ed returned to his. He stared at Central Station’s platform number, 5. It reminded him of a fractional platform he had seen a month before as a handwritten note on a certain file.
“Ah, there you are, Fullmetal.”
Ed looked to his right, where that oh-so-familiar voice had spawned from, and there was Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, accompanied by his aide Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, and a small party of soldiers of smaller ranks (Ed had seen judging by the stars on their shoulder straps, they were either privates or corporals).
The soldiers (bar Mustang and Hawkeye, of course), stared at Ed in strange wonder. He sighed and responded with no words but a grey, lifeless stare back. They saluted him, acknowledging Edward’s equivalent rank as Major, then turned back to the Flame Alchemist and his aide. Ed almost felt sorry for them.
“Hello, Colonel,” Ed heard Alphonse greet the Flame Alchemist politely, and he smiled and tipped his hat in reply. His smile turned to a smirk upon facing Edward, then he turned to talk to Lieutenant Hawkeye. He seemed like an outlier among the group of soldiers - unlike the blue soldier’s uniform all members of the State Military were required to wear, he had a plain white button shirt with a black tie under a black coat.
Time seemed to be frozen. It was always strange how time worked differently depending on what you were doing - Ed having found this out after three years travelling the country. For situations like Ed waiting for a train, or back in his childhood as he waited for class to end in the last class of the day, it seemed like hours before the train arrived or the school bell to ring. On the contrary, there were times when Edward accessed the alchemy area of the library and stayed there for what seemed like a few minutes before the librarian had told him he had been reading for hours and that it was time for the library to close.
He sighed. Hopefully, time would be on his side this year. Get the diplomacy mission over and done with, and go home. Oh, and that mission from that mysterious APWBD, which had details still undisclosed to Edward.
Edward stared back up at the clock. Twenty minutes. He could survive waiting twenty more agonising minutes.
Maybe he could survive one whole year away from Amestris as well.
/-/-/-/-/
“Diplomacy.” That was what the Colonel had said. That was why the mission had existed in the first place.
The military had called him back as soon as his arm had been fixed.
Britain was the name of the country. Great Britain. Or the United Kingdom. Ed had done his research, finding out that that certain place was something called a ‘micronation’, the only difference between Great Britain and the United Kingdom being that one of them contained more lands in their name than the other. He remembered calling this ‘ridiculous,’ and that those British (or United Kingdomish) people make up their minds. Al had seemed undeterred, however. He’d just continued reading the book and talking rapidly about how he’d want to go to the United Kingdom one day after he and Ed had gotten their bodies back (Ed had settled calling it Britain Al had decided on calling it the United Kingdom).
But to make it even more confusing, Ed had remembered, was that they were going to this certain place in the United Kingdom, called England, which was a nation but not a nation at the same time. It had a capital, too, called London.
“Diplomacy,” the Colonel had said. To strengthen relations between Amestris and England. Especially since the former had fallen out of favour with several countries Ed knew (their neighbours Drachma, Creta and Aerugo to name a few), the Colonel had explained. It was all because the whole world had frowned upon Amestris’ military-government and the numerous riots and civil wars that took place in the country.
In further explanation, Falman had entered the conversation with a perfectly fake ‘ahem’, piping in to say Britain’s government had never been in favour of Amestris right from the start, when its kings and queens had more power than the modern day (which confused Edward even more. There was a government but also kings and queens? A monarchy?). It never bothered Edward, to be honest. His main priority was to take back his arm and leg and his brother’s body. He watched, indifferent, as Falman, Fuery and Breda began a highly political conversation, while Havoc sighed, breathing out cigarette smoke while polishing his rifle.
The Fullmetal Alchemist didn’t know too much about the west, but he knew alchemy was definitely largely unknown in that area, known only as a legendary practice to unsuccessfully turn metals (or basically any other substance) to gold, unaware of how alchemy had been perfected to become the practice Ed knew today. He brought this up.
The Colonel went on to explain a legend, that alchemy in the West had not died out, instead of perfecting the practice it had already been there for hundreds of years in the first place. It was what the ignorant and unlearned called “magic.”
“Rightly so,” said Falman, who had exited his conversation with Fuery and Breda, proceeding to say (with a book on that certain topic that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere) you couldn’t call the magic “alchemy” anymore – it had wavered so far from alchemy it had not even been close to the alkahestry used in Xing.
