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

Chapter 11: Clap

1) noun - the sharp abrupt sound produced by striking the hands together

2) verb - to strike lightly with an open hand

3) verb - to contrive or put together hastily

4) noun - a sudden action or mishap

"Did I do it?"

"Not even close."

Suyin suppressed a snort as Mustang's expression soured beneath her hands. He huffed. "I was sure I felt something that time."

"Nope. Nothing. All in your imagination."

"You're not helping." Mustang's blank eyes trailed up in her direction. "Maybe we should try something else."

Suyin released his head. He was right – this technique did not seem to be working. It was not for lack of trying. She just could not get… in. There was something about the blankness of his eyes that prevented her from guiding him to the Dragon's Pulse. She would have to think on that. "It will take time and patience to sense chi. It will not happen in one day."

Mustang rubbed at his temples, where the marks of Suyin's fingers lingered in sharp relief against his pale skin. "I don't have time."

"Or patience, it seems."

It was still very early; the sun had not yet peaked the horizon and only a few soldiers stirred on the streets below. The General asked her to meet him this morning to continue his training. He seemed eager to learn alkahestry, his mouth set in a determined line as he attempted to sense the Pulse. They worked for nearly two hours thus far, Mustang growing more and more frustrated with each failed attempt. Suyin sensed something was amiss with him. Dark circles smudged the space below his eyes and he seemed unable to focus. Sweat beaded on his brow.

"We shall stop for the morning," Suyin said, sliding off his desk.

Mustang shook his head. "No. Let's try it again."

Suyin frowned at him. Stubborn. The man would run himself ragged. His assignment in Ishval wore on him already – it was plain to her discerning eye. His clothes hung loose off his shoulders, hinting at a sudden, recent weight loss. His face was haggard, bespeaking of sleepless nights. What was more, she could feel his exhaustion. His spirit seemed weaker today, his eyes dull. His chi tasted dark and sickening. "Do you alchemists not know the proper order of things? I am your teacher, and I say we are done."

"I say we're not."

She resisted the urge to cuff the back of his head like the petulant child he was. This General had no manners. But she knew that even the most chastising of slaps would not affect him. He was far too obstinate and self-possessed. Force never swayed men like Mustang. Fortunately, Suyin knew how to divert even the most stubborn of breeds. She was an expert at manipulating men. Indeed – like Madame Christmas – it was her profession. What she needed now was a distraction. And she knew just the thing: it hung innocently from Mustang's belt.

"What's this?" she said as she deftly pulled his gun from its holster.

"Hey!" Mustang blindly groped for the pistol. "Give that back!"

"Hmmm," Suyin stepped just out of his reach and studied the weapon. "A 0.45 caliber, correct?" She hefted it in one hand. "This gun is too light for you, no?"

Mustang stilled, his expression suddenly wary. "Yes… how – ?"

"Excellent workmanship." Suyin pulled back the slide, noting the empty chamber. Odd to carry an unloaded weapon. "Custom?"

His blank eyes glittered in a guarded sort of way. "Yes."

Suyin watched the General's expression carefully. "This gun was made for a woman."

There it was. His carefully poised face cracked – just a little. Through the rift, Suyin saw how her words affected him. He did not want her to know these things. It bothered him that she did.

"Yes," he said, his voice steady despite his underlying unease. "How…?"

Suyin cast a sly smile in his direction. "It seems I know many things you do not." In truth, her work required an intimate knowledge of all sorts of weapons. The women in her employ needed to protect themselves from the men they… serviced. Suyin had long ago become a self-made expert on female weaponry. She preferred knives, personally. Much easier to hide.

"Why do you carry this?" she asked. "What do you hope to do with an unloaded weapon? And blind?"

His cringe sent a pang of guilt through her. Perhaps he deserved a bit more tact.

"I'm… holding it for someone," he muttered.

Suyin cocked her head. He seemed almost… embarrassed. This weapon must have some deep meaning to him. "I see. I apologize." She glanced back down at the gun, studying it. There was something inscribed on the back strap. Blocky Amestrian lettering stood bright against the matte. A word, she realized. Hawkeye. Suyin frowned. The name stirred something in her memory…

Ah yes, she thought. The woman from last night.

So her pupil had himself a sweetheart. How… endearing. Or perhaps she is no more, Suyin amended, considering the way she stormed from the office yesterday. Looking back, Suyin guessed how the scene might have appeared to the female soldier. Mustang's reputation as a womanizer could not have helped the situation. Though she was from Xing, Suyin was wise to his supposed ways. As an experienced whore-monger, she heard many passed-down tales recounting the wayward attentions of Christmas' foster son. This Hawkeye woman must have assumed Suyin was another lover, come to call in Ishval.

Suyin grimaced at the thought. Perhaps Amestrian women considered Mustang's half-breed features exotic and fine, but by Xingese standards, he was downright plain.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. A grey-haired man poked his head into the room. "Excuse me Sir, I –" He stopped when he spotted Suyin lounging against Mustang's desk, gun in hand. "Sir! Look out!" The soldier drew out his weapon and trained it on her.

