Fullmetal Alchemist 1. Fourteen lumps of Sugar

Abel Nightroad and the Wicked Wrath of Bradley

Chapter One: Fourteen Lumps of Sugar

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or Trinity Blood. This story is a collab between me and MuddyWolf or as he's known on Deviantart, SnoringOldMan. This chapter is entirely his work and the next one will be my doing ;) In this chapter, Abel Nightroad meets a friendly Tea Room owner with an eye patch named Bradley :) Little does Abel realize that he is in for a world of trouble.

This is set post cannon for Trinity Blood, and Abel's brother is dead. As for Fullmetal Alchemist, it's rather AU but i'll explain in later chapters.

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><p>A haze permeated the skies above the looming domes of imperial splendor, casting the dusk's shadows over the flooded arteries of the capital city. The priest—just another Terran weaving—no, stumbling through the throng of Terran and Methusaleh alike. And yet, no matter how many times he visited this place as ambassador from the Vatican, the AX operative still gaped in awe at the brilliance of the heart of the New Human Empire: the humblest of the edifices in Byzantium made his poor Rome look quite provincial—oh—not that there was anything wrong with the provinces—anywhere where he could lay his head, anywhere there was food, he was infinitely grateful for and heaped a thousand benisons—upon his kindly benefactors.<p>

Like an adrift barque—or maybe a canoe would better describe him- he let himself get tossed by the waves of commoners and nobles, men and woman in coarse linens and fine silks, who were giving the reeling, unsteady cleric dirty looks as he bumped into one, wailed a heartfelt apology, only to bump into someone else, making an utter fool of himself as usual.  
>The looming rooftops rotated carousel-like as the hazy dusk sky fell out of focus, the outlines of the crowds and their indignant voices grew dim—he felt the ground drop rapidly out from underneath his shoes, and he crashed in a heap on the stone street, his heavy black cleric's cloak flopping over his head.<p>

Unable to walk anymore, his empty stomach whimpering pitifully for just one morsel of food, Abel lay there, prostrate, as Terrans and Methusaleh stepped around or over, occasionally on him, muttering imprecations against the "vagrants and hangers-on".  
>Turn the other cheek, turn the other cheek. The half-starved priest didn't have the strength to defend his reputation, anyways.<p>

"Oh..this is it…I'm going to starve to death….and yet..I couldn't think of a more beautiful place in which to perish…"

"Father!"

"Ah…? Is that you..Sister Noelle?"

Abel felt a tugging at his cloak, a determined straining from earthly arms that were pulling him up—  
>"Nnghh…so…heavy..!" Abel raised his shivering, lead-feeling head from the ground to see the blurred outline of a little girl pulling up on his garments—a little girl garbed in red and green—Abel burst out, his red-rimmed eyes widening.<p>

"What are you doing out here..?..! Shouldn't you be at the imperial pal—"

"You look really hungry!" the girl noted cheerfully, still trying to get the priest back on his feet. "There's a tea room right over there!" she pointed down the street not three doors away, at a sign reading,

_Bradley's Tea Room_

"..There is…?" The prospect of food imbued Abel with superhuman strength, and he and his roaring stomach peeled themselves off of the stones, reeling backwards for a final time before finally regaining his footing. Before he could heap gratitude upon the girl, she had sprinted off down the street, giggling.

Abel stumbled rapidly towards the tea room, using the last bits of his bodily strength to pull himself across the threshold into the brightly-lit tea room. Jaw slack, the priest shuffled across the red carpet and collapsed in front of the counter, an audible squeak as he plopped his chin onto the polished wood.

"Tea with..thirteen lumps of sugar, if you could..please…" came the feeble whimper. He entwined the coins for payment in between his gloved fingers and, arm quavering, he lifted one, two, three, four dinars and tapped them across the table with his finger. "Four dinars…I am eternally cursed with four dinars…."

"Why, that's not a problem in the slightest," Another man, in his forties, set a piping cup of milk tea in front of the starving customer, complete with saucer and spoon. Leaning forward, the kindly gentleman spooned the amount of sugar cubes the poor customer had asked for.

"B-but sir, I only have four dinars."

"You're in luck." The man genially tapped on the board listing the prices-sure enough, milk tea…four dinars.  
>Abel didn't bother to ask why the tea was so inexpensive—he guzzled the wonderful hot, sugar-infused drink as if his life depended on it—and knowing the itinerant priest, he probably hadn't eaten for days.<p>

"Oh…mm…your kindness knows no bounds, sir…! Thank you, thank you, thank you..!" the priest, his face bright and glowing, radiating a sunburst of joy, nodded with enthusiastic sincerity, his long, silver hair bouncing as giddily as he was nodding—and shaking his hand, to boot, so filled he was with gratitude.

Now that the priest could see straight and the tea was happily bubbling in his stomach, through his seemingly closed eyelids he could get a better glimpse of his savior—black-haired, a little swarthy—wearing a full, thick, but well-maintained mustache. It didn't matter if the gentleman was Methusalan or Terran—especially in this peaceful world where the Contra Mundi had been defeated and Terrans and Methusaleh alike were living in peace, not only in the New Human Empire, but in Vatican territory as well.

But while bowing and nodding and shaking the man's hand and thanking him a thousand-fold, Abel couldn't help but notice the most peculiar clothes that the gentleman was wearing—the eyepatch covering his left eye was nothing extraordinary, but—a tunic of animal hides and furs, and a dyed cloak made of some kind of material that he, the itinerant priest who had seen all kinds of people form many places wearing many kinds of clothing, had never seen before. Abel was struck with so much curiosity that he sneaked an impolite glance behind the counter to see the unusual gentleman's hide boots…the attire of the warriors of ancient Germanicus…

"Please, forgive me for staring, good sir..!" Abel remembered himself and apologized profusely, bowing low over the counter. The strangely-attired man laid firm, age-creased hands in a soothing way on Abel's shoulders.

"There's no need for the formalities. I'm here to serve you, " the middle-aged gentleman conveyed to the priest, before disappearing into the back room, and before long, set down another cup and saucer next to the empty, "Since you like your tea with extra sugar—" he spooned fourteen lumps of sugar into the tea, smiling graciously.

"B-but—Sir—I-I mean-" Abel glanced backwards at the sign at the door. "-Mr. Bradley, I have no money left..!"  
>"That's not a problem at all. Consider it on me," Abel's benevolent host bowed shoulder-level with elegance, the fabric of his scarlet cloak rustling. His face filling with even more enthusiasm, the bespectacled priest joyfully accepted the second, free tea and downed it while his host took Abel's cleaned-out dishes and headed back into the kitchen.<p>

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><p>I'd just like to point out that this is a very dark story featuring death, cannibalism and much worse. Those with a weak constitution should turn back now. Those who love that kind of stuff please keep reading :D<p>

Remember to read and review, because I love all you guys :)


	2. Bradley's House of Pain

Trinity Blood: Abel Nightroad and the Wicked Wrath of Bradley

Chapter Two: Bradley's House of Pain

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA or Trinity Blood. Tough luck for me. Remember when I warned you guys about blood and gore? Well this is it! The Squeamish should turn back now!

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><p>Abel sat next to his sister Seth, while the two of them were watched over by the owner of the teahouse. Thus far nothing was out of the ordinary for Abel or his sister. He was gluttonously sucking down a sugary milk tea with no less than fourteen spoonfuls of sugar, his sister was cute as a button; in fact the only strange thing in the neighbourhood was the owner's choice of clothing.<p>

Bradley just stood there, dressed like a Germanic king from Roman times; clad up in a fur shirt and dark red cloak and leggings. He cut a rather rustic figure amidst the more refined clothing styles of human and methuselah in the shop. Bradley's rugged appearance was further expounded by his strong build, good height and thick black moustache. This kind of moustache would stay black long after the rest of the man's hair had gone grey.

With the last of his tea gone completely, Abel put down his cup and sighed. Then he remembered his manners. Frantically, he took Bradley's hand and shook it furiously. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you sir! May God bless you for all your days and all your children and their children's children."

Where most would have pulled away from the overbearing and jolly priest with annoyance, Bradley just smiled kindly and took it all in stride. Nothing but warmth emanated from his single eye. "Not at all, dear friend," purred Bradley in his smooth voice, "I have to admit that I have a special place in my heart for servants of God. For isn't it the holy church who watches over mankind and keeps their souls safe and sound?"

Abel blushed, the redness tinting his pale features. Times like this he truly lamented being such a whitey; at least Seth had some luxuriously thick black hair. "Oh sir, you think too highly of a humble servant like myself." He held up a hand to his face and pulled back his long white hair. "I am but a humble monk who's taken a vow of poverty. I am merely trying to make up for my sins," he confessed to this odd, friendly man.

Bradley's face twisted a bit as he chewed over what Abel said, then without warning he began to chuckle. One of his strong hands reached out towards Abel with a slow, methodical motion.

Abel nearly recoiled from Bradley's oncoming hand. His warrior's instincts were flaring. Clown though he may act; the crusnik was in fact a hardened killer who was prepared to defend himself.

So imagine the depth of Abel's surprise when Bradley patted Abel on the head like a friendly puppy dog. The honestly and unexpectedness of this action took Abel quite off guard. The man only wanted to give him a "good boy" pat.

"Oh you poor man," Bradley said soothingly, running his fingers gently through Abel's hair, "You must not lead a very easy life."

Off to the side, Seth sat while chewing on a drinking straw. She wasn't in the mood for tea and Bradley's Teahouse always had a fabulous selection of cakes and sandwiches. She merely smiled and went over her menu.

Bradley had a way of doing this. The man had the most uncanny talent for seeing into people's hearts and reaching out to him. He was better at it than any priest, doctor or barber.

At first Abel felt like pulling away from Bradley's heavy hand, but the more Bradley patted his head the more Abel wanted him to. It was like Bradley could see all his sins and crimes but he was comforting him rather than condemning him, saying "_It's okay, I don't hate you. You can be yourself_."

All too soon though, Bradley took away his hand from Abel's head and the crusnik couldn't help but moan like a small puppy. For a puppy was what he looked like; with his great big eyes and expressive face there wasn't a soul who wouldn't be moved by the sight of Abel's cute little face.

