Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any related characters.

Chapter 9: Gag ( / găg / )

1. noun - the sound of choking or retching

2. noun - an obstacle to or a censoring of free speech

3. noun - something forced into or put over the mouth to prevent speaking or crying out


Warning: There is more violence in this chapter than what is typical in the story thus far. No more than an action-laden episode/issue of FMA. It should still fall under the "T" rating.


"Oh God." Breda suppressed another retch as his stomach threatened to empty itself for the third time that night. He groaned. It seemed the Braak flu had come to claim him at last. The illness had slowly made its way up the ranks of soldiers. Just yesterday, poor Fuery vomited spectacularly on the office floor. Breda wished he could be in his room preparing for what was sure to be a turbulent course. Unfortunately, he had work to do; his illness would have to wait for the moment.

"You sure you're gonna make it?" Falman asked, eyeing Breda skeptically. Despite his words of concern, the gray-haired man inched away. By his own fastidious nature, Falman was petrified of germs.

"Urg," Breda replied as another regurgitant heave threated to escape.

"Quiet. Both of you." Miles said sharply. "And get down."

There was good reason for silence. According to Miles' informant, the Ishvalan resistance group planned to meet in the ruins tonight. General Mustang assigned Breda, Falman, and Miles to stake out the alleged meeting location. They were to make no contact; their mission was to observe only. The threesome was currently positioned on the roof of an old abandoned building – a perfect location for viewing the reported hideout.

"You think they'll show?" Breda whispered. He shifted as his stomach rumbled again.

"Of course they will," Miles replied, his tone muted. "I trust my informant absolutely."

Breda and Falman exchanged dark looks. The anonymity of this Ishvalan mole was still a sore topic. Miles remained tight-lipped about the informant's identity, claiming 'his man' preferred to work only through the Major. In a way, Mustang and his contingent were at the Miles' mercy: All their information on the resistance came through him. Breda hated using a secondary source; they had no means of verifying its credibility. He shook his head. He did not like putting all his eggs in one proverbial basket.

"Just what is this 'resistance' group's shtick?" Breda groused. "Walking around with those armbands of theirs like they own the place. What are they so mad about, anyway? Mustang has practically thrown the reins at the Ishvalan leadership. They're involved in every part of the reconstruction. What more could they want?"

"You know very well their grievance stems from the past," Miles replied softly. "Giving them what they want now will not remedy the situation."

"Of course I know that," Breda shot back. "But the General has – "

"You put much stock in this General of yours." Miles peered at Breda over the tops of his glasses. "Do you truly have so much faith in his decisions?"

"Do we believe in Mustang?" Breda frowned, wondering where this was going. "Of course we do. We wouldn't be here otherwise." Falman nodded curtly in agreement.

"Mustang still has much to learn about the Ishvalan people," Miles replied mildly. "Reading a few books does not qualify him as an expert. Did you ever consider that he may not fully grasp the situation here? That he may not be the Golden General you all dream him to be?"

Breda scowled. "Did you ever consider giving him a chance?"

"Breda," Falman warned.

"No," Breda snapped. "This asshole has been on Mustang's case since we got here." His voice rose. "Look, Major, I know you Briggs people have a thing for that model soldier, woman general and all, but you work for Mustang now. He may not always seem like it, but he cares deeply about this project. Sure, he's got baggage – we all do. But you can't change the past. He's trying to make the future better for all of us. That's why we follow him. We'd go to hell and back for him, if that's what it took."

Miles sat silent, scrutinizing Breda with his impassive, crimson eyes. "I know."

"And another thing…. Huh?" Breda stumbled, flummoxed.

"I am no stranger to loyalty. I can see you believe in him – his ideals – and I respect it," Miles replied. "But part of following a leader is also questioning his judgment. Mustang is only as strong as the weakest person on his team. And the advice they give him."

Breda nodded dumbly. As always, the Ishvalan Major stated the harsh truth, plainly and without decoration. Miles had a point. The Ishvalan war forged the Flame Alchemist, and in the process it nearly broke the man that bore the title. Mustang was inherently biased; the memories of what he had done to the people here could blind him to the truth. He did need his team – now more than ever. Their responsibility was to support and counsel him as best they could.