Suyin calmly set the pistol on a stack of files and slipped into a fighting stance with practiced ease. She preferred to avoid fights when possible, but she was no stranger to combat. She cocked her head and beckoned the Lieutenant with two fingers. The man blinked at her warily, and she smiled. Sometimes half the battle was simply to exude a formidable aura. "Come," she said softly. Dangerously.

The grey-haired man hesitated. He glanced at the General uncertainly. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Hold, Lieutenant Falman," Mustang's voice rang sharp and commanding from behind her. "It's alright. She's…" He paused. "She's… uh… well…" He bowed his head in thought, clearly unsure of what to call her. "Hm."

"His teacher," Suyin finished drily. The irony of the statement did not escape her. She straightened to consider the grey-haired man, noting the way his squinted eyes trailed over her curvaceous figure. A smile quirked at the edge of her lips. Perhaps she could have a bit of fun with him. She fixed Falman with her most intense smirk and slinked in his direction.

The Lieutenant stiffened, his eyes widening as the shapely woman approached. He seemed unnerved by her transformation from formidable warrior to beguiling temptress. He gulped audibly, and Suyin's smile spread. She was only mildly disappointed when he tore his eyes away to glance at the General. "W- what kind of teacher, Sir?" Falman's voice squeaked as the Xingese woman rounded him, one painted finger running over the crest of his back.

Suyin's lips broke into a genuine grin – this grey-haired one was too much fun.

Mustang frowned, his blank eyes unseeing. "Suyin's teaching me alkahestry," he replied, as if it should be obvious.

"I… see." Falman eyed Suyin distrustfully as she glided back to Mustang's desk. She sent a half-lidded glance at him over her shoulder and winked. The grey-haired man twitched.

Suyin suppressed a laugh and ducked her head to hide her self-satisfied smile. She knew Falman's eyes were on her hips, for she purposefully swayed them in the most distracting way. Men. She smirked. So easy to manipulate. Speaking of…

"I shall take my leave, Mustang. Perhaps we may continue your studies this evening?"

The General nodded curtly, and Suyin stepped around his desk to slip out the window. She climbed to the rooftop with graceful ease, her silken clothes making soft whisking noises as she moved. The morning air smelled clean and dry. She inhaled, drawing deeply on the Dragon's Pulse, but her breath hitched in her throat. Her feet slowed and she nearly stumbled.

A dark chi flowed through the ruined city below her. It roiled in her core like a wormy ball. Suyin lifted her eyes to the horizon. In the distance, light from the dawning sun spilled over the Ishvalan sand. It was red – bright as blood.

A ruby morn brings woe. It was an old Xingese adage. Suyin reflexively crossed the last two fingers of her right hand as a ward against evil. A red sunrise was a rare sight in the desert; such things were important. Suyin was not a superstitious woman, but she lived long enough to recognize the familiar feeling that dropped in her gut like a stone. This bloody dawn was an omen. Something was coming.

As she hopped lightly across the rooftops, she wondered what the sign might portend. And for whom.

They waited in silence a long time after Suyin left. Falman's hands twitched at his sides as he stared out the open window where the strange Xingese woman disappeared. The spicy scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. He'd never seen anything like her. After long quiet, Mustang looked up from his desk. "What do you have for me this morning, Falman?"

The Lieutenant shook himself and saluted stiffly. "Sir. I'm sorry – Lieutenant Breda will not be reporting in today. It's the Braak flu, Sir. He barely made it through the stakeout last night."

"He's ill?" The General let out an exasperated breath. "First Fuery, now Breda. With Havoc still in Central, we're three hands down today."

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

Falman watched his superior slump in his seat. Mustang's voice came out strained. "It's not your fault. It's this blasted place." He sighed again. "When do we meet with Mulvihill?"

"Within the hour, Sir." Falman glanced down at the small desk near the door, where a stack of papers sat untouched. "I see Captain Hawkeye dropped the reports off this morning, Sir. Would you like to review them?"

Mustang frowned. "She dropped them last night." The General shrugged as though trying to throw an uncomfortable feeling from his shoulders. "Speaking of… have you seen her this morning? She was supposed to report in an hour ago."

"No, Sir. She wasn't in her office when I last checked."

Mustang's brows drew together. "Strange."

The General was right. Riza was usually the first to arrive in the office – and the last to leave. "Perhaps she's sick too, Sir?" Falman ventured.

Mustang only thought a moment before he shook his head. Falman had to agree. Hawkeye never let an illness keep her from work. She could be quite stubborn about it. Vato remembered a few occasions when Mustang ordered her to take sick leave. And she always stalwartly refused. No, Hawkeye would have to be on her deathbed for a little flu to keep her from her duties. Especially with tensions so high in Ishval.

"I'll send a private to fetch her, Sir."

