"Is Dr. Marcoh in?"
Early the next morning, Allen arrived at Dr. Marcoh's temporary quarters. The door didn't open to Marcoh but to the Crimson Alchemist—still in that same newsboy cap, now wearing a gray-and-black checkered knit, a small bag of peanut-like snacks in hand.
"Wait here, I'll ask."
As the Crimson Alchemist slipped back inside, the corner of Allen's mouth lifted. Everything was proceeding to plan. If he wanted the Crimson Alchemist to make trouble, there was a precondition: the man had to go where Ishvalans gathered. If he stayed cooped up here, nothing would ever happen. Allen couldn't force or invite him to leave either. The man might be a lunatic who liked turning people into bombs, but his current orders were to protect Marcoh. Perhaps the government had promised him something, and he was dutiful because of it. No matter—Allen had a way.
A doctor puts patients first. Even if Marcoh was searching for the legendary Philosopher's Stone—legendary, still under study, and therefore elusive—it couldn't compete with a flesh-and-blood patient. The boy Scar he'd seen yesterday had a forehead wound that hadn't yet scarred over. If Allen invited Marcoh to the Ishvalan Sun Temple to treat it, he was sure that once the Crimson Alchemist got there, he'd be itching to blow the Ishvalans sky-high.
Soon, a man in his early fifties appeared—vigorous, with a head of black hair and a strikingly tidy air, unlike so many elders who drooped with age.
Marcoh eyed Allen, puzzled. Though unsure why Allen had come, he still politely extended a hand. "Hello, Captain Allen. I'm State Alchemist Marcoh. What brings you—?"
Allen put on his professional smile, shook his hand, and doffed his hat. "Here's the thing: yesterday I went to the Ishvalan Sun Temple on some inquiries and found a child with a head injury. I was hoping you could help him. A facial scar can do a lot of harm to a child as they grow—don't you think?"
"Well…"
Marcoh wanted to refuse. The situation was unstable. If someone scrutinized his personal actions, it could be construed as treason. But he was a doctor, and Allen had laid the case out clearly; it was hard to turn away. He began to hedge.
Allen gave him no room to wriggle out. A car was already waiting outside. Allen stepped back, opened the door, and looked at Marcoh—already a great courtesy. Though Marcoh received the benefits of a lieutenant colonel, he hadn't entered the military or the Intelligence Bureau; he was still, in essence, a government civilian.
"If you're uneasy, I believe the Crimson Alchemist will accompany you."
Out of "goodwill," Allen added the line. Marcoh glanced at him, hesitant, not understanding why Allen was so invested in an Ishvalan child. The Crimson Alchemist, however, silently pulled open the other door and got in. Keeping a killer penned up in a house like solitary confinement—better to kill him. With a chance to go out, he wasn't about to pass it up. Seeing his protector already seated, Marcoh could no longer refuse and reluctantly climbed into the car—the very car that would steer Ishval toward war.
The same driver who'd gone to the Sun Temple yesterday soon eased the car through the gate. Seeing it was Allen, the Ishvalans didn't block the way; many had witnessed him praying to the Sun the day before. A believer in the Sun—such people could be trusted, because, to Ishvalans, no Sun-worshipper was a bad person. True enough—for Ishvalans. Allen wasn't one, and Allen wasn't a good man.
As soon as they got out, Allen spotted Scar. The boy was being held around the shoulders by a young man a few years older. The two were chatting on a stone bench. Allen called out; Scar looked back quickly, then tugged the young man along at a run.
"Hey, mister, you came again? Oh, right—this is my brother. Brother, this is the weird uncle I told you about yesterday."
The young man blinked, then smiled and offered Allen the Ishvalan greeting. Allen returned it. Like Scar, his brother's arms and body bore strange tattoos. Scar's were ordinary ink; his brother's, however, gave off a faint alchemical pulse—enough to make Allen take note.
Scar's brother said, "I'm sorry. My little brother troubled you yesterday."
Allen shook his head with a smile to say it was nothing, then introduced the men standing behind him. "This is Dr. Marcoh, and this is his guard. When I saw the cut on Scar's forehead yesterday, I thought of him. We came to have him treated—a mark on the face isn't much to look at."
Scar's brother nodded his assent, and Scar brightened—he was only a young teen, old enough for dim ideas about appearance to sprout. Seeing the boy's clear eyes and the brother's decent manners, Marcoh warmed to them. People are people.
While Marcoh drew Scar aside and began treatment, Allen made small talk with the brother—but his eyes never left the Crimson Alchemist. At loose ends, the Crimson Alchemist wandered the courtyard outside the main hall of the Sun Temple. There were many totem pillars here. The variety of mysterious carvings piqued his curiosity, and a thread of excitement flickered in his gaze. He kept glancing at Ishvalans whose bodies were tattooed, swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and then strolled on as if casually.
Allen knew he'd succeeded. The butcher was already toying with the idea of turning Ishvalans into human bombs. Maybe not in a day or two, but sooner or later he'd come back to set them off like fireworks.
At the same time, Scar's brother handed Allen an unexpected surprise. Ishvalans generally despised alchemists, yet upon learning Allen was one, the brother's chat turned to questions of alchemy—some even touching on knowledge of Human Transmutation. Allen grew curious about him. If anyone learned Scar's brother was studying alchemy, the young man might be driven out of Ishval—or burned alive before the Sun Temple.