Edward would never claim to be an expert on cars or other machinery. In fact, people like Winry who passioned over mechanics could talk him in circles about things way over his head in the same way he could stun them with a few alchemic equations. Life was so strange in that way, how something so familiar and intrinsic to one could sound so foreign in the ears of another, he would never truly understand.
However, he spent many long nights reading what little there was to read at the Rockbell residence, and in turn garnered a general knowledge of the inner workings of a car—All thanks to a few careworn and grease-stained textbooks.
Then again, that had been years ago, and the memories were beginning to smudge into each other and fuzz around the edges, growing weary and unreliable with time. The mind was a fragile and unpredictable thing, and he could only cross his fingers and pray to a god he didn't believe in that he remembered it all correctly.
His hands were pressed to the coarse carpet of the trunk interior, letting the alchemic energy rush through him flow in between the closely packed molecules of nylon and steel. His math didn't even have to be as exact as it usually was, as long as he didn't end up somehow nicking the engine or blowing up the car with himself or his captive still in it. Not that he particularly cared for the man's wellbeing, but he would rather not have the stain of death on his list of guilt, as well as the fact that he wanted him to live and rot in prison.
Taking a deep breath that ended up sitting in his stomach like a rock, he attempted to go over out what he needed to do. In his mind's eye, he could see it all laid out in front of him in perfect view; the brake lines, valves, pads, and calipers, and he picked out which parts he needed to alchemically solder in order to keep the car that was currently holding him prisoner from getting anywhere further. While he was at it, it was probably not a bad idea to expand the radius of the transmutation, ebbing it out to the furthest lengths of the car and fusing the locks and windows to keep his captor from escaping his much deserved knuckle-sandwich that Ed had so dutifully reserved for him. He couldn't wait to feel the biting metal of his right arm effectively crushing the bones in that bastard's face. Well, maybe not 'feel' so much as simply 'appreciate the vibrations'.
It took only seconds for him to alchemically ensure his escape, but each was stock-full with carefully thought out equations as he bid each and every atom to bend to his will. Alchemy was a rush and a risk every time, and he would never get sick of that unfettering feeling. It was like free falling, even with the parachute secured to your back, the chance of the release lever failing constantly lingers over you- but it's nothing in comparison to the feeling of pure freedom washing over you leaving you in unparalleled bliss. That was what alchemy did for him every time, and sometimes, he could even find himself not even sparing a second thought towards the risks.
But this, this was different. Although he supposed it was a possibility, he was fairly sure that what he was doing had never even been attempted before, and without the time to even calculate the dangers of the transmutation, he had no way of knowing if he was damning himself to certain death.
In that moment, it didn't matter. The only other option was letting himself be a captive of Drachma, and he would sooner put a bullet in his skull than let those scumbags try and contort him into their perfect little weapon. It made him sick just thinking about it. He would either get out of that car, or quite literally die trying.
So he gritted his teeth, bore the weight of his chancy decision, and tried not to think of what it would mean for Alphonse if he were to fail.
Slowly and all at once, it all died down- the blue lightning flickering out into nothing. Immediately after, he could hear the muffled yet somehow still very loud protests coming from the cab of the car, sharpened with unsteady rage and the choppy language of the North that was painfully familiar to him. It replayed night after night in his dreams, a constant reminder of his brushes with death and the times he almost didn't make it home.
He wouldn't let it control him anymore, and he would laugh in the face of the voices that kept him awake at night.
He waited a few anxious seconds, listening to the inaudible yells and the recently altered car mechanisms groan as the gas pedal was pressed continuously with no avail. Nothing was on fire, nothing exploded, and his attacker was still as good as useless in his wheeled prison. A thin laugh escaped his mouth as he wrenched open the trunk lid, wincing as the sun flashed his vision as a bright sheet of white.
The air was heavy and thick in his nose, the damp scent of earth promising rain. As his vision cleared, the grey clouds looming overhead confirmed his theory. He couldn't help but think about how fitting it was, despite the biting winds and heavy downpours, everything ended up washing away in the end— the waters leaving growth and clear skies in their wake.
He heaved a deep breath of the bitter air, letting himself drift away for a moment to the rainy hills of Resembool, citrus and summer and tiny galoshes stamping in puddles much too deep for little feet.
As quick as it came, the memory was gone, and he was brought back to his harsh reality—sitting in the trunk of his kidnappers car, broken and bandaged with no idea what to do next.
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Roy knew that life knew not many certainties.
Your bus may come late and mess up your entire schedule, your coffeemaker might hiss and burn and leave your brew as dark and sour as ink, even when you lay in bed late at night, with the stars as your only constant, you are forced to face the fact that you may not wake up the next day.
Yet among all these things that are unpredictable and brutal at best, there was Edward Elric— a foothold for when his arms grew too weary to hold his weight.
