"What are you doing here?" the young man asked darkly. "Aren't you on the run from the cops? I hear they've authorized use of the Stones."
"You've gotta believe me," the homunculus called Greed whined, standing in front of the dust-coated desk. "I didn't kill the old broad. Why would I? Sure, we weren't on the best of terms, but I never would have killed her! I'm being set up! Framed!"
The young man sitting behind the desk only grunted, not even raising his eyes to meet the strange round glasses. Instead, he poured himself another shot of whiskey. "Give me a reason I should care," he said, and tossed the shot back. The strong alcohol didn't even make him gasp; he was too used to it by now.
"Because the person who really killed Dante is still out there!" Greed shot back. "They're using me as a patsy! A scapegoat! I'm telling you, Al, you gotta help me get to the bottom of this! Nobody else will believe what a homunculus has to say. And everyone knows, when a homunculus is in trouble, there's only one place to go! Elric and Elric," he sighed fondly. He picked up a framed, black-and-white picture and buffed the dust off of it on his white fur ruff.
Al snorted, leaning back in his desk and taking the bottle with him. "I don't work for 'monkeys," he told him flatly. "Not any more."
"Ah, c'mon, Al," Greed wheedled him. "You used to be the best alchemist in the South Side, didn't you?" Settling himself in to argue further, Greed grabbed hold of the back of the chair that seated across from Al's, and began to sit in it.
In a flash, the young alchemist was out of his own chair, slamming the bottle back on the desk. "Get out of that chair!" he roared, all hints of his meek manner gone.
Greed stared at him, completely frozen, halfway planted in the chair.
"That's my brother's chair," Al finished quietly.