The Same Coin

A Skilled Killer

Shadows emitted from every crevice and recess, coiling in closer through the faint lines of the welds on the walls like veins. Dark veins filled with dark intent. It was thicker than night — like black oil. Familiar. She had lived this before, she had confronted this before. She could feel it swallow her ankles, then her legs. Her chest. The darkness slithered up her shoulders and around her neck. She couldn't surrender to it now.

Winry shuddered under the sensation, losing the control over her breathing as she sucked down a quiet, quick gasp of air. Then it slid across her chin.

The fear left.

She took in one strong inhalation, then forced herself to gaze at the elder with defiant eyes.

Through the shadows of his wrappings hiding his gaze, Winry could feel that he wanted to swallow her whole. She wouldn't let him.

"A peddler," the elder rasped from beneath his trappings, and a wheel of his chair gave a sharp shriek until he came to a stop. "But — you know — Nen."

"Nen?" Winry asked, intentionally doe-eyed. "Is that what you call it here? I did notice your aura. It's formidable."

"I exist — to protect — this city."

"I use mine in my work," she lied nimbly. But it was a lie she could back up through demonstration if she needed to. She didn't let her eyes wander to Chrollo through this; he was to play her subordinate. She shouldn't look to him unnecessarily.

"Yes — your work. Tell me — more."

"I build mechanical prosthetic limbs."

"The residents — of my city — could benefit — from your work." They were almost the words she'd wanted to hear. Winry forced her face to light up, beaming as though she were the only light in the room. "But first—" Her heart skipped a beat. "—a demon—demo—" She heard him wheeze in a breath through the respirator, struggling with the lengthy word. He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Behind them she heard a door open, and Winry glanced over her shoulder. One of the other elders was gazing in, and a guard stepped forward to assist him. The guard set a tank on the ground beside the chair, then fished a tube from beneath the elder's robes and connected it to the tank. The elder's distress slowly subsided.

"I cannot replace internal organs," Winry said quietly. "But I could replace limbs that hinder you, to reduce strain on the body."

"A demon — stration — would be — required," he gasped like a fish. "—before you — could help — my people."

"I would need a volunteer," she answered, inclining her head ever so slightly, realizing immediately the angle he was playing.

"I am — available."

"When could we begin?" Winry asked.

"Now."

A crack echoed through the room, and it took Winry a moment to realize the sound had emanated from a snap of the elder's fingers. A guard advanced toward him. She couldn't hear what the elder whispered to him, but she watched as the guard lowered his head in submission then began to unwrap the elder's swaddling from around his body.

She could smell the rot before she could see it.

He stunk of putrid meat. Winry fought the overwhelming urge to cover her nose, instead taking small, shallow breaths — except then she could taste it in her mouth. As the last layer of cloth were removed, she could see the gaping sores that covered his arms and legs. They were wet, and gleamed with pus and fester.

"Come — close."

Winry bit the sides of her tongue as she advanced toward him, her stomach churning as the smell intensified with every step she took, and she struggled not to gag. He extended his arms in her direction, fingers splayed. She watched as his muscles spasmed and clenched with the strain of the effort. She noticed was a maggot curled in one of the wounds, the subtle movements of its body like the ocean waves. Then Winry saw his hands.

"You — are — repulsed," the elder said, and she could hear the wicked satisfaction in his voice. "Your — pulse — quic — kened."

"Your body has been devastated by infection," Winry admitted, but that hadn't been the cause for the skyrocket of her heart. Not at all. She had seen the markings on his hands.

"Ones who kill are also chased by death," Kimblee's memory whispered in her ear. "Always living alongside death."

The Sun and the Moon stared up at her, and the enormity of the hand Fate had dealt to her was nigh impossible to shoulder. The finality of the realization that it had always been meant to come to this.

"I don't know that I will be able to preserve the tattoos on your hands," she said, drawing a coiled cloth tape measure from a pocket. She leaned over him, unrolling it against his arm. "Are they ceremonial?"

Then, over her shoulder to Chrollo she called, "Boy, assist me."

She heard Chrollo's subtle footsteps approaching her from behind, and she dictated to him, "Write down these measurements. Shoulder to wrist, twenty-five inches."

"No — they are — for — my Hatsu."

"From elbow to forearm, eleven and three-quarter inches. I will need to know about your Hatsu to know how to best preserve it when I create your prosthetics," Winry said.

"My Liege," Chrollo asked, keeping his eyes down. "Please tell me about your Hatsu so that I may make notes of it for my Mistress?"

The elder's face reddened with rage. The audacity to be questioned by a mere slave boy. But he wanted what she had to offer, and when Winry did not rebuke Chrollo herself, he at last answered.

"I mark them — with a symbol — from each — hand," he rasped, and even as weak as he was, she could hear the boasting in his tone. "When the — two marks — touch they — will combust."

He was a skilled killer.

"Your symbols explode?" Chrollo asked, writing down what the elder said while Winry took the next measurement.

"Shoulder to elbow, twelve and one-quarter."

"No — what they — are affix — fixed onto — is the — bomb."

"Only humans?" Chrollo asked.

"As are — the Sun — and Moon — humans — and puppets — they are but — two sides — of the — same coin."

Winry had to touch him to support his arm for her next measurement; his shaking had become so profound.

"Circumferences from shoulder to wrist; eleven and seven-eights, ten and three-quarters, six and five-eighths. Bring me the book."

This had been the hardest part during their plotting, and to even Winry's surprise the solution had been one she provided. Not Chrollo. If she hadn't seen his book before that day on the airship, then she might not have been able to think of it.

Chrollo closed the book of his notes, Bandit's Secret, and knelt before the elder, holding it out.

"Lay your hand here on the mark, Liege," Winry instructed, and I will take a photograph for reference for the size of your hand."

And the Elder did as he was bid, laying the hand with the Moon on its palm flat over the handprint on the cover. Winry took the photo with a small camera then returned the device to her pocket, and Chrollo back away with the book.

There was only one step left to complete for Chrollo's requirements to be fulfilled.

"I will need a demonstration of your ability as well," Winry said as she began the measurements of his other arm, "so that I am able to at worst preserve it in its current form, but — at best — engineer something to amplify its awesome power."

A coarse, dry laugh coughed out behind the ventilator. His fingers snapped one last time for the guard's attention, and she wondered absently whether it hurt the elder to do.

"Bring me—" he rasped, "someone — to sacrifice."