"Wait," Mustang said, rising from his chair. "Let me. I'll go."

Falman glanced at his watch. "Sir, we are due to meet the Ishvalan leaders. We'll be late if we don't leave soon."

An all-too familiar stubborn expression blossomed on the General's face. "We have time."

Falman shook his head. "No, Sir. We don't." Hawkeye would be livid if the General were late for his meeting with the Ishvalan Council. "I'll send someone to search for her, sir. I'm sure she was detained by something important."

Mustang seemed to hesitate, an indecisive expression twisting his face. For a long, disconcerting moment Falman feared his superior might tromp off in search of the missing Captain. To his relief, the General nodded reluctantly, taking Hayate's leash in hand. Falman breathed a thankful breath.

"After you, Sir."

It still felt odd to be here. He felt out of place and cumbersome.

Miles knew it was too much to hope, but somehow he expected something… more. A sense of coming home, perhaps. Or a connection with a culture that defined him for so many years. Despite his heritage, he felt like a stranger. He dreamed of returning to his homeland for so long, but none of his visions matched with this desolate wasteland filled with broken, downtrodden people.

And they despised him. His own people stared at him with distrustful eyes. It was his uniform. It stood out amongst the drab browns and bright slashes of red. He remembered one elderly Ishvalan woman in particular. Her accusing gaze lingered on the blue wool and brassy buttons. She glanced up with a question in her crimson eyes: How could he be loyal to an army that wronged his people for so many years?

Miles now knew the truth: After all his years of waiting, he would find no home here.

He marched purposefully between two newly-constructed buildings just outside the Ishvalan encampment. The three Council members stood just outside the taller structure, examining the exterior and speaking to one another in low, quiet tones. Counselor Caelyn looked pleased; a soft smile deepened the wrinkles on her face. Mulvihill pointed and said something Miles was too far away to hear, and Caelyn nodded. Alain stood a stride away from the two older Council memebers, his arms crossed and face fixed in an unpleasant expression.

"Major Miles," Mulvihill said when he caught sight of the younger Ishvalan. He lifted his hand in a friendly greeting.

"Good morning, Master." Miles indulged in a friendly smile. "I trust you are well?"

"Quite. Counselor Caelyn and I were just commenting on how pleased we are with the construction thus far."

Caelyn nodded warmly. "Yes. Thank you for all your efforts, Major. I speak for both my districts when I say that we are grateful." Behind her, Alain snorted and turned away.

Mulvihill ignored the reticent counselor. "Will Roy Mustang be here soon? There are more issues we would like to discuss this morning. Our meeting was unfortunately truncated yesterday." The Master's mouth turned in a frown. The incident with the Ishvalan Resistance leader, Shane, was still fresh in his mind.

Miles shifted and struggled to keep his expression neutral. Meanwhile, his emotions roiled. Mustang was late. Doesn't he understand how important this is? Miles could not afford setbacks after what happened with Shane yesterday. According to Miles' informant, the Resistance meeting last night was full of heated debate and half-made plans. Things were far from stable in Ishval. It would not take much for Mustang to instigate an already-delicate situation.

Yet he was an Amestrian soldier. And Mustang was his General. "I'm sorry, Master. I'm sure the General will be here as quickly as he is able."

Alain let out a wheezing, bitter laugh. "Does he think we're at his disposal? You may be his faithful lapdog, Major, but I'm not. I tire of waiting for this arrogant - "

"Good morning, counselors," the General's voice cut in smoothly. Miles turned to see his superior approaching, white cane sweeping before him.

Alain visibly cringed, but still managed to scowl in spite of it. Mustang stood calmly, one hand wrapped in the little dog's leash. A small smile played at the corner of his lips. Lieutenant Falman stood a pace behind the General, his arms leaden with a high stack of files.

Caelyn was first speak. "Good morning, Roy Mustang. Well-met again."

The General smiled warmly at her, but his eyes trailed in Alain's direction. One corner of his mouth quirked. "I apologize for being late."

"Not at all," Mulvihill said. "We are glad you were able to meet us again so quickly. We hoped to discuss an important issue today."

Mustang nodded. "The water."

"Yes," Caelyn replied. "We are concerned about our supply. There is not much left in the reservoir we found beneath our camp."

Miles frowned. With more Ishvalans arriving every morning, water had become an increasingly scarce resource. They began rationing over a week ago, yet the water table fell lower each day.

"Has there been any success with finding another reservoir?" Mulvihil asked.

"Not yet," said Miles. "We have three survey crews searching the ruins, but none of the pools we've found thus far are suitable for drinking."

Caelyn's lips pursed into a worried line. "What plans do we have should we be unable to find another reservoir?"

Lieutenant Falman coughed lightly. He dragged a file from the pile that teetered in his arms and flipped it open. "There are supplies on their way here as we speak. They should arrive early next week, but it's been slow going, given the terrain."