Ed yawned and told them to get on with the mission details already. Al, who had been earnestly listening, politely got the Colonel’s attention, asking, “Sir, what does this have to do with us?”
The Colonel had sighed, straightening up the paperwork and pulling out another folder. “This… the magic community has requested from the Fuhrer a delegation of Amestrians to stand for our country in their society. In our presence there, I’m sure they’ve requested some… tasks for us. For diplomacy.”
That didn’t sit well with Edward. He raised his eyebrows at this. “Tasks? Delegation? So what the hell does that have to do with us?”
“It has everything to do with you.” The Flame Alchemist who had been sitting in front of him traced his fingers through a pile of folders and pulled out one of them. “In fact, Fullmetal, are one half of the delegation that’ll be sent.”
The Fullmetal Alchemist sat up immediately. “What?!”
The tasks in question had, Ed had learnt as Mustang had responded to his splutter, involved improving relationships between Britain and Amestris; diplomacy. Well, not exactly allof Britain. It was the minority magic group again, those “witches” and “wizards” and their strange “Ministry of Magic” government that had asked for the delegation. According to Mustang, the Fuhrer would send an Amestrian diplomatic party of two to a certain school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – which was, apparently, a place where all the magic people went to use magic. Then he connected the pieces of the puzzle together and frowned.
“I get it,” Ed said, scowling. “I have to go to the magic school because I’m their age and I’m sm-”
“You’re the age of a certain cohort of pupils there, Fullmetal,” Mustang cut in. Glancing down at the open folder and files in his hand, he said, “According to the Fuhrer, it’s a mission that’ll expect you to mingle with the school’s fifth-years, talk to them, befriend them. Be more sociable to people your age than you are now.”
Sociable… Ed scoffed. Being sociable didn’t help him find the Philosopher’s Stone. There was no point starting now. Being sociable, moreover, was more his brother’s personality.
“You’ll have to stay in Hogwarts for the duration of the whole school year – that is, from September to July. During the holidays, you’ll still be staying in Britain.”
But the Philosopher’s Stone… Ed bit his lip. They still had to look for the Philosopher’s Stone… or any other way to gain their bodies back. “This trip is a waste of time for Al and me,” he said angrily. “I have other… matters to attend to! This isn’t a good time to be hopping off to a wizard school!”
It took a few more minutes for Edward Elric to calm down. His brother had tried to calm him down, saying even if they were both in Britain, they’d do their best and that they could even find a new method to restore their bodies; he’d said if alchemy and magic were connected, it would probably be worth it to visit the magic world and look for answers there. Ed wasn’t convinced, but he had calmed down to the point he put his hands in his pockets and huffed.
“Am I allowed to say no?”
Mustang smirked. “Yes, then we can drag you off to be court-martialed for disobeying orders from the Fuhrer himself.”
And to make it worse… Ed cursed when he heard the next bit of news. It made him want to go on the trip less and less.
“What do you mean, I have to go with you?! Out of all the people they could’ve chosen, like Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes or-”
“What, want to go with Major Armstrong instead?” Mustang smirked at him again. Ed cursed quietly. Even thinking about the Major and their (much-less-than-comfortable) trip to Resembool made his ribs shriek in agony. (Not to mention the smell of sheep had lingered on Al after he had spent a couple of hours in the livestock car as a piece of “luggage.”)
“And Al can’t come with me?” Ed knew the reason immediately. The same reason Al hadn’t taken the State Alchemist exam. He scowled, prompting his brother to start another conversation to reason with him once again, saying he would continue the search for the Stone in Amestris while Ed searched around in Britain.
Mustang then held out a hand to stop Edward’s complaining, his smile turning to a stoic expression a moment later. “That isn’t our only mission. There is another… group within the magic society that requests another… mission during our stay there.”
He picked up the folder and handed it to the two Elrics, who first noticed the picture in the corner. A boy about Edward’s age – an unkempt mop of black hair, partially broken glasses poorly attempted to be fixed with tape, and a rather peculiar lightning-shaped scar trying to hide behind his bangs.
“Look, Brother,” Al said, pointing his large armour hand at the picture. “It’s moving.”
“Don’t be stupid, Al, pictures can’t move.”
“Well, this one can! Look at it!” The disbelieving older brother moved towards the picture again. He waited. Then slowly, it occurred to him; to his surprise, the hair was slightly being windswept towards the right, his nervous smile twitching for a moment.
