Yes, it's back. Heh, been awhile hasn't it? I realized a week or so ago that this hadn't been updated for about over a month and nearly died.
But I promise I won't ever do that again, unless God or Fate or whatever really hates me and gives me Cryptopsoridium again. Now this...is really a long chapter. So I hope you can forgive us. I already have chapter 8, 9, and 10 done. But not edited. I REALLY owe Kib, cause I'm starting to reallllly suck at writing and she's the one that's been saving my ass all this time. XD
This is after all a partner fic so I can't take all credit, heck..not even half. Lol.
So, yeah... here's the chapter...
Michael rested his head back against the hallway wall, tapping his foot against the leg of the chair he was slouched on as he gazed into the distance, trying to stave off boredom. This place was driving him nuts. Working in the prison cells was the worst job he had ever been forced into, and he'd tried a few. He'd rather have any of the other tasks he'd groaned and grumbled his way through, even dish duty… other than interrogation and torture, of course. That went without saying. Michael hated it here, the solitude, the constant buzzing of dim electric lighting and the oppressive feeling of misery in the air. He just wished he could go home, back to his father's farm and his pretty fiancée next door. He'd have given anything just to live a normal life again… but he'd been drafted into the army and had had to join the war with Amestris.
He didn't understand the reasoning for declaring war in the first place. It was a common topic of conversation between the Benolean soldiers, usually discussed in frightened whispers interspersed with fearful glances around the area for informers. There was always the odd fanatic who was willing to sell out his own comrades just to bask in his officer's praise for a minute or two. Generally, they were men who'd lost homes, friends and family in the war between Amestris and Drachma, glad to be able to pin all their hatred and revenge on one of the two great nations. What Michael couldn't understand was why Amestris? It had been a while ago, but as far as he knew, Amestris had been the only one of the two to engage in diplomatic relations with the tiny little Benole. So why exact all that retribution on the country that had tried for peace before reverting to force?
And what exactly was going on with the alchemists? If the President had just declared the State Alchemists outlaws, he would have understood – they were human killing machines, after all, using their gift for destruction and intimidation. But declaring alchemy a forbidden art? He didn't see what was so bad about it. As a matter of fact, Michael had read alchemy books and even attempted an array once on the barn floor when his father and mother were away on a trip. He had obviously got something wrong or just didn't have the gift – all he was left with when he finished were some rather curious cows and a mess of chalk on the ground for him to clear up.
If anyone ever found out about that he would probably be executed for treason, no matter how long ago it had been.
Sighing, he turned in his seat and stared at the empty cell, glad for the silence for once. It was never silent when he was here – always the mumbling, the sobbing, the tapping and the singing. He wasn't sure when that damn kid had started to have a problem with the silence, but he didn't blame him – he hated it almost as much. It was only now, when that silence signified the absence of suffering, that he could finally appreciate it.
That damn kid was the worst part of his job. He'd felt nothing for him in the beginning – he was just another prisoner, like all the others he'd been set to guard – but then, when the torture started and the kid didn't plead, beg or break, just sat there and took it… a grudging admiration took root, despite all his attempts to quash the positive feeling towards his 'enemy'. At least once a day they would come for him then bring him back hours later bloodied, bruised and shaking, but still that determined glare never wavered. Then one day, he hadn't come back. Michael was sent to another post, and it was six days before they told him he was needed again. He returned to the high security complex to find a broken alchemist curled up in the corner, seeing things that weren't there and talking to people who couldn't hear him. Just hearing the poor kid screaming for it to stop would make Michael break orders and spin round to look despite himself… but nothing was ever wrong, except the fearless, unbeatable young man suddenly a mere child, trembling on the ground looking like a loon. After the first few times, Michael had spun round and shouted hoarsely at the kid, yelling, "There's nothing there, now shut the fuck up!" After that, the screams had stopped and he felt guilty for frightening the already terrified captive, but the young alchemist seemed incapable of remaining silent. With every heart-rending moan, Michael was left with the constant reminders of what his superiors – his people – had done.
He didn't understand why he had to stay in this part of the building and guard the helpless prisoner – other than the kid, this place was empty, and there hadn't been a single attempt to escape since day one. His orders were never look at the prisoner, never to speak with him, and never to touch him, unless the young alchemist tried to escape and then he was to use a tranquilizer. But what was the point? The kid had nothing more in him to give. He spent more time in the infirmary than the cell now. The boy was on his last legs – and Michael was sure that he wouldn't use his last breath to betray his country.
There was a loud slamming noise as the door at the end of the hall opened and people hurried in. Michael shot off his chair and saluted, afraid of a higher up, but his hand only reached halfway up as he stared shocked at the people who entered.
