Maybe somewhere deep within him, Igor knew he was unraveling.
But when one of his best friends, his Captain, his second in command had even suggested he might be going a little overboard, he hadn't even thought- he had simply put a bullet through his head. No hesitation, no remorse. He was a good man, and part of him was hurt that he was gone, but it was a necessary sacrifice for his country. For Drachma.
He would grieve later. He would deal with the consequences later.
Of course, his superiors would understand why he had killed a fellow officer when he returned with Fullmetal. They would understand and they would be happy with him for his work. They would.
Now, the only thing that mattered was the unconscious boy in his arms and the destruction he was capable of.
He looked down at the boy, tracing the many stitch marks and scars and noting the youthful outlines of his face. He had never expected such a powerful weapon to be so... small, to look so helpless as he lay limp against his chest. Some softer and forgotten part of him wanted to make the connection between the ages and appearances of this boy and his own son, but he wouldn't allow himself to think that way.
Instead, he tossed the lifeless and bound body into the trunk of his car with reckless abandon, slamming the lid down while simultaneously putting a lid on his preposterous emotions.
This boy was nothing like his son.
Ridding himself of any second thoughts, he sank into the front seat and sat himself behind the wheel, not even bothering to put on his seat belt before he was slamming on the gas and swerving onto the road.
He would save his regrets for his death bed.
Maes knew something was very wrong as soon as he spotted the two military officers laying crumpled and forgotten outside of Roy's door.
Very, horribly wrong.
In fact, the only thing keeping him from running towards them as fast as he could to make sure they were alright was that fact that whoever had done that to them could still be nearby.
Then again, what if they were hurt? What if they were all bleeding out on the living room floor while he was taking his damn time to get there? What about Roy? What about Ed? What about the rest of the team?
He would throw his life down for any of them, but he knew that his situation required a certain sort of care- after all, what good would he be to them if he got himself shot dead?
So instead of running in guns ablazing as he wished to do, he swallowed his protective urges and growing worries and slid an inconspicuous dagger into the palm of his hand.
Trying desperately to calm his sporadic heart beating in his throat, he approached the house with light foot steps, noting the wide open door and the thin smoke trailing out of it with a sinking feeling in his gut.
Quickening his pace, he burst through the doorway, a knife in each hand ready to throw at any moment.
However, he wasn't met with gunshots or and kind of crazed criminal running towards him, but that didn't make the scene any less dire.
Scattered across the floor were his long time friends who he considered family, sputtering and gagging against the invasive gas still lingering in the air. Maes was too stunned at the sight to even register the slight stinging in his eyes or the scratching in his throat.
After that, some kind of primal instinct kicked in, and all he cared about was getting his friends out of there.
One by one, he dragged them out of there, out of the acrid air and onto the lawn, laying them down and allowing them to regain their bearings.
He had deducted that the gas in the room was simply mace, and wouldn't cause them any lasting harm- even if it felt like death itself.
He pulled them all out, Roy, Riza, Havoc, Breda, Fuery and Falman, and even the two guards posted by the door. They all appeared relatively fine, save for the tear gas and the fact that the guards along with Roy appeared to be sedated in some way. There was nothing he could do for them except wait for it to wear off, unfortunately.
He had gotten them all out, he was sure of it- he had checked every room in the house for anyone left behind and he found nothing except the remains of the tear gas lingering in thin clouds around the ceiling.
He searched the closets and he scoured the basement and he looked in every nook and cranny of that house, the panic within him rising steadily with every second.
He didn't want to believe it, but after spending so much time searching with nothing to show for it, he had to face reality.
He sank to his knees, suddenly feeling overwhelming ill.
Edward was gone.
Ed wasn't quite sure where he was or what had happened to him, only aware of a steady rumbling coming from beneath him while his chest ached and his eyes burned as if they had been touched with flame.
Idly, he wondered if he had finally pushed Mustang past his breaking point, but the thought was quickly thrown away. Mustang wouldn't dare hurt a subordinate, and even if he wouldn't admit it, there was affection in their banter.
