Disclaimer: I don't own!

Thanks to the wonderful Kalirush as usual – she is brilliant. Thanks also to Disastergirl who listens to me moan about this albatross on a near daily basis!

Enjoy^^*


East City, 2nd March 1910

The walking oxymoron. Very likely the truth.


It was a Tuesday and the weather had just turned from the biting, impossible cold of winter to the first day of bearable chill. Fuery was on his way to a call-out, toolkit in hand. Feeling slightly more seasoned now that he actually had his technician's diploma mounted on his dorm wall, he affected a mean swagger as he went, enjoying the Swish! Swish! of his uniformed legs. Spotting two officers round the corner ahead of him, he discarded it immediately and saluted them, almost dropping his toolkit as he did so.

It was a while since Fuery had been to Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's office – a small affair, secreted in the upper most part of Eastern command, right at the back. The tiny windows, smeared with years of city grime and blasted with in-blown desert sand, overlooked the East City Cemetery, a view which the young Colonel apparently despised. He kept the windows covered with thick blinds and, according to rumours, made himself scarce on Memorial and Veterans Day. The lack of light and crowding ceilings lent his office an eccentricity that was wholly lacking from the man himself. The office, looking like a mad scientist's lab from a two cenz horror film, had charm, character... a certain kind of warmth. The Lieutenant Colonel, on the other hand, was as cold and as hard as the wrench lying in the bottom of Fuery's little case. It wasn't that he was impolite. He was just as civil as all the other brass, but he had that way of looking at you, sizing you up that made you feel like you'd be better placed on the bottom of his boot. Maybe that was just the way with alchemists. Maybe all the stories were true, that they did sacrifice a certain kind of humanity for all that power and fame. If that was so, then Mustang was a prime piece of evidence. Fuery didn't know how his staff did it, he sure as hell couldn't work for the man.

He arrived at the door, tucked his toolkit under his arm, and freed his hand to knock. There was a sudden hush on the other side of the heavy mahogany. A few moments later, the handle turned and the door opened inwards. A good thing too. Fuery's arm was killing him lugging that toolkit from basement to beams.

Towering in the doorway was a tall blond Second Lieutenant who Fuery remembered as Jean Havoc. He had a mess of stubble on his swarthy cheeks and looked entirely like he had just woken up. He sniffed.

"Corporal," he said, tone gruff and eyes ambiguous.

Fuery swapped his toolkit to his left arm and saluted. "Lieutenant, Sir."

Havoc grinned at that and stepped back, pulling the door with him. "You'll be doing a lot of saluting in here if you start with me, kid. Havoc's fine. Let me take that for you."

With his large hand, he scooped up Fuery's case before he could object. He carried it into the centre of the room, leaving the young Corporal all alone at the door.

Eight eyes stared back at him from the gloom, their whites shining. Only Mustang didn't look. He stood with his back turned, engaged in a call. He had the receiver propped between his ear and shoulder in that way Fuery always tried to master but failed. It must have something to do with the jaw, he thought.

At a loss, and temporarily spooked by the darkness and somewhat judging looks, he saluted again, clicking his heels. "Sirs!"

The eyes continued staring back, including those of Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Her hand was perched on her hip, finger resting on her pistol like a cobra on a desert rock.

The only sounds were Mustang's short affirmations, a collection of grunts and sighs. In the silence and the soupy darkness, Fuery actually started to sweat. What the hell was this? Fuery's hand remained at his temple, stilled through disbelief more than anything else.

Suddenly, a laugh exploded in the quiet. A red-headed Warrant Officer ambled to his feet, guffawing from far down in his belly. Mustang's back froze and he issued a sharp glance of disapproval over his shoulder. He resumed his call with his head tucked down between his shoulders, eagle-like and desperately private.

"You born in a field, cub?" Breda asked, moving up behind Fuery and tapping the door closed behind him with his foot. He clapped a big hand down on his shoulder. "Ignore this lot, they've got no manners this time of the morning."

