This challenge was originally meant for Harry Potter... I was supposed to write a story that addressed the question "Where was man?" when there's suffering and death in the world. But, of course, my mind turned to FMA instead. I have no idea how canon this is because I haven't seen the anime in FOREVER, but here's to trying!

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The Hand that Holds the World

Roy had never seen anything like it before. A simple snap of his fingers, a simple friction, and buildings scattered like fireworks. The enemy would have no time to seek cover. There was no cover to speak of. He could light up darkened skies. He could topple structures that had stood years before he'd been born. He could level entire forests in seconds.

He could kill.

Naturally, the military officials had worshipped him. Their eyes glowed with adoration for his talent during the trials. Here was a human being built for destruction. By combining their technology with his gift, each spark from his fingers had the potential to utterly demolish any opposing troops that stood in their way. It would save them money and precious, precious time. All they needed to do was keep him alive.

So they slapped a silver bar on his shoulder and called him 'Lieutenant,' even though he had no experience in combat. The ceremony was short. The new patches felt heavy on his shoulder, but he smiled and waved like they wanted him to. Afterwards, they assigned him his men, all hand-picked, all experienced and blindly faithful. Everything he said, they did. Roy was their commander, their leader, and he would protect them.

Then they packed up him and his troops and sent them to war.

The first sensation he could remember was the feeling of the sand on his face, coarse and gritty. It found its way into his eyes, and his mouth. Eventually, it was everywhere. Before he slept each night, he'd remove each article of clothing, one by one, and shake out the dust that had collected inside. His skin turned coarse. Roy told himself that he liked it.

Their first mission was to travel north, past a cluster of enemy troops, and surprise them with an approach from the mountains behind them. Their route would take them through previously neutralized zones of combat.

"Easy-peasy," his tactician—Howards? Horowitz?—had told him. "Very little action up this way."

And, damn it all, Roy had felt the brief sting of disappointment. He had wanted to try out his technique in combat, to impress his men and show those Ishballans a thing or two about alchemy. He wanted his men's worship most of all.

I

People had given him long talks about God before Roy had been shipped off to combat. They told him that God was on their side, that he would be protected. They even promised to pray for him. Roy, himself, had never believed in a higher being. He found that none of his men had, either—not after what they had seen. Not after what they had done.

"The Ishballan War," his second lieutenant, a woman he'd known before as his teacher's daughter, murmured to him, "is a total war."

Total war. He had studied the phrase in his training. A war in which the whole population and all the resources of the combatants were committed to a complete victory, and thus became legitimate military targets.

Essentially, it meant that everything, from soldiers to their family farms, was a target.

He could see how far the war had reached when they set out for their mission. The land was broken. The few villages they did cross were barren, and nearly abandoned. Roy tried to share his rationed chocolate bar with a child he saw on the street, but she had backed away, silently crying.

The graffiti messages were sometimes more disturbing than the subjugated populous. A village at the base of the mountains was particularly bad. It had been bombed before, even though Roy heard rumors that the village had been maintained mostly by women and children, as their husbands had all left to fight. Nothing was really left, now, except their words. Most were verbal attacks on state troops, threats of death and vindication. Others were despairing. If there is a God, how will I ever forgive him? Underneath, a date was scratched. Roy shivered and moved on.

He ordered his men to secure the village, as they would be spending the night here before moving into the mountains. "All clear," they told him. "The perimeter is secured."

The sun was still blazing down on them while they set up camp. As he observed them, one particular message caught his interest:

Where is God?

He had actually forced himself to laugh when he read it, pointed it out to some of his men with a wry smile. The soldier off to his right, a sly blond known for his sarcastic insight, added, "Where's man?" The rest of them guffawed heartily, their eyes cheerless. Roy, with one last glance at the words, ordered them to carry on.

And then they are under fire.

One of his men is down in an instant, folding on himself like a crumpling tin can. Someone shouts for them to scramble, fucking scramble, and Roy runs the fastest of them all. Shots are coming from every side now. How is he still moving? It is so fucking loud, and so fast. Not a minute yet. He dives headlong behind a wall, and someone is already there—the woman officer, his teacher's daughter, she's firing shots with startling precision. Her lips form a sentence. Are you alright? Are you alright? A soldier across the way contorts and falls. Are you alright? Roy curtly nods. The firing was closer now; his men were all around him, shooting, screaming for backup. He tries to turn… a pain rips his side, he's blinded by a white light. A choked cry escapes him, and his hand searches his torso. He's hit, holy fucking God, no he's bleeding and it's not going to stop, please God no not now—

Sir, she says again, are you okay? He's shuddering violently, he can't feel anything but cold. Will he die here? Will someone come to take his life? Roy wants to cry, he's so fucking afraid, but more are falling around him. Their tents are blowing away. For the very first time, he doesn't know what to do. They'll lose, and they'll die.

Over the din, he suddenly hears that blond soldier's voice, wry and playful.

Where's man?

Roy knows the answer now.

