Honestly, this wasn't the sort of day Roy had envisioned when he had gotten up that morning.
He didn't make a fuss as Silas and a pair of EMTs strapped him to a gurney and hit him with a barrage of questions as they took his vitals and wheeled him out the back door of HQ. It was dark out now, the occasional flash of lightening illuminating the sky and the falling sleet like millions of tiny fireflies. Cold wind rushed across his face, managing to wind its way into the warm blanket strapped around him as it did and he shivered in response.
His impatience, however, was mounting. Hawkeye and Archer followed close behind, conversing under the stream of chatter Silas was aiming at the EMTs and Roy couldn't catch a word of it over the wind, but he had to assume the man was telling her what, exactly, he was going to do if anything suspicious happened that night.
"Alright, up we go!" Silas grunted as he and the others hefted the gurney into the ambulance. Roy stared at his reflection in the metal ceiling above him as the two medical personnel and—after some arguing—only one of Archer's MPs piled into the vehicle with him, one EMT sliding into the driver's seat while the other took a seat on the benches lining the sides of the car.
Roy saw Riza, her sherry eyes resting on him with the upmost confidence. He saw her pull Silas aside, whisper something in his ear, then slip something in his pocket before he piled in the vehicle, pulling the doors shut as he did. Then they were driving.
That had been the easy part.
"Sir, do you feel any tingling or numbness?" Clarissa asked. She was young and pretty, with hazel eyes and dark hair swept up in a bun that she constantly reached back to tighten every few minutes.
Roy shook his head. "Honestly, I'm feeling much better now."
"That's good news!" Silas exclaimed, bending down. "Alright, then, I'll just unstrap these, then," he said, hands reaching down for the leather belts that held him to the gurney.
"Doctor, the patient must be secure for transport—"
Silas gave her a dazzling smile. "It's alright, Clarissa. Trust me, I'm a doctor."
Clarissa looked uncertain, brows furrowed as she glanced from Roy to Silas, reaching a hand back to adjust her hair.
"Leave him tied up."
Roy looked up to see the MP glaring down at them. Second Lieutenant Bailey was a big man, with a close-shaved head and a thick mustache sitting on his upper lip like some fluffy caterpillar. Even under his uniform, Roy could make out the bulging muscles perfect for ripping people's lungs out, or smothering whales. "Colonel's orders," he rumbled. "He stays tied up."
"And I know Colonel Archer just has everyone's best interests at heart, but I'm afraid I simply must listen to his heart, and I can't do that from the back if he's strapped down—"
"Doctor," Clarissa interrupted. "We already did that five minutes ago—"
"Clarissa, shush!" Silas said, turning back to the MP with a disarming smile. "Okay, I'm lying. That was all a big lie. Actually, I'm not even a doctor. I'm from the Fuhrer's head of security." Panic fluttered in Roy's chest as Silas shot to his feet, taking a big step over Roy into Bailey's personal space. What was the idiot doing? This was not part of the plan!
Bailey flinched, the gun in his arms raising an inch until Silas whipped out a wallet from his back pocket and put it in the man's face. He flipped it open and shut too fast to read. "Special Agent Bartholomous . . . Smith."
Bartholomous Smith. It's like the man was trying to get them all shot.
Bailey's expression faltered just the slightest as his eyes flicked from Roy to Silas. Roy didn't have any trouble acting dismayed at the sudden revelation.
Roy forcibly clamped down on a warning and glanced down over himself. He was still completely confined in the blanket, the gurney's straps securing him across his chest, hips, thighs and shins. It was standard procedure when transporting prisoners, and though Roy was alright with playing along when things were going according to plan, it seemed like the situation was starting to head downhill, and the last place Roy wanted to be was strapped down when Bailey decided to shoot them all.
"Head of security?" Bailey questioned, eyes narrowing.
"That's right!" Silas assured, leaning one elbow on the high shelf lining the wall of the ambulance like a lecturer about to impart ancient wisdom onto his learner. "Transporting prisoners to the hospital is always tricky business. You've got to watch out for all kinds of things, like riots and escapes and people hitting you over the head with bedpans."
Bailey frowned. "What—"
Silas' fist closed around something bright sliver and he brought it down over Bailey's head, dislodging a rain of empty syringes and rolls of gauze to crash to the floor.
The man cried out, one hand clutching his head and the other raising the gun to fire. Silas lunged forward, a picture of uncoordinated limbs as one hand wrapped around the barrel of the weapon while the other arm brought the bedpan over the man's head again and again.
Really, the situation might have been funny if there weren't a gun pointed just a few inches over Roy's head.