"I don't like this," Alain said, his arms crossed tightly before him. "We are too dependent on your supplies. We need to find an independent source of water." Alain glared disdainfully at the General. "Wouldn't you agree, Mustang?"

The General did not reply. Miles glanced at his superior; he stared blankly into the distance. Mustang looked lost in thought. His mind seemed far away, as though distracted. Miles grimaced internally and glanced at the Counselors. Mulvihil and Caeyln had soft frowns on their faces, while Alain looked downright offended. This was unacceptable.

"Sir?" Falman prompted gently.

Mustang jumped, nearly dropping his cane. "I- I'm sorry," he stammered. He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, of course Counselor Alain. I agree it would be best if we found clean water here." Mustang cleared his throat. "We hoped some of your people might be willing to help us." He gestured in the direction of the Lieutenant. "Falman has some reports on the areas we've surveyed thus far. We are happy to share this information with you."

Miles was mildly surprised when he saw Alain's face relax - just slightly. The Ishvalan nodded curtly to the General and grunted in assent. Miles breathed a sigh of relief. Though blind, it was clear Mustang had a gift for reading people. But the General could not afford to be distracted. Not with things so tenuous in Ishval.

There was so much more to do before they found peace.

An uncomfortable feeling rested deep in Roy's gut. It lingered there - persistent - since last night. At first he thought he was the Braak flu's newest victim, but as the day wore on, he realized that something else nagged just beyond his consciousness. It unsettled him.

Thankfully, the meeting with the Ishvalan leadership went better than he hoped. He left the meeting after two hours of discussion and debate. He could understand the Ishvalan's Council's worry: Water supplies were running low in the Amestrian camp as well. It threatened to bring construction to a standstill.

Mustang meandered down the planked path towards the command building. Falman had stepped away for a moment to make arrangements for a meeting later that day. Mustang practically had to push the Lieutenant away; Falman refused to believe that Roy was capable of finding his own way back. "I can still get by, Hayate," Mustang muttered to the little dog that trotted at his side. "Frankly, I think I'm doing pretty well."

Hayate panted below him. In Roy's mind, he imagined the canine nodding sagely in agreement.

"Sir!" called a male voice Mustang did not recognize. "General!"

Roy stopped and allowed the soldier to approach. "Yes? Er, who...?"

"Private Anadis, sir."

"Yes? What is it, private?"

"Sir," the Anadis said stiffly. "Leiutenant Falman asked me to find Captain Hawkeye, sir. I couldn't find her anywhere on the base. No one has seen her. I even tried her flat. I knocked, but no one answered."

"I see. You're absolutely certain no one has seen her?

"One hundred percent, sir."

"And she's not in her flat? You checked all the rooms?"

"Well Sir, I didn't… exactly… I didn't go into the apartment, Sir. I didn't think –"

"That's right. You didn't think," Mustang spat. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Incompetent. "You realize, private, that the Braak flu is raging through the camp? What if she's laid out sick in bed? What if she couldn't answer the door? Did the thought even occur to you?"

"S- sorry sir. I only –"

"Nevermind. Just –" Roy took a calming breath. "And she hasn't reported in? You're absolutely sure she's not in her office or the command building?"

"N- no Sir."

This was so unlike her. "Thank you, private. Dismissed."

Mustang turned away from the young man, his feet already pointed in the direction of Hawkeye's apartment. He was a man of action – he would find her himself. Falman would be less than pleased at his unannounced disappearance, but Roy could no longer wait. Something was off about this day. He felt restless. A hot, anxious feeling worried at the back of his neck. It was as though he had forgotten to do something – like he was missing some essential step. "C'mon Hayate," Mustang said, setting a brisk pace down the timbered walkway. His cane swung in a wide arc before him.

The little dog bucked and pulled at the leash as they neared Hawkeye's flat. Roy suddenly felt nauseous, his stomach twisting into a tight ball. He realized with a growing sense of dread that this was no flu. This was something else entirely. Hayate practically dragged him to Riza's door, and soon his cane tapped against its wooden surface.

His hand hovered for a moment before he rapped twice.

No answer.

He did not like this. It was too still here. It worried him, though he could not say why. Hayate scrabbled at the door, desperate. That decided it: He would let himself in and deal Hawkeye's inevitable displeasure later. Roy clapped and laid his palms against sun-warmed knob. The lock clicked and the door fell open with a soft creak.

Something was wrong. He knew the moment he entered the room. A metallic scent hung heavy in the air. The house was silent; it seemed to swallow the sound of his shuffling boots. With a yelp, Hayate sprang forward and his leash flew from Mustang's toneless fingers. Roy's cane caught in the strap and went skittering across the floor. He heard the dog's claws scrabble as he raced across the main living area and into the adjoining room. Then the canine let out a soft, pitiful whine.

"Captain?" Roy called. "Captain!" He stepped forward blindly, wishing for the first time he had his cane to guide him. His foot bumped into something. He reached down and his hand brushed over an overturned chair. Panic began to swell in his chest. What happened here? Where is she? Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He had to find her. Now. Now now now.