"Don't just stand there, open the cell," a man snapped, and Michael's attention instantly switched to him as he straightened and hastily finished his salute. "There's been a break in and these two are not to leave, understand?" Even as he turned to the door, Michael's gaze kept slipping sideways to where the officer was gripping a slender, blonde young woman by the arms. She was young and pretty – she must have been in her late teens, but as her head hung low and her hair covered her face, he couldn't say for sure. Michael wondered if she was unconscious. The squeak of the deliberately unoiled hinges was like a signal for the officer to march the girl forward towards the cell door as it swung open, allowing Michael to catch a glimpse of the other guard for the first time. To his horror, the other man had that kid again, and he was startled to see the boy struggling for once, fighting despite the bag over his head and his missing arm. They were the struggles of a wild animal that had just escaped from a predator closing in for the kill. What did they do to him this time?
"Understood, sir," Michael replied belatedly as he sat back down, keeping his eyes lowered. The guard with the girl opened the cell and shoved her in roughly, not even blinking when she yelled out and slumped to the ground like a rag doll. Michael had to bite his tongue to not speak out and tell these guys to lighten up and be easier on them; they were little more than kids after all. All that stopped him was the knowledge that he'd just get a crack in the mouth if he ever tried telling them what to do, and the prisoners would probably get rougher treatment next time just to spite him.
When the two soldiers finally left, Michael risked a look into the cell. It was indeed the kid he had been guarding for a month – Fullmetal was his name, he thought, though surely that was some kind of codename. He was certainly the most active Michael had ever seen him since the six-day incident, whatever that had been, kneeling down beside the girl and trying to help her up. She was limp and trembling – it didn't look like she wanted to get up any time soon.
"Come on, Win," the boy was pleading, "I'm so sorry… this is all my fault!" His voice broke as he helped her sit up, heedless of the mangled-looking hand that he was using to support her back. Michael cringed. Obviously the splint had broken… again. "I am so sorry… I'm… Winry, I'm…"
Following the girl's eyeline down to her shaking hands, the young guard winced again. He could see the dark black and blue that they were, and the look on the boy's face and a sick twist in his own stomach told him that they had used her in a torture against the Fullmetal kid. It was a familiar tactic – many soldiers who wouldn't save themselves would do anything to save their comrades – but that didn't make it any less disgusting.
"I-is…" Michael began, finding himself leaning in. He cleared his throat nervously. "… Is she okay?"
The kid glared up at him, seething. It was a look that Michael hadn't seen since the first few weeks the kid had been brought in, and the hatred in those golden eyes made him take a step back. "Why the hell should you care?! It's all of you bastards' fault in the first place!"
"Ed, it hurts," the girl, Winry, suddenly whimpered. Fullmetal's full attention instantly swung back to her, the loathing written all over his face dissipating in a split second. "Please… make it stop."
Michael shut his mouth and sat back down in the chair, facing away from them. He wanted to go get a nurse or something, maybe give her some sedative to help with the pain. He could offer to use the sedative in the tranquilizers he had, but if anyone found out he used it to help, he'd be in big trouble, especially since he eased the pain of a torture victim. Even the smallest amount of kindness from a guard could destroy the interrogation process, or so he'd always been told. Not that it had made much difference in the end.
He remembered just a few weeks ago how he had broken the rules to help the Fullmetal kid. He might not remember... but Michael would never forget.
~*~
Michael was doodling on a scrap of paper as usual, playing paper games with himself, trying to ignore the kid's groans. It was god awful listening to the kid; by now, even if he didn't look, he could tell just from hearing today's noises where he would be. This particular, pained, lost-sounding moan meant that he would be lying in a fetal position in the middle of the floor, shivering, staring wide-eyed at something outside the bars of his cell. Today, it seemed to be the back of Michael's heels. He shifted his booted feet experimentally, but there was no response, and he began wondering if the kid even knew he was there.
He shook his head and tried to take his mind off his task, putting paper and pen on his lap and leaning his head back on the wall behind him. In situations like this, there was only one thing he could think about that would successfully occupy all his thoughts. Helen. He pictured her face in his mind, a little smile on his lips. The last time he saw her, she was covered in mud from weeding her father's cabbage crop, smiling weakly as the tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. I'll see you again soon, she'd said desperately, holding him tight despite the dirt all over her. He hadn't minded. You'll be back soon, won't you?
What could he have said?
He sighed, shifting his leg over to keep it from going numb, forgetting the presence of the items on his lap. His pen dropped to the ground with a clatter and he reached down to grab it without thinking twice. He heard a gasp and a scuffling noise as his hand closed around the pen, and he jerked his head up to stare as a mangled, broken hand reached out for his.