Havoc snickered and pulled the corners of his mouth down in amused agreement.

Hawkeye stepped out from behind her desk. She returned his salute, maybe even smiled a little. It was hard to tell. "At ease, Corporal."

The Sergeant, who until that time had remained silent and watchful, spoke then. "Wasn't it supposed to be Marshall?"

Breda came back to Fuery, resting his hand on his shoulder again. He swung his large face around to study Fuery. "This isn't Marshall?"

"Why, no. Marshall's... I'm -"

"Who isn't Marshall?"

Fuery's eyes shot up to meet Mustang's inky, fierce stare. The Lieutenant Colonel held the phone away from his ear, waiting.

When Fuery didn't answer after a time (his mouth engaged in flapping uselessly), Mustang sighed dramatically and changed his weight from one hip to the other. He raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not, Sir," Fuery answered at last, his eyes darting from one juror to the next. "I'm Kain Fuery. I was told you needed a technician." What was this!

Mustang turned back to face the covered window. "Get rid of him," he said, not bothering to look back. He was kind of an asshole, Fuery realised with a start.

The tiniest imaginable scowl crossed Hawkeye's face, while the Sergeant merely turned back to his work with a sniff.

Breda sighed beside him, massaging his shoulder a little with his heavy hand. He turned him and guided him back towards the door, speaking with a rumbling near-whisper.

"Don't be sore, kid. He's been like a devil all morning and nobody's safe – not even the Lieutenant there."

Reaching the door, Fuery shook his head. He asked in a whisper, "Is he always like this?"

Havoc, who'd join them to deposit Fuery's toolkit, did so and leaned on the wall. He shrugged. "Nah. Nah. He's not a bad sausage."

Breda nodded. "Not at all. And we really were expecting Marshall."

That was it. What was their problem? He was a technician! He was qualified and what's more, he had more smarts than Marshall ever had. For one, he wasn't a dirty, no good, alcoholic like Marshall, stinking of cheap port and sleeping at the switchboard.

He tugged his toolkit closer to his body. "Well good luck, Sirs! You'll be waiting a long time, 'cos Marshall's been in the can since last night for passing out at the board and laying two MPs up in hospital because he missed their back-up call."

The phone clicked behind them.

There was that voice again, cold, deep and almost toneless. Like the guy who reads the transport forecasts on the NA Radio.

"And what do you make of that, Corporal?"

Fuery blinked back. There was something more to this question. Even an idiot could see that.

The alchemist laughed, his teeth bright white in the muddy room. "Do you always fret so over the simplest questions?"

Ass. "I believe that no question is ever simple, Sir, and I believe your aim is to have me speak ill of my superior."

"Who's incarcerated. Negligence kills in a job like ours."

"No judgement has been passed. The technicality remains that I am his subordinate, and bound by that."

Mustang's smile deepened. He reached in front of him and plucked a cigarette from a silver case. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, eyes still locked on Fuery. The Corporal hadn't even realised he was wearing his gloves until then.

"Are you always so faithful, Corporal?"

Hawkeye's large brown eyes darted to Mustang. "Sir," she said, though Fuery had not a single notion what that single word could possibly mean.

The door closed behind him.

"You needn't worry. It's a simple question, Lieutenant Hawkeye – or, as simple as questions can ever be. Have I got it right, Corporal?" He took a long draw on his thin cigarette.

"Sir," Fuery started, a little too brusquely. He collected himself and started again. "Sir, I just got a notice to come and look at your telephone. I'm a technician. I can satisfy any technical queries you might have and nothing else."

Mustang laughed and exhaled through a somewhat amazed pout. "What's your name?"

"Fuery, Sir. Kain Fuery."

"Fuery!" Mustang exclaimed as if in wonder, though it was really said with meanness, a sort of jeer. "You're kind of like a walking oxymoron. That's pretty... how would you say it... neat?"

Fuery bit his tongue for fear of reminding Mustang of the neat difference between a horse and an ass.