Breda glanced at the Major through the corner of his eye. He wondered what put the notion in the Major's head. Considering the strict, hierarchical structure at Briggs, he had a hard time picturing Miles questioning any of General Armstrong's orders.

"I must admit though," Miles continued. "Mustang does seem to have the best interests of the Ishvalan people in mind." He paused, as though considering his words carefully. "I do believe he is beginning to grow on me."

Breda snorted at the unenthusiastic praise. "He's a good man. You'll see."

Despite his words, Breda's mind strayed to the incident with Brantly earlier that day. He had never seen Mustang so unhinged. The look in his eyes was almost feral. Breda could hardly reconcile the snarky, smirking General with the man he saw in the tent, vengefully choking a defenseless cadet. Mustang looked ready to kill. Thank goodness Hawkeye was there to dispel the situation. She always knew what to do where Mustang was concerned.

"I see activity," Miles whispered. "Take your positions."

Breda and Falman scurried to the other end of the roof, keeping low under the wall that encircled it. They had carved some holes through the parapet earlier that evening that allowed them to view the street without detection. Breda peered through the opening. After a few still moments, he saw a slight movement in the shadows.

"Target spotted," Falman breathed.

"Yeah. I see him, too," Breda replied. "Any visual confirmation that he's part of the resistance?"

"He's still too concealed. The shadows… wait!" Falman paused as the Ishvalan stepped into the rising moonlight. "Affirmative – he's wearing the symbol."

Breda squinted. Sure enough, the man wore a white armband; the red-embroidered triqueta symbol was just barely discernible. The two lieutenants watched in silence as the man made his way to the suspected hideout.

"Well, looks like Miles' intel was accurate," Breda said.

"Yes. Now what?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well," Falman said slowly. "What do we plan to do with this information? Surely the General wouldn't… you know, 'take care of them.' I mean, the resistance hasn't really done anything…"

"Yet," Breda added tersely.

Falaman shrugged uncomfortably. "It's just… it seems wrong."

"What seems wrong?"

"I've been thinking about it. In a way, we were a resistance movement only a few months ago. You, me, Mustang and the others, I mean. We were fighting against tyranny. We were united by something we believed in. It just seems wrong to try to prevent others from doing the same."

Breda froze. The parallels were uncomfortably similar. He had never thought of it that way.

"I dunno," Falman continued. "The General's outburst today… It just made me nervous. I've never seen him so…"

"Yeah," Breda agreed. "I hate to admit it, but Miles was right earlier. We'll just keep an eye on him. Be there for him."

Falman nodded.

The two hunkered down on the rooftop. There was still work left tonight; they needed an estimate of the number of individuals involved in the resistance for their report tomorrow. Breda's stomach rumbled in protest.

This was already looking to be a long night.


Why can't I stop thinking about it?

Riza sat at a wooden table in her tiny quarters, her hands draped on either side of an open book illuminated by a single lantern. She spent the last hour trying to read the same sentence, her eyes listlessly trailing over the words. She shifted, sweat beading on her brow. Some of the day's heat still lingered in the nighttime air. She had long ago removed her coat and holster, draping them over a nearby chair, but her turbulent emotions still warmed her cheeks.

That woman he was with… Another tryst in a long line of trysts. Why should I care?

Since she left Mustang's office, she had busied herself with near-desperate fervor. She found herself at the firing range first. Usually, a few rounds calmed and focused her mind. But today her aim was off, her hands unsteady. She had been ashamed to retrieve her paper target at the end of the session; the wide spray of bullet holes only served as evidence of her undoing. Afterward, she immersed herself in paperwork, hoping the tedium would somehow distract her from the strange, conflicting feelings that pounded at her chest. Yet no matter how many forms she filled, her mind inevitably strayed to her superior officer.

What was he thinking? Doesn't he know he can't afford to be distracted at a time like this?

