Stand Up and Walk

The World is Shaking

"No."

Her answer is firm—one that leaves no room for question.

"And why the hell not?" you growl.

Riza stops walking. She doesn't turn around. "Because you don't need to see this."

The words hurt more than they should.

...

It's still raining, as if the world is crying for Nina. You, Ed, and Al are all sitting on a set of cold, wet stone stairs. Your clothes are heavy and cling to your body, dragging you down like a lead weight. You pick at the jean-clad skin of your thighs, your long hair sticking to your face, shoulders, and arms. A few strands catch on a screw from your shoulder, and they are yanked from your head when you shift.

The drops pelt you mercilessly as you tip your head up, letting them run down your face. Maybe they can wipe you clean. Make you new again.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time," Ed mutters. "We put all our trust in alchemy, but in the end...what is it?" He sighs. "Alchemy is the science of understanding the flow of matter and its laws," he recites in a whisper. "The process of comprehension, deconstruction, and reconstruction. The world flows too; it must also follow laws. Everything circulates." Rain drips down his scraggly bangs, which hide his eyes. "Even death is a part of that circulation. It must accept the flow."

He chuckles unhappily. "Teacher sure drilled that into our heads, didn't she?" he remarks blandly. "I thought I understood it," he says. His next words are a whisper, almost inaudible. "I didn't understand anything. Mom proves that. And now here I am again, trying desperately to figure out a way to do the impossible."

You remember Nina laughing giddily as Alexander licked her cheek. You remember her throwing her arms around the friendly beast and burrowing her face into his fur.

You shudder.

"I'm such a hopeless idiot," Ed hisses, clenching his fists where they rest on his legs. "All this time, and I haven't grown one bit. I thought maybe the rain would wash away some of this gloom that's been following me. But every drop that hits my face is even more depressing."

Any other time, you would do something then. You would wrap your arms around him, keeping him safe in your embrace. You would give some sort of counter argument that proved he was wrong. Or you would hit him upside the head and tell him to quit moping like a loser.

But not now. Oh, definitely not now. No, because now, you're trying to find a reason not to hate yourself—and coming up empty.

You scratch harder.

Al tips his armored face up to the sky. Raindrops bead on the metal surface, growing and swelling until they get too heavy to stay where they are, running down the helmet and meeting up with others. They merge together, becoming one big droplet, until they reach the base of the helmet and come falling, plunging down, and shatter hopelessly against the ground.

Al's voice echoes inside the cold, hollow suit he's been trapped in. "I don't even get that much," he whispers. His voice is steady, if quiet, but you know if they could, tears would be streaming down his face with the rain. "Without a body," he continues, "I can't feel the rain hitting my face. That's something I miss. All the time, wanting my body back...I want to get my body back soon, guys. I just want to be human again," he begs. "...But if it means going against the flow and trying to do the impossible..."

You bow your head deeply, spine curving, as if you're trying to disappear into yourself. What loose hair you have that's not clinging to your patchwork body falls forward, encasing your face in a closed curtain. When you finally speak, your voice is raw. "I..." you rasp. "...I enjoyed it." You don't see it through your hair—nor would you have looked even if could see it—but the clinking of Al's armor and the sound of a light breath from Ed tell you that both have turned to face you. You wrap your arms around yourself tightly, your automail fingers digging into your flesh arm painfully. Good, you think bitterly.