Where the loss of ignorance is more valuable than the knowledge gained, and Edward figures out the source of alchemy a lot sooner than before. "Edward has cockroaches under his skin and leeches in his veins. He's vibrating and bursting and his body is too small, too big, doesn't fit quite right. He needs Al to know - needs to tell someone, anyone, but he will cut out his own tongue before he burdens anyone else with this knowledge."

Everyone's born with their soulmate's first words to them written on their skin, and that should make things easy, but it really doesn't. "Roy has alternatively despised his mark and clung to it like a lifeline. Colonel. Just one word, right at the back of his foot. His literal Achilles’ heel."

Edward grabs Marcoh’s arm and says, “That stone – what can it heal, exactly?” The old man’s eyebrows rise to his forehead, and he looks like he already knows the answer when he goes, “Why do you ask, Edward?” There's no metallic footsteps so there’s no way Al’s close enough to hear them. “I’m sick,” he admits after another moment of deliberation.

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Mustang says, looking at Ed over the top of his latest report, “about the angels.” Ed scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Angels don’t exist, don’t be ridiculous.” “Of course, of course,” he murmurs, gaze sliding back down, “There have been multiple eye witness accounts, however.” Ed slouches into the chair and doesn’t bother to keep the contempt to from his voice when he says, “Don’t depend on anything with wings to save you. Things that were made to leave always end up doing so, in the end.” “Yes, well,” he says, “sometimes they come back.”

Every time Edward sees the circle on the back Mustang's hand, he wants to scream, wants to reach across the desk and shake him, wants to wrap his hands around the older man's throat and ask if it was worth it, if this desk and his rank is worth the screaming, crying, writhing, burning bodies of his people - "Something to say, Fullmetal?" Mustang drawls. Edward snaps the file shut, "Nope."

Edward grabs Marcoh’s arm and says, “That stone – what can it heal, exactly?” The old man’s eyebrows rise to his forehead, and he looks like he already knows the answer when he goes, “Why do you ask, Edward?” There's no metallic footsteps so there’s no way Al’s close enough to hear them. “I’m sick,” he admits after another moment of deliberation.

Ed doesn't know how he got himself into this situation. And by situation, he means dancing the lead role in a ballet he barely knows.