In the midst of all the chaos in a world insecure, the boy had been something to count on. A force so strong impossibly contained in that tiny body, and though he wavered at times, he never faltered, and he had always been there.
In a murky office shroud with the grating lull of paperwork, there was crimson and gold– blood, sweat, tears, and sunlight. He was young and bold, brash and disrespectful, demanding and vulgar no matter the day, but his heart was vehement, and goddamnit if he wasn't perfect.
Roy's heart was stewing in his stomach as Hawkeye approached his desk almost cautiously, as if she were afraid he might break if she were to get too close. If he were to be honest, he wasn't sure if she was wrong.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" He wearied, his voice muffled by his hands perched in front of him in thought.
Something sympathetic and overwraught slipped out from underneath her mask before she just shook her head, and Roy knew.
"I'm sorry, sir. We've got all available personnel on the lookout, but there's no trace of Edward."
Even though the news was far from surprising, his gut still twisted sharply, a sudden tightness filling his chest and inching it's way up his throat.
"Keep me updated, Lieutenant." He managed to croak, keeping his head hidden in the protection of his folded hands.
He didn't remember hearing the timid 'yes, sir' nor the soft retreating footsteps.
It was quiet in the office that day.
After years of pestering his teammates to quiet down, especially Edward, for some peace and quiet, he began to wonder why he had sought it in the first place. Even when there was yelling and pens dropping and ink spilling over documents, even when everything was so turbulent and deafening that the walls themselves shivered, even when he felt like his head might split open with the pressure, when he wanted nothing more than for it all to just stop, he never realized— the silence was so much worse.
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Edward had learned the hard way that putting any kind of pressure on his sore ankle was a terribly bad idea, but that didn't mean he hadn't considered it as an option. He had ultimately decided against it after taking the pain pulsing through his drilled and filed bones into consideration, as well as the fact that he really didn't want Havoc to have an aneurysm. Although hopping his way around was the better option in the long run, and he had to admit, it was much easier on his bones, it still came with a decent variety of merits.
One main point being he had no way of wandering himself back into civilization, and when that was paired with the fact that they were in the middle of nowhere, he found himself almost wishing he had stayed in that damned trunk.
He was stranded with very little hope of rescue any time soon, and better yet, he was face to face with a deranged criminal snarling and beating on the thin glass barrier between them like there was no tomorrow.
He leaned himself against the car door, treasuring the warmth of the sun-heated metal against his skin and feeling the vehicle sway and jump with every rage-induced thrash. The movement caused him to stumble on his one metal foot, and he was still much too tired to fight the pull of gravity as he slumped down to sit on the dirt floor, his back braced against the vehicle.
He drew his left leg up to his chest and let his casted right one relax in front of him, seating his elbow on his prosthetic knee and begging for an idea to surface through the river of thoughts that flowed about as fast as cold molasses.
He pressed his palms against his tired eyes, getting lost in the swirls of colour that sparked behind his eyelids as he took a deep shuddering breath— he reviewed his options.
One, wait what could end up being hours or even days until someone else came dawdling down the dirt road to help him and possibly die within that allotted time.
Or two, try and hobble his way out on his own, which could also take hours or days in his current condition, and either get lost or also end up dying along the way.
Truth really did hate his guts, huh?
He spent the next few minutes mulling it all over with no shortage of self-loathing on the side, and within that time, he failed to notice that his backrest had stopped rocking, the shouts had died down, and the overall commotion around him had eerily faded into silence.
He had only a moment for concern before everything came to a halt, and his heart melted into his stomach.
It happened in what seemed like slow-motion, the sound of glass shattering piercing through the quietness of the fields around him, shards of crystalline fragments showering around his shoulders and glinting in the light. It was almost beautiful, in a morbid kind of way; like blood against snow or the azure depths of the ocean.
How arrogant he was to assume safety in the face of danger.
The muffled shouts he had drowned out earlier on became sharp and salient, but it was nothing compared to the sound of his heart pulsing in his ears.
Leathery hands strengthened with hatred clasped around his neck, and his own two instinctively rose in attempts to peel the pressure away from his collapsing trachea.
Panic fluttered within him, and he wondered for a brief moment if this was the end, if after all he had done, all he had been through, after he had clawed his way up from the fiery pits of hell, it would all end at the hands of a marauding stranger.
He wouldn't let it. Not yet.
He turned his face to the sky as best he could, his vision blurring with the strain, and he cursed the vulture known as God to hell and back.
He was weak and he was weary, but the indignation he could barely contain was much stronger, and he found himself much too infuriated to be tired.
With what could only be described as a howling screech, he jerked in the man's hold, throwing his head back with as much force as he could muster, aiming for where he could only assume his captor's head was.
The collision of skulls sent splitting pains through his already concussed brain, radiating out from the goose egg and stitches in his scalp which had only just begun to go down, but sure enough, the grip around his neck began to loosen, and before the main retaining him had any chance to soothe his undoubtedly smarting nose, Ed swung his head back again.