There was a clang on the bars and Michael jumped back, clutching the pen and fumbling for the tranq gun at his hip. The kid was kneeling up shakily next to the bars, the clanging sound assumedly originating from the automail hand wrapped around one of the bars for much-needed support, and he was staring fearfully up at Michael. The young guard had never seen such wide eyes. "Is… a-are you…?" Forming words seemed to be an effort at first, before he licked dry, cracking lips and tried again. "Are you really…?" The other hand suddenly snapped up and clutched at another bar, the splint on the kid's hand also causing a loud clank to resound around the empty cell. Michael flinched. "Please, you've gotta say something!" the kid shouted, trembling violently. "Oh God! You have to say something! Please! Say something, anything!"
Biting his bottom lip, Michael fiddled with the pen in his hands for a moment, torn between sitting back down and pretending nothing was happening… and responding. He wasn't allowed to talk to the prisoners. He was under direct orders not to even look at this particular kid. But tears had started streaming from those wide, wide eyes as he leaned his forehead up against the bars, his crazed stare never wavering. Reaching a decision, Michael stood up and grabbed the keys from his pocket, then hesitated. Staring at the door at the end of the short passageway for a few minutes, he began wondering what he'd do if he was caught. The kid could have been… having a seizure, Michael reasoned. Yeah, that'll work. He nodded to himself and moved to the door, fumbling with the obscene number of locks. This could be a trick but he didn't really think it was. The kid looked broken down, and he was certain that nobody could have acted the terrible moans he'd been hearing for days.
Opening the door slowly to prevent any noise, the soldier eased into the small space and moved over to the kid, who had slumped against the bars, no doubt thinking himself alone again. His head was hanging, face hidden by his matted blonde hair, but Michael was certain there was no reaction as he walked across the cell towards him. Obviously, he'd need to announce his presence. "Hey, bud," he said brightly, trying not to sound as fearful as he felt. "Do you need anything?"
He watched the kid pull his head up and stare, dumb-founded, at the older man. He looked almost like he'd never seen another human being in his life, although Michael knew he'd been to the infirmary only days before. "Y-you're here?" he asked.
Michael nodded, smiling. He reached down and lightly ruffled the kids hair, watching him cringe fearfully. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt you. The name's Timlett, Michael Timlett. I'm the guy who sits outside all the time, so just chill… okay?"
The boy shuddered in response as he studied Michael with those strange, dimmed eyes. The soldier belatedly realized the kid must have been waiting for him to speak, and he chuckled gently, trying to make it a reassuring sound. The kid didn't want to be alone, obviously.
"You know what? I've never seen gold eyes," Michael began to ramble good-naturedly. It was the first thing he thought of, but it brought a confused blink to the oddly-colored eyes in question. "I met an Amestrian girl with reddish-orange eyes once; they were real pretty. But never gold. Where'd you get your eyes from? Did you use that alchemy of yours to get 'em?"
"They're not… really gold."
Michael grinned, glad to hear that stubborn tone again, not the fear-filled voice that sounded like the kid was looking death right in the eyes. "Really? They look it to me. I s'pose they could be light brown. But… I still think they're gold. Don't worry though… it's good to be different. I mean, who wants to look just like everyone else, right?'
Fullmetal stayed laying against the bars, the multi-colored flesh over his ribs pressing against the hard metal without even a flinch of pain or a shift of position to get more comfortable. He just kept on staring at Michael, as if afraid he'd disappear if he so much as blinked. "Different can get you killed," he breathed eventually, and Michael was startled at how sane the kid sounded. It had been a long time since he'd heard words that made any real sense from those lips. Was this really all from just talking to him? No wonder he'd been ordered not to even look at the kid, if the tiny kindness he'd extended could make this much of a difference. "You try to be different or act your own way… people won't like you for it. They might even try to destroy it. I've seen it… just look at what's happening to my country…" He laughed bitterly, and Michael was taken aback by the bitter cynicism in that laugh. "Just look at what's happening to me."
That hadn't been a child's laugh. For the first time, Michael wondered how old the alchemist was. He didn't look much older than sixteen, and certainly couldn't have been older than twenty, but… the owner of that laugh had seen… too much. "It'll be alright – " he started to say, but he was interrupted before he could even try and think of a believable reassurance.
"No. Look at me." The boy began laughing again as he sat up, grinning manically at Michael. "Look at me… I'm losing it! Hearing things that aren't there, seeing things that should be left in my imagination… Heh, I can't even think in a straight line anymore unless there's someone here. Tell me, whoever you are… do I look as crazy as I feel?"
