The Water Alchemist

Dream State

A/N: Hey there! I'm Starry. I originally wrote and formatted this story to another website, but I was encouraged recently to cross-post to reach a wider audience, so here I am! I'm not sure how it's going to do, but I do hope someone finds it who may not have on Fanfiction.net where it started and maybe, just maybe, likes it. A few things: The story has been running for a while, so there are already nearly forty chapters to browse, but it is not yet completed. I will upload a new chapter each week on Wednesdays. I usually end my chapters with Authors Notes, but I don't think I'll be doing that here, but who knows, I'm prone to change my mind. If I have any announcements for uploading, I'll place them at the bottom in AN format. I look forward to hearing your feedback! If you want to know more about the reasons behind the writing of this story, please see my bio!

Welcome to The Water Alchemist. I don't own any of the intellectual property of Fullmetal Alchemist.

Chapter One

                                                                                       Dream State

*** 

My bare feet tapped against the cobblestone streets with a decided thunk as each step echoed in my head. The screams that rung out behind me kept me going on faltering feet. The cold night air raked across my body as I ran along the dark and windy alley, nothing looking remotely recognizable. My heart thumped so hard against my lungs; I felt like it would surely burst, dumping crimson blood out onto the leaden path. But I couldn't stop. A black arm, slim and rubbery, grabbed my heel and held tight. I kicked back using what little strength I possessed, but it was no use. Another arm – as black and menacing as the first – grabbed my wrist. Another my shoulder, and before I could discern up from down, I was engulfed in a blanket of black. I flailed my arms and tried to make a sound as I gasped for air.

Would anyone even hear me? I wondered. I wasn't answered before I was swallowed whole by the churning dark sea.

"Kyaaaaaaaaaa!"

I shot straight up and nearly hit my head on the crouched wall I had called a ceiling. My breath was labored, and my heart still threatened explosion. I heard the screams echoing in my head, shrill and ominous, and as my eyes adjusted, I felt out of place in the familiar setting of my room. The yellow walls seemed normal enough. The closet was still beside my bedroom door, and my laptop stood open on a table in the corner. The mirror of the vanity displayed a young girl, with long blonde hair framing a familiarly freckled face. She looked normal. There was even some drool on her chin, an additional element of realism. I touched the face that was hers – that was mine – to wipe the drool away. I was in my body, in my bed, where I had left myself the night before.

That's the third dream this week, I thought to myself, stretching. Each time I had the dream, it became more vivid, more realistic, and I became an increasingly central figure. I would wake up in a cold sweat, heart attack on the horizon, and do a room check to distinguish reality from nightmare. I noticed my room was well lit, too bright for it to be morning. I hadn't bothered to set an alarm the night before, so I must have slept in far past mid-morning. I had gone to bed around four in the morning, so I wasn't surprised. I checked my phone absentmindedly; I had some unread emails, no missed messages –which wasn't surprising – and figured out that it was already two in the afternoon, which was pretty early if you'd ask me. I decided that I should get up. Mom would probably get mad if I slept in any later.

Getting ready wasn't much of a hassle, I usually took a quick shower and called it a day. I let my blonde hair drape down my back, loose and uninhibited. My outfit was plain— a pair of biker shorts and a white crop top, matched with my worn-out sneakers and some thick white socks. When I descended the stairs, headphones in hand as always, I saw that my mom was seated at her usual spot in our living room. She was quietly nestled in her rocker with her laptop on an old tv tray desk in front of her. It was her version of a make-shift office in our two-bedroom townhouse. She was something of a workaholic, even grinding out papers on a Saturday. She looked up at me as I let my headphones plop on the kitchen table.