The end of the gun exploded with a bright flash and Roy ducked his head with a yelp as a round pierced the side of the ambulance with a high-pitched shriek. Clarissa screamed and the driver cursed as the vehicle swerved. The straps held Roy in place through the scuffle, even as he tried to free himself, hands working free of the blanket in a panicked flurry.
He was going to die because Silas was trying to bludgeon an armed man to death with a bedpan.
The vehicle skidded to a stop, sending loose materials and supplies raining down on them from the upper shelves. Clarissa fell on top of Roy, covering his head with her body and momentarily obscuring his view of the scuffle until a strangled snarl had her sitting up again to see what happened.
With a victorious cry, Silas wrenched the weapon from Bailey's hands, staggering back to lean against the wall. In his other hand, the bedpan gleamed, dented and smeared with blood like some terrible war weapon.
Bailey cradled his head, a stream of blood trickling down his bald scalp to stain his shirt collar. His eyes were on Silas, wide with surprise and glassy with pain.
In Bailey's defense, Roy certainly hadn't been expecting . . . well, that.
"Okay," Silas said, eyes wide and wild, voice strangled and shaking. Roy wasn't sure if it was fear or adrenaline. "I am a holding a gun and a bedpan. It's been a long day, so I will only make this offer once. We're on a rescue mission to find a child that's lost out in the middle of this storm, and if you help us, there will be heaps of glory in it for you, and if you don't, I will hit you with this bedpan and shave your mustache off while you're unconscious. Which will it be? Heaps of glory, or naked lips? Of course, nothing wrong with naked lips. My lips are naked, but I don't think you want your lips naked, so which one?"
Bailey was looking as if he was trying to decide if he should laugh or jump out of the ambulance. Finally, he uncurled himself from the corner of the vehicle, one hand still holding his bleeding head. "Glory, please."
"Ha, he said glory!" he giggled maniacally, clearly on the cusps of hysterics. "Good, glory is good. Better than naked lips. Roy, I'm holding a gun and a bedpan, but I actually really have a problem with the gun one, Roy, please please take it."
"Silas, someone has to unstrap me first," Roy said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
"Oh, right." Silas looked at the gun in his hand numbly. He made to drop it on the bench.
"No, Silas, hold it and keep it on Bailey!" Roy snapped. "Clarissa, get these straps off of me, please." The last part was strangled.
Clarissa mutely obliged, wide hazel eyes darting from Silas to Bailey, then back down at her work. The medic in the driver's seat had a clear view of Silas and the gun trembling in his hands and wisely kept his mouth shut until Roy was free. Roy bent down to undo the final strap and jumped to his feet.
Silas all but threw the gun at him, Roy barely managing to catch it before it fell to the ground. The weapon was heavy and foreign in his hands. How long had it been since he'd last used one?
"Now what?" Silas asked. Now that he was free of the gun, it seemed some of his nerves had disappeared as well. "I've never done a prison break before. This is all very exciting!"
Roy suppressed the childish impulse to roll his eyes and turned to address the other three occupants. "Okay, here's how this is going to work," Roy announced, smoothing the shakiness from his voice with his military training. "Everyone stand up. Bailey and you," he gestured to the driver with his gun. "Wrap your hands around a bench leg."
The driver glanced around as if hoping someone would tell him this was all some stupid joke, but Bailey complied with nothing more than a weary sigh, sitting on the floor and crossing his wrists in front of him around a bench leg.
Roy snagged a couple of plastic bags filled with IV lines from a shelf and handed them to Clarissa and Silas. "Tie them up good. Then Jim, tie her up as well."
Clarissa gave him a wide-eyed look, but Silas touched her arm with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Clarissa. Just a precaution. Play along and you'll be home in time for breakfast."
She returned his smile, though more frail, then took an IV line from Roy and headed for the driver.
Both complied under Roy's cover, and soon, all three of them were restrained. Roy then turned and put a few rounds through the radio. Clarissa yelped as the entire inside of the ambulance was lit briefly by bright sparks, then it was dead.
"Hey! That's hospital property!" the nameless driver shouted in indignation.
"Silas will buy you a new one," Roy said flippantly. "Alright, James, you can drive one of these, right?"
Silas gave the man an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Roger." He turned back to Roy. "Of course I know how! I drive one of these beauties to the polka festival every year." He slid into the seat, turning the key in the ignition and giving it some gas. The machine soon roared to life and Silas turned over to give Roy a bright smile. "Where to?"
Roy took a seat on the bench farthest from his 'prisoners.'
