He can't remember the last time he's seen so much blood.

It's everywhere: on his clothes, his skin, in his hair… It reeks of copper (which he finds horribly ironic, given the circumstances), and it tastes metallic, but it's so warm and thick, and it makes his skin crawl in horror and abject fascination.

He understands, in this flashing moment of inspiration and enlightenment, and feels the rush that accompanies taking something apart and holding its pieces in his hands. He's a sinner, oh yes, and he feels so inexplicably dirty, but he's a god right now, with sway over life and over death.

Someone is staring at him, and he can hear them whimpering loudly—hear the clanking of metal against metal as his brother shifts his weight around. Otherwise, all is silent, yet he can hear the unspoken question floating in the air. He doesn't answer, because what can he say to make this all right again? No apology or explanation would cover it—of this he is certain.

His knees buckle, and his legs give out from beneath him. He hits the ground—hard—and reaches out a trembling hand to ghost over the still vaguely warm skin in front of him.

With a heavy, shaky sigh, he whispers out loud, "No, Winry, let's take you apart and see how you work."


oO; Ummm... Disclaimer.