He blinked. The picture still moved. “Pictures don’t move,” he grunted.
“Well, this one can…” Al started, but his voice wavered into nothing when his older brother lifted up a gloved hand to stop him. Ed looked at Mustang. “What about him?” he asked, pointing at the picture.
“Our target for the mission.”
“Target?” Ed asked, raising an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean? Assassination mission?”
“Yes, assassination.” Mustang stared at Ed, dead in the eye, his gaze speaking for himself until he laughed and said, “No, not assassination. In fact, I don’t know too much about the mission myself. Apparently, once we arrive at our destination we’ll know more. But it involves him.” He tapped the picture. “Harry James Potter. Fifteen years old, born July 31. Status is a half-blood, whatever in the world that means,” Roy frowned.
Ed’s eyes skimmed through the information, not caring about this Potter boy’s fact file until he noticed a handwritten paragraph underneath that did not look like the neat typewriter font above – Lord Voldemort is back, Harry is the target. Please respond to our request immediately. Thank you for your time, Hogwarts first term September 1 st , Kings Cross Station, Platform 9¾, 11 AM. Will all be sorted by the Order. – APWBD
The Elric brothers had many questions that followed, not many of which gained answers, as the Flame Alchemist responded with either a shrug or an ‘I don’t know.’ Lord Voldemort? Edward wanted to laugh. He had met, in his four-year career as a State Alchemists, many pathetic villains with pathetic names – but never one with a name as absurd as Lord Voldemort. And that fractional platform made very little sense. Mustang said all of it would be explained on the day of the mission, when they arrived at their destination. That sorted that part out.
The mission, Mustang explained, would begin by he and Edward taking an Express overnight train out of the country to neighbouring land in the west, Creta, around a month from when they were now, then to wait for representatives of the magical community to accompany them and arrange the transport to Britain.
“One last thing,” Mustang said, a smile playing to his lips again as Ed took his red coat and prepared to depart. “You do know, the Amestrian language is, you know, only widely spoken in, well, Amestris.”
“Yes, so…?”
“In Britain, they speak another language there. A language that’s spoken by most of the world, in fact. Meaning, for the remainder of the mission, you’ll have to speak in English. And I daresay you don’t know any.” His sly smile grew wider. “I’ve already been learning a few weeks ahead of you. So, Fullmetal, try to catch up.”
Ed groaned, then cursed. Damn it, Colonel Bastard…
Maybe he would’ve enjoyed being court-martialed for disobeying orders instead.
/-/-/-/-/
The landscapes outside seemed to flash through Ed’s mind as he stared blankly out the window. Nothing but a sea of green landscape that followed suit.
It seemed like it was flashing past. However, for Ed, who glanced up every three minutes from his Learning English Easy handbook and his Amestrian to English dictionary to stare out the window, the train went so awfully slow. He sighed and looked back at his book that talked about useless phrases and questions such as “What nationality are you?” “My pet eats dog food.” “No, I don’t like fruit that much…”
A week before the train ride, Mustang and Lt. Hawkeye had organised for the brothers to meet them at Central, planning to examine his English skills, and Alphonse knew more than him. It had been surprising - no, almost humiliating - really, since Alphonse had been studying English too by reading the books his older brother had borrowed, saying it would be a fun experience and something useful to learn.
Ed had told the Colonel this was due to the fact Alphonse had a body that couldn’t sleep, meaning he spent his time during Ed’s slumber hours gaining an unfair disadvantage. The Colonel had just laughed and said that the Fullmetal Alchemist’s English skills had not even scraped a “satisfactory” in his books. Which was insulting; he wasn’t that lacking.
And Colonel Mustang now? Ed glanced on the other side in their small Express cabin. He was sleeping soundly on one of the two tiny beds in their cramped third-class train cabin (Mustang, you damn cheapskate! Ed thought spitefully).
He looked through the dictionary looking for how to say “Wake up, Colonel Bastard!” in English. When he had found the individual words, he looked through the pages again, finding many English synonyms for ‘short.’
After all, he needed to know them all so that he could be confident he was being called Edward Elric and not some derogatory English word for 'midget.'
/-/-/-/-/
The sun must not have been pleased with Creta, as the summer heat baked the population and Ed started to complain that the heat was fifty times more intense than it was back home. Mustang told him to shut up and get along with it. “You’re the Flame Alchemist,” Edward replied snidely. “Your fire is a hundred times hotter than the sun.”
