Edward Elric was no idiot.

Sure, some things got past him when he was distracted or exhausted, but overall, he considered himself to be observant where it counted.

So when Colonel Roy Mustang seemed to stop showing up to work, Ed asked questions.

"I am unable to comment," Hawkeye said when he asked where Mustang was, her voice cool and detached, but her eyes holding a shadow of a worry that set off alarm bells in his head. She accepted the report from his outstretched hand, placing it on her own desk instead of taking it into Mustang's inner office.

"So, you don't know."

She looked at him with a trace of surprise, but it was gone in a blink. "He's on a deep cover solo mission out of the city. As is the nature of such missions, they are long-term and highly classified. I cannot disclose more than that."

"I called into this office every Monday for the past five weeks and he hasn't been here once. How long has he been on this mission?"

She pinned him with a weighty gaze, meaning written in every crease of her brow if Ed just knew how to read it. "I can't tell you more, Sir."

The whole office felt stifled and uncomfortable, like a pressure cooker on the verge of blowing. Ed looked around to see Breda, mindlessly eating a sleeve of crackers and Havoc, chewing a pencil to shreds. Fuery fiddled with his radio and Falman stared at his files, but none of them were doing any actual work. It was just a ploy, a ruse for Ed's benefit, and Ed didn't like it.

He turned his attention back to Hawkeye. "Can't tell me more, or you just don't know?" he pressed.

She gave the closed door a pointed glance. She was worried about being overheard, but why? By whom? "Like I said Major, it's classified, Sir. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

Major. Hawkeye didn't call him Major. Without the brass around, it was either Ed or Edward.

What did it mean?

"Yeah, sorry, Major," Havoc spoke. Ed turned to watch him deliberately place a file at the edge of his desk. "Maybe check back next week? In the meantime, you have another assignment, right?"

He glanced at the file in his hands; new orders and itinerary, apparently signed by the Colonel himself. Ed had just gotten back yesterday from a dead-end mission that suspiciously had very little to do with the Philosopher's Stone and very much to do with an undercover smuggling ring. It had taken almost five weeks of consultation and collaboration with the local authorities to clear up, and the Colonel—despite being an obnoxious, two-faced pain in Ed's neck—did not often waste his time like that. Also, after missions, Mustang usually gave him a little downtime for research, but Hawkeye had already handed him his next one and was trying to send him packing.

Havoc was trying to send him answers.

Ed looked back at Hawkeye. She stared with disapproval, but didn't move to stop Ed. So, he stepped forward, plucking the file off the desk as he headed for the door.

"That's too bad," he said aloud. "Guess I'll see about this mission and check back next week."

Before he could make his way out the door, it swung open and a man stepped in.

It might have been his imagination, but Ed could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

Everyone jumped to their feet with a salute. "Major General, Sir!" they chorused. Ed joined in just a half-second behind, raising his automail to his forehead.

"At ease," General Halcrow said with a dismissive salute and a smile. He reminded Ed of a brick: tall, rectangular and kind of flat, a boxy kind of build that hinted at some real power on a sturdy frame. Aside from the ability to recognize him on sight, Ed really didn't know much about him except that he and Al had helped save his family in the train incident and that Mustang and the team were under his command, Ed by extension. Mustang never talked about him, certainly not enough to shed any light on why the room seemed to be on a knife's edge at the sight of the officer.

Just one more piece in a convoluted puzzle.

"Ah, excellent, the Fullmetal Alchemist is back," he said, smile widening, pinning Ed with eyes the same blue as deep lakes. Ed's imagination must have been pretty overactive today, because the temperature seemed to drop another five degrees. Something about that stare was calculating and threatening and sent a chill up Ed's spine. He was glad he'd convinced Alphonse to visit Hughes instead of being subjected to this creep. "This will make it easy, then. I just dropped by to inform you that Colonel Mustang's assignment has been extended."

This time, Ed knew he felt something electric circulate the room. He didn't dare turn his head to read the others though, because Halcrow was staring right at him.

Creepy old man.