He shook his head. "Sir, I -"

"Please," Mustang said, hand racing out to pause Fuery. "Telephone your answer when you've worked it out."

With that, he took another deep drag, grabbed his coat from the hook and strode out from behind his desk. He extinguished his cigarette on a saucer sitting innocently on the edge of Hawkeye's desk, heedless of the charming, colourful biscuits there. To her answering look of pure astonishment, he blew a patronising, tacky and wholly inappropriate kiss. He even threw in a wink for good measure.

As he vanished through the door he called back an unbothered, "Have a look at the phone, kid. Knock yourself out."

Fuery stood in the middle of the floor, and shook. He couldn't feel it, being so numb with rage and humiliation, but the clattering of his tools in the kit gave him away.

"Well," Havoc drawled, slouching back to his desk. "That was something."

Breda plodded back too, snatching up one of the biscuits from Hawkeye's saucer and blowing ash from the top of it. "He really outdid himself this time." He popped the biscuit in his mouth, then turned to Fuery as if just remembering he was there. "Hey," he said through a mouthful. "Don't let him get to you, kid. Got to just let him do his thing and keep out of the way as best you can."

Fuery sniffed, despising the office, the team and the heat in his cheeks. "Don't, do, got to... Don't, do, got to... that's all it is. Over and over..."

Havoc lit up then. "Sounds like somebody should have become a baker instead of a soldier. Listen kid, be thankful you're following orders and not making them, that's all we have to worry about at our level."

"Even bakers gotta bake, Havo," said Breda. "Hey, Fuery. Just... you know, prove him wrong. Fix his phone. Mustang's the sort of guy who expects the worst in people, being an alchemist etc, etc, so just fix his phone."

Collecting himself as much as he could, Fuery held his toolkit tight against his side and made his way to the sleek black phone on Mustang's desk.

"What's wrong with it anyway?" he asked.

Hawkeye had returned to her seat, and spoke quietly without looking. "It's picking up a lot of interference. We think there's a bug."

"Huh," was all Fuery said. He threw his toolkit up on the desk, not minding the prim little cigarette case. He stifled a satisfied huff of laughter, hearing it crunch a little underneath the heavy metal box. Rolling his sleaves up, he started to work on the phone.

Just twenty minutes in, he'd opened up the body of the phone, cleaned the whole thing up and – surprising even to him – found a bug. A good bug, straight from the labs. The best in the world.

His fingers froze on the yellows and blues of the plastic entrails. There it was, just sitting there, red light flashing. The MX220 was a radio device which would explain the interference on the line, but its signal was the strongest of any known bug. It was also wired into the electrics of the phone so that it required no battery but just sat there, quiet and busy and very, very dangerous.

Now here was a conundrum. If the bug came straight from the labs, it meant that it wasn't just some jealous ladder climber who was after Mustang, but someone really well connected. It could be assumed then, that the person who was behind such a device being planted surpassed Mustang in rank. So where did that leave Fuery's loyalty, and professionalism at that?

There was also the small matter that Fuery loathed everything about Mustang, personally and philosophically speaking. The man was an unmitigated swine, ballbag and one-time desert-fiend.

His thoughts were interrupted as Hawkeye deposited a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Her smile was now as bright as the sound of the teaspoon on the crockery, all discomfort gone from her since Mustang's departure.

"I would offer you a biscuit, but unless you like smoked bourbon creams..."

Fuery smiled back, genuinely touched and more than a little affronted on behalf of this consummate professional and recognised ace. Mustang had winked at her for God's sake. It was unthinkable. His mind was made up then. Fuck Mustang, was the unanimous consensus of heart and head. "No," he said, smiling back. "No, it's fine. I'm finished here anyway."

He started piecing together the phone again, and was perhaps too scared of being caught to note the look of surprise on the Lieutenant's face. It was gone as soon as it materialised.

"You found nothing?" Hawkeye asked.

