This was written for the 2010 – 2011 FMA Big Bang challenge, hosted on livejournal. The purpose was to produce a completed fic of at least 15,000 words. Thanks goes to Ketita for literally spending hours at a time with me on this and never letting me cut corners. She was the perfect beta reader and plot doctor! Also thanks to a-big-apple for being my go-to reader when I needed a pair of fresh eyes. ^^ This fic is complete and has been fully posted in six parts.

Full Summary: [AU, diverting from first!anime canon pre-series.] After being the unfortunate sole survivor of his team in a second massacre, Roy runs from the memory of the war of Lior straight into the most infamous house in Resembool, a tiny two-story that's seen its share of death. Rather than finding solitude in his grief and a steady enough hand to finally end it all, Roy finds himself caught up in the story of the Elric family. As the pieces of their fate come together, Roy is sure of only one thing – that not all is right with the little house on the hill.

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The circle was failing him. Ed pulled himself along the ground, the Truth still ringing clear in his mind despite the pain radiating from the bloodied stump where his leg should have been. Al, he thought, desperate, staring at the suit of armor and using every last ounce of willpower he could to keep himself conscious. Al!

Equivalent exchange was not nearly as innocent as they'd thought. No meager offering would be enough for it. Ed had seconds, maybe, to get it right, or his brother was gone forever. Al didn't deserve it.

Ed swiped more of the blood pooling from his leg and continued the circle on chest, fingers trembling. "I'm sorry, Al." His voice was faint, a wavering whisper. "I wish there was another way."

The circle was complete, blood painted on his chest, his arms, his stomach, and Ed raised his hands and placed them where he could feel his heart beating, closing his eyes and pushing everything he had left into it.

Please, let it not be too late!

The Gate was waiting for him.

The paper was wrinkled, folded into the tiniest square Roy could manage and then unraveled again just so he could reread the words, discharged with honor, and recycle the urge to vomit.

The roar of the engine was dying down into a whisper, the scenery no longer whipping by the window so much as crawling, grass and sheep and a tiny little station peppered with people filling his view. Welcome to Resembool, the sign read, and then something about population, but there was a woman standing in front of that part, wrestling with a little boy, mouth opening and closing quickly. Roy could only imagine what she was saying. Just wait until your father gets here, most likely. The little boy didn't seem impressed.

When the train stopped, Roy sat and watched the passengers leave until the flood became a trickle. Then he stood, held his suitcase close to his side, and disembarked. Resembool was different from Central, from East, and most importantly, it was a whole world away from Ishbal or Lior. Roy watched the people. The people at the station watched him, but there wasn't a single one of them who made a move to speak to him. It was a nice feeling.

"Colonel Mustang?"

"I'm retired," Roy said.

The old man nodded his head, flushing at the mistake. "Of course, of course. It's easy to forget. You've done such a wonderful job protecting the country. I'm sure the military was sorry to see you go, Mr. Mustang."

Roy wouldn't hold his breath about that, any of it, really. "Thank you," he said. "Are you here from the estate office?"

"Yes, sir," the old man said, still nodding. His forehead was slick with sweat, and he kept passing nervous glances at Roy's gloved hands. "The house is a bit of a walk, so I thought I'd come by with my car to drive you. Ah, and Mr. Jenner wanted me to," a pause to wet his dry mouth, "make certain that you were certain. The firm has a very strict policy about no buy-backs, so once the deed to the house is signed, it's a done fact."

"I'm quite certain."

"We'd hate for you to be disappointed. The, ah, the house has a bit of a reputation. And there are others, of course, in neighboring areas, if you're sure about settling in the rural parts of East. Or we could look for you in South! They have a number of excellent towns—"

"I'm sure the house will be fine. Your car is…?"

The old man took out a kerchief and dabbed at his forehead. "It's just parked at the road, Mr. Mustang. If you're certain…"

"I am."