Bradley laughed like a father who'd just hugged his son. "I understand father. I myself was once a soldier in East Reich; I may not look it but I'm the veteran of nearly a dozen wars."

Abel nodded with a dreamy expression on his face. "So you know what I mean," he said in a voice that was far more serious and less expressive than his normal tone.

Bradley nodded and picked up Abel's used cup and saucer. "As hard as it seems friend Abel, there is always a bright side to things."

Bradley's tone and face turned sombre but it lost none of its inviting nature. "Father Abel, if you ever need a friend then I am always here."

Then with a swish of his cape, Bradley took off to schmooze more customers and wash the dishes. Abel and Seth could make out the sounds of Bradley greeting more guests in his bustling, busy tea house. They could hear it quite easily. "Welcome to Bradley's Tea Room, I'm Bradley."

With a chewed straw still in her mouth, Seth elbowed Abel in the ribs. In response, the placid priest shouted out and fell of his chair. Seth began to laugh merrily. Abel was always such a hyper guy; that fact hadn't changed in thousands of years of being alive. "Feeling alright," she playfully chirped.

Hastily getting back up onto his chair, Abel dusted himself off. "I'm very good, thank you Seth. Although would you not scare me like that?"

Seth laughed and eyed the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "You almost looked like you wanted to marry him."

Abel sputtered at Seth's jab but otherwise took it as it was; a joke. "I assure you that was not what I was thinking."

Seth laughed, "Lighten up, Abel; you need to unwind." Her tone became serious for a moment, "Cain is dead, and all is well with the world that we can't fix."

At the mention of their deceased crusnik brother, Abel sighed and put his elbow on the counter. "I'm sorry Seth, but I really just can't let it go. As hard as I try it weighs on me; I'm not like you."

Seth's lips squeezed together. What could she say, really? They'd been over this a thousand times. She almost believed Abel when he said that all the things he'd done he couldn't possibly forget.

She knew where he was coming from though. Abel and Cain weren't the only crusniks who slaughtered brutally and without prejudice; committing multiple other crimes in the process. Seth had just as much blood on her soul as Abel. The difference was that Seth knew in her heart of hearts that the presence of evil did not negate or invalidate good in any way. They were a package; that was the law of the world.

Suddenly Seth got an idea. Playfully she hit her brother in the shoulder, earning an "ouch" from the larger crusnik.

"I have the perfect idea, Abel!" Seth sang.

"Huh?" Abel was confused at what Seth's brilliant idea would be. This had better not be a retread of the time she got him an invitation to a big party only for him to get mistaken for a male prostitute and get offered five hundred dinars to blow a guy.

"You could get a job," she said brightly. Before he could protest, "I mean a real job. I think you'll be a lot happier with a job that pays and doesn't involve shootouts with the enemies of the Vatican." The smirked as Bradley walked by and handed Seth a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crust cut off. "ALRIGHT! She yelled loud enough for people to turn their heads and notice how weird the little flower girl was.

Though a bite of sandwich, she spoke to her brother, "Why do you think I work as a flower girl? Because the job is fun and I get to meat great people."

Abel sighed once more; he didn't have to play the fool for his sister like he did for everyone else. "Thanks for the offer, Seth; but I can't stop what I'm doing. I still have a lot to do where I am right now."

Dismayed but accepting, the sister of Abel conceded, "Okay Abel, but you're my brother; you can always ask me for help."

Abel smiled at this, a real smile, "Didn't Bradley just make the same offer?"

Seth nearly choked on her sandwich and pointed at Bradley with mock outrage, "Him? With a moustache like that how do you expect him to be your sister?"

At this, both of them burst out laughing and for a short time in Bradley's well lit tea room, it was good.

As with all things, Abel had to move on. He was the eternal drifter, always moving from place to place without any real home. He loved fiercely but he would outlive all of his loved ones; and the pain of loss never got easier. He was like Dirty Harry without the bad attitude. He lived for the hunt.

That was part of the reason why Abel kept on with the Vatican; he was a hunter, just like all of his siblings with the possible exception of Lilith. Abel got off on hunting down offenders of the law, from tracking down evildoers and filth and making them pay for what they'd done.

As he walked to his next destination, Abel's hand unconsciously clenched and went closer to his pistol. Even now, the rush from activating the crusnik nanomachines was fresh in his mind. It was like shooting heroine; nothing else he'd ever experience would feel better—not eating an apple, nor making love, nor all the other petty pleasure in their painful world.

Like a degenerate gambler, Abel would stop gambling but the first moment he was near his temptation he'd be in danger of jumping back into it. Every time he went crusnik he promised himself it would be the last.

It was—CRASH!

Abel cried out as he tripped over a bunch of garbage cans. The priest groaned in frustration as he saw that his nice clean coat was now coated in broken eggshells, banana peels and other nasty things which require a drycleaner, which requires MONEY! Money that Abel did not have.

"Oh rats!" Abel shouted as he pulled a wet wrapper of some kind from over his eyes. To make things worse, an automated garbage truck rolled by and started to scoop up the trash with Abel inside.

"Wait!" Abel shouted as the mechanical arms scooped him up and threw him in with the rest of the garbage. "Stop! I'm a person! Hey!" But the automated machine must not have been functioning because the doors on the craft closed and Abel's cries were muffled into nothing. Then without another word, the craft rolled down its rout where it would dump its cargo at the molecular disassembly recycling plant.

The sleek, shiny garbage unit rolled down the streets; here in the new human empire even the machines for taking out the garbage looked clean and sparkly enough to eat food off of. Halfway through the truck's rout, a small explosion blew a hole in the side of the robot vehicle.

Falling out of the hole in the side of the truck was a considerable amount of garbage and the burned, bedraggled form of Abel Nightroad. The man fell out of the truck and lay there smouldering. Luckily he had a few grenades with him from the last mission. It was times like these that Abel was glad for a crusnik's impressive regenerative powers; a grenade did just blow up three feet from him while he was buried in garbage.

He lay there for a good long while, while the garbage truck rolled away. It was only when a stray cat started gnawing on him that Abel woke up with a violent start. The cat yowled and sped away

Abel groaned and felt his shrapnel and garbage covered body, "Shit," he let out a rare swear. This was just going from bad to worse for him; he'd put his back to the wheel and now he was flat on his back.

As much as his body hurt, Abel knew that he couldn't stay there all night. He needed a shower if nothing else, that way he could at least clean out the shrapnel in his body in a semi sterile environment. Plus, strawberry scented shampoo always made pain seem less bad.

Lifting himself up with the greatest difficulty, Abel saw that he was right in front of a building with dark lights and comfortable décor.

"Bradley's Tea Room!" Abel gasped happily, "Oh thank goodness; Bradley will let me have a shower." With that, he stumbled towards the front door of the café.

Normally Abel would be a lot more reluctant to take advantage of someone's kindness and he would also be much more reluctant to sneak in through a window when the front and back doors were locked and the owner was probably sleeping.

Realizing that he was now crossing a line, Abel began tiptoe through the empty tea room. Strangely enough, the place looked very sinister at night. Abel could see just fine, but there was something about the paintings on the walls that looked different in the dim lighting. A once friendly painting of some people on a train took on a different cast altogether; now the people in the train looked like they were screaming. It was a clever effect on part of the artist but Abel couldn't even guess why a nice, warm like Bradley would have such a painting.

There by the corner were a fascinating sculpture stood, in the dark the strange tree like bronze structure now looked like a hand reaching to strangle someone.

Able knew of types of paint and sculpting materials which would look different with changing light levels but this really seemed out of character for Bradley, unless he just had really dark tastes.

"Mr. Bradley?" Abel called out, "Mr. Bradley?" The last thing Abel wanted was for Bradley to think he was a burglar or breaker; in his state a baseball bat to the head was the last thing Abel wanted.

"Mr. Bradley?" he called louder. Slowly, Abel began to walk towards the kitchen. Everything behind there was dark and slightly eerie. Why did a tea house need so many knives?

For the first time since he'd fought his crazed brother Cain, Abel was feeling the icy hand of fear grab him by the balls.

It was ridiculous, he was a crusnik; one of the two deadliest creatures on the planet. Yet it's always what you don't see that you fear.

Abel walked through the kitchen and towards a door that said "Office," on it in simple text. The door was stained and dirty, unlike the polished stainless steel kitchen. It alone seemed out of place; and though they were faded Abel would almost make out a few bloody handprints in the dim light.

For his own peace of mind, or so he told himself, Abel pulled out his trusty long revolver. It was probably a bad idea and Mr. Bradley might get frightened but Abel was getting a bad feeling. With some hesitation, Abel opened up the door to Bradley's office and looked inside.

Flicking on a light, Abel saw something which wasn't the least bit scary. Off in the corner of the small room was a shabby old desk filled with papers related to shipping orders and ledgers. Left of the desk was a little cot, which while comfortable was hardly luxurious. If Bradley's café was always as busy as it was yesterday, Abel was certain that Bradley must be able to afford better lodging than this.

Deciding to snoop around, Abel looked over the ledgers and papers on Bradley's desk. From what Abel was gathering from first observation, it seemed like Bradley was making way more money than he was spending. Yet things weren't adding up; the man was cooking the books. The Tea Room was nothing more than a front for some other business which was making most of Bradley's money. What that sinister business could be was beyond Abel; maybe Bradley was a drug smuggler or involved in organized crime.

For some reason, it wasn't hard for Abel to imagine Bradley sitting around in a smoke filled bar, dressed in a pinstripe suit and a fedora while attractive but loose women served him drinks.

His time with AX has provided Abel with some detective training and over nine hundred years on this earth had drummed into his head to always look below the surface.

Methodically, Abel began to search the office from floor to ceiling; he ignored his wounds now because this took precedent. Technically it wasn't the duty of AX officers to investigate shady tea room owners but Abel had a bad feeling and he needed to sniff out the evidence.

Bradley had done a good job with his office. The Spartan little room would have easily born the scrutiny of a trained police officer or other law enforcement figure; but the office was never Abel proofed.

Abel found it hidden in the floor under the desk, a small little section of wood which was meant to function as a hidden drawer. Opening the little wooden section, it swung open and inside was a safe. Nothing odd about that, but Abel wanted to know what was in Bradley's safe; curiosity drove him towards death—just like the cat.

