The concrete cellar was anything but silent as Ed slept. Rats scurried in the corners, eying up the new piece of meat that occupied the soft mattress they often slept upon.
They continued about their business, finding the many centipedes and spiders of the room to feast on as they realized what had invaded their sanctuary.
It was a man.
Man hardly ever came down into the dark, damp cellar, and when they did they set out food that hurt, and easily spotted traps that could snap their necks or cut off their tails if they got too close.
So what was this one doing here?
It was not dead. They could smell its life force and hear the blood pounding in its veins.
How long before it was dead? How long before they had a new source of food to scavenge upon, a new way to fill their bellies?
They didn't dare touch him yet. Man was dangerous.
Alive, at least.
Then the man started to stir. The bed creaked and the man made a groaning noise as he tried to stretch out his limbs. Strange, he had only three.
The rats stilled, hiding in their corners, waiting for some cue on what to do.
When Ed woke, it was dark. Pitch blackness surrounded him on all sides.
Ed blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, or spot a speck of light coming in through the window.
But none made itself known.
Did he wake up facing the wall? Ed tried to turn over in his bed, but found not the other half of his soft, warm mattress, but a two foot fall to a concrete floor.
Ed sat up with a jolt, immediately on high alert now that he knew he was not at the hotel room he was sharing with Alphonse.
Ed couldn't take in his surroundings, not without any minimal amount of light, but he could take assessment of himself. There was a shallow pounding behind his eyes and in his temples. His tongue felt puffy and too big for his mouth.
Trying to move his hands proves useless. The now comforting weight of his automail arm was gone, replaced with an empty feeling and sparks of pain across his exposed nerves, while his remaining flesh hand was handcuffed to the bed frame.
His automail leg was still attached, but his connection to it felt uneven, and the leg itself felt much too light.
"Hello?" Is what Ed tried to say, but all that came out was a harsh wheeze that triggered a harsh coughing fit.
Ed tried to drag in deep breaths of the rank air of his now unknown room, but each time the air reached his lungs it was forced back out, painfully as saliva entered and stung harshly.
It was then he heard a noise on the edge of his hearing, just over the sound of his own coughing.
Skittering.
Rats.
Ed sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to hold it in as he pushed himself up onto his low bed, off of the grimy rat-infested floor.
Ed wheezed out great breaths as his willed his eyes to adjust to the light, or lack thereof.
But they didn't.
So, Ed was left listening to the pitter-patter of tiny feet, and the frightened squeaking of their diseased mouths.
Ed moved to the center of the bed, the furthest away from any nibbling teeth, any curious whiskers, but terrified all the same.
Where was he?
Who had done this?
Where was Al?
"Hello?" Ed called out again, softer, but his voice was still a wheeze. Moving investigating fingers to his throat, Edward realized that he was bruised. All around his neck was a ring of discoloration, not that he could see it, but he could feel the pain well enough.
What had happened?
He remembered settling in for the night, saying goodnight to his brother as they climbed into their separate beds, he remembered that he needed to go see Mustang the next day, to hand in a report.
Were they wondering where he was now?
Was it even daytime?
Ed didn't get a chance to even try to figure out the answer as a door near the top of the wall flung open and bright light flooded the room.
Ed tried to shield his eyes, but the chain around his wrist only went so far.
Blinking back tears in his eyes, Ed looked up to see a fat man standing at the top of a steep staircase. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he sneered down at Edward.
Edward didn't make eye contact as he surveyed the man, then made quick work of his surroundings.
Yeah, there were definitely rats. Their droppings littered the floor and brown paw prints wove their way around the floor in a disgusting form of art as their feet tread upon their own waste.
The walls were white, or they were at least supposed to be, but mold was growing up the sides and piling in the corners.
Crates were stacked high in one corner, while Edward's cot sat in the furthest one.
But what was in the center made Edward freeze.
It looked like a stockade.
"You're Ed Elric, right?" The man spoke, his voice rattling from years of smoking. "The Fullmetal Alchemist?"
Edward narrowed his eyes at the man, unsure of whether or not he should lie. But then again, his potential identity might be the only thing keeping him alive.
Or it could mean his death.
The man at the top of the stairs let out an aggravated sigh, and ran a hand through his greasy, thinning hair.
"Look, kid," He began, and for a moment he looked so old and worn down, Ed felt unsure of himself.
"I'm Ed Elric, yes." Edward rasped, still hesitant, and still ready to defend himself in any way that he could.
The old and worn man disappeared, only to be replaced with an odd look.
A look Edward was not comfortable to see on anyone's face.
A look of cold satisfaction.
"That's good." The man said, "That's real good." The man started to descend the stairs. "Well, Ed Elric, you don't know me, but you knew my son. Name's George Hays."
Ed carefully did not let any hint of emotion through. The name sounded familiar, but the sensation of familiarity had no other hint of emotion, no fear, no recognition.