"That being said, his return date will be anywhere from the next six weeks to four months, depending on how quickly he resolves his mission. There will be no need to replace his position or reassign you, but each of you will report directly to me until further notice."

"Sir," the group said in unison, but Ed shifted and saw Havoc and Breda exchange a look out of the corner of his eye.

Ed clutched the folders tight in his flesh hand as the general dismissed himself and left the room, unable to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Outside on the steps of Central Command, a hulking suit of armor perched on the marble stairs, threatening only by sheer size and not by the undercurrent of anxiety Ed could pick up from a mile away. Alphonse stood up as he approached, the warm afternoon sunlight bouncing off the armor and making Ed squint.

"Well?" Al asked, voice thick with worry. Al was way more concerned than Ed was, but even he had to admit that the Colonel's absence was unsettling.

Ed looked around, as if an eavesdropper would be hiding in the decorative shrubbery lining the walkway. The whole mood of the office had him on edge. "I turned in my report. No update," he said, knowing his brother would be reading between the lines. Alphonse did, and they didn't say another word to one another until they were safely locked in their dorm.

Ed immediately sat down at the tiny military-issued kitchen table, throwing open the file Havoc had "given" him, and explaining to Al about General Halcrow, what he had learned, which was pretty much nothing, and about the terribly thin file in his hands.

Apparently, Hughes didn't know anything either. Or, at least, nothing he told Al.

Alphonse sat next to him and they poured over the scant contents, digesting everything as quickly as they did alchemic texts.

What they learned was bleak and wholly unhelpful.

All that was in it was a short itinerary. It looked like one of those mission orders that Mustang usually handed to Ed for the more official business. The paper had a military seal on top and the orders were signed by Halcrow. Unlike the orders Hawkeye had given him earlier, this one was short: Mustang was to pack light and bring his gloves, then be outside of his house to meet a driver at 0500. The date was from over a month ago.

About the time Ed had been sent on his last mission, which was just a little too convenient for Ed's tastes.

"These orders . . . there's nothing here. He's practically MIA, and they're not doing anything about it?!" Ed demanded aloud, throwing himself dejectedly into the back of his chair.

Alphonse, always the more reasonable of the two of them, stared at the file thoughtfully. "I'm sure they have a good reason. He's a valuable soldier and a well-known alchemist. They wouldn't just . . ." he didn't finish the thought, but Ed had a vivid imagination.

"Let's go have a look," he said, standing up and stuffing the file under the couch cushion.

"Where?"

"The idiot's house."

Alphonse sighed. "The Colonel won't like us breaking into his house."

"He probably doesn't like being missing, either. Let's go."

XxXxX

They were careful on their trip to Mustang's house. Giant suits of armor weren't exactly sneaky, but they took a cab to the outskirts of Central and waited an hour until the sun was beginning to descend in the west. When it seemed like no one had followed them, they called another cab to drop them off at a coffee shop just a couple of blocks from the Colonel's home.

Ed felt paranoid, but maybe paranoid wasn't such a bad thing right now, given how jumpy the rest of the team seemed to be.

The Colonel's house was a neatly bricked two-story number on a quiet street. Colorful flowerbeds spilled over onto a grassy lawn that was overgrown in the Colonel's absence. Ed kind of pegged Mustang as the type to hire his yard done, so that was surprising. Who knew the lazy pencil pusher could engage in manual labor?

Ed cut from the sidewalk across the lawn under a sprawling oak tree, long grass blades grabbing at his knees until he mounted the porch steps. Alphonse followed with a weary sigh, apparently disapproving of walking on the lawn, but Al was smart: he knew a futile argument when he saw one.

Behind the cover of Al's girth, Ed looked around, then clapped his hands and separated the deadbolt from the mechanism. Ed twisted the knob and the door creaked open easily.

The house was dark inside, the drawn curtains blocking out what little light there was remaining out in the summer evening. Ed had to give his eyes a moment to adjust, but Al stepped forward, heading through the short entryway and into what was probably a living room.

Ed followed a bit slower. After all, a run-in with the coffee table would do a bit more damage to his shins than to Al's.