His heart pounded in rhythm with its silent demand.

"Captain, answer me!" Roy stumbled towards the sound of Hayate's mournful whimper. His feet tangled in another piece of furniture. This time he fell, his palms scraping against the rough floorboards. He hardly felt the pain. He clumsily rose to his feet, only to run headlong into a wall. "Damn it!" he roared. "Riza! Goddammit, Riza! Answer!" He choked as terror clutched his throat. He needed to hear her. Any sound – a moan, a cry, a scream – anything. But there was nothing. Nothing.

He was not sure why he did it. He was the Flame Alchemist; his skills were of no use to him now. Yet in an act of frantic desperation, he clapped his hands together. He felt power course through him and flow through the circle of his arms. But he could not focus on equations. A transmutation circle refused to resolve in his mind. Only her. He only thought of her.

Riza.

He set his palms against the wooden floor.

The transmutation felt strange, foreign. He sensed tendrils of energy leak from his arms into the wooden planks. They splayed in all directions, curling and eddying around him. What is this? It was unlike any alchemy he knew. The power resonated in waves, reverberating off the walls and fallen furniture. His mind strayed briefly to the chair he stumbled over when he first entered the room. As though hearing his thoughts, the tendrils began to drift in the direction of the toppled seat. After a dizzying moment, he realized he had somehow directed the energy. It bent to his will. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he sent this new, strange power towards the sound of Hayate's cry. Somehow he knew it was the right thing to do.

And then he saw her. A strange new world opened to him, with Riza at its center. Coils of his energy wound around her body and enveloped her in an unearthly glow. But did not see her – not with his eyes. This vision was nothing like the sight he lost.

He was Seeing. He Saw things that were beyond human sense. He could See the ebb and flow of her shallow breaths. He could See the fluttering cadence of her weakening pulse. He could See the odd, tri-looped wound that rent her back. All these things and a million tiny others. And for an instant he Understood Riza. Completely. Utterly. He knew the melody of her soul and the quiet beating of her heart.

A light that was not light poured from her wound, dissipating in the air like mist. And he knew it was her lifeforce. She was slipping away.

"No!" The word ripped out of him. "Riza!" No. No no no. He stumbled toward her, her form like a beacon in this otherworldly sight.

He reached for her and his hand clasped about her wrist. The instant his skin touched hers, he was plunged into darkness. The strange non-sight disappeared and he was blind once more. But he could not bring himself to care at the moment. He had Seen enough in those few seconds to reach her. Her wrist was deathly cold beneath his fingers. Roy clapped. The wooden shackles that enclosed her wrists fell away, and he reached for her again. His hand fell on her back. It was tacky with blood.

"Riza," he whispered, harsh and afraid. Roy's hand skimmed up her shoulder to the hair that splayed over her face. He brushed it aside and was relieved to feel her breath puff softly against his skin. "Riza, say something," he said louder, stroking his knuckles along her cheek. She did not stir. He turned her over and gathered her in his arms, clutching her limp form to his chest. "Riza, open your eyes." He rested two fingers against her neck. Her pulse felt thready, like a small, fluttering bird.

She was so still. So terrifyingly quiet. As quiet as her flat had been last night. He let out a choked cry as he realized what he had done; how he ignored Hayate's signals. He did this to her. He was here last night and he did nothing. Nothing. He should have known. He should have realized something was wrong. But he left her alone, bleeding to death. Guilt washed over him, hot and prickly. A guttural moan escaped his throat and his arms tightened around her body. A feeling of impending loss tore, tore, tore at him until he felt it would rip him in twain.

Stay, Riza. You have to. You have to stay.

He lifted her from the blood-soaked bed. She felt so small, so fragile. Nothing like the strong, confident woman he knew. Her head fell limply against his shoulder. Roy's breath came in throaty, panicked gasps as he began to cautiously make his way to the bedroom door. Hayate paced and whined at his feet. He had to get her out of here. He had to get her help.

Now now now.

"Shit!" he roared as he felt Riza's legs knock into the doorjamb. He had never felt so blind. A white-hot panic enveloped him, filling his limbs with hysterical energy. His entire body trembled with the force of it. He clutched her tightly, tucking her into his chest, and started forward again.

Roy's foot caught the overturned chair. He let out a startled, broken cry, stumbled, and nearly fell. A wordless keen tore through his throat. She was slipping and he was blind and he was useless. Utterly useless. He was killing her. "Help me! Shit! Somebody…" Roy's shoulder glanced against the wall and he began to unravel. He let out a single, broken sob. His knees lost all tone and he slid to the floor, Riza still held tightly in his arms. His voice faded to a soft moan. "Help me… she… she…" Roy buried his face in her hair. Even now, she smelled of lavender. Of gunpowder and mineral oil. Of her.

It was excruciating.