Michael sighed and leaned against the cell bars, face softening with sympathy. He's not crazy, then. Crazy people don't know they are. Or, at least, that's what they always say. "We're all crazy, kid. Just look at the President, he's barki– " He froze, eyes widening as he shot a terrified glance outside the cell. They were still alone. Nobody had heard that… treason. "Don't tell anyone I said that," he whispered, suddenly afraid. "I'd be shot."
The kid didn't even seem to have noticed his guard's slip, but he had obviously been listening to the last part. Eyes sliding out of focus once more, those hazy yellow irises both managed to line up for long enough to pick out the firearm at his belt, and fix on it in a chilly stare. Michael blinked, then put a hand on it protectively in case he got any ideas. Perhaps the kid wasn't as far gone as he'd thought, if he was contemplating escape with an enemy's weapon. But it seemed that wasn't the case.
"Could you?" Fullmetal asked softly.
He blinked, nonplussed. "Could I… what?"
"Put a bullet in my head right now. Just tell them… tell them I snagged your gun when you weren't looking. They won't care. Just end it."
Michael felt a wave of sorrow at the way that small form sagged against the bars in resignation. The young, determined alchemist he had known was gone already. He really had given up. Recalling his request, the Benolean soldier considered it briefly – after all, it wasn't really murder when the person asked for it, was it? But Michael already knew the answer. He didn't want to kill anyone, even if that person wanted it. He couldn't bear taking someone's life from them.
"Sorry, kid. I can't do that. But…" He hesitated, then damned himself. He couldn't take this anymore. If he had to make a choice between loyalty and morality, it was only a matter of time before he made the decision he had wanted to from the start. He might never make it back to Helen, but he knew she would rather that than he let this go on any longer. After all... they'd always wanted children. "Kid, I swear… you'll get out of here sometime soon. I promise."
~*~
Buried once again in the half-dark of the familiar cell, a certain golden-eyed alchemist cradled Winry's hands in his, infinitely gentle, as if they'd fall to pieces if he squeezed them too hard. He was finding it hard to breathe at the sight of the damage to those beloved hands, as if a little more oxygen was sucked out of the air with each one of her sobs. The thumbs were swollen and black, looking almost like she had just been blackberry picking in the woods behind her house in Resembool… but even considerably less sane than he had been before this all began, he couldn't convince himself that was the case. It made him sick to think of how much it must hurt. He pulled her into a clumsy, one-armed hug to try to stop her crying, but it just seemed to make it worse. She buried her face against his chest and simply wept.
"Win, I'm so sorry," he pleaded, on the verge of hysterical tears himself. He just couldn't take this. Not now. Not after everything. "Please don't cry, Win... please..."
He had to get her quiet. He knew from past experience that if her crying pissed the guard off, he'd come in and do something about it. Most of the swellings and bruising around the back of Ed's head had been gained that way. He'd never let it happen to her, of course, but... he had to admit, even for Winry, he wouldn't be able to fight very well. Stealing a quick glance at the guard over Winry's head, he frowned and blinked. He looked familiar. That same dark auburn hair, an unusual color for a Benolean, and those soft blue eyes that never quite seemed able to meet his gaze. He blinked again in realisation. It had been that same guard this whole time? He remembered him – the one who talked to him whenever they were alone and nobody else could hear. Still… compassionate or no, it didn't matter. He was the enemy… and that was that. Ed could feel his head clearing up, the ever-present throbbing leaving with each new surge of adrenaline until he was beginning to be able to think straight. Maybe he wasn't insane after all. … That was a relief.
The exhausted alchemist leant his cheek against the soft head pressed into his chest as he felt his shirt growing wet. It always seemed to get wet with something. Mud, tears, sweat… mostly blood. His eyelids felt so heavy. All he wanted to do was sink into the restless sleep that was waiting to engulf his troubled thoughts, but Winry was hurt. He couldn't just leave her.
Suddenly, Ed heard the screech of unoiled hinges and he jumped, looking up as he tightened his grip on Winry protectively. He almost didn't notice the door opening for a while – he was used to it bursting open and slamming against the opposite wall, not this tentative, inching creep. Suspicious gold eyes glared up as and found themselves staring at the familiar guard as he stepped into the cell, that kindly face in shadow as it gazed down at the pair of them. He struggled to his feet, pushing Winry behind him as he put himself in between her and the guard. He'd had enough of watching Winry get hurt for one lifetime. "What the hell do you want?" Ed spat.
The guard smiled weakly back in the face of his fury, and Ed blinked in recognition despite himself. I think I know his name… he thought. What was it… M… Matthew? No… "I promised that you'd leave sometime, didn't I?" the man murmured, interrupting Ed's thoughts sharply. "We'd better leave now while everyone is busy with the intruders. Maybe they're even some of your mates."