Another pause, then, "They say the house is full of ghosts." The old man said it with a laugh. "I suppose you don't mind?"

"I'm sure I'll feel right at home."

The old man started at that. "I—I see." He tucked the kerchief into his vest pocket and nodded. "Very well, Mr. Mustang. The papers are in the car. You can sign them on the way." He extended his wrinkled hand, and Roy stared at it, watching it shake. "My name is Oliver Collins. Mr. Jenner has assigned me to assist in closing the deal."

Roy took his hand and turned his palm. Oliver's eyes fell on the red emblem. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Collins," Roy said.

In the car, he signed the papers and watched the countryside go sliding by the window. Oliver couldn't stop talking. "It's a very interesting story," he was saying. "Terribly sad, of course," he added hastily with another wary look at his passenger. "They say a whole family died in that house, one after the other. There's meant to be a boy left, but," a laugh, "it seems more of a novel, doesn't it? I'm sure it isn't true."

"I'm sure," Roy agreed, if for no other reason than to be agreeable. "A fascinating story. Perhaps I'll find out."

"Find out?"

"About the ghosts," Roy amended. "If I see them, I'll be certain to let you know."

The old man didn't say anything after that, just kept his eyes glued to the unpaved road and his mouth a tight line until they were parked at the bottom of a hill, staring up through the windshield at a quaint wooden cottage. "That's the house, Mr. Mustang." Oliver wet his lips and drummed his thumbs restlessly against the steering wheel. "If there isn't anything else, sir, then I'm afraid I'll need to go. There's another client, you see."

"Of course. I'd hate to keep you. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Collins."

Oliver nodded and smiled and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Of course, always a pleasure doing business, sir."

"I'll be certain to let you know," Roy continued. Oliver frowned.

"Let me know?"

Roy turned to look at the house and felt the old man turn with him. "About the ghosts, of course." He offered a thin smile.

Oliver didn't reply. He gave Roy a final, nervous look and started the car again, pulling back onto the road and leaving Roy at the bottom of the hill, hand raised and smile still in place.

The house was small compared to his military-issued townhome in Central, a little wooden two-story with everything on the first level. The master bedroom, he recalled, was all that there was on the top floor.

Or so he'd been told. He'd never so much as set foot in the place, but he had the key in his hand now, the key and the deed and a big chunk of his wallet gone for it.

"Roy Mustang," he said, trudging up the hill, "age twenty-nine." He paused and looked at the door, the key in his hand. "Murdered in his home," he continued with a flourish, tossing the key over his shoulder and somewhere he was certain to never find it. The door was frail, worn thin by time. He only had to give it a single sharp kick and the wood around the lock splintered, giving way to the dark interior. "At night," he added. "While the man was in his bed sleeping, if you'd believe it."

It wasn't as creative as a house haunted by a dead family, granted, but it was sure to make the second page of the Eastern Quarterly, at least. Second or third.

He let the door swing uncertainly on its hinges behind him, stepping inside and wandering aimlessly. The kitchen was directly to the right. An icebox, a cabinet, a table, and two chairs. Two bags sat on the table, packed full of the food he'd requested Jenner to have sent to the house. Roy was only mildly surprised to find everything in order after only purchasing the place on a whim the day before.

Then again, Jenner had mentioned having a nephew in the military who'd served in Lior, in Roy's district. The waver in his voice had told the story all on its own, and Roy –

Well, he'd laughed, actually. Laughed and asked where Jenner's nephew was. Jenner had swallowed and taken off his glasses to polish away a smear before answering in that same wavering voice, "He killed himself two weeks after returning, Mr. Mustang."

Killed himself, Roy'd echoed. Good show, good man. Jenner hadn't agreed, but he wasn't a soldier, so Roy knew better than to trouble himself with an ignorant viewpoint.