Despite how he felt his stomach lurch with every sharp movement, he kept on; the hypoxia was beginning to get to him at that point, his head pulsing for a number of different reasons and his vision darkening around the edges.
It was unbelievably nauseating, to the point where he no longer felt like he had a center of gravity—and if he did, he had no way of knowing where it ended up.
He didn't even realize he had at last been released until he was kneeling in broken glass, not even registering the bite of the shards over the relieving sting of air in his lungs.
Still gasping for air and feeling quite off-kilter, he managed to instinctively scramble away a few feet and turn to face his opponent, finding the man clutching his profusely bleeding nose, tears streaming down his face, red with fury.
There was something off about the man that stirred unease within Ed.
Of course, it was only natural for him to feel such a way around a man who had been relentlessly after him for weeks, but there was something more to it than that.
Something wasn't quite right in those piercing silver eyes, and it was clear to see that he was slipping in one way or another.
Even with blood streaming down his face, the man still trudged on, forgoing the alchemically sealed door and opting to crawl straight out the window, slicing his hands and arms on the remains of glass in the window sill.
As he rolled out unceremoniously onto the cement, slicked with blood and sweat, Ed did the only thing he could think to do, hardly even thinking as he was pulled along by instinct alone. S
Clapping his stinging hands together, the equations for transmuting rock came quickly to mind. It was one of the first types of alchemy he had mastered, so it thankfully required very little planning to perform and was quick and easy on his reeling head.
Blue light sparked along the pavement, and long tendrils of cement and rock came to life, snaking their way around his assailant, who was snarling so vehemently Ed was convinced his eyes would pop out of his skull.
Ed had rattled the man's brains around a bit, which certainly succeeding in slowly him down, but restraining him was almost too easy. His eyes darted around like a cornered animal and he shivered and growled in a way that was nothing short of feral. He hardly appeared human at all as he sat there, wailing and thrashing against his bindings, and Ed could no longer tell what the source of the man's tears was.
So he just panted, simply observing with wide eyes as the Drachman soldier sobbed and shrieked, face contorted with more anguish than Ed thought possible.
He brought his trembling hands to rest in his lap, gingerly sliding his flesh one back into the sling he was accidentally squirmed out of in the uproar.
It was inexplicable, and Edward found himself confused and conflicted as to why he was feeling a pang of pity for the man in front of him.
It was easy to see he was completely unhinged, and for him to want to get to Ed so badly as to suffer a complete and utter mental breakdown, he suspected the Drachman Military played a roll in the man's near-psychosis.
It was said war made monsters out of men, and Edward never truly understood the depth of those words until that moment.
The man's cries were nothing short of gut-wrenching, and for the first time, they were not hardened with anger. He howled, each guttural noise holding impossible amounts of sorrow and agony. He no longer sounded like a caged animal, he sounded unbearably human, and somehow, it was much worse.
Human. He really was just human.
He lived and died like the rest of them, he felt pain and grief and joy, and Ed found himself not wanting to believe it.
The man in front of him, the man who set out to make his life a living hell, the man who had him tortured, shot, and thrown in the trunk of a car was no different than him— he wasn't some robotic killing machine without a conscience the military had put together with screws and bolts, he was flesh and blood, dolor and glee, demented and poisoned by the world.
He could only wonder where it all went wrong.
It was almost inconceivable that such destruction lied dormant within all of us.
The man continued to holler, and though Ed could not understand a word of the slurred foreign language, it was spoken with such torment that he couldn't help but wince in sympathy.
Birds flew and cawed in the distance, and the screams seemed to echo impossibly off of the surrounding fields and foliage.
Thick dark clouds rolled over the sky like a quilt, shrouding the sun and making the atmosphere all the more gloomy.
Icy droplets began to plop down from above him, starting lazily before it suddenly escalated into torrents, soaking Ed's thin clothing through within seconds.
The now heavy fabric slicked itself tight against his body, the freezing dampness tensing the muscles under his skin. It was refreshing, really— despite the bite.
As it poured on, the shrieking died down to howling, then to yelling and then sobbing until his cries were nothing more than rapsy whimpers, barely heard over the sound of water slapping against earth and thunder threatening to roar.
Ed found himself just staring into the man's lifeless eyes, the rain seemingly extinguishing any lasting embers of the man he once was. No matter what he had done, he was still as weak and mortal as the rest of them, and Edward found that equally as chilling as comforting.
He found solace in the scent of silt and the general smell of decomposing nature.
The sky cried that day. For what, he did not know; but he didn't need a reason to understand. The clouds retched and sobbed, and he laid himself gently down on the road, staring into nothing and finding the urge to join Mother Nature in her throes quite tempting.
The storm trudged on.