Within the twenty seconds since he decided to keep the bug hidden, his heart had started beating double time. The question, and Hawkeye's steady gaze did nothing to aid matters.

"Nothing at all," he answered, screwing on the base of the phone as steadily as he could. If the brass wanted him tapped, then Mustang must have been up to no good – or had a personality deserving suspicion at least. Were Mustang to find out about Fuery's own 'negligence' what would happen then? The alchemist was certainly powerful enough to wreak significant damage with the technician's career. This was tricky, very much so.

Still, if Mustang made enemies of the higher-ups, who was he – Fuery The Oxymoron – to put things right. He was a technician, not a member of the Secret Service.

Within mere minutes, the phone sat gleaming and whole once again on the Colonel's smooth desk. The same couldn't be said for the cigarette case which now sported a large dent, almost the length of it.

His heart racing, Fuery forced himself to pack his tools away in the same orderly fashion he unpacked them. He felt the eyes of the staff on him, but whenever he glanced up, they were all busy scrawling and leafing, yawning and pistol cleaning.

Pistol cleaning. Hawkeye smiled up at him, sensing his gaze on her. He smiled back and snapped shut the lid of his toolbox. The noise was like a judge's hammer.

He left with a bow and not a further word for fear of the small team hearing a lie in his voice.

There were fifteen floors and an entire wing between Mustang's office and the basement where Fuery worked. It took just a quarter of that distance for Fuery to stumble to a stop, sweating bullets and weighed down by the great guilt that had grown on him like a crust.

Mustang was right. He was a sap.

Soldiers broke the rules all the time, officers even more so. Guys stayed out past their curfews and bribed the night watchman, Colonels turned over poker tables in fits of rage, refusing to pay up at the casino, threatening shut-downs and worse... but here was Fuery, knowingly implicating himself in espionage. If the tables turned and he was accused of criminal negligence, he could wind up in the slammer next to Marshall. And if Mustang had anything to do with it, he would probably see him on the first train North to Drachma.

The simple fact of the matter was, he was either a professional or a coward but either way he was going back to that office to tell them there was a bug in the damn phone.

If possible, Mustang ratcheted up a notch on Fuery's most-hated list.

Mustang stared at his phone. Or rather, Mustang continued to stare at his phone, as he had done since he'd heard Fuery leave and returned to his office. He'd been optimistic for all of half a second before Hawkeye shook her head, No. The boy hadn't worked out.

"You think he's practising his powers of levitation?" Havoc asked Breda quietly. Breda, mindful of the Colonel's now genuinely bad mood, said nothing.

Falman tapped his pencil against the leather panel on his desk. "The odds were very promising."

"Well thank God we're not banking on odds alone," Mustang mumbled. He reached out and turned the back of the phone towards himself, looking at it in the same manner he would a stain, a dog turd or indeed, most children.

Speaking as she shuffled some papers into a neat rectangle Hawkeye counselled, "We can't be lucky all the time, Sir. There'll be other technicians."

"Except all the other technicians are twice the kid's age and as crooked as the road to Xing," supplied Breda.

Mustang puffed out his cheeks and released the air slowly. He twirled the telephone cord with one gloved finger. "Breda's right. Until we find another suitable candidate, Falman, you should continue your night schooling. We need someone who's able to change a plug at least."

"Still though, Sir," Havoc grinned. "That was some performance. Even I sort of bought it."

"Maybe it was too much?" Hawkeye asked. "He's a boy of very solid morals. His sister runs a liberal press in the West and his uncle's a union man."

Breda laughed. "The wink was a little uncalled for, surely?"

Mustang shook his head. "There's no such thing as too much. He's a technician. He should have been looking for the lie in the equipment, not the person." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn him. I really wanted him."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Hawkeye called, though her eyes were on Mustang, surprised and cautiously gleeful.

The door turned and young Corporal Fuery entered, his eyes pinned to the floor and his toolkit still in hand.

He took a deep breath and saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, Sir!"