The lock was a ridiculously simple affair for one such as him and with a few spins of the dial, Abel was rewarded when a whole panel of the wall slid open to reveal a secret passage way.

Caressing his gun, Abel swallowed and looked down the dim passage. A sour wind swept up from the depths, burning Abel's nostrils even though he was presently covered in garbage. The pungent odours on the wind were smells that Abel knew all too well; the scent of stale shit, old blood and oddly enough animal feed. What could Bradley possibly be doing down there? The prospect of drug smuggling or more conventional criminal activity was becoming less and less likely with the strange case of Bradley.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Abel started to walk down the crumbling concrete steps; the dank air and moisture had done little for the plain and unforgiving steps. The passageway was narrow, barely wide enough to admit one man; though skinny Abel found no problems fitting in. The priest went slowly, being forced to avoid jutting pieces of rusty rebar which stuck from the walls. The farther down he went, the more the temperature seemed to rise, as if there was a huge furnace down there . . . or an oven.

The only light in the passageway came from a series of old and worn glow patches that flickered and failed to provide any consistent light. A little further down, there were some old wooden torches that burned with oily smoke.

Abel felt the sweat getting into his shrapnel wounds. He was going to need medical attention at some point or else reactivate his nanomachines. Bradley didn't' seem to be Methuselah, but there'd been no way to tell with the city's anti-UV shield in place. If he was human then at least Abel would take him down easier.

Abel would hear noise; he was reaching the end of the secret passage and about to enter some strange room. Maybe Bradley was a cult leader or something and there would be human sacrifice. Maybe Bradley was a member of the Rosenkruz Orden and he was picking up where the Contra Mundi left off.

Abel nearly scoffed out loud at the last one; that was just ridiculous. The Orden had been scattered to the four winds, their members mysteriously slaughtered after Abel had defeated their leader.

Suddenly, a horrible stygian thing loomed out of the darkness and Abel nearly squealed with fright. Jumping back in the torch light, he aimed his pistol in a totally unprofessional manner. Looking straight ahead at the white phantom, Abel saw what it was.

In front of him, impaled on a piece of rusted rebar was a human skull. The hollow, grinning artefact seemed to laugh at Abel, the jaw hanging wide open. Abel had seen plenty of human skeletons but this one seemed to be looking straight at him.

Further examination showed that it wasn't just a skull; it was a complete skeleton. At some point in the past, knives had been driven through the person's hands and feet. The knives were long rusted and the flesh long rotted off but the skeleton still stood there as if the killer had not even had the common decency to take down the corpse even as it decayed and became a stinking maggot farm.

Abel had no way of knowing if the person's head had a rebar driven through their head before or after their hands and feet were pinned to the wall but he had no wish to find out.

Stepping beyond the hanging skeleton with its impaled limbs and head, Abel said a prayer for that lost soul who'd died a horrible death in the dark and airless secret passage way beneath Bradley's Tea Room.

Taking tentative steps, Abel found himself entering a vast underground room; there was no way of telling how deep they were under the city streets. It was hard to believe that he was still in Byzantium, down here in the bowels of the earth with that foul stench growing thicker.

Stepping softly as a mouse, Abel walked out of the passage way, onto a concrete platform which had a set of rickety metal stairs attached to it. Before Abel was a scene straight form his worst nightmare; a horror show worse than hell.

There was nothing lighting up the room except for a massive furnace which gave the occasional ominous creak and groan; it sounded like the noise of a hungry beast waiting to be fed. A twisted web of pipes came up from the furnace and went upwards into the ceiling, presumably to supply heat and power to the Tea Room upstairs.

The pipes themselves were badly corroded brass and looked to be in dire need of repair.

As Abel looked over the cyclopean furnace, glowing evilly that he noticed a sound—babies crying.

Abel gasped as he saw some distance away from the furnace there were a row of shoddy cribs, each one possessing a baby in it. Each one of the little dears squirmed and cried where it lay, calling out for the parents who would never come; begging for feeding and comfort and just any kind of basic human compassion.

It was then that Bradley stepped onto the scene.

Abel shrank back so as not to be seen, observing the owner of the Tea Room.

Bradley still wore the same outfit belonging to a Germanic warrior, with his hide boots, animal skin tunic and crimson cape. Yet he was almost unrecognizable for the scowl that was plastered across his features; it was the polar and utter opposite from the friendly Bradley who'd comforted Abel earlier this evening.

Bradley walked along the cribs, eyeing each one the way a farmer sizes up pigs for slaughter. His expression communicated nothing more than contempt for the squealing infants who were waiting to be fed and changed.

At that moment, a number of floating robots came in and started to administer formula and change the diapers of the infants.

The crusnik's jaw dropped at this. It wasn't unheard of for wealthy parents to have robotic baby nurses, but these robots here were the kind certified for taking care of livestock; these machines were programmed for feeding and caring for piglets and calves!

The machines fed the infants gently enough, but their owner had programmed them for functionality; not because he cared about the wellbeing of these babies.

Outraged by the sight before him, Abel put a hand over his mouth in disgust. Yet like a train wreck he simply couldn't turn away.

When a bell started to ring, Abel nearly started shooting, and then he saw it was only a telephone.

Snorting in annoyance, Bradley took his sweet time to answer the telephone; but when he did, the metamorphosis was instantaneous.

"Hello," came Bradley's friendly, fatherly voice; his scowl transformed into a wonderfully warm smile, almost overbearingly warm. "Ah, good to hear from you again, madam."

There was a pause and Bradley nodded out of habit. "Of course the deal is still holding, madam." There was a brief pause, "There should be no reason to back out of this deal . . . unless you're having second thoughts," Bradley's warm and inviting expression remained the same but at the end of the sentence his voice became cold and unforgiving.

He instantly returned to his grandfatherly tone, "But you wouldn't bail out on our arrangement, would you madam?"

Evidently not, because after a few more seconds of talking, Bradley beamed wider and reached for his eye patch. He turned away before Abel could see under the eye patch. "No madam, you will receive instructions from a trusted courier of mine on where to find the child. All you have to do is leave the four thousand dinars at the pre-arranged spot."

There was some loud protest from the other end, "Well, madam," said Bradley in a sardonic tone, "If you could have children or even adopt you wouldn't have come to me."

"Thank you," he added, "I'll be in touch."

And so with his face returning to a scowl, Bradley hung up the phone. Abel watched with the most morbid curiosity as Bradley went over to one of the baby cribs and selected a healthy young child. Abel almost fired his gun there and then but he was stopped when Bradley turned around and he caught a look at the dark haired man's eye.

Bradley's right eye was normal but the left one was another story altogether. This eye bulged from the socket and seemed to light up with an unnatural light and hostility. Instead of a pupil and iris, the eye was white and emblazoned with the strangest symbol—a stylized red dragon eating its tail with an odd star or something within the circle the dragon created; the ourouborous, symbol of immortality.

_The sigh of a homunculus! _

So that was what Bradley was, a homunculus; an artificial human being created by an alchemist and powered by a philosopher's stone. Within that stone would be an unknown number of lives from alchemist's ghastly sacrifices.

Abel's jaw dropped as Bradley law down the infant baby on a metal platform which was stained with what Abel hoped was rust.

"Little George," Bradley cooed in a gently voice, though his face retained that look of sour, poisonous hatred. "Nobody wants you, little George."

"Everyone else has a buyer except you—and there's something I want from you, little one," Bradley cooed in a soothing voice while his ordinary human eye seemed to glow red in the darkness. His bizarre eye seemed to stand out and hypnotize Abel like the eye of a snake.

The intensity of Bradley's expression grew as if his heart were pounding and his blood was rushing.

Abel froze as the insidious Bradley reached into a rusted metal drawer and pulled out a giant dagger. The crusnik shook his head in disbelief; no man could possibly be that heartless, that psychotic.

Face twisted into a frightening image of pure savagery, Bradley brought down his dagger and stabbed into the center of little George's infant body.

There was a terrifying moment when a cry raised up from the impaled infant as Bradley had stabbed into the stomach.

This cry frightened the other infants and they all began to cry. The noise of babies crying was so loud that Abel thought his eardrum was going to rupture.

Twisting the blade, Bradley pulled out and began to stab back and forth frenziedly. Blood splattered his face and his fur tunic lent Bradley the mien of a rabid animal.

The crying of little George stopped as Bradley kept stabbing over and over; crimson fluid running all over his dagger and face. When he stopped stabbing, Bradley started to pant as if he'd overexerted himself. Judging by the look on his face and the half smile that was forming, the manic depressive psychopath was enjoying what he just did.

Hastily, Bradley licked the blood off his blade and put it back in the drawer; but the atrocities were not over yet.

Abel watched transfixed in horror; this was beyond the pale for even a homunculus. Bradley was in his own class of criminal; a psychopath with no connection to the rest of the world. One who even as he fought and killed, he hated the world deeply and felt prosecuted by it.

Stepping up to a switch on the wall, Bradley flipped it with practiced ease. A shining metal door opened up on the wall and mist came out; it was a refrigeration unit of some sort.

From out of the fridge unit came a long metal rack with a row of dead babies on meat hooks. Picking and choosing like a butcher with speciality meat, Bradley grabbed two more dead babies and took them along with the butchered remains of little George.

Bradley then strode purposefully over to a ramshackle machine that looked cobbled together from spare parts. Turning a key and flipping some switches, the patchwork machine roared to life. The thing vibrated and rumbled; at any moment it looked like it would fly apart.

Biting his lip with fury and passion, Bradley began to feed the corpses of infants into the machine where Abel's ears were greeted by the sound of shredded flesh.

As the machine shook and quivered, Bradley began to work dials and turn nobs; as if he was trying to keep the whole thing from burning right before his ultimate eye.

Then with a disjointedly cheerful ring of a bell, the machine began to churn out slices of meat; to all but Bradley the meat was nothing more than tasty, delicious sliced man. What better way to enjoy afternoon tea than with a nice yummy ham sandwich on one's plate?

With the cleanliness of a master chef, Bradley put on some rubber gloves and began to package the sliced baby into a storage unit—amidst a filthy dungeon with a large pile of used diapers with smelling distance which was thrown out every Tuesday.