"Mustang?" called a voice from the entrance of the flat. Roy recognized the accent immediately: Suyin.

He could barely get the words around his choked throat. "In here! I need help."

He heard the soft swish of silk and hurried, muffled footsteps. "I sensed..." Suyin paused as she took in the sight of Mustang crouched on the floor, Riza's bloodied body in his arms. "What...?"

The words bubbled out, unrelenting and unstoppable. "I don't know! I found her like this. Someone attacked her. Someone came in here and attacked her. It's her back. They cut her back. She's bleeding. She's probably been bleeding for hours. I can't see. I can't see. Oh God, Riza - "

"Mustang…"

"Help me." His voice built, carrying a frantic, helpless air. "You know alkahestry. Heal her. Heal her! You can, can't you?"

"I…"

"Heal her. Your damn alkahestry has to be good for something," Mustang hissed. "Heal her!"

"You must…"

"Heal her!" he snarled. "Do something, you bitch!"

"Mustang." The word was sharp enough to snap him from his own despair. "Put her down." Her voice was deadly calm.

He hated her for it.

"Heal her," he whispered.

"I will try. But first you must put her down."

"Please," he breathed. "Please." He reverently lowered Riza to the floor. His hand lingered in her silken hair, now matted with blood.

He felt Suyin's hand on his shoulder. "Give me room," she said, not unkindly.

Roy stumbled back. He was lightheaded; his heart pounded, flooding his ears with an awful roaring. He felt helpless as he stood blind in the center of the room - like he was floating in some dark, turbulent sea. He heard a soft scraping, then the solid sound of metal imbedding in wood. There was a brief rushing noise and Roy felt heat radiate against the front of his uniform.

"It is finished," Suyin said. Her voice sounded strained. "I have done what I can. The wounds are sealed, but she lost much blood. She will need more rest."

"Riza," he breathed, sinking to the floor next to her. His hand found hers with startling ease. It was warmer than before. Her breathing seemed easier. But it was still frighteningly shallow and she remained utterly still. "Why isn't she saying anything? Why isn't she waking up?"

"She… needs to rest," Suyin reassured. "Mustang, there is something you should –"

"General, sir!" Falman's voice called from the apartment door. Roy could hear the sound of pounding footsteps outside. "Are you here, Sir?"

"Here!" Roy called. The word rasped painfully in his torn throat. "In here, Lieutenant." His arms curled around Riza's body and he lifted her from the floor. He heard the sound of boots echo in the main room. Falman must have brought a small cadre of soldiers along with him.

"Sir!" Shock threaded through the Lieutenant's usually gruff tone. Roy imagined Falman's distraught expression as he took in the sight of their beloved, ruined Queen. They all adored her – every one of them. This was unthinkable. "Is she alright Sir? What happened?"

"Falman... I… she –" Roy could not find the words for this unspeakable thing.

A sudden flurry of voices exploded from the main room. Roy heard the soft, telltale click of firearms brought to bear.

"You there! Woman!"

"Step away from the General!"

"Put your hands up! Now!"

Falman's voice cut through the cacophony. "Stand down!" he clipped. "Stop! Put away your weapons!"

Suyin spoke from just to Roy;s left – calm and collected. "You will not point those things at me. Not if you wish to live."

Roy's heart lurched and he gripped Riza's body more tightly in his arms. "Stand down," he clipped to his men. "Falman, get them in hand. Suyin didn't do this."

"Sir," Falman acknowledged. He began barking orders at the soldiers. Mustang hardly heard the words. Instead, his ears strained for the sound of Riza's tenuous breaths. They came soft but steady. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his. She was alive. Alive, but so terribly hurt. Roy leaned his head down to press his cheek against her brow. He came so close to losing her again. Again. He almost lost her again. His heart fluttered. Something sparked within him. It caught. It burned.

Once started, it was beyond Roy's control. It took hold of him – overwhelmed and enveloped him. It coursed through him like a raging fire. It filled his senses, muffling the world around, and soon all he knew was the feeling of his own righteous fury.

They hurt her. They hurt her. She, one of the few things in this world he truly loved. And somehow he knew – he was certain – it was his fault. This was for him. He was the target. She suffered because of his selfishness, his oversight, his blindness. His heart ached - screamed - as he thought of how she suffered. He would never forgive himself for this.

He heard a voice. It seemed to come from very far away. Unseen hands tugged at Riza's body, pulling her away from him. No. "No!" He would not let her go to a place where he could not see. "Stay away from her!" he snarled. The covetous hands retreated, and Roy clutched Riza's body ever closer to his chest.

"I- I'm sorry Sir," a voice stuttered. It took a moment for him to recognize it as Falman's. "I thought I might take her…"

"No." Roy pulled away. "Stay back."

"Mustang." Suyin's voice was soft and low, as though speaking to a wild thing. "Calm yourself. We are trying to help you."

Taking the cue from the Xingese woman, Falman muted his tone. "P- please, Sir. It's alright. Let me carry her for you."