"Corporal. I see you -"

"Please be quiet and allow me to finish, Sir. There's a bug in your phone."

Havoc swivelled his chair towards Breda, all googly eyes and open mouth. Smiling, Breda waved him off with a hand, too engrossed in this show of bravery, albeit totally unnecessary bravery. By now Mustang was smiling too. Not that smirk, but the real deal. The one that knocked socks off and lit up his eyes like the Grand Central Hotel.

"Corporal, you -"

Fuery set his toolkit down on Falman's desk. The Sergeant looked mildly horrified at the dark scuffs on the corners of the tin.

"And lucky you are too that I came back to tell you. That bug's the best in the business and would have had you strung up in no time!"

Mustang laughed, a short yelp of a thing. "Fuery, I -"

"I joined this military to serve the people of Amestris in the best way I could, and that's machines. So yes, I'm a mousy technician. Just like every other mousy technician. With all due respect, Sir, you can't expect everyone to run around with their coattails flying like you. Some people have got to fix the wires and dig the ditches. In fact, the way you treat your staff is downright ugly. The Lieutenant there -"

Hawkeye stepped forward, pacifying hands waving. "Please Corporal, that's really not -"

"It is, Ma'am... Sir," said Fuery, missing Havoc silently howl at 'Ma'am-Sir'. "Colonel Mustang, that's all I came to say. There's a bug in your phone and I'm sorry I didn't report it at the time. I let your ugly attitude get in the way of my own ethics, but I won't be pushed or pulled into doing something I think is wrong. It just took me a while to work it out this time."

There was silence.

"So, there. Do with me what you will."

More silence. Hawkeye coughed a little, but that didn't really count. Mustang took a deep breath, looking utterly lost for words. Fuery decided to help him along. He'd be out of work tomorrow at best. At worst, Mustang would have him hauled in front of a disciplinary. Maybe even frame him for the bug.

"I'm sure you want to call down to personnel."

Mustang puffed out his cheeks again and nodded an emphatic, Yes.

Fuery closed his eyes. There it was, then. The end of his fledgling military career, all because he saved the skin of an officer he hated. What the hell would he do for an officer he liked?

"Take a seat, Fuery," Mustang said quietly from behind his hands which were folded delicately at his mouth.

Fuery looked up, incredulous. "I'm sure it won't take that long, Sir."

Mustang's eyes were gleaming, black pools dancing in the scant light. He dropped his hands to the desk. His teeth really were very white. "Falman, get me personnel on the phone, will you? Tell them I want Fuery's papers with me by close of play today. If they want to argue, tell them you'll happily patch them through to Grumman. He's waiting for their call."

Mustang's eyes leapt back to Fuery. "Grumman supplied us with the bug."

"Huh?" Fuery managed, which was commendable, given that all the blood had rushed to his feet. He felt light-headed. Was this a sting? Some kind of latent test following his diploma? He was waiting for the military police to rush in at any second.

The Lieutenant Colonel nodded to Breda who stood and wheeled a chair across to face Mustang, he then guided a dumbstruck Fuery to sit in it.

"I suggest you take a seat, kid," he said, clapping the back of his neck. He leant down and whispered in his ear, "Well done, by the way. We were rooting for you."

"Damn sure!" laughed Havoc. "Word is you're a lousy poker player."

Mustang sat back in his high leather chair, the image of an emperor who'd just won the war and all the world. He steepled his fingers in front of him.

"I'm afraid we haven't been entirely honest with you, Corporal," he said.

Fuery stared, open-mouthed. A shard of light broke in from under the blinds behind Mustang and bounced off the dented cigarette case in the bin beside the desk. Its opened lid showed it was empty, and Fuery knew that what Mustang said then, was very likely the truth.


Central City, 2nd November 1915

Sing a Song of Sixpence. Give me your worst.


He was getting a cold.

