Caffeine-Deprived

Riza Hawkeye didn't remember falling asleep in the shower. Even when she had been driven to exhaustion by a stream of working throughout the night, she had always been able to shake off the fatigue.

There had always been something to strive for. Even when she had been branded with the knowledge of Flame Alchemy on her back by her father and the thoughts of suicide had been her constant companions, she had never been dragged down by this…

This hopelessness. It was as if her world had become a blur of reading and sipping coffee and threatening to fire rounds at her subordinates. Her fingers traced over the scars left on her back and rose to her feet.

Turning the knobs to slow the jets of spray spitting from the shower head, Riza bowed her head, allowing herself a second to collect her thoughts. Her mind was a blur, an empty canvas waiting to be painted on. The only coherent thought her brain could muster was: sleep. Please.

Almost regrettably, Riza pushed the thought to the back of her mind, where it nevertheless lingered. It soon manifested into a dull tension headache (which she had grown accustomed to), a side effect of fatigue.

Rubbing the exhaustion from her eyelids but only succeeding in making herself feel more fatigued, she sighed and grabbed a loose towel before drawing it closely over her shoulder.

She hoped that while she had slept – barely more than an hour as she collected her uniform and stared at her watch– Mustang's team had found a miracle. But the disquiet and tension (the persistent buzzing and droning sensation at the back of her mind) told her otherwise. And she was one to trust her instincts.

The situation remained the same.

The Lieutenant stared at her morphed frame in the mirror for a long moment. Her jawline was hard and set, strands of her longer hair falling free from the clip that had managed to stay in through her showering interlude, and her shoulders sagged with a weight of a burden.

Riza had been working ceaselessly for the month. The whole month.

She needed a break.

And she hated herself for thinking about any of that. She wasn't one for self-pity; she had never possessed an inflated ego like a certain Colonel did. She was steadfast and sure and strong.

It was her duty and pride to keep the team focused and certain under pressure (although the latter never fell through). While the Colonel was the chain that knitted the diversity together (Mustang's office was its entirely own ecosystem), she was the fuel and engine that worked tirelessly behind the scenes.

But even engines run out of fuel after some time. When it got to the point that she was falling asleep in the shower, she knew she had reached that point, the precipice of disaster. If she worked herself any harder without resting, she was going to fall.

She pummelled the towel through her hair and a rain of droplets dripped onto the already-soaked tiles below. The water drained unhappily away into the sink, mingled with dirt and blood and oil.

Riza remembered now, what she had been doing before her untimely passing out.

She had become so frustrated that she had stormed out into the HQ's shooting grounds, loaded her rifle, and shot at the target an innumerable number of times before it had collapsed against the pressure. And she had only moved onto the next target. Throughout the entire ordeal, she hadn't said a word.

One rang dimly in her mind now, although she didn't know if she spoke it or not.

Shit."

She must have retreated to the showers to catch her breath. It was the likely place she would have chosen. The canteen would have been a ruckus; the dorms too far away and the office a sinking pit for despair and hopelessness.

So she had opted for the shower block. Nobody could follow her into the bathroom. That was one of the benefits about being the only woman on the team.

Riza struggled to remember when she had lost her temper before…and she realized that that occurrence had been…never. Not even the deserts of Ishval had caused her to flee from a situation (even if she had cried herself to sleep many, many times after when she knew she didn't have the right to be called a "human" anymore).

But even humans, even engines, killing machines like she needed a break once in a while, apparently.

Sitting crying and frustrated and unbearably hollow inside beneath the shower before her body had collapsed and she had slipped into unconsciousness classified as a "break" to Riza Hawkeye.

By this point she had crawled back into her uniform, which was sticky and damp against her skin. She readjusted her bun as she left through the swinging doors, hearing them squeak in protest without looking back. Move forward, ever forward. There wasn't time to look back.

As she approached the office, the click of her boots light against the carpet below, dread radiated from her heart, as dark as the aura that appeared to mass in front of her. She stopped, her breath suddenly erratic; she was about to walk from the safe zone into a hurricane.

Behind those doors had what made Riza Hawkeye flee (coward, coward, coward), the sturdy, immovable wall, the heartless scum-Devil-murderer-child-slaughterer-menace-

She slapped herself across the face, forcing her pulse to slow. (Thud, thud, thud). She hoped a purple, blotchy bruise would form. She would sacrifice any amount of pain to stop-

Stop that.

Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes and Colonel Roy Mustang had been working (and drinking) in the Investigations office all night. They had received a...delivery that morning and had shared it with the team.

She, Mustang, Hughes, Fuery, Breda, Falman, Havoc and Armstrong had cowered around the item of interest...

One shining black folder sat on their desk. It wasn't so much of a folder as it was a…journal or a sketchbook. Inside were complicated and mostly illegible incomplete alchemic arrays and methods of torture eloquently written down in detail. The only way to describe the journal was as intricate. It went on and on, for many pages that could have been published as a fully-fledged novel. The writing, the arrays had all been written in blood. The last page possessed Edward's mock signature.

That was when it clicked. It was the morbid epiphany that everyone in the room had had at the same time like a fucking shared psychic vision. There had been shudders and gasps. Riza had stared in horror at the page, her mind reeling.

The entire journal had been written in Edward's blood.

At that moment, she had pulled hardly at her right shoulder, willing and happy give her right arm and left leg (rip them and hand them bloody) to Edward to alleviate an inch of his suffering.

She had seen the automail moments later. It had been hacked off, as if by a butcher. Mangled wires and flesh knitted together at the base of the mechanism, and lumps of the port had been sheared with it too. There were even strands of golden hair trapped in the gears. It belonged to the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric and his automail kept him from being a cripple, an invalid. It helped to keep him strong. It set as a reminder to focus and move forward.

-Can you ever move on from Ishval though, you stupid little girl?-

-You swore on that day you shot a child in the face that you would do what was best for this country.-

-And now when your subordinate (flimsy boy) is captured, you read diaries?

...Ah...

-Hmm, some vows you swore.-

Ahhhh!

...

...

-Bang.-

The tears had fallen down her face. She didn't dare speak a word. What right did she have?

She was a killing machine.

Hell, she had talked to prisoners of war (and she had been a prisoner locked in her own body after Ishval).

But they had been treated like humans – with respect and dignity.

Even scientists treated their experiments with care. But Edward and Alphonse Elric had been abused so horrifically she had had to leave the room. Riza had stormed to the firing squad, choking back the vomit lodged in her throat like a dry bullet.

Those boys had been scraped upon like dirt.

"Hawkeye!" The Colonel had called after her.

Go away go away go away!

"Leave her, Sir," Hughes.

Stay out of it stay out of it!

"I can't...nobody else..."

"We're all hurting, Roy."

We're all hurting. We're all hurting so, so much.

Three days had passed. Three days of having to endure more pain an a year's worth of automail surgery.

His body wasn't in agony anymore; it was numb and cold and lifeless like a hollow suit of armour. He was a puppet to be used as his master wanted. That was his worth in this world of shadow and gloom.

In the dim light, a wan smile lit over his lips. This boy was a shadow of the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric. His candle of hope was flickering more dimly with each second that passed. His head was bowed, slick with sweat. He didn't have the energy to cry, let alone smile. Not since they had come last night -

A shuffle. A crack of light. It was late. Al was sleeping. Ed was guarding, awake. Ever since he had popped his leg back into place, the joint had been throbbing. Good. It would help to keep him focused. He had not slept in a long time. His body was beginning to slip, but his mind would keep fighting for as long as possible.

"Look who we have here!" the voices whispered intently, giggling and grunting to themselves like a pack of hyenas. Their figures blended into menacing shadows against the darkness. Ed straightened his back up as much as possible (hurt HURT), holding onto the last strands of his dignity. He would not be afraid.

Ed remained silent, eyeing his targets warily, covering his body sub-consciously to protect Al as much as possible. He raised his broken and twisted arm to form a barrier between the strangers and the sleeping Alphonse. Because that was what they were. Strangers. Bad.

When they received no reply, a burly figure stepped forwards, his breath reeking of liquor, "It's only the blonde wenches usually who've got enough meat to cleave through. But look at you, sunshine!" The man proceeded to make a wolf whistle.

Ed proceeded to spit in his face. "Fuck you."

"Oh oh oh! A bit of spice! I like it, boys!" The three others behind him started stamping their feet lightly against the ground. Their leader placed his arms on his hips and shook his head, "Ol' Kimbers has given us an hour. Let's get this show on the road."

"Don't you dare touch my brother," Edward hissed. His head was giddy as though he was experiencing a permanent hangover. However, he had never been one for alcohol (especially after witnessing these men) and related his feeling of vertigo to being extremely caffeine-deprived. His world had harrowed down around Ed. It was him and these men and Al. Goddamn he knew what was about to happen and he was afraid, horrifically afraid, but he held his head up high, golden eyes glowing. He would protect Al.