"What do you think we're looking for?" Alphonse asked quietly. His ringing voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silent house.

"A lamp would be a great start."

A light clicked on.

Ed and Al jumped a mile, whirling to see a tall man sitting in an armchair, warm light glinting off of his glasses as he pulled his hand back from the floor lamp beside him. "Hey, boys."

Ed clapped a hand over his pounding heart. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?!" he demanded, voice an octave too high.

Hughes grinned. "Waiting for you."

"In the dark?!" Al shrieked, clearly just as shaken as Ed, even without the adrenaline shot Ed was dealing with. Ed felt a little more validated.

Hughes shrugged. "I took a nap." He leaned over and slid something into his boot.

Ed blanched. "You could have thrown that at us!"

Hughes secured the blade and readjusted his pantleg. "You could have dodged. Let's not deal in the could haves and would haves. You two are here for something?"

Ed and Al looked at each other. How was it that Hughes always managed to stay one step ahead? Ed turned back. "Where's Mustang?"

Hughes' eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. "I don't know that. I don't even think Roy knew that before he left, to be honest."

"What happened?" Al pressed, armor clanking as he stepped just a bit closer.

Hughes gestured for them both to sit. Al took the loveseat and Ed flopped onto the sofa, letting his eyes wander the room, lingering over a couple of files on the coffee table before they landed back on Hughes. "Okay, what happened?"

"I don't know much, Roy made sure of that." He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs. "He said that the higher ups are involved and it's dangerous, and he's doing this to protect someone." Ed felt the weight of Hughes' gaze like sandbags. Now that Ed's eyes had adjusted, Hughes looked weary and tired, a heaviness there that he didn't usually associate with the otherwise lively man.

Hughes was almost scary smart in a way that Ed would never be. More street smart than book smart, possessing the ability to read people and situations at a glance in a way that Ed didn't understand but admired. Hughes not having answers was unsettling, confirming every ounce of paranoia that the more suspicious side of Ed's brain had dumped into his system.

Hughes knew everything. If Hughes didn't know, they were well and truly screwed.

"What do you know, then?" Ed asked, trying not to let his frustration become disrespectful. This wasn't Hughes' fault.

Hughes grimaced then fished a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. "He knew you'd both be upset when you found out he was gone."

Ed wanted to protest that no, he wasn't upset. He didn't care about Mustang as far as he could throw him, but seeing how serious Hughes was stopped him. All he could manage was a feeble, "Not upset. Concerned."

"He means upset," Al clarified. Ed shot his brother an unimpressed look.

Hughes' lips quirked in a sad sort of smile. "Yeah, upset," he agreed, offering the note to Ed over the side table.

Ed unfolded it, the Colonel's heavy, looping script immediately recognizable against the thick vanilla paper. The Colonel had some nice stationary.

"Ed, Al," he read aloud for his brother's benefit. "All you need to know is that I'm doing this of my own free will. Don't go putting your noses where they don't belong and don't start asking questions. Any unwanted attention on this has the potential to make things worse. Hawkeye will have another couple of long missions for you, and maybe I'll be back before you've even realized I was missing. Stay low, follow orders, and do not, under any circumstances, come looking for me."

Ed squinted at the paper. "The arrogant moron underlined 'not' three times."

Alphonse shifted in his seat. "Something's really wrong if the Colonel is telling us to stay away like this."

Hughes sighed. "But we're going to respect his wishes."

He didn't deny something was wrong.

Ed fixed him with a heated stare. "Hughes, what do you know?" he asked again.

He shrugged. "All I know is that he's been locking horns with Halcrow ever since Roy's been assigned here. The latest was some big operation they had here in Central with an organized crime unit. Roy made him look bad, and Halcrow doesn't take kindly to that." Hughes narrowed his eyes. "You're directly under his chain of command, Ed. Don't make any trouble and follow orders. If something doesn't seem right, you report directly to Hawkeye or myself, are we clear?"

Ed wasn't used to Hughes being so serious, or so authoritative for that matter. The urgency and the gravity kicked his paranoia up another notch. "Okay, sure."