“Shut up, Fullmetal,” the Colonel had told him, but a few minutes later Edward heard a quip from the older man’s mouth about how the sweltering heat hadn’t killed anyone yet. Edward looked triumphant.
The people were giving the Flame and Fullmetal Alchemists unusual looks. One of them said, quite loudly and pointedly, a very offensive word for Amestrians. It wasn’t surprising, however. Border skirmishes between Amestris and its western neighbour were still happening from a distance not so far from where they were now.
Whatever.
There was a small restaurant, advertising quality meals for a cheap price (which was most likely why the Flame Alchemist had chosen it), and Mustang and Ed took seats, with the former calling for a waitress to take their order. Once they had, there was silence between the two alchemists, compared to the other lively atmospheres from the neighbouring tables.
“You know, Fullmetal,” Mustang said, after what seemed like an incredibly long time, “there’s an Amestrian-occupied city in this country.”
“Yeah, Table City, I think that’s what it’s called,” Ed replied monotonously. “Are we going there after we eat?”
Mustang shook his head. “Table City is too far from here. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice. “The British… wizards will be waiting for us here.” He said the word wizards as if he was tasting something new and exotic in his mouth, finally deciding he didn’t like it. Ed could understand. He scoffed in reply.
“Waiting for us? More like vice versa.”
They sat in silence again, until Ed heard a mutter come out of the Flame Colonel’s mouth, his words nothing less colourful.
“I apologise for the wait, I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” said a cheerful voice behind them. It almost made Edward jump. He was sure he hadn’t heard anything; footsteps, breathing.
But the first thought that crossed his mind when he saw the man was how he could be dressed in such a fashion in such weather. He wore a dark purple cloak, with a large flowing white beard and half-moon spectacles resting atop his nose. Some Cretans stared at him, but the old man didn’t seem to care. He kept a large, friendly smile on his face as he was heading towards their table.
He took a seat from a vacant table and placed it at the table where Ed and Mustang sat, and sat down; Mustang was doing his best to keep a politely surprised expression, and Ed looked at him curiously, still wondering how in hell someone would be able to wear such clothing under the sweltering Cretan heat.
“Why, hello there.” The old man held out his right hand towards Mustang, who took it. Then he held it to Edward, who frowned, but finally took it with his automail hand. Once they had separated, Mustang nodded stiffly.
So their magical escort was an old man with a too-long beard and peculiar clothes that were the polar opposite of what someone normal would be wearing in the summer. Lovely.
“My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” he said, his smile still on his face, eyes twinkling warmly. As the waitress returned and served Edward and Mustang their meals, he said, “We have plenty to talk about. Let’s talk about it over meals and a good bout of Butterbeer, shall we?”
/-/-/-/-/
Ed’s knees hurt.
That was because he had landed on them. Not a very painless experience. He was sure his head was hurting too and he was wondering whether the Cretan meal wanted to rush back up his mouth. He shook his head. No way was that going to happen, especially in front of Colonel Bastard and the funny-looking old man, Dumbledore.
Mustang had landed on his feet, and Ed was sure the Flame Colonel was about to give him a smug smirk when he stumbled on his feet and fell to the ground.
The old man had called it a ‘portkey.’
It was, Ed thought aloud, the worst form of transport he’d seen. His expectations had instantly lowered when old man Dumbledore had brought out a small white chipped bowl, decorated with the occasional dust speck. He’d explained that the bowl had been enchanted with a charm that, when activated
He could see that Mustang felt the same way Ed did. Less than impressed.
The two alchemists had been told to place a finger on the bowl. Ed had, resulting in a feeling of being hooked by the navel. The experience had been like a carnival ride. Except Ed felt like being sick straight after and that he had landed in a completely different country after the ride.
The intense heat was still blaring in the afternoon sky. Not as bad as Creta, but still the heat was stifling enough to make Ed complain. He got to his feet, taking a moment to analyse his surroundings, which, unlike Dumbledore, was nothing out of the ordinary. Suburban houses were lined up on both sides of the street they had touched down in - though they were houses whose appearances greatly differed to the ones he had seen in Amestris.
“Is that a car?” Ed asked as he saw at least one parked at each driveway, either in front or to the side of the houses. It surprised him; while some of the Amestrian population kept cars, they were very expensive and looked very different to the cars he saw right in front of him. Then there were the British people, Ed thought, as he saw three cars in one property - two in front of the house and one parked on the side of the street.