It was by that point that Abel couldn't take it anymore and he let out a squeal of horror at the terrible mind fucking things he'd just been witness to. Unfortunately for him, the robotic drones were just starting to spray the babies with an anaesthetic spray; cutting off their crying.

Cutting off their crying and making the room quiet enough for Bradley to hear that he wasn't alone in his underground lair.

The homunculus spun away from his rickety baby processing machine and grabbed a sword from off the wall; his homunculus eye staring at Abel with the fiery intensity of a nuclear blast.

The crusnik didn't see anything, only a blur. First Bradley was there, then he covered the gap in a single leap and drove the point of his sword through Abel's throat. Abel gurgled and spat blood out of his mouth.

Bradley stood on top of him like an eagle over a mouse; his cape billowed out as if it had a mind of its own.

A human or even a Methuselah would have been utterly screwed; but Abel was neither. With is gun hand still working, he put the barrel of his gun right over Bradley's ultimate eye and pulled the trigger.

Bradley was thrown backwards as the large calibre bullet did catastrophic damage to his head, blowing off the top of his skull and showering Abel in brain, skull and moustache fragment. It would take him weeks to clean those moustache fragments out.

Bradley fell backwards and slammed into the stone floor with a crunch. His body lay there for a few moments before red sparks began to fly out of his neck. Muscles, bones and sinew started to grow out of the fatal wound like weeds. A working skull and eyes formed like someone invisible was pouring into a mould.

Not waiting for his regeneration to finish, Bradley jumped onto his feet; his head was half healed. He had a skull and muscle but no skin whatsoever; the ultimate eye burned in his bloody, glistening skull.

Leaping like a man of his years should not be able to, Bradley caught hold of his sword but no sooner had he done that did he notice the grenade that Abel left for him as a present.

The grenade exploded as Abel raced up the stairs, covered in garbage, wounded by shrapnel and a sword to the throat; other than that he was great except for having looked into the ourobouros eye of pure evil.

As he raced up the steps into the night, he heard the grenade go off and the sound of rock falling. The walls were old and in need of maintenance, the tunnel was collapsed and Bradley was trapped . . . hopefully.

No, not hopefully; Abel remembered that Bradley was now trapped in a room full of babies that he had no problems selling or killing

Either way, Abel ran as fast as his legs could take him to the nearest police station; but by the time the city's special anti-homunculus units had arrived and searched the premise, Bradley was nowhere to be found . . .

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><p>Thank you, thank you :D I love you all who read and review. Hopefully I didn't gross you guys out too badly. The next chapter will feature psychological drama rather than dead babies being chopped into ham sandwiches.<p>

If you have anything you'd like to say, leave a review or send me a pm. But in any case I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

TA

Master of the Boot


	3. Abel's Last Hunt

Abel Nightroad and the Wicked Wrath of Bradley:

Chapter Three: Abel's last hunt

Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood or Fullmetal Alchemist. I make no profit from this. And just as a side note I do hope that all the characters are in-character for this one. Also I'd like to warn you of dark, graphic content ahead and some urine. I hope you don't mind. If you do please turn back and spare yourself.

Lastly, enjoy ;)

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><p>Cardinal Caterina Sforza was not a woman that many would dare to fuck with. From her hard, cold stare to the way that the corners of her mouth perpetually seemed to turn downwards she was a formidable picture of Vatican power.<p>

Ages and ages ago it seemed, she had met with Abel Nightroad. The crusnik had saved her life and he'd vowed to protect humans. It was as simple as that.

Once upon a time the young Caterina had a crush on Abel, but she soon grew out of it. Her feelings for him merely changed, they never went away. There was nobody that she trusted more than Abel, there was no one else she would confide in like Abel and there was no one she respected like Abel.

She sat at her desk in the Vatican at AX headquarters. As the leader of the Vatican's special police task force, her work was never done and her praise was scant. Unlike her brother, she did not believe in forcing praise from others at the point of a gun or the edge of a knife.

The Contra Mundi was dead thanks to her dear Abel and Caterina knew that there was no way that anyone could ever repay Abel for what he'd done. Not everyone looked at killing family and kin as necessary, or even normal.

Though the old threat was dead and the New Human Empire and Vatican were actually pursuing diplomatic relationships; there was still much work to be done and much evil afoot.

As of late, the last members of the Rosenkruz had been found . . . all dead. Evidently, someone had brutally slaughtered the last of the Contra Mundi's old terrorist organization.

Hitting her keyboard, she scrolled through various holographic recreations of the savage killings. Blood was everywhere in the holograms; organs had been shredded and flesh ripped.

Whoever had done this was a ghost; there wasn't a hair, fibre of cloth or fingerprint that didn't belong to the victims. If Caterina didn't know any better she would have said that Cain Knightlord had returned from the dead and finished them all off.

Caterina was interrupted from her investigation by a knocking at her door. "Come in," she ordered, putting a hand on the gun she'd hidden under her desk. This deep in AX, security should have dealt with any traitors or spies but one can never be certain. At any rate, the woman had reflexes like a panther and could shoot with the best of them.

To her great surprise, none other than Abel Nightroad walked into the room. Almost instantly the hard woman's eyes softened imperceptibly; her monocle glinted in the late night illumination.

"Computer," she ordered to the device built into the wood matrix of the desk, "deactivate files and go into sleep mode."

Without a word, the holographic displays and keyboard vanishes; leaving nothing but a polished desk of armour oak wood from the forests of Kiev Principality.

"Abel," she breathed as she saw her oldest and dearest friend enter. The brightly robed cardinal stood up. Something was dreadfully wrong with the crusnik, very wrong. "What's the matter?" she asked, feeling fear and uncertainty grab her heart like an icy hand.

Abel slowly walked into the room, possessing none of the normal cheer and goofiness that strangers came to expect of him. The crusnik had seen worse injuries; but these were mental injuries he was nursing.

Nightroad walked in, wearing nothing but a plain black shirt and slacks with worn shoes and a second hand belt. His long hair hung back freely and there was about a day's worth of stubble on his face. His eyes were slightly red; either he'd been crying for a while or couldn't get to sleep.

This was alarming; Caterina knew Abel better than anybody. She knew his life story and what happened to his sister Lilith but she'd never seen him this way.

Abel looked like a mess; like he just got up out of bed. His face was twitching as well, making small little facial expressions which were gone just as you saw them. She wasn't sure if he was going to hold it together or lose it completely. "My God," she breathed, "are you alright?"

The normally calm and collected Duchess of Milan couldn't fully keep the worry and panic out of her voice.

Getting up out of her chair, she ran towards Abel. In a disturbing move, Abel actually fell towards her and hugged her. He didn't walk up to her and embrace her, he fell into his arms as if he had no more strength left to stand.

"Caterina," came Abel's dry, inflectionless tone. He held onto her like he was afraid she would vanish; his head rested in the crook of her neck.

Though she was almost the opposite of motherly or warm, Caterina recognized that she needed to do something for Abel; it didn't matter what.

Carrying the man over to her table, Caterina set Abel down in her chair like a sack of potatoes. The crusnik slumped back into the chair, though he looked anything but comfortable.

Face full of concern, Caterina knelt down before Abel and put her hands on his knee. "Abel," she spoke gently. When he didn't respond, she put a bit more steel into her voice, "Abel!"

This seemed to snap him out of his neurotic funk. Momentarily, Abel looked over himself as if seeing his slovenly attire for the first time.

In a most embarrassed fashion, Abel groaned quietly and began to rub the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Duchess," he said flatly and sadly, "I don't mean to drag you down with me."

"Don't say that," she hissed, irritated by this depression of his, "Don't you dare to deprecate yourself like common trash. You're nothing like that, Abel."

Abel said nothing. Filled with nervous energy, he began to rub up his thumbs against his middle fingers. He always did this when he was at a loss for words or was uncertain; it had seemed like years since he'd done his funny little finger rub.

Reluctantly, almost embarrassed, Abel asked Caterina, "Duchess, is it alright if you hear my confession? I would have gone to another priest or nun but," he swallowed as the words lodged in his throat, "it would have felt dishonest to confess to anyone but you."

Caterina blinked and schooled her features into a more professional cast. "Of course, Father Nightroad," she noticed that Abel cringed when she called him "Father."

Undiscouraged, Caterina continued. Clearing her throat she began, "How long has it been since your last confession, Abel."

Abel sighed. "I have never been to confession, my lady." He paused as if expecting a reprimand then went on. "I have gone into the confessional booth multiple times and admitted nothing but bald faced lies to the priests."

Abel began to speak with more assertion as he let his sins out for the first time. "I never once believed in any god or religion; no matter how much pain I or others felt and nothing I've seen has made me change my mind."

He breathed in deeply, a kind of rattling breath as if he were supressing tears. "Not to mention the fact that your brother uses the confessional booths as a trap for spies to set. So no, I have never confessed my sins until now; until now I thought I could handle it on my own."

He ran a hand through his silver hair and continued. "I merely pretend to believe in god in order to fit in with AX and the Vatican at large; I've been blessed to know many kind and righteous individuals here with AX."

"I am over a thousand years old and to date I have personally murdered more than seven millions humans by my own two hands as well as numerous Methuselah, though there are no exact statistics regarding vampire fatalities," he spoke the words with such dryness as if they were always rattling around in his head, making noise all the time and driving him fucking nuts.

"My sibling and I were test tube babies created by the United Nations to lead the Red Mars Colonization project. We had no parents and if we failed to perform there was always a very real risk of being injected with sodium pentathol and replaced with a new batch."

Abel leaned forward in his chair, his manner and storytelling becoming crisper and more intense. Caterina knew most of this story, but mostly through bits and pieces of what Abel had dropped over the years; this was the first time he'd told his story in its entirety.

"During Armageddon, I, Seth and my brother Cane sided with the colonists while Lilith; the original crusnik sided with the terrans." He paused to lick his lips, "Lilith truly cared for all people; during her life she never even killed a vampire. She thought about more than just her own tribe but all tribes." His voice became soaked in regret and bitterness; for Caterina had first found Abel in mourning for his beloved Lilith.

"I won't bore you, your eminence," Abel continued, resuming his finger rubbing, "I saw something recently which shook me."

Caterina was starting to understand what had Abel rattled, "The incident with the homunculus in Venice."