Then, if he hadn't pissed off Mustang to no end, why did everything hurt? Where was he, and why was it so dark?
Thinking was a daunting task in that moment. It was actually infuriating how slowly his mind was working, as if the gears in his head were struggling to turn through cotton stuck between the mechanics.
What the hell happened?
With great difficulty, he managed to pry open his eyes, and his senses came rushing back.
Wherever he had ended up was small and compact, and he only just fit with his legs curled up slightly and his arms tucked in.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he began to make out a grey felt lining beneath him, paired with the sounds of an engine and the rumbling and bumps tossing him about, it was safe to assume that he had somehow gotten himself stuck in the trunk of a car, and judging by how his arms and feet were immobile and restrained with what felt like coarse rope, it was no accident.
Then, it all came rushing back- the bomb, the gas, Mustang's fear filled eyes, the man in the mask, the needle and the gunshots and then the sudden blackout of everything as whatever he had been injected with began to take affect.
Well, that explained the brain fog as well as the ache in his eyes and chest.
He swore under his breath, letting his head fall back down to the carpeted floor with a hollow thunk.
Just his luck to get kidnapped in the middle of the day with multiple military guards. He could only hope they weren't hurt.
And Al, oh poor Al would be so worried. The team, too.
He had had it with all of this bullshit. He was tired of the fighting for his peace, tired of the sitting back and watching, tired of the twinges of pain every time he moved, plain tired of being tired.
At first, he had believed life was just punishing him for his wrongdoings, but that was before he saw how much his pain affected everyone around him. How Al would always speak a little faster after he got hurt, as if he were afraid he'd never get the chance to speak with him again, how Mustang's eyes always twisted up with guilt every time he caught sight of the stitches that marched up his face or the bruises that stained his skin, how Havoc always went quiet when he tended to his wounds and how Hughes always seemed to be on the brink of tears whenever he saw him wince or cry out in pain.
It was the little things that always added up to be overwhelming.
He had learned long ago that the world didn't always abide by the rules of equivalent exchange. None of this was equal, not when his undeserving family was suffering along with him due to his mistakes.
He could just imagine them all now, faces still soaked with tear tracks and lungs still burning with a vengeance- yet trying to look for him anyway. Trying desperately to find a lead on a man who seemed to not exist, scouring every inch of the ground he walked in order to find a trace of anything out of place, spending hours searching and finding nothing.
Poor Alphonse would be distraught.
No.
No, he wouldn't sit by and let it happen. He refused to let everyone around him grieve his loss when he could stand up and live- more than that, he refused to lose to Drachma, he refused to let them bend him to their will, much less fight against his friends. He'd die before laying a finger on them.
They had helped him endlessly these past couple weeks, and he refused to let their work and dedication be for nothing.
For once, he would stand up for himself.
He wouldn't dare let himself fall.
His wrists were bound together with coarse rope, a short plank of wood pressed in between them to keep him from pressing his palms together, so it was quite difficult to move, much less get anything done. He worried away at the rope with his teeth for a while, but it only served to bloody his gums- the knots didn't even feel any looser.
Quickly, the idea of alchemy was tossed out the window, and he was forced to think outside the box- or trunk, rather.
Through the drug in his veins along with his near hysteria, the mere act of thinking was draining, but if paid off, as distant memories from his time with teacher came filtering through the haze.
Suddenly, he was hit with a wave of hope, and he began pulling and tearing at the felt lining of the trunk. The movement rubbed the skin on his wrist raw, but he didn't stop.
Eventually, he found was he was looking for, and it was nearly impossible not to cry out in victory prematurely.
The inside of the tail light was suddenly beneath his fingers, and he wasted no time in wrenching himself around in the confined area until his feet were hovering around the light.
Heaving a deep sigh, he threw all caution to the wind, and threw all of his body weight into kicking out the tail light until it gave way with a crack and his feet were plunged into the outside air. He couldn't help the triumphant smirk that made it's way onto his face.
He'd be home in time for dinner.