"No!"

"Mustang, listen to reason. She needs to see a doctor. You cannot carry her without your sight."

"I… I can. I can do it. I don't want to be… I can't be too far." The fire in his chest blazed furiously at the thought. He needed to know she was safe; to feel her warmth against his skin. Roy hitched Riza higher in his arms. "Just guide me. I… need to carry her."

"But Sir…"

"Put your hand on my shoulder, Falman," Roy said. "Take us to the infirmary." For the first time, he was grateful for his blindness. It meant he could not see the concerned expression on his Lieutenant's face. He knew it was there, and he could not bear it. Not now. He did not deserve pity.

Falman had a right to worry. A hateful, fiery anger boiled within Roy.

He did not know what he might do next.

Breda was perched over the toilet when the knock sounded at his door. He groaned. He felt like shit. After the stakeout last night, he returned to his flat to ride out the worst of his illness. He arrived not a moment too soon. He was fairly certain he now knew what it was to "puke one's guts out." It was just as unpleasant as it sounded. What a horrible, endless night.

He tottered to the door, wiping his chapped lips with the back of his hand. "This'd better be good," he muttered. He was not in any shape to do his duties today. He felt wrung out like a sponge. Breda pulled the door open with a weary sigh.

A young female cadet stood outside. She snapped to attention and saluted briskly. "Sir!" The cadet was silent for a moment as her eyes raked over Breda's unkempt figure. Her lips dropped in a tiny, disgusted frown. Breda grimaced. Apparently he looked just as bad as he felt.

"What is it?" Breda snapped. The light of the midday sun seemed to come from just behind her, piercing his eyes with its needlelike rays. He wanted so desperately to return to his cot and curl into a miserable ball.

"Sir, I was instructed to fetch you, sir."

You have to be kidding… Breda leaned against the door wearily. "I'm out sick, cadet," he said impatiently. "I'm off. Who exactly gave you this order?"

"Lieutenant Falman, sir. He said it was an emergency, sir. I am not to leave here unless accompanied by you, sir."

"Of course you aren't," Breda muttered bitterly. This damn cadet was beginning to annoy him with her high-pitched, squeaky voice. It cut through his aching head like a blade. "What is this about?"

"Sir, I was not informed. I was just told to get you, sir."

Breda stared at the cadet with narrowed, furious eyes. But orders were orders, and Falman would not have called him for something trivial. He hoped the meeting with the Ishvalan Council this morning ended well. "Fine," Breda said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to steady his churning stomach. "Just… wait here, cadet. I need a sec." He began to swing the door closed, but turned back to squint into the searing noonday sun. "And stop saying 'sir' so damn much. It's pissing me off."

The cadet shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, sir. Er, please hurry, s– er…. I mean, please hurry. Lieutenant Falman indicated it was a rather urgent matter."

"I'm sure it is," Breda bit. He shut the door with a bit more force than necessary. With a weary sigh, he began shambling through his messy apartment, searching for the uniform he hurriedly shed the night before. He grumbled seditiously under his breath. This had better be good, Falman.

Five minutes later, Breda stumbled weakly after the female cadet, his booted feet dragging along the path. The sun beat down on his head. He swayed like a drunkard. The heat and movement did not help his already-curdled stomach. Not one bit.

"Sir!" called a listless voice. Breda turned to see Fuery approach, his youthful face peaked and drawn. Apparently the Braak flu had done him in as well.

"Fuery," Breda greeted the Sergeant with little enthusiasm. "Falman called for you, too?"

The young man nodded, then immediately grimaced and clutched his stomach. "What is this about, Sir?" he hissed between his teeth.

Breda shook his head. "Dunno." He clapped a hand on Fuery's shoulder in what he hoped was a sympathetic gesture. The young man gagged slightly, his face turning a sickly green. Breda quickly let go and murmured a hasty apology.

The younger man simply shook his head, his eyes squeezed tight.

Breda let out a breath. "Well, whatever this is about, let's just get it over with. The sooner it's done, the sooner we can get back to bed."

"Right," Fuery muttered.

"Follow me, sirs," squeaked the annoying cadet. She turned down the path that led to the north portion of the camp.

Her feet pointed in the direction of the infirmary.

"Shit," muttered Breda. Shit shit shit. He exchanged a worried glance with Fuery and hurried after the cadet.

The tiny hospital smelled of antiseptic and newly-cut tile. The echoing hallways were hushed but for the occasional cough or scraping sound of nurses' rubber-soled shoes. Falman waited just inside the entrance, his body as taught as a stretched band. He strode forward the moment he saw them. Breda decided he did not like the look on his friend's already-solemn face.

"I'm sorry," Falman began. His normally clipped tone sounded garbled. "I know you're both ill... but..."

"What is it?" Fuery piped. "What happened?"

Fuery's lips pursed. He swallowed thickly. "It's Captain Hawkeye. She was attacked. The General found her. She was... near the end."