The memory of seeing him with the woman sent an unpleasant feeling roiling through her stomach. A Xingese by her appearance, the woman had a wild, exotic beauty about her – something Mustang usually looked for in his occasional flings. She was dressed entirely in silk, cut low and alluring over a rather ample bosom. In truth, she was no different from any other woman he courted in the past. Riza shook her head firmly. Why had she reacted that way? Over the years, she saw countless ladies hang from his arm – how was this one any different from the rest?

What does it matter to me how he spends his time?

A floorboard creaked in the nearby bedroom. Riza ignored the sound; the hastily-built officers' quarters routinely made noises as the wood continued to settle. Her racing mind was far too full of tumultuous emotions and unpleasant speculations.

So what if he has a new wh-

Riza's thoughts halted as a sudden feeling crept down the back of her neck. It was a familiar sensation; one that a seasoned war veteran would not – and should not – ignore. It was the feeling one gets when in imminent danger. Her hand darted to the shoulder holster that hung within easy reach on the nearby chair.

She felt a something hard and solid wrap around her neck, tightening painfully along her windpipe. Her hand halted in midair, hovering mere inches from her weapon. An unrelenting force pulled her flush against the back of her chair. A high, cold voice sounded from behind her. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Captain."

Riza stiffened in alarm, one hand reaching up to pry at the thing around her neck, the other desperately groping for her handgun. It was just out of reach. The handle glowed teasingly in the flickering lantern light. She strained forward, her fingers barely brushing against the cool metal as the grip on her throat tightened. Riza's breaths came in painful gasps as her other hand scrabbled uselessly against the thing that slowly tightened around her throat. It felt like unyielding stone under her fingers.

"I said don't move." The voice was high pitched and thin, holding an air of bitter malice.

"Who are you?" Riza croaked. She shifted slightly in her seat, hoping to somehow loosen the tight hold. The thing encircling her neck squeezed briefly, clamping off her air supply. Riza sputtered and coughed, panic beginning to well in her chest.

"I can and I will break your neck, Captain," the voice hissed behind her. "As for who I am, it is irrelevant to you. Just know that you are simply a tool to me. A means to an end."

Riza dropped her hands. There was no way she would reach her gun at this point. She hoped the attacker might take it as a sign of resignation – maybe it would buy Riza some time. Internally, her thoughts raced. She had another gun strapped to her calf. If she was lucky, she might be able to ease her hand down to grab it. She just needed to create a distraction. "What do you want from me?"

"It's quite simple, Captain. I need you to suffer. And I need Mustang to see it."

Riza's fingers inched toward her concealed weapon. She would only have once chance at this. Just keep talking, her panicked mind urged. "What does he have to do with me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain. I have seen the two of you together." The grip around her neck tightened briefly, as though teasing her. "He's a fool if he thinks he can hide it. The man is in love with you."

Riza's heart lurched painfully. The cold untruth of it cut her to the core. Mustang could never love her – the woman in his office today way proof enough of that. "The General is a soldier," she gasped. Her hand dropped lower; it was now agonizingly close to her gun. "He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice the one for the many." If she just shifted her leg back a bit more…

The attacker sighed. "Captain, if you think I am going to allow you to pull the pistol you have secreted away, you are sorely mistaken."

Knowing she had only moments to react, Riza's hand shot to her calf, grasping for her firearm. As her fingers met the warm metal, a flash of red light filled her vision. Suddenly, she felt something wrap about her limbs; it pulled them securely against the armrests and legs of her chair. The bindings tightened painfully. She looked down to see her limbs encircled by wood; it flowed like water from the floorboards. Riza recognized alchemy when she saw it. The attacker had transmuted the material to serve as makeshift shackles – a complicated equation for even the most skilled alchemists. But that wasn't the reason why Riza's eyes widened in fear.

Transmutation without a circle!

She heard the sound of soft footfalls behind her as her attacker rounded her chair. Though she knew it was fruitless, Riza struggled against her bindings. They held as firm as the wood from which they were made.

Her attacker stepped into view. The figure was cloaked, its build profoundly slight – almost birdlike. Riza could not see its face, hidden by a deep hood. It seemed impossible that one so small was capable of such power. A girl, Riza concluded mentally, based on the height and voice. Perhaps close to Edward's age – practically a child. But what kind of girl is this? So young, yet can transmute with such skill.

