He had saved her, by forgiving her. And that was enough. She could never forgive herself, so this ending seemed justified. Survivors' guilt wasn't just a condition any more; it was a fact of her situation.

Somehow she had maintained a straight face as she was forced to turn away from Roy and marched out of the room. Now, on a small cot in a cramped prison cell, Riza lay looking up at the dingy ceiling. She rubbed her sore wrists from where the handcuffs had seared her skin, leaving angry red indentations.

There was a small parcel of food on the floor near the cell door but Riza wasn't in the mood to eat. The leaky roof and cold steel walls of her current accommodations weren't great, but in a few hours none of it would matter anymore. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, to calm herself down.

Much easier said than done.

She heard their screams and saw their faces, the wary expressions of those civilians in the crosshairs of her rifle. As the Hawks' eye, she was targeting them from higher ground. Scar might have even gone so far as to say that she had been playing God. Same with Mustang. And Armstrong. They all got to decide who lived and who died, but according to what moral authority? That of Amestris? What a joke. Everything was madness back then.

The Ishvalans never knew what hit them until it was too late, when there was no longer an oxygenated, fully-functioning brain that could comprehend the fact that they were shot. To be alive one instant, and then have the spirit of life so violently expelled from one's body... Riza remembered shuddering more than once after she pulled the trigger. Of course, when she had taken aim her body was was still as predatory bird gliding along an air current.

Ishval

Gunfire.

Shouts.

Panic.

The disorganized military, barking orders.

Explosions, combat.

And blood.

Only in the late afternoons would the fighting cease, after the military's daily quota of bloodlust had been fulfilled. She was walking back to base after being stationed for eight hours non-stop on the crumbled roof of a watchtower.

Riza made her way through one of the many alleys lined with a red-splattered wall. She walked with her shoulders stooped and her head covered by her oversized white hood. She had it pulled low over her eyes so that the fabric blocked some of her peripheral vision. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She couldn't un-see the carnage around her. She stepped and felt a crunch under the heel of her heavy boot. The next step had her slipping in a sticky read substance. She held her breath and forged on. This route was the fastest way to base, but the mess was much worse than it had been yesterday. Chills descended her spine and terrified tears sprang to her eyes but Riza blinked them away.

She passed through the other end of the alley what seemed like an eternity later. Those fifty or so steps were the worst of her life. As soon as she reached base, her eyes scanned the mess hall of haggard faces looking for the one which was her anchor in all this madness.

"Hey you," Roy quietly came up to her on the left. His hair was messy and he was covered in the grime and ashes of the city as he destroyed it. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked like he needed a shower.

"Hi," she greeted him in return. She did not smile at him and he did not smile at her. The war had taken any reason to make such an expression away from them.

"Are you injured?" Roy asked. He looked at Riza intently and she saw the relief in his face as she shook her head. He had also been on her mind while she was up in that tower. Any time she heard gunfire or saw flame, her thoughts instinctively turned towards the sound. It was a peculiar kind of torture, to face death every day in different squadrons. If Hawkeye was honest with herself, she wasn't quite sure how much longer she could manage the stress of the war.

Then she looked from Mustang to her right and saw Maes Hughes approaching. He smiled a little and Riza instantly thought about the little girl in the pictures he was always carrying around. Her mouth had the same distinct upturn as Hughes'. Maybe his daughter was the only way he could think to smile. It was important to have a rock during hard times, Riza thought, looking at Roy.

"Well, want to get some dinner?"

"Not hungry," Riza and Roy echoed. The dull monotone of their voices sobered Hughes' expression.

"Me neither." After a pause, "Come on, let's get some fresh air."

The three sat outside the main mess hall on overturned crates. Some other soldiers were also clustered into small groups, speaking quietly to each other. The nightly entertainment and group-socialization that had taken place during the first few months of the war had been disbanded. There was no spirits to be uplifted in the first place.

"How was your day, Hughes?"