Man is right here, represented in his prime. He's created this destruction with his steel and lead, with his science and his goddamn facts. The mechanics of a gun are his miracle, fiery explosions his blessed gift to earth. Man demolishes, man annihilates. Man murders.

Roy presses his hand into the wound and chokes on laughter. It doesn't matter if he dies. The hand that holds the world is the hand of the apocalypse. The wars will never cease as long as there are men alive.

He throws himself into the cold embrace of darkness.

I

For a long while, Roy knew nothing. No taste, no smell, just an endless black. He was eased into wakefulness by an unfamiliar feeling in his chest, something hot and uncomfortable. Although he tried, he found that he couldn't lift his hand to touch it. The pain tripled with no warning; his teeth set on edge until it waned away. But he still felt that something.

It felt like he was burning inside.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. His swollen eyes slid open, only to be greeted by a startling whiteness. Roy closed them again.

"Sir, I am here to report."

Stifling a groan of agitation, Roy rolled his head to the left and cracks an eyelid. There, again, was his teacher's daughter, dressed impeccably in her uniform. "Hawkeye?" he gasped, his throat startlingly dry. He momentarily forgot himself, forgot his situation, and reached for her. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes looked faintly amused, but otherwise, her face did not change. "I am fine, sir."

Roy began to search the room, noting the sterility, the stiff sheets. The conflict flooded back into his mind in a sudden blur of images, and he touched his chest. "The bullet?" he asked plainly.

"Removed in surgery, sir. It will take you a few more days to recover." She reached into her pocket and removed a single origami flower. "Here, sir. On behalf of the men."

"I—" Roy reached to accept the bud, curling his coarse fingers around it and pulling it close. "Why did you make me a paper flower?" he murmured.

"I couldn't find a real flower, sir," she said, her tone still at a formal, clipped pace.

"No, I meant—" Roy abruptly sighed, ignoring the tightness in his chest. "Just give me your report, Lieutenant."

"We were attacked by opposing troops that were stationed outside the village," she said. "They waited until we set our sentry up, then snuck into the village and started to fire. Our reinforcements came approximately thirteen minutes into the fight." Here, the lieutenant paused. "Six are being treated for bullet wounds, but are in a stable condition. Breaker, Josephs, Walden, and Nicholson are confirmed dead. Havoc is MIA."

Silence followed her announcement. A beautifully fragile silence. His hands nervously twisted in the sheets. He tried not to think about his own mistake, his cowardice. He tried not to imagine what would have happened if he had turned to fight. He tried not to picture their faces.

"Sir?"

"They were good men." His steady voice surprised him. "I trust that the letters have already been sent to their families. As soon as I'm out of this hell-hole, we'll search for Havoc. They can't have taken him far; their forces are too weak now." He was babbling, and he knew it. Havoc's wry smile filled his mind. He had to be alive. Roy couldn't meet her eyes; he pretended not to notice that she was stepping closer. "Those damn Ishballans won't see us coming," he said as he clenched his fist. "We'll find him, and then we'll make the bastards pay. They won't—"

His voice caught and trembled violently. Roy held his breath. Gone. Only when her hand stroked his shoulder did his gasp turn into tears, making ticking noises as they hit the over-starched sheets. Roy dropped the flower as he moved a hand to cover his face. His fault.

He felt shattered. It had been his job to protect his men, to keep them alive, but he had abandoned them. Left them alone in order to hide.

Where was man? Havoc's voice asked again. Where was man when I needed him?

Roy tangled his fingers in his hair painfully. Where was man? Hiding, that's where he fucking was. Roy had been hiding, not fighting. And the other men had killed, or been killed. What had their last thoughts been? Had they enjoyed it? Did they even know why they were dying, why they were fighting?

Her voice interrupted his thoughts. "We're only human, Lieutenant."

Roy didn't know if she was referring to him, or to everyone — to every fucking person who had ever taken life into his own hands and tossed it aside like a selfish bastard. To every man who had fired a gun with a smile on his face, or to the ones that sent children to their death while they disappeared behind desks and paperwork. Because they were human too, weren't they? Everyone was. And not one of them had that right.

No one but God.

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He wasn't sure when she left. He just knew his chest still ached with fear. Not fear for himself, but fear of what he had done, and what he could do. Would he hide? Would he condemn his men, losing even more lives? He didn't even have time to learn their names—and yet he held each of them in his gloved, quaking hands.

Roy pushed his palm into his chest. He never thought it would stop. None of it would. Not the ache, and not the war. Because man destroyed. He'd witnessed it himself. Four lives destroyed, and seven on the brink.

His fingers brushed the paper bud of the flower.

But Roy knew that the hand that destroyed the world was the same hand that could create it.

Secretly, he prayed that he'd be given the chance.

So, that's that. I feel like this story has a lot going on in very little time, but I'm happy with the tone and the message. The quote "If there is a God, how will I ever forgive him?" is actually written on a wall in a concentration camp, although I can't remember which one. And also, when Roy says he feels like he's burning inside, that's a quote taken from a veteran of the Iraq war. I thought I'd cite all my sources...

Anyways, please review!