Time no longer an issue, Roy left the stuffed bags to the kitchen and stepped back out, giving the busted front door a minute glance before turning resolutely in the opposite direction, through another doorway, a sitting room just beyond its threshold. If a family had died in that house, where had it happened? The part of Roy that came to life when he stepped into Lior and died abruptly when he'd left it couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps, he thought to himself, the sitting room was where it happened. A disease, maybe? Or something more sinister.

A murdered family and perhaps the murderer would come back, confusing Roy's presence with not having done his job.

Roy, after a moment of brief thought, returned to the kitchen and turned the lights on. When night fell, the windows would be the only thing illuminated for miles, likely. Anyone could see.

He drew back the curtains, too. For good measure.

"Murdered in his bed," Roy said again to himself, and then he laughed. It was ridiculous. The whole situation was ridiculous.

Roy sank into one of the wooden chairs parked up against the table and rooted through the bag closest to him, shoving aside canned goods and little jars of preservatives to drag out a liter of gin and a pack of Lucky Strikes, his hand around the tiny box causing a shift in his consciousness, a memory of a man with ashtray cologne sifting to the forefront of his mind.

He lit one of the cigarettes like he'd lit Havoc's funeral pyre and said a prayer to a god he'd long since ceased acknowledging with that first precious drag.

For the rest of the day's remaining light, Roy sat at the table and stared out the opened window, lighting smoke after smoke and wondering why he felt so dry.

"You are so drunk."

Roy didn't lift his head at the voice. "C'n't help it," he slurred, forehead pressed to the cool surface of the table. There was a running monologue in his head, currently on the topic of just how he was managing to stay in his chair, and Roy only caught bits and pieces of it as it filtered through the haze of inebriation stifling his mind and stuffing his head.

"Waste of flesh, that's what you are." A derisive laugh. Roy kept his head down and his eyes closed, ignoring the steady stream of speech's sudden shift from and my left buttock stays in the chair because my brain sends steady impulses through the, to wasn't I alone in this house?

"No," Roy said to the voice, because his mouth wasn't working well enough to say and the hell with you, anyway. He groped blindly at the table for the bottle he'd been sipping on since daylight, and the voice laughed from somewhere behind him, faint, as though speaking through a wall.

"No? What's no? Do you really need another drink, you stupid old man?"

Roy stopped at the old comment, lifted his head (oh, the bottle's on the floor?) and stared blearily around. At some point, the lights had gone off, so he was sitting alone in the dark kitchen, a chilled nighttime wind blowing in through the opened windows and sending clumps of ash across the table and over Roy's arm.

"I," he said with as much clarity has he could, "'m not 'n ol' man."

There was silence, the feel of the room morphing into something Roy wasn't sure he'd understand even if he'd been sober. "You can hear me." It wasn't a question. Roy let out a shrill, drunken giggle.

"Good ears," he said, gesturing vaguely at his head. The voice was coming from behind him, he was pretty sure, but how to turn that way…? Roy shifted in his seat and nearly toppled himself over the side.

"You can hear me," the voice said again, sounding faint, shocked. Roy nodded and finally, finally, managed to work out the mechanics of turning around while maintaining his balance.

The room was – completely empty, actually. Roy frowned, bracing one hand on the back of the chair as he wiped at his eyes. Still no one. "Hey," he said to the room, "hey! Where'd y'go?" No answer.

It was an odd thing, really, Roy thought. Drinking and hallucinating wasn't new to him, but disembodied voices that were halfway pleasant, if a bit rude, weren't really his forte.

When Roy was unlucky enough to see and hear things that weren't there, they were usually things he'd rather not think about, the woman who'd promised to watch his back reaching her hand up at him, legs bloodied stumps and the ground around her charred and littered with shrapnel, while she bled out her life and her love, desperate to just get his hand in hers –

Roy let his forehead hit the table again. Don't think, don't think.

Living was such a burden.

Morning found Roy on the floor, the empty bottle clutched to his face and the ashtray upturned not three feet away.

Someone was humming.