Ed stared at him, gaping. He'd been prepared for a lot of things to come out of the man's mouth, but that hadn't been one of them. "What the hell is this?" he hissed, crouching into a defensive stance, ready to react in a fraction of a second to any threat. For surely, there must be a threat in there somewhere. It couldn't just be what it seemed, could it? "Do you really think I'd fall for that? What do you want?!"
"Come on, kid," the guard replied after a slight hesitation. "We don't have a lot of time. And… and I want to leave too. I can't take another day of this place, so I'm leaving while everything's heated up." He waited expectantly, but the boy only eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the trick. Glancing fearfully over his shoulder, the man continued in a low voice, running a hand through his short, spiky hair in a show of obvious agitation. "I'm gonna take you with me, or I'll never be able to live with myself, okay?! So let's go!"
Never dropping his hostile stance, Ed swallowed and looked behind him at Winry. She was kneeling behind him, one hand on his leg as if for support as her wide, shining eyes gazed up at the intruder. "It's okay, Win," Ed whispered, a fresh wave of guilt rolling over him at her expression. "I won't let anything happen to you." That's why I have to get you out before they find out I lied to protect you… regardless of the consequences, for him… or for me. He looked back over to the guard, a new, appraising light in his eyes. "I still don't trust you," he growled. "If you pull any funny shit, or even lay a hand on Winry… I'll kill you myself, got it?"
The guard smiled, throwing Ed for a loop. Had he been out of human contact for so long that he'd forgotten how people reacted, or was this guy just genuinely unpredictable? "That's the Fullmetal I remember the first day he got here," the man chuckled. "I kinda missed him."
Ed frowned. Matt, Mitchell, Malcolm… He shook his head, trying to clear it. Now wasn't the time. But… shit, he was tired. "Shut up," he muttered weakly. "Do you even have a plan?" He knew this was a long shot, but he was just about willing to take any chances possible that could mean getting Winry the hell out of this place. Even getting out of this prison block got him a little closer to Mustang and his fantasy chariots. But for that… he needed this guy's help. All he had to do was keep an eye on this bastard until they were home. Coming for to carry me home. Oh please. Just this once, please let it be the fairytale ending.
"Not really," the guard grinned, gesturing after him as he turned away out of the open door. "We'll make it up as we go. Come on. Let's get you out of here."
~*~
Snap.
Another loud explosion rocked the complex, and the Benolean soldiers turned tails and fled. Flames engulfed half the fort, lapping hungrily at prison walls and dark red coats alike. Mustang walked ahead of the others with a dark, vengeful smirk, trusting his companions to watch his back as he forced the enemy to back away from his ceaseless onslaught of blazing snaps. His middle finger and thumb were raw and bleeding from the friction of his new gloves, but the black ecstasy of watching this hated enemy beating a hasty retreat from his alchemy was too great for him to notice the pain. Just behind him, Al was taking out any soldiers or buildings he missed with a sharp, head-turning clap, followed by a rolling wave of earth that would put a tsunami to shame. In the gaps between the thunderous rumble of the earth moving and the booming explosions, Mustang could hear Al whispering his brother's name over and over again, an endless litany that allowed him to commit the atrocities that even seasoned battle experts feared. There was no ordinary squadron that could stand against their combined might.
Together, they were unstoppable.
It wasn't long, though, before Mustang suddenly became aware of a new, discomforting sensation in the air. It was almost as if there was a solid wall of particles that couldn't be manipulated, a barrier where his flames fizzled out and Alphonse's liquid rock returned abruptly to its original state. The alchemists glanced at each other, sharing a concerned look. They both remembered this feeling before from the Benolean attack on Central. "Cover for me!" Roy shouted, running forward. If this is the same thing as back then… Looking down, he saw it: the large array surrounding the camp, more complex than any he had ever seen. For a long moment, he simply stared, letting his eyes drink in the symbols with a scientist's addictive curiosity. Who dreamt this up?! However, one thing was for certain. The hypocritical bastards were using alchemy against them.
Al ran up behind him. "Colonel! What – "
A gasp of understanding escaped Al as Mustang dropped to his knees beside the deeply engraved array, stunned. So this was the only thing keeping the alchemists imprisoned in there? An array that blocked alchemy… the very idea made him shiver. The carved design had to be at least six feet deep, perfect geometric angles and lines stretching down into the darkness. They must have wanted to make sure no outsider was going destroy it easily. The Colonel looked up at his fellow alchemist, grinning nastily. They'll never underestimate an Elric again. "Alphonse?"