"Find my team."
XxXxX
Ed didn't know how long it had been since they'd come for him last. Was it days? Weeks? He had some vague recollections of pain, but all of it had just melted and ran together like blood in the rain. He was dizzy, like he'd been hit over the head, and there was an awful rumbling, like wolves growling, snarling suddenly and jarring him every time.
His automail leg hissed as electricity fired through it, making his back arch in pain until he curled up, pulling it closer to his chest and tried to breathe through it with tight whimpers. He briefly wondered if the wolves would attack him like this, but quickly shoved the thought away. Entertaining it while everything hurt so badly was too much to handle at the moment.
Somewhere, footsteps beat against the ground. He heard the door open on squealing hinges, sending spikes of dread through his gut.
He wasn't ready.
"There you are, Fullmetal," a familiar baritone rumbled, voice too loud and somehow not right in the basement.
Ed jerked at the sound, shock jarring his mind momentarily. He reflexively sat up and pressed himself against the wall for some small measure of protection. Not right. It wasn't right. Mustang wouldn't come for him. Mustang had abandoned him, abandoned him to this basement, and he wouldn't be back.
"Is that anyway to treat me, Fullmetal? After all I've done for you?" he asked, booted feet treading closer.
Hope swelled in his chest. Was this real? Had Mustang finally come for him? After months of being trapped in the dark, Mustang was finally here? He didn't hate him?
But it shouldn't be Mustang. Ed wasn't sure why, but he knew it shouldn't be him.
Something had happened. Something he couldn't quite remember, but it was important. It was the proof he needed to understand that this wasn't quite right, but without the memory of it, it left him vulnerable and uncertain.
But surely it couldn't hurt to believe that Mustang was here to save him? Just for a bit . . . just for now, then he could wake up and be satisfied knowing what it would feel like to be saved.
"Come on, Fullmetal," the voice scattered his thoughts like marbles. "Get up."
Ed tried, but then noticed his leg was missing. That wasn't right . . . but it was undeniably gone. "I can't . . ."
"Get up!" the voice snarled, suddenly loud and powerful and full of menace and anger Ed hadn't ever heard in the man's voice before. A cruel hand fisted in his hair, yanking hard.
With a surprised, pained yelp, Ed struggled to get up, to follow the man's vicious tugging and get to his foot. He tried to steady himself using the wall, the chain clattering with his weak, panicked movements. Why was he yelling? Why was Mustang hurting him? What had he done? Was this because he had messed up and gotten caught in the first place? Because he had made himself useless to the military and, by extension, to Mustang?
Or was this because of what he had forgotten?
He got to his foot and the hand left him while he tried to brace himself against the wall, only one bad shudder away from collapsing to the ground as his weakened knee trembled and his head spun. He hoped it was enough to satisfy Mustang, because he was going to fall over at any moment.
"Look at you, Fullmetal. You look like some skinny, beaten dog," Mustang said, the disgust dripping off his voice making Ed want to hide, to curl up and cover himself in shame. "Maybe I shouldn't have come at all. Nothing left to take back, is there?"
Fear coiled in Edward's gut. Mustang would just leave him there? He would leave him behind like this? "No," he chocked. "Don't leave me . . . please . . ."
Mustang laughed, but it was a cruel, heartless sound, not a trace of its usual warmth. It bounced off the basement walls, assaulting Ed's ears from a hundred different angles. "And why would I take you with me? You're less than useless like this. You're not fit to be my subordinate."
"Please . . . Mustang," Ed whispered, reaching out to the older man. He couldn't get left behind. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
This wasn't how it had happened.
A cold, rough hand grabbed his wrist and threw him to the ground. Ed cried out as the hard floor bit into his thin body, curling in on himself in pain and fear. "Don't touch me, brat. You'll get your filth on my uniform."
Hurt tears gathered in Ed's blind eyes. Ed tried to blink them back, but they fell anyway. The words, the complete disdain in Mustang's voice, hurt. It hurt more than Edward thought possible. He felt unclean, degraded, like some sort of animal, except maybe worse. Worse because deep down, he knew this was right. He knew he was nothing and should be treated as such.
"What, you're going to cry?" Mustang asked, mocking and terrible. "Are you such a child that you can't understand? I'm done with you, Fullmetal. You've worn out your usefulness. You're just a broken toy soldier now, and I certainly don't have use for those."
The footsteps moved, retreating, walking away.
No.
"Wait . . ."
"Goodbye, Fullmetal," he said around an audible smile.