Reaching up with an aimless, grabbing motion, Roy caught hold of the edge of the table and dragged himself to his feet, looking around with the slow, sluggish air of a man not quite in his own head. The humming was faint, but it was there, somewhere in the house, Roy swore it –

You can hear me.

The low noise stopped abruptly, and Roy's mind chased after it, the sound sliding through the cracks in his brain and remaining just out of reach.

Do you really need another drink, you stupid old man?

A voice with no body. Roy could recall the moment with uneasy clarity before it disappeared into an inebriated haze. "I'm losing my mind," he murmured softly, pushing his hair from his eyes.

He needed to go into town, though perhaps 'need' was too strong of a word. What Roy needed was a shower because, hell, every time he lifted up his arms he cringed. It was like he'd spent the night running a marathon only to come home and lay around in his own filth for a few hours before deigning to bathe. Either way, too little too late, because the sun was up and the day was starting.

Roy lifted up his arm again and made a face. "God."

A shower would be prudent. Some part of Roy he'd long since considered dead recoiled at the state of his life, appearance, and sanity. All that pride, everything he'd worked for, and it all ended in nothing: waking up on a cold kitchen floor, smelling like shit and looking like it, too.

Maes would have been so disappointed.

Roy's things had been delivered hours before his own arrival. He'd still not bothered going upstairs to the master bedroom, and he was tempted not to. There was an odd hope that he'd never make it.

"Falling down the stairs," he said to himself, taking the steep staircase three at a time and standing unsteadily at the top once he'd reached it, looking back over his shoulders. "I fell and broke my neck," he announced to the bedroom. "By the time anyone bothered coming to look for me, I was already decomposed." He paused before adding, "Such is life."

The bedroom was completely unfinished, the only thing in it a single mattress in the center, a chest of drawers pushed against the wall, and a large trunk at the foot of the mattress, covered in stickers of all different languages and looking well-used. Roy looked at it and smelled smoke and charred flesh. Then he turned around and went back down the stairs.

It was a strange feeling, being so entirely alone. Roy couldn't even remember a time he'd been so – so utterly free of all obligations, though he'd give anything in the world to not be.

The shower was just like the small cubed stalls he'd had in the military housing. Roy stepped in feeling like he'd walked into a memory, half expecting Maes to come running in the door to assault him with a rolled up wet towel.

And that humming – Roy looked around the bathroom, head swiveling back and forth as quick as he could (he felt completely idiotic for his trouble), but he couldn't figure out where it was coming from. It wasn't even constant, just a few notes without any true rhythm, as though someone was in the house and absentmindedly humming while doing chores.

Roy stood still, soaped up palms in his hair, and closed his eyes and strained his ears. It was just a dull, short noise every so often, no footsteps, no voice like the one he'd heard during the previous night (did I even really hear something?).

If there was someone in the house, Roy would gladly give them his back to do what they would. Why bother stopping them?

His own death was easy to imagine. Someone he'd wronged – an Ishbalan woman, perhaps, one widowed by his actions, would show up on his doorstep, gun in hand, and blow a hole in his head right there.

Hair clean, Roy juggled with a bar of soap, cursing when it tried to slip out of his hands, and thought, maybe a knife. A knife wound, maybe right in his heart. A more personal death would be fitting, after all. If she stabbed him in the heart, it would be equivalent, would make more sense than anything else in his life.

When the last of the soapsuds swirled down the drain, Roy let his morbid fantasies disappear with it. He had things to do.

"You're so weird!"

Roy took a sharp turn stepping out of the shower, towel clutched tight around his waist and heart hammering against his chest as he spun, eyes darting to the mirror, to the open doorway, to –

The open doorway.

"I closed that," Roy muttered aloud, staring at the door and watching the slight back-and-forth swing, a barely there motion. "I swear I did…" But no amount of standing in the bathroom closed the door, nor did it clear Roy's head. Perhaps he'd left it open after all, perhaps his mind was just playing tricks on him.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Roy could make all the excuses in the world but they didn't change the fact that he was alone in the house.