"Same as any other," Hughes sighed. He reached into his pocket and took out a picture of Elisia. Instead of shoving it into Roy and Riza's faces, he stroked the edges softly. Then he brought his fingers to his lips before returning them to the page. "'Daddy will be home soon,' that's what I promised. And I swore to Gracia that I would return. I have to survive this war," he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Look, all my fellow soldiers are here."

The trio looked up to see Alex Louis Armstrong. Roy reached over for another upturned crate and slid it to Armstrong. "Have a seat, join the party," he said humourlessly.

Armstrong did so and the four were quiet for a moment.

"I went to see the resident psychologist," Armstrong suddenly spoke up.

"Oh really? I'm glad," Riza said. She remembered that image of Alex, in his arms the body of an Ishvalan child and the tears streaming down his face. Seeing someone as physically strong as him completely break down had been all Riza and the others needed to encourage him to seek help. Of course, he wouldn't be able to leave the front lines for long, but even the limited counselling that was available was better than nothing.

"How was that?" Roy asked.

Armstrong shrugged. "I still feel that this is a fool's war. And we are the worst idiots for allowing ourselves to be brought into it."

"Maybe we can do something after. You know, rebuild what was lost," Roy spoke. Hughes nodded and Riza stared off into the distance. She tried not to let her heart get too excited for unlikely possibilities, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that there was no meaning behind this war. She couldn't believe that all these people were dying around her and that's it. She would not believe such a thing.

"Anyways, not much we can do about it now." Armstrong reached into his pocket and produced a deck of playing cards. The Amestrian State Alchemist logo was emblazoned on the backs of the cards. A lion might be known for its majesty and greatness, but there was nothing noble about an unprovoked slaughter. "The doctor I talked to just suggested that I use these to take my mind off the situation, at least for a little while."

"Well, deal us a hand then and we'll learn how to play," Roy surprised Riza by being so quick to agree.

Riza nodded that she was in and Hughes also tilted his head in interest. Armstrong started to explain the rules.

As the game progressed, Riza found herself immersed in the company of her brothers-in-arms and their cards. While the game lasted, it was the simplest, most normal event she could recall during the war. She and the others might have even cracked a smile once or twice. And she had Armstrong to thank for that.

A loud clang woke Riza up from her doze. Someone was approaching the cell. She sat up in her cot and looked around with a start. Was someone coming to spring her from this miserable place?

A haggard-looking guard in a military uniform opened the door and swung a large set of keys on a ring around his index finger. He smiled and Riza tensed as her skin crawled. She knew that this man was someone who liked thrived on exerting power over other people; he was undoubtedly on the same side as Bradley's supporters.

"Sergeant Major Riza Hawkeye. Come with me. You have an appointment with the firing squad, I believe."

Her first assumption had been partially right. But this man would not rescue her. It was already dusk. He was delivering her to meet her death.

The pair walked in silence from the jail to the courtyard where the main event was to take place. The guard did not handcuff her. Riza did not run. While she was never one to give up, she recognized a lost cause when there was one.

They reached the appointed spot within a couple of minutes. The courtyard was strategically located very close to the jail for this purpose. Riza wondered how many other people faced the squad after a trial as unfair as hers.

She consoled herself with one thought only: At least Roy would be alive.

He was not present at the ceremony, and for that she was relieved. Neither was Armstrong, though the guard had hinted that he would follow Riza in his own ceremony soon after hers.

Presiding over the event was, predictably, Major General Hakuro. It was he who gave the order to the marksmen to get ready. The guard who had escorted her to stand alone on the far side of the courtyard quickly covered Riza's eyes with a blindfold. She heard him scurry away and imagined the barrels of guns pointing straight at her.

Trigger fingers ready.

Eyes squinting.

Some of the same people she had fought alongside in Ishval, all taking aim at her. Soon Hakuro would gesture and they would follow orders, just as they had in Ishval. They would have to put aside personal convictions in favour of obedience.

Above all else, Riza wanted to face her fate head on. She raised her chin and assumed a stance both respectful of the people she had killed and defiant of the monsters who had forced her to do it. She took a deep breath.

Then Hakuro must have gestured and shots fired, echoing throughout the courtyard.