Her heart fluttered inside her chest. The girl had mentioned the General – what did she intend?

Riza felt panic overtake her as her thoughts strayed, unbidden, to a white room where Lust stood triumphant before her. Riza struggled against the waves of memory as they crashed over her, threatening to unseat her from reality. She had not been there to protect him on that day, and she had nearly lost him. She would not let that happen again. She could not let another hurt him. Not alone – not without her. She desperately suppressed the terror that welled inside her.

She had to remain calm if she wanted to protect him.

"What do you want with the General?" Riza kept her voice steady. It would be useless to let the girl know her fear. She sat as straight as possible in her seat, staring pointedly at her attacker.

"What do I want?" The girl laughed, her voice taking on a hysterical air. "I want him to suffer as I have suffered." She raised one hand to pull back her cowl.

After years serving as the Flame Alchemist's bodyguard and aide, Riza was intimately aware of what fire could do to human skin. She herself had endured the terrible pain Mustang inflicted on his victims. She knew burns when she saw them. The girl's scars were amongst the worst Riza had seen; they obliterated any feature that made her human. The poor creature was unspeakably disfigured, and Riza knew who was to blame.

The girl smirked at Riza's horrified expression. The scars that covered her face contorted grotesquely, somehow forming an even more revolting mask. "So now you know, Captain. You see how he marked me. None can look at me without revulsion. I am hideous because of him." The girl's eyes burned with hatred. "How do you feel about your beloved Mustang now?"

Riza swallowed thickly. She was a military-trained woman; she would not be baited. She needed to collect as much information about this girl as possible. "You must be with the Ishvalan resistance," she said, testing a theory.

The girl laughed. The childlike sound seemed odd coming from one so scarred. "With the resistance? Those visionless fools? No, Captain, I don't give a shit about them or any of those stinking refugees. This is between me and Mustang."

Another clue to file away for later. She hoped there would be a later. Riza frowned, taking in the girl's red eyes. "You're an Ishvalan. Don't you care about your people?"

"My people?" The girl sneered. "My people left me and my brother to die – mere children – in the ruins! They forgot about me. Your precious Flame Alchemist forgot about me." Her tiny hands balled into fists. "But I will make sure they always remember the name Ashika. Even if I need to carve it into their very hearts."

So she's driven by vengeance, Riza thought. A dangerous and unstable motivation at best.

"Enough talk," Ashika said. "It is time to get to business." The girl reached into the recesses of her cloak and drew forth a cloth. She stepped towards Riza. "Now, hold still Captain." She raised the cloth to Riza's face.

Riza jerked her head away instinctively. The girl's scarred visage twisted in fury.

"I said hold still." Ashika sent a resounding blow across the Captain's face. Riza tasted the tang of blood.

Ashika hastily stuffed the cloth in Riza's mouth and tied it tightly at the nape of her neck. Riza coughed as the gag forced her tongue to the back of her throat; she could barely breathe around the thing.

"Now, let's get you to a place where I can do my work," Ashika said, her eyes scanning the apartment. "Ah, I think the bed will do nicely." The girl moved her hand in a sweeping motion, followed by a flash of red light. Riza felt the wooden bindings lift her from the chair. Another hand motion from Ashika sent Riza sailing towards her bedroom.

Riza's body slammed onto the bed, the springs creaking in protest. She struggled to breathe around the gag as Ashika shoved her face into the pillow. Her hair came loose from its clip, splaying across her face. The bindings tightened painfully around her wrists and ankles, pulling her arms and legs taught and outstretched against the mattress. Riza uttered a soft whimper as she struggled weakly against her bonds. They were so tight, it felt like she might pull her arms from their sockets if she fought too much.

And suddenly Ashika was on top of her back, her thin legs straddling Riza's hips. Riza glimpsed a brief flash of metal out of the corner of her eye. A knife! She felt its cold harness against the nape of her neck and heard the sound of ripping fabric as Ashika sliced though the back her black undershirt.

She's trying to see my back! Riza thought as she attempted to frantically buck Ashika off her hips. Her shoulders pulled painfully against the bindings. The girl remained steady, methodically slicing through the thin material. How did she learn about my tattoo?