"I'm not kidding, Ed. You're going to take the next assignment Hawkeye gives you and you're both going to stay away from this. Are we clear?"

Ed swallowed. "Clear."

"Alright," Hughes allowed, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he leaned back. Suddenly, his entire demeanor shifted, like throwing a switch, a broad grin stretching his face. "Now, on to other business. Where are you boys staying tonight?"

"At the dorms," Al supplied. "We've already got our suitcase there."

"Well, at least come over for dinner! My darling Elicia has been asking when her big brothers are going to come visit. I parked a couple of blocks over, I'll give you a ride."

Ed couldn't really turn that down. "Alright."

Hughes clapped his hands together. "Perfect! Let's go." He reached beside him and shut off the lamp, once more plunging the room into darkness.

Ed used that and the cover of Al standing up to snatch two folders from the coffee table. He reached out a flesh hand as Al walked by, finding the armor and sliding them between his chest plates. Al didn't say a word and the two followed Hughes out into the summer night.

XxXxX

Roy's one comfort was the knowledge that this would end.

One way or another, it would end.

Until then, pain was his companion and madness his friend, his two comrades always at his side even here.

Roy took a measured, shuddering breath, then retched again.

"Day twenty-six of illness. Subject seems to remain internally misaligned. One more specific transmutation should better merge the digestive systems, as well as the other abnormalities."

Other abnormalities, Roy mocked inwardly, but he knew better than to say it aloud. He knew better than to say anything out loud.

"Subject will need fluids. We'll have the transmutation in the morning. Hopefully his symptoms will abate this time."

Roy wasn't sure what would be worse: throwing up his insides all night or another one of those unbearable transmutations. How many would that be? His fifteenth? His twentieth?

Something inside growled at the thought. Something big and dark that hadn't been there before, and Roy suddenly realized that the growling wasn't just in his head, it was in his chest, sliding between his clenched teeth like a promise.

"Subject appears to be displeased at the notion." There was amusement in his voice this time, mockery.

Roy would like to tear the owner of that voice apart, but he knew better than to try. He could still feel it in his bones from where he'd tried it last time.

Kill, a voice that was not his own urged, the same voice growling low in his chest. The words were not his, not even a product of his own mind, rather his brain was lending human words to this primal thing that had been forced into him, to merge with him.

Kill, escape, kill, escape, stop it.

Stop it.

"Does the subject have anything to say?"

It was a taunt. The mangy lab rat wanted Roy to get worked up, he wanted Roy to try something.

Roy wasn't sure why that mattered, but it did.

The impulses were getting harder and harder to control, though. Roy wasn't sure how many more transmutations he'd be able to take and still retain his sense of reason, because he really wanted to be at that man's throat right now, wanted to feel it between his teeth, wanted to bathe in his blood. It would be so easy, so painfully, terribly easy to end him, to end all of this, just one clean bite.

One clean bite and he'd be free.

He didn't need any more convincing, his rational mind swept aside to make room for something strong and dark and monstrous.

He turned on a cenz, lunging forward, jaws open, a breath away from victory when that terrible, biting, searing pain lit up his entire body, electricity clenching every muscle tighter than they should be pulled, bones burning, blood singing.

A whine wrenched from his nose, more animal than human, the only sound his frozen lungs could make while his body was in the throes of agony, his heart stuttering in his chest like a semi-automatic rifle, lungs burning, everything on fire.

It lasted an eternity.

It had to end, though. One way or another, it would end.

It felt like hours later when the current finally cut. Roy collapsed on the cold, sterile floor like a sack of bricks, taking ragged breaths as his body tried to remember how to function. His tongue lolled out to the side with every pant, tasting blood and cleaner.

"I don't get paid enough for this," the doctor said, unimpressed. "Hopefully our next few transmutations will make the subject a bit more docile and a bit more compliant. Spencer, get him out of my sight."