Al stepped forward, understanding instantly. "Got it," he said as he pressed his palms together and slammed them into the ground. At first, nothing happened, but then shudder and the ground broke apart in front of them, just on the outside of the circle. Smiling in understanding, Mustang watched as the crack widened. Alchemy couldn't directly affect the particles making up the array, but if enough pressure was put on the rock on either side, it would crumble of its own accord. The chasm widened and suddenly, the outer wall of the array fell in on itself, effectively smudging this part of the array. It didn't look like much compared to the enormous transmutation circle, but they both knew that no matter how small the damage to an array was, it would always be enough to render it ineffective.
Jumping over the rocks with a shared laugh of triumph, the group continued to make their devastating way towards the camp. Several guards were running away, while the brave, stupid ones stayed behind, tremulously aiming their rifles at the rebel alchemists. A snap from Mustang sufficed to scatter their hasty attack, fire exploding into the buildings over the guards' heads. Stone tumbled down towards them, and several of the men broke screaming from the group and ran. The air felt stiff with heat as Mustang smirked, feeling comfortable in his element after so long in hiding. He could see people in dark prison clothing milling towards the center of all the destruction, their faces filled with renewed hope. This was working all too well for them; they'd been expecting one of the hardest missions of their lives, but this was child's play. They'd have Ed out in no time, along with all these prisoners.
"Everyone, head that way!" Mustang yelled at the scattered people, pointing towards the broken walls. People were fleeing, helpless to their guard's bullets, and the screams were torture to his ears.
More shots rung out through the air and Mustang quickly scoured the area for soldiers, his fingers raised to snap. "Where are they?" he yelled over his shoulder. "I'll take them out!"
"Leave it to me!" Al was practically glowing with confidence as he clapped his hands and a pillar erupted out of the ground and slammed into several snipers, knocking them off their towers. Mustang saw a grin on Al's face that he hadn't seen in months. He must really be enjoying using alchemy after so long. Especially when it was all in the name of saving his brother.
~*~
Damn it all. They'd been running for all of two minutes, and he was already about ready to collapse. Ed stumbled to a halt, painfully aware that his breathing was too shallow and far too fast. Every little injury he'd thought had healed over the past two months was suddenly screaming again at the physical exertion and the pain was enough to make him want to pass out. He didn't even want to think about the throbbing bullet wound in his leg – he'd thought that was just healing scar tissue now, but the warm trickle down his ankle told him otherwise. Losing blood with his consciousness already this shaky wasn't one of his best plans to date.
"Wait!" he gasped out, watching as Winry and the guard turned to face him, seemingly surprised that he wasn't still beside them. Ha, so they haven't noticed I'm ready to drop. Brilliant. I can do this. "My arm," he continued, pausing briefly to haggle with his lungs over the price in oxygen of just those few words. "I can't leave… without it."
"Your automail?" the guard queried, frowning.
Ed nodded wearily.
"I'm not sure where they put it, kid. As far as I know they could have had it thrown out – "
"The infirmary," Winry interrupted, reaching for Ed's hand. He hesitated, then loosely wrapped his mangled fingers around hers. It was just more torture, and if it would help her feel better, he could put up with the pain. "They had me remove it when you first had symptoms of automail rejection. It should still be in the closet in the – "
"We don't have time for this!" the guard cut her off, moving sharply towards them. He stopped at Ed's heated glare, but met his gaze steadfastly nonetheless. "What's important is getting you out of here alive. Just forget it, at least you have your leg!"
"S'not that!" Ed slurred out, and again tried to get his breathing under control. "We'll get out alive… if I can use… my alchemy… to protect us," he said between breaths. "Someone took out the array… but I'll be… utterly useless… without my arm!" He coughed weakly, a hacking cough that made a pang stab into his ribs and his mouth suddenly taste metallic. "I need two to… to do alchemy. What if… f'we're caught?!"
"Well you're just going to have to trust me on this now, aren't you?!" the guy snapped, eyes flitting to the doorways after every few words.
The blonde alchemist found himself bearing his teeth in a feral snarl. The man just didn't understand. He refused to be helpless anymore. Never, ever again. "No!" he yelled. "You're gonna have to… trust me!"
"Will you two stop shouting?!" Winry screamed over whatever reply the guard made, more tears falling as she buried her face into the shoulder of Ed's shirt. Both of them stopped, startled out of their rage as they stared at her. "They're going to catch us! We can't get caught… we just can't! If they find out that Mustang isn't in Resembool, who knows what they'll do to us! Ed's right, let's just go get the arm!"
Staring the guard down, Ed frowned. His breath should have been coming easier by now, but every labored gasp was even more painful. They really bust up my ribs, didn't they? "It's either you stay with us… or go on your own." I thought it hurt more than usual when that guy hit me on the way back… he must have really hit the target. "We'll be at more of… more of an advantage… if I can use alchemy." I want to be able to defend myself next time. "I think… I think someone broke the… array that blocks it." I never want to go back there.