"You're losing your mind," he muttered angrily, then realized he was speaking to himself as though to a stranger and gave his head a rough shake before throwing the towel aside to pull on his clothes.

Whether he was losing his mind or not, Roy didn't know, but he had the niggling feeling that he wasn't quite alone in the house, despite the lack of evidence. There couldn't be anyone. He knew that, knew there wasn't a person for miles, that he, with all his training, would easily be able to tell if there was an intruder. If there was one, they of course couldn't be there for any good reason.

Roy's mind drifted back to the thought of the Ishbalan woman standing on his doorstep with wide, furious eyes and knuckles white around the handle of a knife. He almost hoped there was someone in the house.

Hair still damp, Roy stumbled out the front door while trying to pull on his shoes, not bothering to close it behind him. The lock was too busted, anyway. The thing couldn't stay shut unless he used alchemy, and, well.

He wasn't going to use alchemy, not for the sake of his own comfort.

The ride to the house from town had taken ten minutes, almost exactly, so Roy figured he was in for a good half an hour of walking. Every step he took down the road kicked up a cloud of dirt that stuck to the legs of his pants and his shoes, and he kept inhaling it and having to stop every so often just to pause and breathe. That he hadn't expected. It reminded him of the desert.

"For fuck's sake, it's just dirt," he muttered, disgusted with how pathetic he'd become, wanting shake at every small reminder. Roy knew he shouldn't make a habit of talking to himself, but it was a bit late, especially considering he had no one to prevent him from doing so any longer.

They were, after all, all dead, what was left of them stuck six feet under with a government paid for grave marker that wasn't even half of what they deserved.

Roy was tempted to turn right around and head back to the house. He was only five minutes down the road, he reasoned with himself. He could just turn around and go right back home, because the more he walked, the more he was thinking, and at the rate he was going, he'd be in hysterics by the time he got to town.

Behind him, just down the road, the horn of a car sounded. Roy stopped and turned around, watching the old automobile chug along, slowing when it reached him. An old woman sat behind the wheel, a pipe sticking out of the side of her mouth, smoke billowing up from it. "You headin' into town?"

"Yes," Roy said after a moment, pushing down the urge to ask if she was real. It was terribly convenient, is all. It's not that he was thinking he was losing his mind, not really.

Honestly, he wasn't.

The old woman gestured to the passenger side door, and Roy shrugged and got in, only feeling mildly uncomfortable.

"I've never seen your face around here before," the old woman observed. "You must be new."

"Yes," he said again. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he added, "Roy Mustang. I moved in yesterday."

"Pinako Rockbell," the old woman offered. "Where's your place?"

"A few minutes back the way you came. It's a house on top of a hill," Roy said, and the old woman jerked her head to the side and nearly drove them off the road before she gathered herself, clearing her throat.

"You moved into that house?" she asked. "I'm surprised. Didn't you hear about it?"

"People died in it," Roy said. "I haven't heard much more than that."

"That's usually enough for some people," Pinako muttered, taking a drag from her pipe.

"People die every day," Roy said simply. "Unless there's something more sinister to the story, it's just something that happens to everyone eventually."

"Cheerful, aren't you?" Pinako wasn't so much as glancing over at him anymore, focused on the road and the smoke streaming up from the bowl of her pipe. Her hands clenched the wheel. "And if there is something more?"

He shrugged. What was one more tragedy? If anything, Roy could drink to it and the spirits wronged in his house. Just another day, that was all. "I don't think it'll make much of a difference."

The town was just a bit further down the road, the small squat buildings growing against the skyline as Pinako drove closer. Resembool wasn't big, would barely be a speck of dirt on a map compared to Central.

Roy thought it was all right.

"I'll be here for an hour, maybe a little less," Pinako said as she parked up near the side of a building with a sign that said MARKET and nothing else. "If you want a ride back, be waiting."