Hesitant arms wrapped under his deformed shoulders, the bones inside still shifting, moving, reforming. He never could quite hold on to one form or the other for very long. Roy stared through blurry eyes as the coal-black fur on his bare wrists began to recede under his mitts just a bit, sheer exhaustion sending the animal in his mind and body back to its corner.

Roy was still courteous and human enough to turn his head and vomit to the side and not on Spencer's scuffed shoes.

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts," Spencer said, her voice quiet as she held still and let him finish, and when he was done, carried him down the hall into a small room, then to his cell. She was a large girl with strong arms and soft hands, and she always smelled acrid, like chemicals. Roy would kill her if he had the chance, but he didn't hate her as much as the doctor.

No. He wouldn't kill her. She didn't deserve that.

Kill. Kill kill kill.

No.

The growl in his throat was all his own and entirely aimed at the creature he now shared his head with. It backed down and away once more, leaving his mind blissfully his own.

For now.

"Hush," Spencer said after she set him down in a boneless heap on the floor—he didn't use the cot anyway—running a hand down his face and neck, a soothing gesture. He quieted, because his fury wasn't really aimed at her. Spencer was a kid, maybe sixteen, seventeen? Just a little older than Ed and Al. None of this was her fault.

His cell was dark, and he was thankful. The harsh lighting in the lab and the test rooms hurt his eyes and his head. He figured Spencer was the one that left it that way for him. She didn't bother shutting the barred door behind her as she moved out of the cell to the small countertop mounted to the wall. She knew he hurt too much to move at that moment.

Being electrocuted always took it out of him.

The room, minus the cell, anyway, reminded Roy of some sort of demented doctor's office, with the counter and the exam table. All that was missing was some tacky scenic painting hung on the wall. On the counter was a lamp, a sink, restraints, a stack of folders, bins and drawers full of medical equipment, and Spencer sifted through those before returning with an IV bag and a bowl of water.

She studied him for a second, probably trying to figure out if he was too animal to try to drink it like a human being. It varied.

Finally making a decision, she helped ease him into a sitting position, and a quiet gasp slipped past his lips as his sore, aching body protested. He couldn't offer any sort of help with his mitted hands, but she held the bowl steady and he drank greedily, water sloshing down his face and his bare chest, soaking the gray pajama pants that barely clung to his protruding hip bones.

She pulled it away too soon and he snarled at her before he realized what he was doing, baring his teeth in what was supposed to make her give it back, but she did no such thing.

"You'll make yourself sick," she said instead, but he smelled nervousness, saw a bit of fear in her brown eyes, and it quelled him somewhat. He wasn't being dismissed, and he wasn't sure why that mattered, but it did. He watched passively as she hung the saline bag from a hook over his head, fiddled with the tubing for a second, then uncapped the catheter in his arm, cleaned it and attached the line. "This will help," she promised softly, then gathered her things and got up, leaving the bowl next to him.

"Thanks-s," he managed, the words garbled around teeth that were currently too big for his mouth and a tongue that was too long.

She smiled at him, something small and hesitant, before shutting the door. The metal shrieked against metal, entirely too loud, and he tried to cover his ears with his mitted hands for all the good it would do. Spencer may have said something else, but he didn't hear it. Instead, he dragged his sore, deformed body under the cot, where it was darker and warmer and less exposed. He wasn't sure why that mattered either, but it did. He forced himself into a fitful sleep, punctuated only by bouts of illness and shifting, startling pain.

But when he dreamed, he dreamed of running in the sun.

And to him, it mattered.

Surprise, I'm back with another fic :D I love this fandom. I cannot keep away.

You know, I think what I really love is needlessly torturing these characters for my own sick amusement. But that's neither here nor there xD

There's a certain thrill to starting a new fic c: To be cheesy, I'm just so excited to start a new adventure haha. I've always wanted to do a chimera fic, and HERE I AM. I've really been in the writing zone these past couple of weeks. Chapter one of "Glass Stars and Paper Moons" has also been written too, so I guess I don't believe in taking breaks xD Always have to have a project or two going lol.

Anyways, please do drop a review if you have the time (reviews give me life) and I will catch you next chapter!

God Bless,

-RainFlame