Abel nodded, a trace of emotion crept into his voice; Caterina almost thought it was fear.

"Yes, it was the homunculus. You know that he was never found; the anti-homunculus police unit arrived but all they found were the impaled bodies of the infants."

Abel sucked in a deep breath and continued. "I know it was all over the news; a tea room posing as a cover for a baby selling ring and all the babies were found impaled on sharpened wooden spears from anus to mouth."

Abel's finger rubbing was becoming faster and more consistent even as he fought to even his voice. "The difference is that I was there; I saw him murder one of the infants and when the police asked me to show up at the scene of the crime for official reasons I saw the babies all in a row on the poles."

His right hand was compulsively finger rubbing, while his left angrily clenched the armrest of the Duchess's chair. "I want to hunt," he hissed, "I don't want justice, I want revenge; I need to kill."

The crusnik's breathing started to become heavy, as if wrestling with a massive amount of anger. "All my life I've been the violent one; Cane was as gentle as a lamb before the crusnik nanomachines. I want to hurt people; I truly like it."

Caterina watched with measured gaze, knowing better than to interrupt Abel.

"I want to hunt, but every time I let lose the monster it never ends well," he bit down on his lower lip. "Every time I try it, it's better than sex and the price is the turning of my hopes and dreams to ash."

He gazed soulfully at his dearest friend. "Nothing is better than the high that comes from the crusnik killing spree and nothing is worse than the low where I realize that I'm not in control of my actions; the drug takes command of me and I'm just a puppet."

"More than anything," he seethed, "I want to find that fucking animal Bradley and feet his living eyeballs to the fucking rats!"

Abel then deflated in defeat, "And more than anything, I'm terrified that there is no moral difference between myself and Bradley."

Caterina nodded. She paused to weigh her words before speaking to Abel. "Do you honestly hold yourself as being the same as a child killer," sounded incredulous instead of sympathetic.

She laughed just a little bit, "Abel, wake the fuck up."

The sound of a swear word from the Duchess of Milan's mouth startled Abel even though her laugh caused him to feel anger towards his confidant.

"Abel, you have problems. If this has burned you out, I understand; the magnitude of this evil is monstrous but you are not the only one," her voice took a hard tone, like a mother telling her child to stop pitying himself.

"I can personally attest to having done things I'm not proud of myself, Abel," Caterina continued, "Unfortunately none of us can forget our sins and perhaps it is too much to hope for forgiveness."

Caterina stood up and looked down at Abel, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Abel, you can be whatever you want to be and nothing I or anyone else can do a thing to stop you."

"Just stop pitying yourself!" she hissed at Abel. "You know that I will be there to help you until the day one of us is dead."

"What you saw was monstrous, Abel," Caterina continued, "That such things actually happen is proof that devils walk among us even if you do not believe in god."

She spoke, and as she spoke she was at her most vulnerable, "Abel," she spoke barely above a whisper, a single tear fell down her cheek, "Let us help you Abel, please; I cannot imagine what you are going through but please, just let me help. Don't do this to yourself."

Abel stared up into Caterina's face, his finger rubbing finally stopped. Immediately, Abel felt heat rise to his face and an uncomfortable sweat came over him.

At last he could help it no longer; Abel lunged forward and hugged Caterina like she was going to vanish before his eyes. She would die, they would all die; Esther, Caterina, the Professor. Even Tres Inques the android would fall to pieces and rust before Abel would die.

Immortality was a curse; it was also the ultimate form of revenge. Abel went through life, everything he saw dying before his eyes like mayflies. Though he loved fiercely, the burn of loss never listened.

To others though, like his twisted late brother; immortality was the ideal form of revenge. Cane never cared about the changing world, for he had no earthly attachment to anyone or thing. It gave him pleasure to know that the humans he tortured would die, their children would die, his grandchildren would die and their great grandchildren would die but he'd always be there to turn their laughter into squeals of pain.

Abel was a drug addict and violence was his drug; he couldn't stop being an addict. All he could do was stop being violent, become the happy, luckless clown who took ridiculous amounts of sugar in his tea. He really, honestly wished that he could be that person but he wasn't.

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><p>Abel stood in the shower, lathering and rinsing himself. The hot water helped calm him down and the act of cleaning his body made him feel as if his crimes were falling away.<p>

As the scalding water fell on him, Abel knew that he was at a crossroads. He did not want to be a violent man, despite his promise to defend humanity; yet how could he not resort to violence when animals like Bradley were on the loose.

Before the crusnik there was nothing but pain and uncertainty. Yet for all his depression, Abel felt a small bit of hope; the choice really was his. The problem was confessed, he could stop it. Twelve steps and all that entailed; if you believed that crap.

It was true for terrans and methuselah, no growth could come without some kind of pain and uncertainty and for the first time in a while, Abel felt like there was really something he could grow into.

Abel was interrupted from his musings by the sound of the bathroom door opening. The sudden influx of cold air made the crusnik slightly uncomfortable. "Who's there?" Abel asked hesitantly.

"Is it Sister Sofia?" he asked, after the name of the new nun. "Is that you Caterina?" The intruder made no verbal answer. "I'm warning you, I'm naked."

In reply, a gunshot went off and Abel took a shotgun blast to the chest.

The impact was so great that Abel thought he'd been hit by a meteorite. The world became a blur and a great light shone before Abel's eyes. He fell backwards, grabbing the shower curtain as he did.

Abel struck the bottom of the bathtub hard; shower curtain clenched tightly in his hand.

He tried to suck in a breath but he felt like he was drowning and unable to die. Able glanced down with his eyes since his whole body seemed to be paralyzed. There in his chest where his heart should be was a large, gory hole from which blood was pouring down the drain.

Abel twitched, like a stroke victim suffering from paralysis. Only his old, tired, expressive eyes were capable of any kind of motion.

The shooter looked dispassionately at the giant bloodstain on the wall right behind where Abel had been standing; then he remembered his manners and tucked his shotgun back into his belt.

The scalding hot water stopped as the shooter turned off the faucet; steam began to pour out of the room and on top of everything Abel was feeling cold.

Most maddening of all, Abel couldn't see who had shot him through the heart; any other human or vampire would be dead by now. Without the nanomachines activated Abel would be helpless; the shock to his system would put the nanomachines to work healing the wound and as such their combat abilities would be locked from him for a short period.

Had his nanomachines been activated to even forty percent, nothing short of losing his head would make Abel even blink.

The world was tilted sideways from the angle he fell, the shower curtain falling over his body. Suddenly, a hand cold and hard as Iron grabbed Abel's arm and hoisted him into a rough sitting position. Already the bleeding had stopped and the wound was starting to heal.

His lungs however were too badly damaged to breathe so Abel still had that water board feeling of drowning. Yet none of that compared when Abel saw the stone face of Bradley.

The rogue homunculus had left his eye patch behind, proudly showing off his ultimate eye like some hideous badge of evil and power. Nothing else had changed about Bradley; from hid tunic of furs, hide boots and flowing crimson cape he was a nightmare on two legs. It was no mean feat that he managed to sneak past multiple layers of Vatican security without being detected.

It was nearly impossible to tell that he was just the same as the smiling, fatherly man from the tea room. His friendly features were now cold and hard as granite; life and biology had hardened Bradley to all forms of pain and companionship. He lived alone when he was completely surrounded.

"You're alive," said Bradley dispassionately, "that's good."

In an attempt to make himself more comfortable, Bradley took off his cape of unknown fabric and folded it up. Then, he took the folded cape and placed it down so he could kneel in front of the shower; this way he was eye to eye with the prone priest.

Never before in his life had Abel been so terrified. For nearly ten minutes he would be helpless and though he had been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, tortured and beaten through the course of his long life Abel was truly terrified at what the insane homunculus might do.

Bradley sighed, though he was an unreadable wall with that disapproving scowl of his. "When you first came into my shop, I spied on you briefly with my ultimate eye and right away I saw the crusnik nanomachines in your body. Even now they are assisting your natural healing which is quite impressive."

Bradley licked his lips, his face devoid of any of the subtle facial twitches found in a human. It was like looking into the face of the combat doll, Father Inques—if Father Inques was a psychopathic cannibal driven by a bottomless well of rage.

The ultimate eye stood out brightly compared to Bradley's green ordinary eye. "I'm not going to kill you, father," he admitted. Abel could only twitch and lay naked, covered in his own blood. Abel's already pale skin was sallow and blue from oxygen deprivation and his tongue poked out like he was thirsty.

It was when Bradley reached out and gently caressed Abel's throat like a lover, did the crusnik lose his bladder control for the first time in his life.

Bradley took no notice of the smell of urine; if anything he was flattered to know that he caused someone else so much pain and misery. He continued to gently caress Abel's neck in a sensual manner. "I won't kill you because I'm not capable of that level of decency."

In a more casual and friendly manner, he told Abel, "The woman you spoke to, Caterina; she's alive if the sedative I gave her didn't cause her to stop breathing."

At the mere mention of his beloved Caterina, Abel began to shake like an insect in its death throes. His paralyzed vocal cords started to make noise but his jaw wouldn't cooperate; so all that came out was mumbling.

Bradley eyed Abel's wound, he added idly, "The solid slug in my gun was laced with potent poison; I couldn't take the chance you would utilize the crusnik nanomachines against me. So we have a bit more time now."

In a condescending manner, Bradley patted Abel on the cheek lightly. His cold features switched briefly to his friendly façade. "I know you're a busy man, so I'll try to keep this brief."

Bradley dropped the façade but did not take up the granite wall face. Instead, his features took on a cast of passion and fascination; here was his big moment. "Do you have friends, Abel; people that you love?" The way he used the name "Abel" was like it was a swear word.

"Surely you have someone dear to you—_I'm going to get them_." Bradley seethed, saliva flooding his mouth and on the verge of foaming at the mouth. "Do you hear me? I will break their necks, I will make them suffer!"

Bradley leaned in until his and Abel's faces were nearly touching; the ultimate eye burned into Abel's brain.

"Be afraid," Bradley hissed, "you've got every bloody reason to be afraid of me." With that he began to laugh; the chuckling from Bradley was frightening because he wasn't just laughing, this was from the heart and one hundred percent sincere. It was the threatening laughter of one who's in control and makes all the life and death decisions.