Sighing, the man – his name was still just on the tip of Ed's tongue – took his crimson hat off and dropped it to the ground in a gesture of defeat. "Fine, let's go to the infirmary," he said reluctantly.
Grinning wearily in triumph, Ed turned sharply to head back the way they'd come, towards his vague memories of the infirmary. His head had started to spin violently, but after getting his way, it'd be stupid to turn down the opportunity now. He didn't make it to the end of the corridor. The world took a sudden tilt to the side and the next thing he knew, Winry was standing over him, yelling his name. Funny, he thought faintly, blinking the sweat from his eyes. When did she learn to stand sideways?
"Edward Elric," Winry was saying desperately as she knelt down. "Look at me, damn you!" She reached out and shook his automail shoulder until his eyes slid sideways to her face.
"That hurts, dammit," he muttered breathlessly, rolling onto his front and scrabbling to all fours… well, threes.
"Ed, are you okay?"
Damn, why does she always have to cry? "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, flashing a tired half-grin up at her. Her suspicious, doubtful expression told the whole story. "… Well okay, not fine… obviously… but I'll manage." He tried to stagger to his feet, failed miserably, and slumped against the wall, his legs shaking. There was just no way he could move right then. The entire Benolean army could have been marching down the passageway towards them, and he wouldn't have been able to get up.
"Shit, we can't stop here!" In the corner of his eye, he could see the guard striding towards him, his hands clenching and unclenching in nervous fists by his sides. Ed had an abrupt recollection of seeing one of those hands reaching for a pen just in front of his nose not so long ago. When was that? "Come on, kid, please…" the guy pleaded, but Ed only shook his head.
"Can't," he said simply.
"Crap, we can't be found here." The man paced back and forth in front of him – another thing Ed remembered him doing. He must have been there all the time, he realised suddenly. Now wasn't the time for such thoughts, but he'd be damned if he could force his mind to stay on the subject right then. He was only just managing not to puke. It wasn't like there was anything in his stomach to throw up anyway. He must have seen me in my worst moments – that's probably why I barely remember him. I wasn't… in my right mind.
"I'm not leaving him!"
Oh be honest with yourself, Fullmetal. You were crazy. You still are crazy. You're talking to yourself – that's what crazies do.
"I know, neither am I! You think I'm doing this for you? I've had to sit and listen to them torture him for months!"
Oh hell, don't say Fullmetal. That's what they call me.
"I know! I know, I… I saw it!"
I suppose even being called 'kid' is better than that.
"Then stop whining and think for a minute – I won't let them take him back there!"
And he always calls me that. Him… "Michael…" he breathed as his memory finally supplied the name he'd been looking for. "Michael… Timlett."
There was a long pause, and then the guy's usually cheerful face suddenly appeared in front of his own. Ed blinked dazedly, realising that he must have squatted down to be at his level. "Hey… you remembered my name," Michael grinned, his bright blue eyes sparkling.
It was hard to form a reply. Damn, the familiar darkness of unconsciousness was pretty close. "I never… forget… a face," he whispered, frowning. There was something he was supposed to remember. What was it? Something about… Winry…? Ed's hazy gold eyes roamed up to her and saw the fear written all over her face. Realisation hit him like a kick in the teeth.
"I'm still flattered. You were pretty out of it, after all – "
Michael trailed off as Ed suddenly lurched forwards, using his one elbow on the wall to try and lever himself upright. His breathing hitched and sweat dripped from his brow, but he managed to put two feet under him and straighten his knees significantly. But it wasn't enough. "Michael…" he breathed, words barely audible. "I need you… to get Winry… out of here. I'm only gonna… slow you down."
"There's no way I'm leaving you here, Fullmetal."
He flinched, a thousand memories of Sanderson's scathing voice saying that cursed name overwhelming him. "It's Ed," he insisted, shaking his head resolutely. The movement made the world start spinning merrily to itself in front of him. Shit. "Edward Elric. I'll get out… somehow. Promise." He shot them both a cheerful grin through the haze in front of his eyes, wishing his weakness was as easily disguised as his expression.
Without dignifying his lies with a reply, Michael stepped forward to stand in front of his quavering form, turned his back and knelt down on one knee. "Get on," he said. The scowl he shot over his shoulder, stubborn and determined, looked like something that belonged on Ed's own face. "I'll carry you."
"Fuck that!" Ed spat indignantly, "I can carry myself out of - !"
He interrupted himself with a wheezing cough and, quickly raising his hand to his mouth, Ed spat spots of blood onto his palm. He wasn't fast enough. At his side in seconds, Winry grabbed his wrist and pulled it towards her, making him flinch at the pull on his broken bones. She stared at the dark blood with horror.