"No." Breda reached forward to grip his friend's arm. He clung to it, squeezing with the same ferocity as the tight, bound feeling that clutched his chest. Riza. The very heart of their team. The one they could always depend on - who remained steadfast and strong through everything. She was the bravest, truest soldier he knew. It couldn't be. They were rudderless without her. Why would someone want to hurt such a beautiful, tranquil creature?

Fuery shook his head in disbelief and let out a tiny, heart-wrenching cry.

"Is she..." Breda stammered, "will she...?" He furiously blinked back tears that pricked his eyes. He could not bring himself to utter the unfathomable fears that stole through his heart.

"She's alive," Falman reassured. But his face was grave. "She hasn't woken up. Not since Suyin healed her."

"W- who?"

The grey-haired man shrugged. "The General's alkahestry teacher, apparently."

Breda was not sure what to make that. He could not bring himself to care. There were more important matters at hand. "Can we see her?"

Falman jerked his head towards a dimly-lit corridor. "She's here. Come with me." The three men started down the hall, their boots reverberating hollowly off the pristine tiles. They only walked a few steps before Falman stopped. "Wait."

Breda almost knocked into the taller man; his stomach churned angrily in response. "What is it, Falman?" he snapped. No more delays.

The grey Lieutenant avoided Breda's eyes. "It's the General, sir."

Breda's breath hitched. He had not even thought of Mustang. They all loved Riza, but the General... Their superior attempted to hide his feelings behind his snarky comments and sly smirks, but they all knew: Mustang could not function without his fair-haired shadow. The bond he and Riza shared was something beyond Breda's understanding. There was something tangible - palpable - between them.

This could break him.

Breda took a long breath, puffing it out between tightly pursed lips. "Is he alright?"

Falman glanced up from beneath his silvery fringe. "He's barely spoken Breda," he said softly. "He won't leave her side."

The three men exchanged meaningful glances. Breda puffed out an impatient breath. "Good thing you called me. Someone's gotta slap some sense into his head. Especially while Riza's -" He stopped when a tight feeling caught in his throat. "C'mon," he said gruffly. He strode into the room.

Riza lay, still and beautiful as a sculpture, her body softly lit by light from the nearby window. Her hair splayed like a golden halo around her head and her skin glowed a beautiful, pure alabaster. It made Breda's heart ache. Mustang sat at her side, his blank eyes staring intently at her prone form. He held her limp hand, his thumb moving in an endless circle on her palm.

A soft sound drew Breda's eyes to the corner of the room. A Xingese woman crouched there, balanced easily on the balls of her feet. Her sharp eyes glanced up at Breda for a moment before her gaze returned to Mustang. She seemed to be studying him, attentive. Wary.

"Sir?" Breda said softly. Mustang did not move. Breda took another step, speaking more loudly this time. "Sir?"

"They wanted to send a message." Mustang's voice sounded hollow. Empty.

"Sir?"

"They carved it into her back, Breda. They wanted me to see it."

Breda did not like his superior's foreboding tone. "I… I don't understand, Sir."

"Her wound. Before Suyin healed it… It had a shape. A specific shape."

"Sir… you need to rest. Falman and I can –"

"Get me something to write on." Mustang said coldly. "Now."

"Uh, sure…" Breda exchanged a worried glance with Breda and Falman before he patted his coat and pulled out a pen and wrinkled piece of paper. He placed them in Mustang's outstretched hand.

The General braced the scrap on the top of the bed, his hands sure. "They were sending me a message." He said again. He began to draw, the pen moving in loops over the surface of the paper. "Whoever they were, they wanted me to know they were the ones that did it to her." He stopped sketching, and his hand moved away. Breda leaned forward to examine the shaky image.

He gasped. He knew that shape. He had seen it just last night.

Mustang had drawn a three-looped triquetra.

The General cocked his head. "You recognize it?"

"Y- yes, sir." Breda replied slowly.

"Well?" The word sounded rapacious and vengeful all at once.

"It's…" Breda swallowed thickly. "Sir, it's the symbol of the Ishvalan resistance movement."

The General's sightless eyes stared at Breda, unblinking. Something in his aura changed. The air around him seemed to crackle and warp. Though Mustang remained motionless, he suddenly seemed dangerous. Like a coiled whip. Like a loaded gun.

"It was them, Breda," Mustang murmured. "They did this to her." His expression contorted into a dark, unforgiving mask. "Take me to their hideout."

A/N: And now we begin the second half of the story. Sorry this took so long to update! I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all the anonymous reviewers out there. I usually try to PM/reply to every comment, but… to you, I can't! So here it is:

Thanks so much for taking the time to review. I really appreciate all the supportive remarks (and also the criticisms!). I wouldn't still be writing this story if it weren't for your kind encouragement and thoughtful comments. You guys rock my socks. You rock them right off. Keep those reviews coming! Yours, Antigone.

Next Chapter: Snap