At that, Bradley began to stand up and pick up his cloak off the bathroom floor. "Before I go," he said in that sterile, stone voice, "I need to compliment you on your disguise."

Bradley gave Abel a sly smirk, "You've successfully fooled everyone you meet into thinking that you're a jolly, happy duck; I couldn't have done better myself."

With a laugh, Bradley was gone and Abel was left alone, naked . . . vulnerable.

Minutes passed, then some more and then.

"_AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!_" it was a cry of rage that nearly tore apart the Vatican; the sheer force of it made walls shake, plaster fall from the ceiling. Glass shattered and in her sedated sleep, even Caterina stirred.

A being flew from Abel Nightroad's little bathroom, smashing through walls and doors they were nothing. Whatever it was, it moved faster than anything outside of mythology.

The wall of Caterina's room was knocked down as if by a wrecking ball.

There stood Abel with his eighty percent crusnik activation form; utterly nude but now instead of being vulnerable his nudity was a mark of a feral and animalistic nature. His claws and red eyes attested to a fire unrestrained and a need to rip flesh like paper.

His lips had turned black, as if stained by all the blood he'd drank from terran and Methuselah. Out of his back two giant black wings sprouted. He was no longer a priest of the Catholic Church—he'd become the devil himself!

There on her bed lay Caterina, breathing shallow; evidently Bradley's sedative wasn't too strong.

A large clawed hand reached; a hand that if he so wanted could slice Caterina into a parts meant small enough to be cooked in a tasty stew.

Yet those clawed hands which were literally sharper than scalpels, adjusted the bed sheets, tucking in the woman as if she were a little girl.

A loving, fiercely protective look came over the crusnik's face. He may be monstrous and a monster without peer, but he had standards. He loved with loyalty and justice.

Gritting his massive teeth, Abel growled as his nostrils caught a scent; not human, but sterile-human.

"_Bradley_," came Abel's distorted voice. A long black tongue flicked out like a snake and tasted the air. He had Bradley's scent. He had Bradley's face memorized.

If Bradley wanted to live, then he had better grow a beard, move to Africa and learn to speak Swahili. Nah, that would only delay the inevitable. His end was coming.

Security was rushing towards them and Abel knew that they wouldn't recognize him in this state, naked and demonic. Anyway, he would hate to hurt someone who didn't deserve it.

Raising his twenty foot wide wings, Abel bunched his legs and took off, flying straight through the roof and into the night sky.

He rose up like a rocket and soared like a bat outta hell. Abel's vision could see everything of the city below; the citizens in the Vatican's busy streets were as plain to him as if they stood only feet in front of him.

Abel would find Bradley; it would be his greatest hunt to date. This time though, he's wipe Bradley's face clean off his head. There would be no escape.

For once, Abel thought gleefully, here was an enemy which he would have absolutely no problem hurting. Quite the opposite really; the worse he would hurt the homunculus the better he would feel.

Bradley might try the coward's way and use hostages and human shields; Abel would count on it. The homunculus would take no hostages and the crusnik would take no prisoners.

Abel's last hunt was about to begin; a battle between monsters—a family feud between demons of hell.

Let the games begin.

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><p>And that wraps up this chapter :D I hope you all enjoyed it very much ;) Lately my work has grown so much darker but trust me that very soon I'll be doing some more comical work. Next I'll get to work on an episode of the Big Hellsing and a very special Halloween story which I'll reveal the details of in a while.<p>

There is one more chapter in this story and it's Bradley centric. I do hope that you enjoy it :D I do it all for you!

Oh, and here's me promoting a few of my favorite authors. Be sure to check out Blacksand1's new story Hostilites; it's witty, funny and at times powerful and intense. It would be worth your time. Also be sure to check out the Gallery of Captain Lycan, who writes X-men and Hellsing crossovers like nobody's busines.

Ta

Master of the Boot


	4. Bradley and Bradley

Abel Nightroad and the Wicked Wrath of Bradley

Chapter Four: Bradley and Bradley

Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood or Fullmetal Alchemist. There is some violence in this chapter but it's mild compared to what you saw in the other two chapters.

_Karelian Isthmus, Ladoga City, New Human Empire_

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><p>Ladoga City was the eastern most settlement in the New Human Empire, government of the true race and domain of Empress Augusta Vladica.<p>

Out here there was nothing else; outside Ladoga City, situation on the banks of a massive lake of the same name there was nothing but thousands of square kilometres of dense forest.

East of the City were hundreds of thousands of hectares of wasteland created from Armageddon. Still largely inhospitable to even the hardiest life forms, the wastelands were home to all manner of mutant creatures and savage vampires who'd been rejected from the empire and now led lives of banditry and murder.

Despite the dense forest, lake full of sea monsters and bandits living in the ruins of St. Petersburg; Ladoga City was a lively place famous for its beautiful architecture and tradition of Vodka. It was said in this city that the Methuselah drank more vodka than blood. It wasn't far from the truth.

It was dark out in the city thought the golden spires looked magnificent against the falling snow and the full moon shone bright. It was Friday so the streets were full of onlookers wrapped in their winter warmest; it was impossible to tell who was human and who was vampire under all the heavy fur coats.

Powered by ancient technology, the city was well heated and even featured self-thawing roads to keep off the ice.

Among the streets full of people eager to enjoy the weekend there wound a road which was lined with multiple shops and restaurants graced by both races. Out here on the fringes, the rigid standards adhered to in Byzantium were relaxed considerably.

In Ladoga City, humans and vampires frequented the same bakeries, libraries and whore houses. Segregation would be counterproductive in a land with the constant threat of feral vampires a reality. They needed to unite or else Ladoga City would wind up like northern portions of Lapland.

Among the city's winding streets, sitting between a lawyer's office and a patisserie (which sold vodka) there was a Doctor's office. The Doctor's name was partly obscured by falling snow but the bronze plate boasted an impressive array of degrees. Evidently, this Doctor was a licensed dentist, paediatrician, podiatrist, masseuse, cardiologist and the list went on and on to be covered up by the falling snow.

The physician inside that Doctor's office was one of the most well respected in this end of the empire. Inside on this lovely but chilling Friday night, that most honoured and respect physician was tending to a patient.

A woman, a Methuselah and mother sat on a patient's bench while wearing a hospital smock; her crimson eyes were large and fraught with uncertainty. The learned physician stood with his back to her as he examined the results of his tests.

The physician himself was a rather handsome man, tall and dark haired. On his head he wore a handsome felt hat with a small feather in the hat band. Underneath his shockingly white lab coat he wore a high waisted suit jacket and short trousers which allowed his socks to show.

Like the office, everything that the physician wore was highly expensive but very tasteful and not the least bit flashy.

"I'm afraid that it's not good news, Mrs. Juva," the physician said in a grave, Austrian accented voice.

Mrs. Juva's right hand clenched her hospital gown tightly. The news was bad but it wasn't a surprise; she'd known that something had been wrong for some time. "What is it, Doctor Mabuse?" she asked in an even voice.

"I'm afraid that your ailment has progressed rapidly; much more so than prior cases," the physician announced gravely, turning around to face his patient. "You are looking at organ failure, starting at your pancreas and gall bladder before it moves on towards your heart."

Mrs. Juva took her apparent death sentence very well. Her head lowered for a moment as she thought of her two children, one of whom would be metamorphosing into a vampire very soon and would need constant monitoring for an extended period. "Is there anything you can do?" she said in an emotionless but defeated voice.

The physician's solemn expression was fraught with sympathy for the patient; his well-groomed moustache turned downwards with sorrow at the news he had to deliver. The physician's one eye was full of emotion while the other was covered, obscured by a darkened monocle that he was never seen without.

In the well-lit doctor's office, Dr. Mabuse's sunglass monocle glinted darkly. "I'm afraid that you will require organ replacements from viable human hosts. Synthetic organs will only react badly with the ailment and cause an allergic reaction which could be fatal."

The woman struggled not to cringe at the news. She had nothing to say for no words could get rid of the heavy, sinking feeling that was now already threatening to choke her. Methuselah rarely needed doctors unless a silver poisoning or sunburn was involved; most medical care they received was during their juvenile period when they could still walk in direct sunlight.

Striding towards his desk, the doctor shifted aside some papers and dossiers before finding what he was looking for. "Please, Mrs. Juva," said Dr. Bradley Mabuse, "do not despair for there is hope."

As he walked back to his patient with the piece of paper in hand, Bradley's countenance grew lighter, as if he'd found some cure. "It is quite fortunate that I just happen to have a donor ready and available for your consumption," his sombre face split into a wide, paternal smile which failed to put Mrs. Juva at ease. She trusted Dr. Mabuse with her life but there was something about his word choice, "consumption."

Mrs. Juva began to read from the paper the Doctor handed her. "This is so expensive," her already heavy heart grew heavier, "I can never afford this," there was a hint of pleading in her voice.

In response, Bradley smiled and adjusted his hat. "My dear, I am always thinking of nothing but the wellbeing of my patients. Hence, if you cannot pay for my organ transplants then you will be able to finance the organs through a series of monthly payments." Nothing at all sounded more reasonable, except the dying mother still had a few complaints.

"What happens if I buy a new heart and I'm unable to make a payment?" a small amount of anxiety crept through her guarded manner.

"You won't," Bradley's face was warm and inviting but his tone had suddenly become as cold as the arctic wind. The shock of hearing his voice that way caused the woman's eyes to widen, then as fast as it happened, Bradley's voice returned to normal. "My plan is far too affordable, Mrs. Juva," he chuckled.

"If you miss a payment or even two," he took the paper from her and tucked it under his arm, "I'll give you the organ in question for free."

Mrs. Juva's eyes turned down once more, "That almost sounds too good to be true, Doctor Mabuse." Little did she realize it was.

Bradley chuckled and put his hand on her shoulder with the gentlest affection. "I promise you, Helka; you will live through this dark time. My duty to my patients is sacred and nothing will cause me to break my vows."

His sincerity and his intensity caused Mrs. Juva to breathe a bit easier; yet she still couldn't shake the feeling that she could actually feel her organs shutting down one by one until they reached her heart—first rendering her helpless then finally killing her.

Slowly, she got up from the patient's bench and began to reach for her clothes.