"Thank you." Roy didn't need a ride back. He didn't need company, didn't need someone trying to talk to him. Pinako, if the look on her face was anything to go by, didn't expect to see him again.

Cigarettes, maybe a bottle or three, Roy counted out in his mind. He was feeling particularly maudlin after having to deal with the old woman and her teasing hints of a story, so Roy went right ahead into the market and pulled out his cash. He asked for three packs. "Lucky Strikes, if you've got them."

"S'an outdated brand if I ever heard one," the man behind the counter laughed. "Only soldiers 'n ol' men smoke thems."

"I might be one or I might be both," Roy offered, shoving all three packs into his various pockets and leaving.

"Hey, don't you want your change?" the man shouted after him. Roy raised a hand in acknowledgment and walked right out the door.

Resembool wasn't so small that it didn't have its share of drunkards. Roy looked up at the sun, estimated that it had to be barely noon, and did himself the service of ambling into the pub. It had just opened. One man was standing just outside the front door, flipping the sign, and three older men were already standing outside watching him, waiting. Roy joined them when they trickled in, a weary stream of men who hadn't anything else to do with themselves.

They ignored the newcomer, all of them settling into different chairs with a familiar ease that spoke of repetition. Roy stood in the center of the dingy little pub before choosing a stool at the bar proper and ordering a whiskey.

"It's a bit early," the bartender said. He didn't argue though, just got the glass and filled it to the order, setting it in front of Roy and leaving to deal with other customers, ones with familiar stories. Roy was an anomaly. It made sense that no one would want to add his pain to their own.

But Roy knew he shouldn't think about that. Maudlin, he remembered, the old woman had triggered him into acting emotional, and wasn't that a pity? He took a drink, cringing at the taste. He hadn't had a liquor so cheap and poorly made sense the trenches in Lior, since his men poured it for him, toasting to a quick war and then back home.

When the war ended after a grueling three years, Roy had returned home alone.

He made a face and downed the rest of the glass in one swift gulp. It was too damn early to be thinking of – of those sorts of things. Those were the nightmares he preferred to keep for when he was actually asleep, thanks ever so much.

Without pretense, he ordered another drink, finished it with startling speed, and ordered another. The sun was still up when he looked out the window.

Roy sat at the bar with no plans to move, the day carrying on without him.

Alcohol was a familiar comfort, was Ishbal and Lior and even earlier. At the academy, Roy learned the easiest way to forget everything was at the bottom of a bottle. In Ishbal, he took that lesson to heart, draining cheap liquor like water even as he was choking on the stench of burning corpses. Maes had hated it, even though he was there with Roy just as much. Between the two of them, they could down more liquor in a night than any other soldier bothered to declare. Only, Maes put it down when the war ended and picked up Gracia instead. He could bear it, he'd told Roy. The memories meant nothing so long as he had her.

Roy hoped Gracia thought memories were enough.

"It's closing time." The bartender had been watching Roy all day and had gone so far as to refuse him drinks after the sun began sinking out the only window in the dingy little building. "You're gonna kill yourself if you keep this up."

Roy could feel drool pooling out of his mouth, knew he probably looked like some degenerate, like the type of person you'd cross the street to avoid. Maybe even call the police. His very presence was a disruption of the peace.

His mind could puzzle out the words, had a constant stream of them running through his head, but when the bartender looked at him and asked if he had a way home, the I have two legs, don't I? got stuck somewhere between his brain and his tongue, and what came out was more of a pathetic gurgle.

The bartender sighed and turned to say something to someone over his shoulder. Roy took that as his cue to get the hell out. Prison wasn't really where he wanted to die, he wasn't even fucking doing anything wrong–

"Hey, wait a second! Where are you going?"

Roy stumbled into a table, startling a shriek from whoever was sitting there. Grabbing onto the table for support, Roy called back, "Home," and tried to keep going.

