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Edward was bundled into the car head-first, Goncharov and Natalya thrown in behind him. Compared to their treatment in Moscow, this was quite the other end of the scale. He gently pressed his hands together, keeping them firmly locked together and thinking of home, as he so often did when the need to escape this world became pressing. He had done what he could, but now, at the verge of a new dawn, he was to be cut down. He reflected darkly that fate had a certain way of screwing with your life.

He was suddenly shaken into awareness by the slowing of the car – he'd been unaware that they were even moving – and quickly sat up, hoping there wasn't some sort of inspection to be carried out, groaning slightly as he saw more khaki uniforms outside, the Soviets milling around the car. The muffled voices suddenly expressed surprise, and then out-right alarm, before several of the NKVD soldiers were knocked unconscious. The driver began quickly backing up, but the door was opened and he was thrown out. As the three stared out of the car, confused, Pyotr stepped out, gripping his PPSh and ordering his men to tie up the NKVD men. He walked to the car, opening the door and offering the trio a hand out each, weapon lying against his shoulder as he did so.

"Zhukov always did hate the NKVD. Come on, we need to get to the headquarters before more thugs show up." The three nodded, grasping the situation and trying to keep up with the squad of saviours who were now double-timing their way across the road.

Ed smiled.

Fate had a certain way of screwing with your life.

**

It had been some time since anyone had spoken, and even the dripping pipe had paused for thought. Hughes and Mustang's conversation had been... confusing for the most part. But with most things explained, the situation was a great deal easier to understand. From what Mustang had related, Hughes could gather that the Thule Society had come across the red-eyed refugees just after they had crossed the divide during the time of the incursion into Amestris, and had used... alchemy? to pull these Shamballans through. He nodded to himself, wondering what the hell they could do; With the Russians in power over the city, there was a good chance they'd be looking for them, especially since they had pulled in Edward.

"If it took sacrifices to open the gate, how would you close it?" He finally asked.

"I'm unsure what Alphonse and Edward did on this side, but it was a simple transmutation on our side."

"So the only person in reach who would know how to close the gate is Edward?"

"You got it in one, Maes."

Hughes was still un-nerved that Mustang spoke his first name so easily: they had only met a few hours ago after all. But the thing that confused him the most was that this man, so different to himself, could have been his other self's best friend. He wondered what the hell Freud would make of his current mental state.

Winry, inquisitive as always, pressed Maes for his opinion.

"Mr. Hughes, do you think that Edward is ok?"
"I can't say what the Russians are treating him like, but I have known Edward for a good twenty years. Whatever hell they try to put him through, he'll manage."

Winry smiled weakly. "He hasn't changed at all, then."

**

Fuery groaned again. He wasn't a doctor, but he was pretty sure the metro carriage had broken a few of his ribs, and the rattling of the carriage wasn't making the passage across Western Germany any easier. The cart slowed, and he looked out over its' wooden brow.

There were soldiers everywhere, but wearing two different uniforms, one khaki with green helmets, and the other field green. Their weapons were different, their uniforms were different, and they sure as hell didn't speak the same language, but they were all mingling and trying to exchange stories, in pidgin Amestrian, or rather German, as Fuery had realised. To the right, a hastily painted sign showed two examples of the soldiers shaking hands, under the title "East Meets West". He smiled, considering that this spirit of friendship between countries was something Amestris had never experienced, despite the attempts to end the wars with Aerugo and Creta, and even those to form ties with Xing.

After a while, the car in front of them pulled away, heading into the German sector, as a Soviet and an … American – That's what they were again- soldier walked up to Scar and Lust, checking for identification. He groaned again, the stabbing pain returning. The two looked at each other, and waved them on. Why waste time checking ID anyway?

As the carriage trundled along, Fuery caught sight of a small clump of Soviet troops eagerly talking away, one with white hair, one a tall, golden haired officer and a portly sergeant. Dismissing them as hallucinations brought on by pain, he leaned back. At least they were safe now.

**

The three were led by Pyotr straight into Zhukov's office, the balding Marshall quickly outlining the facts, punctuated by frequent mentions of "I don't even know" and "Fucking Beria".

"At any rate, I thought it only right to make sure you got out of this alive. The NKVD is going to be taking over control of the situation soon and then there won't be much hope."

"Sir, you're taking a big risk doing this..."

"Stalin has no need for generals now he has his victory, nor for soldiers, Goncharov. So for that reason, since you were seconded to a man who is now an enemy of the state, Polkovnik Goncharov and Sniper Simonova, I strip you of your ranks and order you to leave the city at once."

The two looked at one another, a little surprised, but the spreading smile on Goncharov's face was sign of their mutual feelings.

"Thank you, sir."

"Now Mr. Elric... I obviously can't extend the same punishment to you, but this is a big city, and there is no way to keep trace of everyone here..."

Edward caught his meaning. "...It might be easy for someone to just disappear."
Zhukov nodded. "I think that leaves all three of you dealt with. Goncharov, we will need you again soon enough. Clean-up operations are starting in 48 hours. I've given you all the time I can, but the rest is up to you."

The Marshall walked to the window, running his hand along the stone window-sill, before turning back to them with a fiery stare.

"The army's time will come again, comrades. Mark my words. Now get the hell out of here before they turn up asking why their men got knocked out by deserters in Soviet uniforms."

The three emerged into sunlight, some of the first they had seen for weeks, and began to make their goodbyes.

"Mr. Elric... Your company has given us both nothing but trouble, but... thanks. You've given us both a chance."

Edward grinned. "Well... it wasn't exactly my choice. You two should take care." Something terrible stuck in his throat, something he really didn't want to say... "You make a great couple."

The two blushed a little, caught unaware that he even knew about them, but made their thanks before he started sprinting towards the city again, for the Hughes' house and the other refugees. Goncharov took Natalya by the waist and swung her round while she yelled out in amusement and annoyance.

"Sergei! Put me down!"

"I don't take orders any more, 'Talya..."

"The hell you don't! You're still my husband!"

Goncharov quickly put her down and saluted. "Yes ma'am!"

She rolled her eyes and held him close. "You adorable idiot."

After a blissful pause, he whispered softly. "After 4 years... we have no home to go back to."

She nodded, picking up on the hint of bitterness in his voice, and quickly finding her own.
"You know, now that we've been discharged... we can go anywhere."

He smiled, looking at the open road which was being highlighted by the dying light.
"Anywhere at all." He kissed her and gently took her hand.

The road was open, that sunny May evening.