Ed feels his stomach gnaw incessantly on his spine, rousing his nose to search past the miasma of old piss, puke, rotting food, and stale alcohol filling his hiding place. Wafting in with that breath, something delicious and brimming with salt and grease and oh..my..
...is that beef?
His mouth waters in eagerness as he shifts his weight. He pauses as he hears the pounding of sandled feet, and glances behind him. A girl runs off along the street in the normal sort of way, but he waits an uncertain moment. His mind spins through the many many unknown variables to this Xing place-- that gravity defying mode of transport likely the just the tip of what he hasn't seen of what his new owners are capable of -- two, no three, hazy figures he is sure are from this Xing, whose faces linger beyond the grasp of his memory, would find him with maddening ease.
His stomach grinds painfully about his middle enough that he presses his right down to quiet it. He has to eat. He has to eat. He grits his teeth and frowns. It may mean a chance of recapture, but he has to eat.
The sky glows a cheery orange when he shifts woozily back to his bandaged feet, and leaning one hand against the curved wall to hold himself properly upright, he shuffles further down the corridor. He hopes it is away from possible view.
With each step, the noise of joyful chatter fill his ears, and he widens his eyes at the crossroads of sorts that the alley's end. Brightly colored flags with bold blocky print drape over wheeled carts and wagons lined up on either side of the wide curving street. One man dressed in what looks to be a blue bathrobe hands over colorful paper notes, and a heaping plate of steaming dumplings graces his empty hands from the one with a white apron standing within the spare shelter offered by a wagon.
It is an ordinary and familiar pattern: the way of the world. Ed sighs out a breath quickly works out what is happening; equivalent exchange in action. This must be a merchant district, he reasons, and watches the thick crowd of people as the bumble past.
"Fast food." Ed breathes hungrily and quickly checks the buildings for the "weird" walkers before stumbling forward into the press of bodies.
One vendor drops something on his left with a harsh tone of phrase. He hears the distinct sizzling of fat on hot grills, and eyes the sudden flames flaring up, and the hateful scowl of the man as he shakes his reddening hand. He mentally notes those words down, not entire sure just what they are but liking sentiment alone.
He eyes the lettering on the flapping fabric around him and, although it is completely unfamiliar, finds he can read it.
"Shibu shibu.." He says as he stumbles to a halt, and the sizzling beef smell jumbles the words' meaning. He wonders a moment if his frequent trips through.. Something dark. Horrible. he can't.. won't ...recall.. He shakes his head and stumbles on. Maybe he's screwed. Maybe he scrambled up his mind so much that language is beyond him now. Not that it matters much.. His palms pat the no pockets at his hips, the thin hospital bloomers hiding nothing.
The fingers of his left twitch as if expecting something heavy to be chained there.. But the fact is fact: no money means he can't buy any food. Which brings up a whole new problem.
The crowd pushes him along, and he scowls up at them, noticing for the first time that most tower over him by at least a foot. He pushes past at group of such freakishly tall girls at a hearty stumble, and finds himself at wagon sagging to one side. He works out that one wheeled wooden rim shattered on a rock on the furthest side.
Ed narrows his eyes at the signs which proclaim "first comfort famous ramen", and then watches the sullen looking balding vendor, in a white apron and paper hat, pull down a shade that says "closed. please come again".
Wheels are broken. His mind echoes, swirling about the fluctuations of equivalent exchange and by his calculations, he may be able to make a trade for a single serving of whatever this "ramen" is. He stumbles to the wagon to stand at the vendor's side. The vendor glares down in displeasure.
The vendor says something.
Ed points to a big bowl, supposing "ramen" is a sort of soup.
The vendor repeats the same something. Ed folds his arms and makes sure he glares right back, then darts his eyes to the crowd flowing by with a raised eyebrow.
The vendor reaches for the second blind and Ed reaches up to stop him. Then peers over into the open flat. This close to the inside of the wagon, he can see another-- yet bigger problem-- likely the true reason the vendor is closing. The boxy metal stove, much like the ones each of the other wagons sport, sits away in the corner, only its shape bows outward in a no longer quite boxy manner. An obvious, gaping wound on the roundest bit splays jagged metal, and finger like shards stick into the wood just below his gaze.
Ed thins his lips and slides his eyes slyly back to the vendor, jutting his chin once more towards the large bowl.
The vendor lowers his face so that his nose touches Ed's, and he growls that same phrase that Ed is now sure means "go away you fool idiot".
Ed lowers his brows, and says in a low voice.
"Alchemy."
He clamors into the wagon, squirming past the vendor's reaching hands. Kneeling before the former stove, hands pressed together as if in prayer, he juts his chin firmly again towards the bowl.
The vendor's brows press together as Ed splays his fingers before the blasted metal. And rise to his hairline as the light of the reaction sparks a furious blue.
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