Sometimes...

"Casualties?"

"Too high."

"Lieutenant, I'm asking for a detailed report. How many men in your squad were killed?"

"One man. Three wounded."

"That's not bad at all..."

"It's too high," Second Lieutenant Havoc repeated harshly. "If that other squad had come to back us up, Pars wouldn't have died –"

You can cry until there's nothing left in you

Havoc sat down on his cot, head in hands. He had lost so many men in this stupid war – casualties in his company had reached one-hundred-fifty percent. In his squad, they were shooting for three hundred percent.

They needed a miracle to get them out of this sand trap. And he'd be damned if High Command would be considerate enough to provide one.

You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures

"Move it!" Havoc roared. Captain Bredon had just gotten killed by a suicide attack on their position, so all ninety men still left in the company looked to Havoc for guidance to get them out of hell.

But he had a niggling feeling that they would all either be seriously hurt or killed by the time the fiasco had ended.

"Team up in squads! I want one squad on point duty! Dammit men, MOVE!"

You can pray all you want, to whatever god you think will listen

A man praying was shot through the head. Blood spattered across Havoc's face and uniform.

Havoc looked up at night sky. He had always marveled at the clearness – you could see the stars, the moon with eerie clarity.

"God, just get us out of this..."

And still, it makes no difference

"Report."

Havoc looked over tiredly from where he was draped across two survivors' shoulders. His leg was a mess, and he could hardly speak on account of several broken ribs and a bleeding lung.

The officer demanding an account of their humiliation was small, handsome, and dark. Coal eyes shone earnestly at the wrecks of soldiers who were limping back to regiment HQ.

"Fuck you," Havoc rasped, voice breathy and with a liquid feeling. "You can see the casualties just fine."

It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you

Havoc lay on the hospital bed, halfway between delirium, waking, and death. His eyes stared vacantly at the roof of the hospital tent, glassy and unfocused. The sounds of wounded and dying men filled his ears.

"Lieutenant?"

He ignored the gentle tenor, unwilling to speak to anyone.

"Lieutenant." It was a voice unaccustomed to command, but trying anyway.

"Go away." The pain had him in a firm grip and seemed unwilling to let him go.

And you know that if it ever did relent...

Havoc finally walked out of the medic tent, two weeks later. The dark-haired major watched from the sidelines as he smiled and greeted his friends.

"Well, Jean, I put you down for dead!" a redhead said cheerfully.

"The only reason why he's alive is because God has a thing against him," a blonde joked.

Havoc grinned. "Yeah. Hates my guts beyond all hope of salvation."

"Oy – I hate to break up the party," a brunette said, rather unhappily. "But our squad's on point."

Everyone cursed expressively, but ten minutes later, they were marching out, trying to make the best of a bad situation. But the shadows were still there, in the form of a disapproving and worried dark-haired alchemist.

It would not be because it cared.