"Hey, now," the bartender said. He was around the bar, walking toward Roy with his hands up. "Why don't you just stay in town tonight, huh? There's an inn—"

Roy waved at him, a violent motion, and jerked his head toward the door, stumbled at it and held his hand out, fingers poised to snap at the bartender before he realized I'm not fucking wearing my gloves, shit, I'm not wearing them, and then, after another moment in which everyone in the bar seemed to be staring at him, he had the clarity to realize he'd just thought of killing the man.

He would have killed him, if he'd been wearing his gloves, and Roy had no idea why he'd even considered it.

The bartender still had his hands up, giving Roy a baffled look. "Listen—"

No, Roy decided, he wasn't going to listen. He turned around and made it all the way out the door, letting it shut behind him, before he stumbled again and landed flat on his face, the taste of dirt overpowering the liquor.

He didn't bother trying to get up. There were people moving around behind him, voices saying something about him, he was sure. Of course he'd become their entertainment. Resembool didn't breed entertainment, not like Central. Roy could hardly blame them.

Groaning, he turned his head to the side and tried to breathe in air rather than dirt. Someone was behind him, pulling on his arms and guiding him to stand, cursing at him and – he couldn't make out the words. Roy couldn't even see anything, and it took him a few brief panic filled moments to realize that his eyes were closed.

"Oh," he said aloud.

"You," came the voice, obviously angry, "are nothing but trouble. I knew it from the minute I saw you."

"Get out of my house," Roy mumbled. The voice seemed to take offense to that.

"House? You idiot," it growled at him, "you're lying in the middle of the streets! Get yourself up on your feet, there's a lad," and he was moving then, feet wobbling unsteadily beneath him, but he was definitely walking.

What a novel experience.

"Nothing but trouble," the voice was saying. Roy let whoever's hands were on his shoulders guide him, and then he was sitting down, forehead resting against something cool. "Stumbling out of a bar like a no good—who the hell drinks like that, anyway? Young people," the voice finished, grumbling darkly. Roy couldn't make out what it was saying, but he wanted to apologize for the trouble – not that his tongue, the thick useless thing, seemed to be willing to let him.

Whatever he was leaning against felt good, cooling his overheated body and staving off the urge to vomit. Roy let his eyes stay closed and rocked with the rhythmic motion of wherever he was. Sleep, for once, came easy.

"I'm sick of looking at this place." Havoc snubbed out another cigarette against the bottom of his boot and chucked it over with the rest of them. Several days had passed without the chance to leave the trenches, and the pile of charred butts was increasing at an alarming rate.

"Try smoking less," Roy had suggested, but Havoc wasn't overly impressed with that idea.

"You're sick of looking at it?" Breda huffed. "I'm sick of looking at you."

"Hey, fuck off."

Their banter lacked the energy of the first few weeks in Lior. It was a war, after all. Energy was best reserved, used as a measure of sustaining their own lives. Roy knew war well enough that he barely ever moved for anything that wasn't an enemy, would sit with his fingers at the ready, resting against his thigh, staring up the dirt walls and waiting. A soldier was always ready.

"General Hakuro has a message, sir."

"Bring it here, Lieutenant." Hawkeye came quickly to his side and handed a dirty sheet of paper, the edges frayed, over to him. Her face was wan and blank, just like he hadn't seen it since the last war. Roy didn't want to see that look on anyone.

There was a reason he forbade his men from keeping mirrors.

Roy scanned over the paper and nodded, crumpled the thing in his fist. "He's sending us in?"

Havoc and Breda stopped snipping at each other for a beat and looked at him, expressions guarded. "In?" Havoc looked uneasy. "So, we're going to see some action, finally?"

"Don't sound so eager." Then, to Hawkeye, "Tell the General the message was received. We'll be waiting here for further instructions."

With a last weary salute, she was gone. Roy turned his eyes back to the wall.

A soldier is always ready.