Roy was angry. Not that that was saying too much by his normal standards, but this was an entirely new level of frustration and malcontent that plagued him in every waking hours, and it only got worse.

It wasn't like Ishval, this war; it wasn't a massacre. The Drachmans knew what they were doing, and they weren't fooling around. No, every bad feeling from this war came from the fact that he couldn't kill enough Drachmans, not that he had overbearing guilt in doing so. That sounded pretty messed up when put into words, but it was, to Roy, justified. The guilt was still present, always present, because they were still humans and he was still killing them. But this time, they just kept coming, no matter how many went down. Like a hydra, when one wave was dealt with another two took its place.

And he couldn't stop them. Couldn't protect his team, his country, his family, from these monsters that were men that seemed immortal in both their perseverance and their cruelty. They did not kill with mercy, he knew that much. These people, with death-pale skin and dark hair and black eyes, they would drag out a death when they could. Prolong misery, attack the innocent. They seemed immoral, beings of pure meanness and objective murderers.

Roy did not know the death count among the Amestrians. He did not know what horrors the other teams had faced, the other branches. But he had seen the acts of the Drachmans first hand. A man next to him had been shot sixteen times in the legs, then spiked on a pole and bled out, finally dying minutes and minutes later. Another had had her limbs removed crudely by a large man with a gun and a saw.

The girl from his own unit, Abrielle, their sniper and medic, was dragged from a wounded soldier and actually cut in half. Through the middle.

Worse than anything else, any pain that he felt for the fallen, any self-pity or sorrow, was that now he knew exactly what it felt to be on the opposite side in the massacre at Ishval. And back then, he had been the one to cause it.

He had been the monster. He still was a monster.

This whole war, it was a war of monsters and people who were less than people. So be it. He would fight the bloody fight.

IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOI

Creek Miller sat with an uncomfortable rigidity in the office chair. It was always to large, too official for someone of his stature, and the sore back he now possessed from that awful bed last night did nothing to help.

The entire room buzzed with authority, from the large steel desk to the window overlooking the running track to the wide golden plaque that rested at the desk's center.

Most obedience-provoking, above everything else, was the man behind the desk. Creek was tall, had always been tall, even made fun of for being tall, but this man was on an entirely different level. He towered over everyone, and had width that supported the height. He had a barrel chest and hands larger than his stern face, with small, bright eyes and a thick mustache.

Creek had no doubt that General Aperstein could easily take on any one of the recruits he trained, just as he was certain that he had no desire to be under the scrutiny of those bright little eyes. The mustache began to move.

"Miller, do you have an explanation? For any of this?" The eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was all Creek could do to hope that he wouldn't start shooting lasers from them.

"No, sir. I's gained 's trust, an' he didn't tell me anything about something like this."

"Not the boy, you idiot, I was asking about the grenade. Do you know why the grenade would explode?" He huffed several deep breaths, and when he received only silence on Creek's part, he continued. "We know, at least partially, why he had that reaction, just as we knew that reaction could happen. That's why we took steps to prevent that reaction."

"Sir, please, why would I know-"

"Because you were supposed to be looking after him! And look at what's happened. Now we'll have to scrap the whole operation… Damn, he was a good soldier."

"N-no, you don't have to… Edward can still…" Creek trailed off, stuck between denial and horrible realization. His eyes widened and he stammered intelligibly, sweat forming at his brow. He didn't want to see that Edward was… That he himself had failed his job so miserably.

"Your error was, as I hope you know, not much of a slip, compared to everything that could have gone wrong. But it was critical, and has terminated our efforts. You will most likely be dismissed by morning. When you get the memo, go to the gate and the driver there will take you to the train station. The train for Kilm leaves at noon."

"'Most likely'? Y'mean there's a chance I won't be dismissed?"

The general groaned. He hated to even gratify this small triviality, but it was technically an option he had to address.

"Well, under the terms of the contract, if Edward Elric were to be physically and mentally able to return to training within twenty four hours, then the plan would resume. But the chances of that happening, as I'm sure you're aware, knowing his current status…"

"He'll be fine, then! It works out better for you that way, so he has to get better! I mean, you always get your bloody way, so this'll be cake for the universe to manage!" Creek didn't realize that he was shouting, nor that he was propped up halfway onto the desk and in the general's face until he pause for acknowledgement. He reddened a little and sat back, as Aperstein held his silence.

Creek desperately searched the older man's face for some sign of hope and, finding none, stood up suddenly and held a brief salute.

"Requesting dismissal."

"…Approved. But know that your chances of staying are slim. In his condition…"

But Creek was already out the door, and headed toward the infirmary.

IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOI

Gracia stood with the worn-down stature and overly-tolerant mindset of a woman who had spent the last several weeks caring for two hyperactive children, with the added burden of moving with these children to some obscure town miles south of both their homes.

She watched as two large men carried their suitcases and boxes of blankets and utilities out of her house. Neither of them had spoken a word to her since their arrival other than asking her name and stating that they were sent by the Fuhrer.

They did prove to be quite helpful, however, seeing as both of her hands were occupied. In her left was a small pale hand with little pink painted fingernails, belonging to her own daughter. In her right was the slightly smaller chubby hand of the Mustangs' son, Isaac. She smiled to herself, thinking of Roy's reaction when he found that his son's fingernails were painted a lovely shade of sky blue. But what was she to do? The boy had insisted on having his nails done like big sister Elysia.

The men finished loading the things into the car, and she ushered the two kids inside. She sat on the right side, Elysia on the other and Isaac taking the space between them.

The engine started up and they lurched forward, starting the journey south.

The children had already become absorbed in some little game they were playing, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. They were mostly just happy to be together, though Isaac had questioned in the middle of packing why he needed a box for his bear pajamas when he only had one set. Luckily, she explained that away, and there were no more inquiries for the remainder of the process.

Elysia held one of her dolls, a rabbit-bear hybrid of some sort, and they made it dance across their laps while Isaac provided its voice in a squeaky drawl. They were having fun. Gracia held a weak smile for them, and then looked out the window.

She watched her house become smaller and smaller, then disappear around a corner. She wondered what kind of situation the country could be in, that this was required of them, and if she would ever see the house again.

-philos

We'll see soon how it goes.

On, to chapter twenty-(whatever the next one is). I've lost track. In any case, see you then.