Riza felt the warm night air against her bare skin as Ashika swept the shorn fabric to either side. Knowing that struggling was now futile, Riza stilled, conserving her strength. Ashika remained silent for a long moment as she took in the inky lines.

"So the nurse was right. You do have a tattoo. And a transmutation circle, at that." Ashika paused as she took in the webbed scars that marred the array. "Ah - I see that monster has left his mark on you, too," she crooned. Her fingers ran over the marbled pink burns that obliterated the most crucial parts of the flame equation. Riza shuddered under the touch. "What a shame. It was such pretty alchemy before he ruined it. Is this where he learned the secrets of fire? Is this why you are shackled to that soulless demon?"

Riza remained silent, unwilling to feed Ashika's growing craze. Her hands clenched into white fists.

"But why did he burn you?" Ashika continued, her voice like silk over a blade. "Did he want you and your secrets all to himself? And why do you stay with him?" Her fingers continued to run over Riza's back, eliciting waves of revulsion in Hawkeye's stomach. "You poor thing. Let me take away his claim on you, and you will be free from him forever."

At this, Riza began to growl against the gag, her head futilely flopping against the pillow.

Ashika stroked her blonde hair. "Hush now." She said fervently. "I'm giving you something I could never have. I'm going to heal you. Don't you want to get rid of those ugly scars?"

Riza's arms strained against the bindings. The muscles in her shoulders stretched and cramped in protest. No, was all her panicked mind could manage. No, no no.

Ashika's weight left her back, and there was a soft rustling of fabric. Red light flashed against the walls. A strange stretching sensation spread over Riza's back. She felt her scars tighten uncomfortably over her shoulders. Though she could not see it, Riza knew her skin was slowly reknitting, becoming smooth. Riza's breath came in shuddering gasps as she realized that the array would be whole again – discernable to all that understood the basic language of transmutation.

It meant others could learn the horrifying destruction of flame alchemy. There could be another Flame Alchemist.

In the span of seconds, Ashika erased physical scars left by burns that had taken months to heal. Yet in doing so, she had reopened the half-healed wounds that rent Riza's soul. Hawkeye had been set free when Roy destroyed the burden she carried so long. Now that awful weight hung heavy on her conscience once more.

"That's better," said Ashika, leaning back to admire her work. The room seemed impossibly dark after the bright flash of light.

Riza merely squeezed her eyes shut, holding back the tears that welled behind her lids. Her clenched fists shook with anger and fear.

"You know, this array may be of some use to me." Ashika's hand ran down Riza's spine. "Hold still, Captain. I need to make a copy." The bed shifted as Ashika jumped lightly to the floor. Riza heard the faint shuffling of paper from her desk nearby. "I'm quite good at making copies, you know." She made a soft noise of triumph as she found a blank sheet that suited her needs. "I even fooled you idiots with a false Philosopher's stone. You really should have taken more care. That fool doctor made it all too easy for me to steal it."

Riza's eyes widened in shock. She was the one that took the stone! That's how she can transmute without a circle! She felt her nails bite into her palms. So this girl was the one that robbed Mustang of his chance at sight. She was the reason why he remained so weak and powerless. A terrible urge to hurt this girl rose in Riza's chest, consuming her like a raging fire. She suddenly understood the blinding rage that Mustang fought in the tunnels below Central as he faced Envy. The impulse not just to kill, but to utterly destroy.

Ashika stood beside the bed for a moment, studying the array carefully. There was a brief flash of red light as she copied the complicated diagram to the paper. She folded the sheet and tucked it deep into her robe. "There, all finished."

It seemed so wrong: How little time it took to copy such a complicated array. Riza remembered the hours of pain she endured when her father inked the tattoo on her back. She was so young, the pain nearly unendurable. Now a stranger possessed her father's secrets after only a moment's work – in a simple flash of red light.

Riza heard the soft swish of metal against fabric as Ashika drew her knife again. "Now, Captain, I'm going to leave my own mark on you. You're going to help me stir things up in Ishval."