"It's okay, lil' fella. I said that you were the sunshine," the man sniffed in Al's direction distastefully as if he was a rotting corpse. "That scrawny lump of skin 'n' bones don't compare."

"Promise me, you won't hurt him," Ed resigned when he received a nod in response. He didn't relax, but he let the numbness wash over his soul as the man with the tawny hair and black eyes began to approach him like a predator.

When the man was in range, Ed's right leg shot upwards and landed at its target. The figures, who had once been laughing, quickly saw their escape route. They were probably going to be fetching reinforcements.

However the only thought for Ed, no longer chained, was to move. He darted out of the way crawling on his pathetic stump of a leg. Five seconds later and someone was yanking at his hair. It hurt - his skull was going to disconnect from the rest of his body. Every strand of his beautiful golden hair was being pulled from his head.

The greasy man's fist disconnected with a lumpful of Ed's hair. "Stinks of piss."

Suddenly the man dropped to the floor. Alphonse was huffing, looking down at his bloodied fist, looming over the unconscious form of the man he had concussed.

The clamour had awoken Al. But at least...those men hadn't hurt him. If Ed could ever be offered reassurance, that would be it. However, his mind began to process all that had happened. He would have been touched by those men again (he shuddered when he realized that this had been a multiple occurrence)...he had been...he...

Bad.

BAD...

His hand reached up to the bald patch on his head and cradled his scalp, mourning all that he had lost - his dignity, his pride, his hair, his limbs, his sanity...

But he had his baby brother.

They had to get out of here...

They could get out of here!

Without waiting to gesture to Al, Ed grabbed Al's hand, hopping on his one leg. There was the door and light! -

Sizzle. And...pop.

Edward could hear the popping sound as his skin peeled apart to having a burning rod pushed directly into his infection site. It was like claws raking down his spine, like each of his bones were being crushed in scrutinising agony (even though they were). He could feel his muscles tearing, splitting apart like a chasm.

He was falling down...falling...

"AHHHHH" the screams resonated about the prison.

NoName stood at the doorway, a cherry hot poker held calmly in his palms. "Bad..." he had whispered, and Ed's world had gone black...

Edward didn't give a shit. He now had days, a week at most before the infection would cause his body to collapse (possibly permanently). But that greasy, liquor-fuelled man had kept his promise. Al was unharmed.

-You have the dignity to call him unharmed.-

-Why do you bother?-

-Let it take you.-

-Madness is a wonderful thing.-

...

"Ol' Kimbers".

But Ed was grinning a Cheshire smile in the fading light, ignoring the pedantic voices in his head for once. He didn't give a shit!

He wasn't called a prodigy and named the youngest State Alchemist in Amestris for no reason. A name danced off his lips, and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

"Kimblee."

Three days had passed. The paperwork piled on his desk, although those were the least of his concerns right now. There was one slick grey file waiting to be read, commanding his full attention. This is where it became interesting.

Roy Mustang was caffeine-deprived and had pulled too many late nights that he wanted to forget about. The sheer weight of hopelessness had threatened to drag him down (even the sturdy Hawkeye had buckled upon seeing the journal); he had wanted nothing more than to curl up on his paperwork and hope this case had been a bad dream. He was only glad he had Hawkeye to threaten him at gunpoint to keep him focused.

That was it. All that he had to do was look at the file and the words and focus. His genius alchemist's mind would get to work and he would become lost in a world of riddles, cracking this damn conundrum like it was a crossword.

Except things rarely planned out that way in this shithole called "reality". And the situation was made exponentially worse by there being no goddamn caffeine around.

"Someone fetch me a shot," Roy grumbled under his breath, rubbing his aching hands across his scalp, massaging his temples (as if that would help him gather an answer) and letting his hands drop loosely past his sweaty forehead. Of course his team knew what he meant by a "shot" too. Roy would have savoured the burning sweetness of scotch to soothe his pounding head – but he couldn't become lost in bliss right now. He needed a caffeine shot. And a large one at that.

When nobody replied to his command, he barked in a louder tone. Roy finally looked up – his neck popping – and the melancholy that was swimming in his office hit him at full force. Nobody was slacking or making weak jibes. Hell, Havoc wasn't even smoking; his ash tray was sitting neglected by his side (smoking wasn't legal in HQ but Havoc had found a way to twist the rules when Roy had been very, very hungover). It made Roy feel even more damn depressed.