“This must be Britain, then,” Mustang said, and Dumbledore nodded.
“More precisely,” the old man agreed, “this is London. And even more precisely than that, we’re in one of London’s suburban muggle areas - Grimmauld Place.”
Ed made a note to ask Dumbledore what the term 'muggle' was sooner or later.
They walked past several houses and cars until Dumbledore gestured for the two alchemists to cease walking, saying, “We’re here. Number 12, Grimmauld Place-”
“No, it isn’t. There’s a mistake,” Mustang said, cutting in, and Ed walked over to his superior to take a look. He frowned. He had been right. They had been standing in front of Number 11, Grimmauld Place. "There's number ten to the left. But on the right is thirteen..."
“Ah,” Dumbledore said, chuckling, “that brings us to the next step. Here,” He handed Mustang a small folded piece of paper - no, not paper, Edward corrected himself. It was thicker and looked different from paper. It was parchment. “Make sure to memorise this as soon as possible, then burn it.” He nodded at Mustang. “I suppose you’re good at that. And remember,” he added, “to tell whoever greets you at the door these two words: ‘Advance Guard.’” He spoke the two words in English, saying them slowly. Which did make sense to the Fullmetal Alchemist. Edward had never heard those two words in his English books before. “That will be your code words for you to enter the premises.”
Mustang nodded. He gestured for Edward to look and he saw a neat cursive scrawl, and they both read:
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
He looked up. And out of nowhere, as if it had silently crept up from the ground and placed itself between house numbers eleven and thirteen - or as if it had always been there. It looked very unwelcoming, however. It was a darker colour than its well-kept neighbours, with a battered door along with dirty walls and dilapidated cobweb-stained grimy windows.
There had been no noise, nothing. It was almost as if the other houses, notably eleven and thirteen felt nothing. Or maybe… maybe they did feel nothing. So this is what magic is…
“This must be the place,” Ed said to Mustang in Amestrian.
The Flame Alchemist, who had been occupied living to his name using his flame alchemy to set the paper in flames, and within moments the paper had been reduced to ashes. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Mustang looked behind him. “Mr Dumbledore, let’s go - Mr Dumbledore?”
“What about him?” Ed asked, eyes still fixed on the door to Number Twelve.
“He’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” The Fullmetal Alchemist looked back, and indeed, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was gone. He had just vanished, ever so silently. It reminded Ed of the sudden appearance of number twelve. Was this what magic could do? Falman was right. The differences between magic and alchemy had varied so much when the former had wavered so far from the scientific practice. All the laws were being upturned.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Mustang said. “We’re meant to enter number twelve.”
They approached the house together. Ed watched as the Flame Colonel knocked on the uninviting door.
There was silence, followed by several whispers and the shuffling of feet from the other side of the door. Edward Elric was not one who was so easily frightened, but he felt chills go up his spine. Then the door opened.
It was a man, and Ed had to comment on his appearance, for it was strange.
His face was rough-looking and thuggish and was riddled with scars all over. He had unkempt grey-blond hair and (which was what made the chills on Edward’s spine creep towards the rest of his body) a chunk of his nose was absent.
It seemed like the antagonist of a horror film.
But the most uncanny thing about this man was his eye.
It was so unsettling to look at, and Ed’s gaze always traced back to that one eye. While one had the appearance of a normal eye, the other was a perfectly round electric-blue eye that moved in ways a normal eye never could.
“Advance Guard,” Mustang said clearly. Ed noted the tremble in the Colonel’s voice, but it was better than nothing. As much as he would deny it, the Colonel did have a better grasp of English than Ed had currently. It annoyed him a little.
“You’re the alchemists, right?” he asked gruffly in a low growling voice. The language the man had spoken in had surprised Ed for a moment. Then it dawned on him. Somehow, Dumbledore was conversing with them in Amestrian. Maybe due to prior knowledge of the language or magic. “No point standing around dawdling. Get in.”
He didn’t understand what dawdling meant, but he did understand ‘get in.’ He followed Mustang as the older alchemist nodded to the man at the door. He let them pass through the door, and Ed took one final glance at the electric blue. It stared at him, daring him to make one criticising movement.
Ed sighed.
No, he definitely was not going to enjoy this mission.