The knife flashed coldly in the pale moonlight. Riza had only a moment to draw a breath before she felt the blade bite deep into the skin of her back. She screamed, her voice muffled by the gag. She choked as she drew a ragged breath, only to scream more. She writhed against her bindings, no longer heeding the pain it caused in her arms. It was nothing compared to the bite of the blade as it slashed her back. Ashika dragged the knife across her skin, forming a pattern Riza was too agonized to know. Warm blood dripped from the wounds. It soaked into the mangled remnants of her shirt and pooled on the mattress below.

The gruesome task seemed to last forever. For a time, the only thing Riza knew was the pain of the knife as it cut through her skin. She screamed again and again into the gag, already soaked with slaver and tears. Her voice grew hoarse and her lungs spent. Soon, all she could do was moan, weakly writhing in a futile attempt to escape the unforgiving blade.

Finally, the horrible stashing stopped. Riza lay trembling and sobbing as Ashika drew away to admire her handiwork.

"Done." She sounded so proud. So accomplished.

Riza shut her eyes and prayed for an end to the agony.

"Shhhhh," Ashika soothed. "There there." Riza felt the girl dig a finger into one of the cuts in her back, sending new waves of pain through her. "I'll take it away." The girl began to trail her bloodied finger along Riza's forehead.

Riza slowly recognized the shape. A transmutation circle!

A bright flash of red light filled the room once more. Darkness crept into the corners of Riza's vision, and she felt herself tumbling into nothingness. As she slipped into unconsciousness, her tormented mind sent out a silent plea.

Help me, Roy.


He stood on a precipice. Before him spread the ruined city of Ishval. He could hear distant gunshots and screams of pain. He had been here many times before.

The gloves that sheathed his hands felt wet. Looking down, he saw they were soaked in blood. His stomach turned in revulsion. He knew it was the blood of the innocent, for he had been the one to spill it.

"Roy." The voice that came from behind him was soft and melodic. "Roy."

He turned. She was there. When she came, things became peaceful. The screams went away. She banished the terrors that haunted this desolate place. She would calm him and hold him safe against her breast.

But this time it was different. This time she was covered in blood, too.

"Roy," she said again, stretching out her sodden arms. "Help me."

Red lightning flashed in the distance. The roiling clouds above were a violent, menacing yellow-black. A cruel wind whipped at his clothes.

"Help me." Blood dripped from her fingers. The desert sand drank it greedily. Soon it was stained an ugly brown. She was going to die.

He found himself unable to move. He strained against his unseen bindings, a feeling of panic pooling in his chest. He had to help her. He had to protect her. But his legs would not obey.

He screamed, wordless and fierce. The wind rose in tandem, echoing his rage and drowning his cries. She merely stood, waiting with open arms. Her ochre eyes were calm. He would come to her. He would save her.

But he did not. He could not.

His cries turned to frustrated sobs as he saw her lifeblood fall freely to the ground.

Mustang gasped as he sat up in bed. His blind eyes blinked at the darkness, and his fingers groped at the sheets that lay soaked and tangled beneath him. He let out a shuddering sigh. Just a dream, he reminded himself. His nightmares had come back in force since his return to Ishval, but this one seemed particularly vivid. Even now, he could taste his fear and smell her blood. He shivered, curling his head into his knees. The night air seemed far too still compared to the roaring wind in his dreams.

He heard Hayate pad up to the side of the bed. Mustang patted the covers, and the little dog quickly jumped up next to him. He hated to admit it, but he was glad to have Hawkeye's beloved pet. The dog was helpful in a hundred little ways - a pair of eyes he could trust. Hayate whimpered, resting his head on Roy's knee. He could sense Mustang's distress. Roy scratched the canine's ears, finding some small comfort that he was not alone.

He could still see in his nightmares; how terrible that his hellish dreams replaced the sight he lost. There was no way he could sleep now. The vision of dripping blood lingered in his mind. Now he felt trapped in the darkness with only the memories as a companion. He needed to get out of this place.

Mustang threw back the covers and stepped out of bed. His hand expertly groped for his guide cane, and he quickly found his way to the closet. He dressed, adding a coat to keep out the chill night air. After a moment's hesitation, he fastened his gun holster to his belt.