Looking guiltily away from her face, he found himself meeting Michael's dark stare. "Get on," the man repeated firmly.
Feeling oddly humbled, Ed complied. It might be the most humiliating thing he'd ever done, but the faster he co-operated, the quicker Winry would be out of this hell hole. And in the end, that was always the goal.
It seemed they lucked out as they reached the infirmary building without being spotted. Ed clung awkwardly to Michael's shoulders, his one arm wrapped around the bigger man's neck. He'd thought that being carried would be painful, or at least undignified, but Michael was incredibly careful with him and supported his weight without complaint, barely even flinching when Ed panicked at yet another loud blast and dug his metal knee into the guard's hip. The alchemist had been watching for guards the entire time, having to hiss whispered warnings in Michael's ear a couple of times, but they had yet to be seen. Ed wasn't surprised; after all, who could see through this thick smoke in the first place?
His weight pitched to one side for a minute as his transport let go of one of his legs to push a door open before proceeding cautiously inside. Another explosion made them all jump, followed by even more screams. All three pairs of eyes turned to the nearest window, but there was nothing to be seen through the smoke. Whoever had broken into the camp was doing a very good job at it. Ed licked his lips, swallowing another mouthful of crimson-tainted bile. He could barely even dare to hope. Could it really be Mustang?
"You okay to walk now, Ed?" Michael asked softly, glancing over his shoulder at him. He frowned. "What's wrong?"
Blinking away tears, Ed shook his head and smiled. "Sorry, the smoke's just getting to me. … You can put me down now," he grumbled, slipping from the man's loosening hold on his legs. His knees almost buckled, but, leaning heavily on Michael, he managed to remain standing.
"So appreciative."
"Yeah, yeah, you're my hero," he muttered in wry response, shooting him a weary grin as they hobbled together into the infirmary ward. A few patients still lay in their beds, some unconscious, others curled up in fear. Eyes drawn helplessly to their defenseless forms, Ed swallowed down his regret and self-loathing. It was hard to remember that he couldn't afford to save every tortured soul he came across. Right now, Winry was his priority. And for that, he needed the automail she'd made him. He was already feeling a lot better, but he would only feel truly safe when he had his automail back where it belonged. "Alright, Win. Where is it?"
"It should be in here," she replied as she hurried across the room, the other two hot on her heels. She led them to a large cabinet bolted to the wall, almost overflowing with tools and bandages. Ed leant against the wall and watched as the other two began to trawl through its contents, half of it spilling onto the floor in their desperate search.
"What did you do, Winry, bury it?!" he smirked.
She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. "I hid it! They wanted me to throw it away but I… just couldn't!" Ed's slight smile matured into a fully-fledged grin as Winry burst into one of her classic machine junkie rants. He hadn't thought he'd ever be so glad to hear one. "You don't understand the workmanship of that thing, Ed. Honestly, you take it for granted, but I stayed up all night working so the balance would be just right and the weight would be equally distributed while still being the height of craftsmanship and sculptural design, and all you can say is – "
"Hey, is this it?!" Michael interrupted, pulling on a metal finger. As he tugged on it, the whole arm was dragged out, pulling everything else in the cabinet down with it. With a loud crash, several boxes on the top shelf made a break for freedom, nearly hitting Michael as he side stepped, holding the arm out of harm's way above his head. His face was a picture of discomfort – it was obviously pretty disturbing in his opinion, to be holding an arm.
Eyes lighting up, Ed snatched the arm from him and instantly positioned the peg at the automail port, screwing his face up in readiness for the pain.
"Wait, Ed! That could cause infection!" Winry shouted. "I should clean the port and – "
"Screw it!" he growled, and drove the arm into his shoulder. He was left feeling oddly disappointed. His memories of the pain of reattaching automail had nothing on the more recent recollections of the induction of an electric current straight into the nerves in the open port. In comparison, he barely even cringed as all the nerves in his shoulder screamed. There was some grim satisfaction in the thought that the pain of automail would never really burden him again, not that that was any consolation for what he'd had to go through. He'd much rather endure automail surgery again than two months of torture. At least, when each individual nerve was being cut and fused to a metal counterpart, there had been people with him the whole time who cared for him and reassured him. And the smiles. They weren't sick, morbid ones. They were loving smiles, and he would do anything to get back to them, where he belonged.
"Alright, Ed?" asked Michael, oblivious to the amount of pain the young alchemist should have been in. Both of them were ignoring Winry's shocked, horrified expression, after all. "Then let's get out of here!" He grabbed his new charge's flesh arm and hoisted him onto his back again, barely even pausing to let Ed get settled before he was sprinting out of the infirmary.
Smiling, Ed clenched his metal fist. Finally, it was time. Getting payback was going to be fun.