Balancing the huge, tabloid-sized ledger across his lap, Ed reached up and felt the sides of his neck. He felt the tender hardness of his swollen glands beneath. The cool air of the lab did nothing to help. Though Bormann had let him know he was lucky to have an office of his own at all. Most of the other alchemists worked in a sort of factory environment, all toiling towards the same horrible end.

"Shit," he said. He ran a hand through his hair and considered the huge tome again. Each page of each volume of research held three to four arrays, each with their own notes. Occasionally there were pictures attached and details of the 'subjects' on which the experimental arrays were used. Bormann had assured him that any human candidates had been prisoners sentenced to death, but when Ed had mentioned Armstrong's pitiful condition, the secretary had merely chuckled, saying that he'd 'quite forgotten.'

He'd then offered Ed prisoners of his own, should he wish to try out his research before subjecting the Colonel to it.

Ed wondered if Bormann was even aware of the extent of his monstrosity. He talked about such horrors with a lightness that more befitted a friendly game of pinochle. The young alchemist really couldn't decide which was scarier; a knowing or an oblivious fiend.

He swallowed past his sore throat and turned back to the volume. In the twenty or so hours he'd been sifitng through the research, he did see flashes of promise and the occasional breakthrough but the early research was an unmitigated disaster. Any animals who weren't 'lucky' enough to wind up as 'pets' in Bormann's office were simply liquidised on the spot. They suffered from aneurysms, serious blod clots and worse, as some of the early shots revealed. There's a lot of matter in the cranium, and if it's altered in the wrong way then... well, it's like the fireworks festival at Xingese New Year.

An image of Mustang dead and bleeding from the ears flashed before him. Dead by his hands just because he'd missed something, because he wasn't good enough.

Or because Mustang wanted it that way, a voice whispered.

"Shit! Shit and shit!" Ed shouted and slammed the book closed. He let it slip to the ground.

His eyes stung with the familiar heat of tears. His hand shook and grabbing a handful of hair did little to still it.

The impossibility of the whole situation swelled above him like a thundercloud. The impossibility of the entire team dead, of Hughes secretive and permissive, of Mustang wounded, unsure and fragile.

Where was Hawkeye's strong calm and clear guidance? Where was Havoc's syncopated intelligence, his wry, solid assurances? Where was Breda's back-of-house wheelings and dealings? Fuery's loyalty? Falman's consistency?

Nowhere. No. Not nowhere. Tolven. In the shitty Tolven earth, food for the fucking plants or whatever the fuck grew there.

Ed thumped the desk and whispered, "Fuck you, Hughes." Though he didn't mean it. He really didn't, but he had to lash out somewhere now that Bormann had all their dicks in his hand, ready to give them the squeeze if they put one foot wrong. Hughes had probably spent the whole day since the funeral looking for him, and here he was, in his secret cave designing the despicable.

Just impossible.

Gathering himself, he regarded his work so far. It was scattered before him on the table in a wide arc of crumpled sheets, scribbled notes and dirty napkins. He certainly had something. He could see the parts, and had worked those out in a matter of hours, but the question was the whole. To complete step A and not say, step C, in a sequence of even forty of fifty steps could spell the end of Mustang, or maybe even of Ed. It wouldn't be the first time an alchemist died in pursuit of this lunatic project. Everything had to be perfect. From The Swallow, as Bormann called it – the part that registered experience – to The Recall, every single step of the array had to be not only perfect, but sustainable. There would be no point in Ed perfecting an array that worked at X point in time, only to discover one week later that Mustang couldn't remember where he left his car keys or whether or not he did up his fly.

Ed groaned. The phone in front of him held the promise of calling Hughes, but the funeral was only yesterday and since Ed didn't attend, he was feeling more than a little sheepish. While Hughes was burying the memory of the team in a figurative sense, Ed was being a little more literal, as far as Mustang was concerned at least.