"That was an order!" Roy hissed, his hands shaking weakly and laughing under his breath. Insubordinate subordinates.

"Sir, you know the coffee machine is broken…" Fuery began nervously, raising his head slightly from his own stack of paperwork. His glasses slipped sadly down his face when he said that.

"You're a technician though, Private, you should be able to fix it," the Colonel interjected unhappily, not liking where this conversation was going.

"And Sir, coffee isn't going to help you now, if you mind me saying…"

- No, I DO fucking mind-

Stop it goddamn you, brain.

"You need to take a break, Colonel. Coffee isn't going to help the situation now-" Fuery lifted a hand to indicate the scattered espresso cups littered around Roy's desk.

-There's not time for me to rest how the fuck am I meant to rest when-

This isn't helping. Just stop. Focusfocusfocus.

"How can I-"

"You're working your ass off, Sir. Nobody could ask for anymore," that was Breda. Jolly, snide Breda who always stole the last slice of pizza…

-They're just trying to slow you down.-

Shutupshutupshutup-

"Shut up! If you've got nothing to ask, don't say anything at all!" Roy's stomach lurched as he said the spiteful words. He didn't mean them.

Oh yes he did.

He didn't.

Goddamn why couldn't he get some caffeine. Sweet, sweet caffeine…

The office turned back into taciturn silence. The curtains were draped closed and dust particles were dancing on the air. Someone sneezed. Someone shuffled on their feet. Someone pounded their pen against the surface of the table.

Roy ignored them all. His entire body and mind and being was focused on the document still resting unclosed in his hands, furiously shaking hands. All he had to do was goddamn open the folder and forage through its contents for the key information. Location. Dates. Names.

He had done it so many times.

He had looked through these records so many times.

This time shouldn't be any different.

Pen pounded. Feet shuffled. Sneezing. Location. Dates. Names.

His mind was a whirling fury of bloody images of mutilated limbs and a living man screaming as his intestines were knotted and ripped in half in front of his eyes. There were pictures…senselessly morbid pictures….in the files that Roy had had to delve in before. He had averted his gaze and reminded himself that this was evidence and hidden behind Colonel Mustang's cold demeanour.

He should be able to look through it again…

Except…he couldn't.

The file dropped back onto his desk with an audible smack. In his frustration, Roy had hurled it onto the wooden surface, hoping its contents could disintegrate and burn. They didn't deserve to exist.

He pushed himself out of his chair and stormed out of the office, stomping along the corridor, not entirely sure where his legs were leading him.

But the sinking pit of his soul couldn't forget – no matter how hard he distracted himself –

-You have no right to distract yourself-

- The words etched onto the front of the file:

Missing Incidents Report

Edward Elric – Fullmetal Alchemist

M.I.A

Maes Hughes had been waiting for the call on his Investigations unit all morning. He was alone in his office, working overtime at this ridiculous early hour. And he had sacrificed Gracia's wonderful poached eggs to come here to give his subordinates a well-deserved break on this Sunday.

Except he hadn't been expecting a call from a certain person who barged into his work space, flopped into his chair as if it was his throne.

Roy was a bastard and there was no way around that.

Maes rubbed his glasses with a slide of his hand, not bothering to look at the Colonel. "Couldn't this have waited, Roy…you know we've had a shit ton on here recently…"

As the man trailed off tiredly (he hadn't slept properly in over a month and his self-control was like an uncontrollable itch, and irritation was leaking out of his usual optimistic exterior), he saw Roy shudder through the corner of his eyes. He instantly regretted saying what he had.

"It came."

It didn't require explanation. Ishval and one too many drinking nights had granted Maes the uncanny ability to read Roy Mustang like a book. He knew what his best friend was referring to.

"Oh. Took the bastards long enough."

"Yeah. It shouldn't be too long now…" Roy trailed off, and he picked up a file aimlessly off a counter and started to flick through the pages, obviously not reading any of the words. Maes stopped what he was doing, and properly looked at the dark-haired man caffeine-deprived (much like he was).

Roy was hollow. His body sagged, his movements lagging as it took his limbs twice the time to follow his brain's commandments through. That was the exhaustion side. Maes had seen Roy like this before when he had pulled one too many late nights to solve a puzzle (or aid Maes in some murder-mystery case, one that was of particular interest). He wasn't concerned about that.