Bradley turned to give her some privacy. "If you ever seen help, Helka; my door is always open," sadness had slipped into his voice and his shoulders were slumped almost in defeat, "there is tea and refreshments in my lobby. Take your time in thinking over my payment plan."

He left his patient without a word and left the room.

Bradley began to walk towards his office, as he did, all traces of sadness left his body and soul and he seemed light as a feather despite the dreadful news he'd just delivered. He looked as if he hadn't a care in the world. Two years ago he'd come to this dreadful city which had nothing to offer but Vodka and brothels and in that time he'd managed to build an impressive reputation for himself.

Entering his office, Bradley sat down at his chair. The office was expensive but for some reason it was not luxurious. The chair was beautiful but somewhat uncomfortable and the furnishing was bleak and minimalist. Decorating the walls were several antique medical diagrams; one of the more bizarre of which featured a man or a corpse tearing off his own skin and holding it in a pair of tongs.

As he sat down in his uncomfortable chair, Bradley took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair; a few stray strands stood out here and there in his otherwise handsome mane of black hair.

Bradley's movements weren't slow per se, they were methodical. Opening his desk drawer, Bradley moved aside various documents and digital data storage devices. Also shoved in there were a few microfilms and even the odd bit of parchment.

At last, after much shuffling things around, Bradley finally found what he was looking for.

There in the bottom of the drawer was a hidden panel; pulling away the panel revealed a small velvet box.

Taking out the little velvet box, Bradley lay it on his desk as if it would explode at any moment. With his well-manicured but highly calloused hands, Bradley opened up the lid of the little red velvet box.

Instantly, a powerful smell of iron was unleashed in a great wave the moment that box was opened. It was as if many throats had been cut and many litres of blood had been spilt.

There was no blood though. Inside the tiny box was a small pile of little red stones. Each stone was irregular in shape and vaguely crystalline in nature. The interiors of the red stones were cloudy but seemed to shine with some internal light or devil's fire.

Adjusting his monocle but not taking it off, Bradley drew a small pair of tweezers from his pocket.

Using the tweezers, Bradley picked up four—no, three—he put back one of the stones and placed them on his desk. Changing his mind one more time though, he threw in another stone before closing the velvet box and placing it back into its hidden location.

Immediately the smell of blood lessened dramatically but the smell was still there, emanating off the red stones.

Bradley's face was an unreadable mask as he responded to some alien desire deep within him that no human could comprehend.

Picking up one red stone with such delicacy as a mother handles her baby; Bradley took one of the four red stones at random and picked it up.

He stared at the red stone for quite some time, how long passed Bradley did not care for he had no more appointments tonight.

When he'd looked over it enough, Bradley put the stone in his mouth and began to chew.

A series of harsh, crunching noises pervaded the room as Bradley munched on the red stone. His breathing grew more intense, as though something were irritating him or the flavour of the red stone was foul.

Bradley chomped down on the stone with a look of intensity similar to a starving man eating a rat; he may hate the taste but there's precious little choice.

As Bradley chewed, drool began to run from the corners of his mouth. The drool was crimson, as if the red stone were bleeding. Snorting and snarling, Bradley's tongue shot out and lapped up the blood drool as if he were suddenly enjoying the flavour.

And then all of the sudden—

_CLANG!_

Bradley reached under his desk and drew a sword he kept there for just this reason. Moving faster than the eye, Bradley spun around in his chair and blocked a sword strike that would have decapitated him.

His sword and the other sword met with a clang; the blades struck each other with such force that each one received a nick in it.

Bradley snarled at the assassin who'd tried to strike him down. He bared his teeth like a dog, stained blood red from the red stone. Gulping uncomfortably, he swallowed the red stone with some difficulty before addressing his attacker.

"I could see the currents in the air moving because of you," he spoke in a low, dangerous voice just spewing with hate. "You're still clumsy, stupid and slow," he accused as the monocle fell away, revealing his ghastly ultimate eye with the oroborous on it. "And unlike me, you have been caught twice—or is it three since you're here now?"

Still holding their swords together, the attacker turned out to be . . . Bradley?

It couldn't have been but it was true. There standing across from Bradley at the desk was another Bradley, dressed like a Germanic king.

The appearance of the other Bradley suggested he'd been out in the cold for a long time; his moustache and hair were completely frosted over. It looked like he'd run all the way from the Vatican to Finland.

"I hate you too, Pride," said Wrath Bradley. Unlike his twin homunculus he needed to elaborate phrases to express his feelings; they both hated each other equally. A look of revulsion crossed Wrath's face at the realization he'd actually spoken to his twin. Getting back into contact with his brother was the last thing he wanted to do but he needed Pride's help for what he was about to accomplish.

"How is the Rosenkruz Order?" Wrath asked, knowing that small talk would help to inflame his twin's considerable ego.

"All dead," Pride explained, loathing for his brother mixed with tremendous pride at his achievement, "Without Cane Knightlord to keep them in line they were useless so I killed them all."

"And Isaac von Kampfer?" Wrath enquired, referring to Cane Knightlord's right hand man; _the Panzer Magier_.

"He died with dignity," Pride confessed, "as much dignity as anyone can die with when their limbs are lopped off with a blunt axe and the living stump is fed to wild pigs."

Evidently, the Panzer Magier's enormous technological powers were no match for the skills and abilities of Pride.

Pride though had enough of his brother's stalling tactics, "What do you want, Wrath? Speak quickly for I'm ashamed to even share a planet with greasy scum like you."

Neither homunculus had moved since the start of their meeting; Wrath's hair and moustache were starting to thaw.

"I've found Cain's brother," Wrath put simply. This caused Pride's eyes to narrow, almost as if the news was too good to be true.

Pride eyed his brother with suspicion, "Are you sure?"

_Fifty years ago, unknown location_

_Experimental subject number twelve waited in a dark and desolate dungeon here in the station. The Experimental Station was the official name of citadel built within the confines of the far north. Coal oil had to be brought in at great expense but when the Contra Mundi willed it there was no saying "no." _

_The Station had gained a nickname among the few locals who lived in the struggling arctic towns which provided supplies of fish and other scant goods to the Station's staff. "Bolvangar" is what they called it; directly translated the name mean "Fields of Evil." A fitting name was never more so for any other place. _

_Over Bolvangar no birds flew, no animals built their burrows and most importantly no people ever trekked who were not invited by the leader of the Rosenkreuz Orden. _

_Bolvangar or the Station was an ugly set of concrete buildings which served mostly as entrances to the underground laboratories where the Rosenkreuz did the majority of its scientific experimentation. Surrounding the facility was a frosted barb wire fence and a garrison of vampires clad in butted chainmail coats and iron helmets stood vigilant guard. _

_For experimental subject number twelve this was the only home he'd ever know. As a baby he'd been sold or stolen and he found himself living here. He was part of a very special group of candidates designated as the Fuhrer Project. _

_He and a hundred others like him were given the finest military training. Everything that they would need to be soldier kings, the children of the Fuhrer Project were given. And at the end of the day their reward was a night's imprisonment in bleak, impersonal dungeon cells. _

_The Fuhrer children were never allowed to go outside, they were allowed no toys, they could never roughhouse with each other and they were never allowed to have names. They were numbered and that was enough. _

_Number twelve sat in his cell, wearing white shirt and blue slacks. He was twenty years old but he had no way to know this since there were no calendars at the Station and no birthdays. _

_Twelve sat with his hands together on a hard cot because he was nervous. Today he was told by the Gold Toothed Doctor that today the experiment would conclude. _

_They were going to kill him, twelve just knew it. He was going to die this day and it would all be over. _

_Over his short life of two decades, Twelve and his fellows had been trained to ignore pain and fear but in some abstract, confusing way it made Twelve Afraid that it might all end after . . . what? He didn't even know what the experiment was about. _

_It couldn't be anything good but twelve knew that they'd never tell him. If he didn't need to know then he'd never know. _

_At that moment, the door to his prison cell creaked open and two figures were revealed. Instantly, number Twelve stood up from his cot and saluted the two figures. _

_The pair who looked at number twelve with hungry eyes could not be more different. The first was Isaac Ferdinand von Kampfer. A methuselah of dark, ravishing looks and sadistic personality; Isaac was second in command of the Orden. _

_A thin stream of smoke lazily issued forth from the cigarillo he smoked. Isaac looked at twelve like he wanted to eat him. _

_The other figure was human and bore a good resemblance to a toad. As the only human in the Orden, the gold toothed Doctor stood out. _

_The gold toothed Doctor said nothing, he merely chuckled and flashes his omnipresent grin; the gold tooth winked at Twelve in the dim light. _

"_Fuhrer Candidate number twelve," Isaac lazily drawled, "You have been selected to fulfill this glorious project of ours." _

_At that moment, the gold toothed Doctor giggled in a high tittering laugh. "All the previous candidates before you died!" the man blurted out as though he had no control over his actions. _

_As usual, Kampfer just smiled at the strange Doctor's outburst and took a puff on his smoke. "Yes, what he said." _

_With no further ceremony, number Twelve was taken down a long corridor to the surgical theater. Twelve had never needed to come down here before but he was frightened; he did not want to die yet he really had no reason to keep on living. _

_Yet something made number twelve stop and stare. There in the middle of the operating theater, standing in the center of an alchemic array was the moon man. _

_There stood the moon man, with his pale skin, blonde hair and white robes. Twelve must have seen him a handful of times in his life; he always seemed to appear and disappear at will to watch the likes of twelve and his brothers in arms. _

_The moon man smiled at number twelve with a dreamy expression. Before he could do anything else, twelve went down as two armed lab assistants struck him across the back of the head with an iron bar. _

_Kampfer smiled as he gazed down judgementally on Twelve's prone form. "Where are your manners, Fuhrer Candidate number twelve? This is the Contra Mundi." _

_Twelve just looked up at the Contra Mundi with a blank expression. His mind was blank as the two minders lifted him up like a sack of potatoes and strapped him onto an operating table; powerful synth-leather straps held him in place that were stronger than steel. _

_Twelve's breathing grew heavy as the operating lights blinded him. Then before he knew it, the Contra Mundi was standing over him. _

_Nothing could have prepared number twelve for what happened next. _

"_Who's a good boy?" said the Contra Mundi in a childish voice, "Who's a good doggie?"_