And there it was. That deep, deep sense of betrayal again. Every now and then as Ed worked, it swept up his spine like a bad chill. For while Ed trusted Hughes – his closeness to Mustang as well as the man's inarguable intellect – he couldn't help but feel he was doing wrong by his lost and ailing friend. Were it a case of Ed and Al, would Ed reveal the truth knowing he was practically putting the gun against his own brother's temple? No. He absolutely couldn't. He would pick up the same burden Hughes had, and would live with it. Ed laughed, a sour bark of a thing, and considered whether he and Al hadn't already done that, maybe even twice over. Their mother, their pact... the lies they told themselves, each other and everybody else.

But Mustang... or Hawkeye...

Ed couldn't help but think that were the shoe on the other foot, Mustang would have had the job done by now. If he knew what was in store for his friend: a spectral existence, living in the shadow of memory, without love or a past; without anything but the military road stretching ahead through blood and honour, war and toil – yes, Mustang would have ended it by now. He would have told Hughes an old joke and while the man was laughing, wiping tears from his eyes, Mustang would snuff him out like a candle.

As for Hawkeye, Ed had no doubt that she would save the soul of the Flame Alchemist before she'd spare his body, and the only answer was death. His mind played out the scene: she'd bring him coffee he hadn't requested, and in that moment of light confusion, she'd kill him. One bullet for him, then maybe – probably? - one for her.

So where did that leave Ed? If Hughes thought that Mustang's fate was such an inevitability, then he had two choices (though for a sickening five minutes in the early hours that morning, he'd considered his third choice: flee and do some forgetting of his own). He could design the array as well as he could and spare Mustang's mind at least, or he could rig the array and kill Mustang right there, under Bormann's nose. It was then a given that Ed would be the next candidate, and would lose any memory of Al and Hughes and everyone else, forever. He couldn't allow that to happen.

But you'd do it to Mustang, the voice said.

The voice was right. And besides, hadn't Ed got the message to Mustang anyway? Despite Hughes? He'd led Mustang by a trail of breadcrumbs to the truth about his fate, and surely that was as dangerous as telling him outright. Was he then urging Mustang to kill himself where Ed nor Hughes nor anyone else was brave enough?

Ed stood and stretched. His back gave a series of little pops and his automail leg felt especially tired since he'd been sitting for so long. He looked at his notes again.

Of course the best way to ensure his success was to use the prisoners and terminal patients Bormann had offered him. Ed had answered the offer with a tantrum that would have made Mustang proud, being one of his best and most explosive. He was already operating in a moral swamp, but there had to be some limits to this insanity. He would never ever consider testing alchemy on humans, living or dead.

Mustang did. In Ishbal. Had he considered it impossible once, too?

"Piss... Off," Ed whispered.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to breathe and to think, far away from arrays and pictures of monkeys with shaved heads. He needed some grounding and maybe a little inspiration.

He was on a tram and heading to the hospital ten minutes later.

The infirmary was quiet at this time of the day - that awkward space just past dinner, when most families had returned home and others had yet to arrive. Many of the patients would be sleeping, tired out by a day's healing. Ed knew it too well: convalescence was a prick.

Wary of the green-eyed, perky nurse whose sole redeeming quality was access to a cooked breakfast, Ed made his way towards Mustang's room. He knew as soon as he turned the corner that something was wrong. Something about that open door and the crusty mop-bucket outside made his heart leap in his chest. From within, whistling could be heard: Sing a Song of Sixpence. Ed raced towards the room.

He nearly slipped on the soapy mess at the threshold as he pushed open the door. The windows were open and the bed was stripped. The room stank of disinfectant.

On the floor, on hands and knees was a cleaner. His cloth was brown with bad blood. Still ignorant of Ed, he pulled it back and forth streaking the floor like a kid with his first box of watercolours.

Ed stumbled further into the room. The cleaner paused his whistling and looked back over his shoulder.

"Oh," he said.

Ed's wide eyes drank in every detail of the cleaner's face in that moment. Even forty years from now, he was sure he could describe every last thing about that man's face.

He'd done it. Mustang had cracked his code and done the deed with all the speed and conviction Ed knew him capable of.