The basement door opened and closed and Ed curled up against the wall, feeling like trash—used and discarded. He was the broken toy soldier, the attack dog with no teeth left. And he couldn't blame Mustang for not wanting him around anymore. Mustang didn't owe him anything.
And yet . . . and yet, Ed had hoped that maybe there was something else there. Maybe he had value and worth that went beyond what he could achieve for Mustang. That maybe Mustang saw him as more than a subordinate, maybe more like a friend or family. Maybe more like a son.
Ed closed his eyes. A fool's dream.
He shivered and decided he didn't care if the wolves came.
XxXxX
It didn't take too long for Silas to find his team's last known location, and from there, they followed the beaten down snow and slush a few blocks east, then in a jagged trail south. They finally caught sight of a swath of blue cloth disappearing down an alley and Silas rolled to a stop against the curb.
Roy was out of the vehicle before the engine was cut, slamming the door behind him and taking off at a light jog through the cold. During the ride, the sleet had turned into snow, and was now falling into his eyes and sticking to his uniform. The wet snow quickly seeped into his pant legs, but he paid it no mind, almost slipping on ice in his haste to get into the alley.
A burning cigarette illuminated the tension on Havoc's face as Roy turned the corner. He relaxed as soon as he recognized Roy, his gun slipping back in the holster at his side. "Sir," he greeted, then called over his shoulder. "Just the Colonel, Breda."
A rounded figure melted from the shadows behind a dumpster. "Colonel," Breda greeted, joining them in the mouth of the alley. Crunching snow behind Roy alerted him to Silas' arrival.
The smaller man stopped at Roy's elbow. "Alright, what's the plan?" Silas asked, slapping something in Roy's hands before rubbing his own together, but whether in cold or excitement, Roy wasn't sure. "There's a plan, right? There's always a plan."
"Of course," Roy responded, accepting his gloves and tucking them safely into his pocket. "You guard the prisoners. We're finding Ed."
"Right, guard the prisoners," Silas agreed enthusiastically. "So, you're sending me to wait in the car."
"Exactly."
"I can do that," Silas nodded. "I can wait in the car." He turned around the way he'd come, stomping out the alley as a gust of frigid wind whipped through.
Roy shivered against it, an ominous growl of thunder punctuating the silence. "Okay, what do you have?"
Breda gestured to the snow behind him. "We followed the tracks to here. We're fairly certain they're Ed's. Look."
Roy bent closer in the dimness, just able to make out the faint and fading tracks in the snow. Every other one was bloodied.
"The blood started about a block ago," Havoc informed grimly. "Guess frostbite set in. Anyway, it looks like he tried most of the doors in the alley, but they're all locked. The tracks stop here," he said, gesturing to a door behind Roy.
Roy stepped over, careful not to disturb the trail as he crouched down.
"Another set of tracks," he murmured. "No more blood. Maybe someone found him?" A thin glimmer of hope sparked in his chest. Maybe Ed was safe.
"Yeah," Breda agreed. "And from here, there might have been a scuffle, or just someone manhandling him," he said, gesturing to the marks in the snow.
Manhandling. Either Ed was in distress from his own personal demons, or someone had taken him. Someone that had something to do with all of this. Someone Ed didn't want to have anywhere near him.
Roy stood up, brushing snow from his trousers as his anger flared. "Alright, gentlemen. Let's bring him home."
Disjointed chapter is disjointed :'D I'll admit, I dislike the end of this one, but maybe I just got a bit lazy with it, I dunno . . . but I don't know what's wrong with it, either lol. I just . . . I don't know.
It's important for writers to be able to express themselves well. I'm failing at it. Words. Help.
In other news, I was sitting in church on Sunday, and someone announced that, "So-and-so had a baby. Silas James is 7.5 pounds-" And from there I almost lost it. I wanted to stand up and claim that baby. SILAS JAMES, GUYS. WHAT ARE THE ODDS? I was freaking out xD I think I'm still freaking out. I need to go meet this child *shifty eyes* Yes.
Yes.
Speaking of, Silas had his own little hero moment xD The dork. But he's really proud of himself.
On a more personal note, the outpouring of encouragement and prayers from you guys has been amazing. I honestly can't even begin to tell you how wonderful it's been :) I can definitely tell a difference, and I'm convinced you guys had a part in it, so thank you for that. Things are better. They're not great, but they are certainly better. I'm stressed to the max, but it's not all in a bad way at the moment. I just want you guys to know that I love all of you and I feel blessed to have you all as a part of my life. So again, thank you 3
Hope this finds you well. If you have the time, drop a review, and I'll see you next chapter :)
God Bless,
-RainFlame