_Twelve tried to recoil but there was nowhere to run and no place to hide. The Contra Mundi, the enemy of the world was stroking his hair and petting him like a dog! _

"_Who's a good puppy? Puppy!" Cane Knightlord stroked and petted Fuhrer Candidate number twelve as if he were a silly, cute little puppy dog. "Oh you're such a good doggie; yes you are," he sang in a syrupy voice. _

_Twelve became even more afraid as the Contra Mundi began to move one hand towards his right eye. "You're doing to accept the sin of wrath—oh yes you are, doggy!" _

_Then without any warning at all, Cane tore out number Twelve's eye . . . slowly. _

_Fuhrer Candidate number twelve squealed like a pig as his right eye was bloodily torn from his skull as easily as picking a berry. Number Twelve screamed and tried to curl up into a ball, held back by the restraints. _

_Playfully indifferent to the human's cries of misery, the Contra Mundi took the right eye and threw it up and down in his hand, admiring the cute little organ with the bloody optic nerve hanging off the back. Cain giggled; the eye almost looked like a jellybean. _

_He tossed the eye to the gold toothed Doctor, who squawked with delight. _

_Cain smiled at his subordinate's enthusiasm, "Get to it," he said in a cold voice. _

_At that, the Gold tooth Doctor puttered over to an alchemic array drawn on the white tile floor in blood. Gingerly, he set the eye down in the center of the array, muttering to himself excitedly as he did; his lazy eye peered off into the dark corner. _

_Then as that was going on, the two lab assistants came with a small box of red stones and two lengths of heavy duty cable or wire of some kind. _

_One of the lab assistants began to uncoil the heavy wire while the other handed the red stones to the gold toothed Doctor. Eagerly, the Doctor began to place the red stones around the now cooling eyeball. _

_Still breathing heavily and weeping from his remaining eye, number Twelve watched with the same dumb bewilderment as an animal being put down. His agony was not over yet, for having fully uncoiled the cables, the tab assistant took the sharp ends of them and thrust them into Twelve's flesh like sticking wires into a potato battery. _

_Having taken care of the red stones, the other lab assistant took the opposing ends of the cable and gently placed the tips onto the outer edge of the alchemic array. _

_As he heard footsteps, number Twelve abruptly clamped his mouth shut. He'd been trained to show no pain and he would surely be punished severely for being so weak like this. _

_Looming over him like a tormenting spirit, the gold toothed Doctor held up a syringe full of red liquid of some kind. In terms of hue and even that bloody smell, the liquid was similar to the red stones. _

"_A philosopher's stone," the Doctor squeaked, "containing two million souls; half for your and half for your brother." _

_Brother? What brother?_

_Fuhrer candidate number twelve knew better than to ask; curiosity was beaten out of him from an early age. _

_Nothing though, no training or stamina could have prepared number Twelve for when the Doctor shoved the syringe into his gory eye socket and injected the liquid form of the philosopher's stone. _

_The effect was instantaneous. The philosopher's stone penetrated the blood brain barrier and went right into Wrath's grey matter. In an instant, the young man's body was torn apart in an instant and instantly rebuilt again by the ravages of the stone. _

_Fuhrer Candidate number twelve screamed and screamed until his vocal cords bled and then he screamed even louder. _

_Isaac just smirked as if this were his version of Sunday night football while Cain Knightlord fluttered his eyelashes dreamily. _

_As number Twelve transformed, an effect was happening on the alchemic array. Red, crackling energy was flowing down the thick cables and into the array. _

_Powerful energy filled the alchemic runes and the eyeball in the center of it began to transform. It shook and then something burst out of it like an egg. A small, deformed limb punched through the pupil of the eye, like the wing of a radioactive deformed bird chick. _

_Without warning, the whole eyeball burst open and the bastard child of aborted foetuses and pesticide infected reptiles flopped out and began to shriek almost as loudly as number Twelve was. _

_As energy continued to flow down the cables; the deformed monstrosity at the center of the array began to grow. Bone grew faster than muscle and whole patches of skin seemed to rot and fall off. In a matter of moments, the mutant demon child was man sized but only man shaped in the most basic, crude way. Among many other deformities, its cranium had failed to grow and its oversized brain was exposed and pulsating. _

_Suddenly, the light from the alchemic array changed from red to a deep amethyst color and the red stones began to melt into sticky liquid and flow into the body of the homunculus. _

_Inside him, number Twelve could feel them, one millions souls inside him. These were the souls of the wrathful—child killers, war criminals, woman bashers and rapists, psychopaths and serial killers. He could feel all their collective anger inside of him. _

_Yet, as the philosopher's stone began to rewrite his brain chemistry and modify the brain structure to one similar to an advanced computer, Fuhrer Candidate number twelve began to feel different. _

_He was feeling, angry—furious even; all the synonyms for angry in every language ever spoken could not describe how he felt. No, he wasn't trapped with one million wrathful souls. The one million souls were trapped with him. _

_And as soon as it had begun, the process was complete. The thick cables were cold and dead and the red stones were fully dissolved. _

_All in the room were quiet except for number Twelve. God, he felt like he had a trillion ccs of adrenaline in his blood. No, he felt like he had blood in his adrenaline. _

_Growling like a rabid animal, he flexed his arms and the synth-leather straps broke like cotton candy. _

_He threw himself off the operating table with shaky legs. He was still getting used to this new rage and power but he knew what he wanted to do—__**kill!**_

_As he stumbled towards the Contra Mundi and followers, Cain raised his hand and spoke a single word. "Stay." _

_The effect was instant; number Twelve froze like a glacier. The programming was flawless; he would be powerless before the Contra Mundi's commands. _

_Yet there was one other effect felt. His missing eye had grown back, but much superior. He could see __**everything**__—including him. _

_There was one more person in the operating theater than there started out. _

_It was very suddenly that number of people had increased by one, but more shockingly to twelve it was who this new person was. _

_It was him! _

_A man stood in the alchemic array who looked exactly like Fuhrer Candidate number Twelve. They had the same hair color, same eye color and the even had identical ultimate eyes. Even the placement of hair follicles on their scalps was the same. The sole difference lay in the raised red wires and strange buttons imbedded into his skin along his arms and shoulders. _

_The new homunculus who stood in the alchemic array sneered. He was sneering at number twelve, at the gold toothed Doctor, the Contra Mundi—hell, he was probably sneering at the world itself with unbridled pride. _

_Number twelve looked at the homunculus who'd been born from his eye and utterly hated him at first sight. _

"_Pride," Cain lazily ordered, "Kill Wrath." _

_Pride did not need any prompting. With speed and agility reaching insane levels, he sprinted across the room and began to rip open Wrath's throat with his teeth. _

_Surprised, number Twel—no—Wrath tried to push his twin brother off him as he bit through the major arteries. Blood gushed everywhere, not in arterial spurts but in one steady stream. _

_Slamming the palms of his hands onto his brother's ears, Wrath ruptured his brother's eardrums and pulled back. Almost instantly, the blood stopped and red sparks flew as the wounds healed. _

_As Pride held his damaged ears, Wrath did not wait. He kicked his brother as hard as he could in the groin and then kicked him once more; bone shattered and Pride bent over. _

_Using that to his advantage, Wrath slammed his knee as hard as he could into Pride's face; the other homunculus went flying back. _

_Pride however rapidly rebounded and jumped onto his brother. Head-butting Wrath three times in the nose, the two homunculi fought like rabid animals. _

_Wrath reached up and hooked his finger into Pride's mouth, ripping open his twin's cheek in a hideous Glasgow grin. _

_Pride grabbed wrath and impaled him on a coat hanger, grabbed an overturned chair and began to hit his twin as hard as he could with it. _

_When Cain had enough of that entertainment, he called "Stop," and both the brothers did just that because they were programmed to do so. _

"_You are my dogs," Cain said in that syrupy voice of his, "my two favourite sins." At a snap of his fingers Isaac appeared with two silver dog collars, each marked with the names of the two freshly wrought homunculi. _

_Isaac gave the collars to the lab assistants to put on. Wrath consented to his collar being put on because he knew that all he was, was an attack dog fed on human blood. _

_Pride was not so accepting. With a cobra fast strike, he tore out one lab assistant's heart and took the collar from the dead man before he hit the floor. _

_Then with trembling hands, Pride put the dog collar on himself and then pulled the most painful, unconvincingly sad smile ever seen. _

_Cain Knightlord smiled, "Good doggies." _

_Present day Ladoga City_

"Yes," said Wrath, "I stumbled on Cain's brother quite by accident."

"And you want to kill him as badly as I do," said Pride, "and you came to me since you're naturally the stupider, weaker homunculus."

Wrath ignored his brother's less than subtle barb, "I couldn't beat him, and frankly neither can you."

"But together we can finally kill Cain Knightlord's brother," said Pride with mixed feelings; elated at having found the last crusnik and dour at having to work with his brother to achieve that goal."

"Cain never did want us to harm his brother," said Pride.

"Because he still had some sick love for him," said Wrath, finishing his brother's sentence for him.

"Or he wanted to kill him himself," Pride

Wrath "But since Cain is dead—

Pride "then we are the only ones—

—with the necessary talent and ability" Wrath.

—to kill the brother of the man— Pride

—who turned us into dogs and—

—and degrades us so—

—we can finally settle the score," Wrath concluded.

Then, with only the greatest reluctance, the two brothers pulled their swords apart and held them at their sides.

After a long time, Pride stood up from his chair and looked his brother straight in the eye. At the exact same moment, both of the brothers looked at each other with identical warm smiles.

They both knew what the other was thinking.

At the same time, both of them said, "How shall we make him suffer?"

And that's the end of that :D This concludes the clash of this fine story. I love an open ended story, don't you It's always so much fun because it leaves you on the edge of your seat. Maybe I'm just a weirdo though.

At any rate I hope you enjoyed yourselves If you want some good reading though, check out the newest work of Blacksand1 _Hostilities_; which will have you laughing and crying like a pro. Or check out Muddywolf, who's a huge fan of Lupin the III and Fullmetal Alchemist. She is also a massive Bradley fan ;)

Or see my favorites for recommendations :D

I hope this was fun for you, remember to read and review.

tA

Master of the Boot


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