"No, it is a common name, so you wouldn't assume the Hays boy I'm talkin' about, now would you?" The man, George, smiled condescendingly as he made his way over the Ed's cot. "I'm talkin' about Erik Hays, my poor boy. Died this past month, did you know?"
Erik Hays. Ed knew the name.
Erik had been a thief, broke into many houses and stole jewelry, money, anything he thought could be valuable. His winning streak had been high, until he broke into a home while the family was around.
That would end up being the mistake of his life.
The daughter of the family, a little girl named Emily, a girl of hardly nine years old had been home alone while the parents took her brother to the park to meet a friend.
Erik knew she had seen him, and he knew he would be found out if he left any witnesses, any at all.
So, he had killed the poor child.
Her life ended at nine, and with a murder on Erik's growing list of crimes, the Fullmetal Alchemist was called in to catch the murdering thief.
Erik had been sentenced to ten years in prison, but word of what he did had gone around the prison, and soon enough, one of the bigger, stronger inmates found his way to scrawny old Erik.
Erik's life ended at twenty-two that day.
"I heard." Edward said honestly, "Couldn't place the name up til now, though."
George scoffed as he stopped not even a foot away from Ed. Said nothing more, then turned and tried to lay a punch on Edward's face.
Edward had been expecting the blow, and he had ducked down in time to avoid it.
George's cigarette bent in his teeth as the older man growled his annoyance as he reared back and tried again, only to fail once more as Ed ducked to the side.
"You piece of shit!" George growled as he reached out to grab a handful of Ed's long hair.
Al had been telling Ed that he was due for a haircut, and as it turns out, Ed should have listened as George got a good fistful of his split ends.
"Marcus!" George called up the stairs, "Marc, I need your help!"
Ed struggled in George's grip, but he got more and more of Ed's hair in his grip until Ed's scalp was stinging.
"You listen to me." George said, his tone deadly. "You're the reason my boy is dead. And it's you who is going to pay for it."
There were hurried footsteps coming from the ceiling, then there was a much younger man, someone who had to have been around Ed's age thudding down the steep cellar stairs to come stand next to his father.
"Hold him still." George ordered his son, and with a fair amount of struggling, Ed let himself be held down to the cot.
It wasn't like there was much he could do at the moment. He could barely move as it was.
What he could do, was try to negotiate.
"Erik is dead," Edward said. "But how is that my fault? He would've been arrested one way or another, by me or some other soldier or police officer." They were pulling Edward to his feet and dragging him to the center of the room, where to stockade stood tall. "Sooner or later, he would've been sent to prison."
"Sooner or later." George repeated, put his pace did not slow. Ed tried to struggle more in his grip, tried elbowing Marcus in the ribs, but the boy only let out a huff, and otherwise ignored the attack.
It was a struggle on both sides, getting Edward into that stockade. Ed kicked out as hard as he could, screamed and yelled profanities and insults, wriggled in their grasp until George had enough.
An elbow came down to crash against the back of Ed's head.
His vision blacked out for a moment and his ears were ringing.
He could hardly feel his limbs as he was shackled into the stockade, his one hand coming to rest in one hold while his head was fit into another tight hold.
He could feel his feet being tied together with a chain.
Then they took a few steps back to admire their work, and Ed felt like he was about to pass out.
"Undress him." George commanded and Ed snapped back to reality, fighting back against the darkness clouding his vision with pure adrenaline.
But he can't move in his chains, and with a pair of scissors, what is left on Ed is snipped away to pile on the floor, leaving Ed chilled and red-faced as he tries to cross his legs, tries to hide himself from view.
"Go upstairs, Marc." George tells his son, "Tell your mother I've got the boy."
"Yes, sir." Marcus obeys his father easily trotting up the stairs as quick as he could go and slamming the door behind him as his father reaches into one of the crates.
"You see Ed, can I call you Ed?" George doesn't wait for an answer. "Whether or not what Erik did was wrong, and it was, don't you worry, I understand that much, and whether or not he would be arrested sooner or later is not my problem. My problem is that my boy, my first-born son is dead."
Ed heard the snap of a whip, and pain lashed across his back, leaving a long red welt and drawing a cry from Edward's throat.
There was a second lash, and a third, and Ed was panting as blood trickled down his back from the shallow cuts the whip left in his flesh.
"The problem is that it was you that arrested my son, and it was you who sent him to the prison where he died! You sent him to his death, and since I can't get my hands on the son of a bitch who actually killed him, you're the next best target."
Ed grit his teeth as tears of pain started rolling down his face.
Al would notice his absence.
Al would get help.
Ed just had to wait this out.
After the fifteenth lash of the whip, Edward's vision began to blur as he stared down at the puddles of blood collecting on the floor.
Ed just had to wait.