"What," he started, and stopped swallowing. "When did he - ? When?"

The cleaner sat back on his heels. He wrung out his cloth into an orange tub by his side and slapped it down on his lap as he thought.

"Last night... at least," he said, blue eyes searching for the details. "No." He turned and pointed a finger at Ed, suddenly enlightened. "I'll tell you when it was, just about the time of the big funeral across the way. They say he just snapped, couldn't take it. That Hughes fellow was right and upset when he found out. Thought he was going to tear the whole building down."

Ed tottered to the bed, his flesh leg threatening to buckle. His eyes stung and the first tears dripped fat and hot down his cheeks.

"That bastard," he said into his palms. "Mustang you bastard."

The cleaner had stilled where he sat and regarded Ed a while. Then after a time he stood and sat beside him on the bare mattress. "Come on now," he said, jostling Ed a little. "It's not all bad. They say there's all sorts of new treatments for this kind of thing. Mental like."

Ed closed his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest with that awful rhythm of he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead. He took each word the cleaner had spoken and chewed on it carefully. He did it twice over, and only after that, did he dare to ask, "He's not dead?"

The cleaner sucked in a great big breath and shook his head. "What? No!" He grabbed Ed by the shoulder. "He's up on the fourteenth floor, high as a kite. Broke his arm apparently – shattered it. They say it was like a bag of marbles by the time they got him to surgery."

"Oh my God," Ed said, unsure if he was angry or positively in love with the cleaner. He would have socked him or kissed if he wasn't already on his feet and dashing for the door.

"Hey!" the cleaner called.

Ed spun back and just about caught the small metal object the man flung at him.

"They forgot his thingy. Found it on the post there," the man said, then rose from the bed to begin his work again.

Ed muttered a thanks, pocketed the chain and sped out of the room.

The fourteenth floor was even quieter than the twelfth, with only a few nurses and one tired looking doctor in sight. After a few enquiries, and more than a few strange looks – for Ed was still red-eyed and short of breath from his premature mourning – he managed to find Mustang's new room.

He placed his hand on the door knob and took a deep, steadying breath. Calming himself, he entered as quietly as he could, and without looking back, gently closed the door.

The room was dark; a muted space of gloomy browns and the soft bleeping of equipment. There were no flowers here, no little touches, and the time could have been anywhere from high noon to midnight. This was a sick space, and frightfully sad.

The Colonel lay on his back, wired up like a transistor radio. His eyes were open, just, but he hadn't registered Ed's presence in the room. Couldn't, maybe. His skin was ghastly, stretched across his high cheekbones that had degraded from sharp and killer to jutting and skeletal. Ed imagined you could serve soup out of the hollows in his cheeks, they were so pronounced. An oxygen tube snaked into his mouth while two others ran into his right hand and down beneath his blankets. Then another two ran up from his arm, or from what was left of it.

They'd amputated it from just beneath the shoulder.

"Oh Colonel," Ed moaned and fell to his knees beside him. He braved a touch, and ran the back of his fingers along the man's jaw, but still there was no response. Mustang's dead, drugged eyes just went on staring.

"Why? Why Mustang?" Ed asked, eyes searching, burning, pushing through for some response. "I shouldn't have told you. Hughes was right. I'm such a selfish idiot. What a bum, what a stupid fool."

Not for the first time since the nightmare began, Ed wept. He dragged himself to the other side of the bed and bending double, wept into the bare skin of Mustang's right arm until the sheets were soaked beneath it. He cried until there was nothing left, all in the company of a commander who was absent from himself – jettisoned from the world by painkillers, his eyes too much like Armstrong's.

Forty minutes later, Ed left the hospital, having stayed with the unseeing Mustang until the man's eyes drifted shut and he fell into an equally unknowing slumber.

Outside the hospital grounds, Ed found the first public phonebooth he could. He dialled the number he knew by heart by now.

"Bormann," Ed said. "I'll take 'em. The prisoners. Give me your worst."


Thanks chaps. xx