"Hayate," he called. The little dog trotted up to him, nails clicking on the wooden floorboards. Roy reached down to fasten a leash to his collar.

The night was cold and utterly silent when Mustang stepped outside. It must be well after midnight, he thought. His state-issued pocket watch was of little use to him now. His footsteps fell heavy against the boardwalk; they seemed to echo over the still desert sands. Hayate trotted beside him, a near-silent shadow made known only by the tinkling sound of his collar.

Mustang meant to wander aimlessly. He just needed a walk to clear his head. But somehow he found himself headed in the direction of Captain Hawkeye's quarters. Even before he knew anything of nationwide transmutation circles and homunculi, her apartment was a place of solace for him. A place where he could simply be Roy and she Riza. For so many years, she was his sounding board, his most trusted friend and companion.

He missed those times.

After several days learning to navigate the hastily-constructed barracks, he knew exactly how many steps to take and where to turn to reach her flat. He moved forward with a strange confidence, somehow navigating the path as though he were no longer blind. He had come to notice such things were easier when it came to Hawkeye. While he still fumbled under Breda's guidance, the Captain's presence always made him surefooted.

Hawkeye was the only high-ranking female officer currently serving in Ishval, so her quarters were somewhat isolated from the others. Most of the buildings surrounding hers were still empty. As he approached, he heard no voices or footsteps nearby. He barely noted the quiet, so lost was he in his own thoughts. Before he realized, he stood before her door.

Hayate barked softly, sensing he was near his beloved master. Mustang jumped at the sudden noise. "Quiet, Hayate, you'll wake her up."

He had no idea what he intended to do here. Hawkeye was likely still angry after the debacle due to his new alkahestry teacher, Suyin. He was not sure if he was ready to face her just yet. Her voice had been so cold this afternoon. Cold and edged with… what? Anger? Disappointment? Jealousy? Without his sight, Hawkeye had become an emotional enigma. If only she had given him a chance to explain.

The little dog whimpered beside him, straining at the leash.

"I know, boy," Roy soothed. "You miss her, don't you?" He crouched to scratch the dog's ears. "We'll see her tomorrow, I promise."

The little dog ducked away from Mustang's hand, tugging more firmly on the leash in his efforts to reach Hawkeye's door. He began to growl.

"Hayate, no." Holding the leash firmly, Mustang reached out to catch the dog. But Hayate danced away from his hands, his growls growing louder and more menacing. "What is with you, dog? Come here." Leaning his guide poll against his shoulder, he began to reel Hayate in by the leash, finally capturing the squirming canine in both hands. Mustang braced him, still growling, against his chest and stood to leave.

"Agh!" he roared when Hayate's teeth sank into his palm. He dropped the dog unceremoniously to the ground. He heard Hayate dart away, followed by the sound of paws scrabbling against Hawkeye's door. The stupid mutt is going to wake her up, Mustang thought as he sullenly nursed his throbbing hand. I don't need this. She's angry at me as it is.

With a growl that rivaled Hayate's in its ferocity, Mustang lunged forward to recapture the little dog. Though blind, the General had gotten fairly skilled at pinpointing sound, and it only took a few swipes before his hand met fur. This time, he made sure Hayate's teeth stayed well away from him as he tucked the dog firmly under one arm. "Quiet," he hissed. Hayate refused to comply, struggling frantically in his grip, growling and snapping with alarming viciousness.

He half-expected to hear Hawkeye's door open. To hear her characteristic, exasperated sigh at being woken at such an hour. He and Hayate had certainly made enough noise to wake the war-trained Captain three times over by now. And perhaps a small part of Mustang wanted her to appear – just so he could have a chance to explain what happened in the office earlier today. Besides, his nightmare tonight felt so real; the falling blood seemed so tangible. It would be a relief to hear her voice.

Yet somehow… Blessedly? Disappointingly? Her apartment remained deathly still. Roy let out a sigh as he turned to leave, Hayate still thrashing in a desperate attempt to return to his master.

For better or worse, he would see her tomorrow.


A/N: Reviews on this chapter in particular are much appreciated.

Next Chapter: Keen