It was the aura of hopelessness that wavered from the man. He didn't look fearless and wasn't goddamn smirking or making a wry comment about the place. He was just staring blankly, his eyes unseeing through the sheets of paper, as if a fiery piece of Roy Mustang's soul had suddenly been snuffed.

The sight was disturbing.

And Maes couldn't just banish the thought like it was a bad dream. Here was Roy Mustang, the corporeal form of a nightmare. This was a Roy Mustang devoid of hope and purpose. This was the Roy Mustang barely surviving after they had scraped through Ishval.

Maes shuddered involuntarily, the sheer weight of the situation dropping onto his shoulders all at once.

"Roy…" Maes removed his glasses, losing them somewhere in the colossal stack of paper of the investigation he had just abandoned paying any attention to and started to edge closer to the man.

"Please. Just don't, Hughes." Roy was backing away like a feral animal. He placed down the file and was quickly rising to his feet.

"You know this wasn't your fault. You shouldn't be shouldering this burden by yourself," Maes soothed softly, as if he was speaking to Elicia. His paternal instincts were kicking in fully.

"I need," Roy gasped for a second before collecting his breath, "your professional opinion on how to proceed."

"You don't need to do this, Roy…" Maes had moved to be within several feet of the man. Roy was cornered on the opposite of where the door was. He couldn't escape and run off that easily. This was something they had to open up about.

But Roy Mustang wouldn't open his shell up for anyone, even if it was snapping and fraying at the edges, soon to burst.

"If you'll not listen to me as a friend, then you shall listen to me as an order, Hughes," Roy snapped, his head darting from side to side as if he was still planning a mad dash. He flinched as he hit the back wall.

"I cannot do that, Sir."

"You will obey your superior officer, Lieutenant Colonel!" Roy raised his voice, his eyes suddenly glistening with emotion working on overdrive – fear, pain, anger, frustration – and Maes' heart wrenched. He felt every single one of those emotions too.

"Fucking stop this Roy Mustang right now!" Maes raised his fist, but then growled under his breath and dropped it to his side. Roy was trembling. Gently, Maes held the Colonel by his elbow and guided him back to the chair. Roy sank into it and stared blankly at the wall.

"I don't know what to do, Hughes," Roy whispered, his voice cracking. "General Hakuro refused to let us send a team to Turinene. They fucking refused! They said it was too much of the military's expense. What freak show are these monsters running? They're boys, Hughes. Dammit, what do I do? I don't know!"

"Me neither, buddy," Maes slumped on the floor beside Roy, staring at a very dull portrait of some very dull Amestrian general.

"What would he think seeing me like a-a m-mess!" Roy buckled again. "I've killed people and n-now I'm helpless. I can't-"

"But you aren't, Roy. You bloody aren't, you bastard."

"W-why? W-why couldn't I be there for him? I c-couldn't even open the goddamn folder, Maes!" And that was when Roy's hands were brought up close to his face, and the fearsome warrior Colonel Mustang started to sob.

Maes reached out without a second's hesitation. His hands wrapped around his friend's back, the only solace he could give. He felt guilty (and pretty shit) for not realizing earlier. Roy had been brushing away Maes for over a month. There had been the original military statement of Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist and his younger brother becoming M.I.A. although Roy had shouldered that burden brilliantly.

The Lieutenant Colonel had been working tirelessly on the case for a month. That was why his office looked even more like Elicia's cluttered bedroom than usual. That was why he had signed up to do the overtime, just like Roy Mustang and his team. Armstrong had been wandering through the military HQ more often than usual too.

"Ed wouldn't blame you. He would be telling you Colonel Bastard to get off your lazy ass and hurry up trying to find Al," Maes released a weak laugh.

(Roy sobbed a little more, but through the strain he managed to splutter a little too. It didn't feel good – it hurt quite a goddamned lot inside – but it helped nevertheless. Goddamn perfect Hughes.)

"A-are you sure Fullmetal didn't possess you just then?"

"He may have done, Roy. That boy sure does have an influence on us all," Maes said fondly. He cared for the Elric brothers deeply, especially for the older, reckless brother, who had sat around his family table and happily tucked in to stew as if he was a child and not a Dog of the Military.

He loved that kid.

"H-how could that pipsqueak make such a big influence considering he's so d-damn s-short," Roy commented, his sobbing beginning to subside. Maes still held on close; he wasn't going to let go just yet.

Both of the men transcended into silence, waiting for the fuming response of the blond teen about being called short. Nothing came, and that made the hollow daggers claw at Maes' heart even more. He quickly wiped at his wet face; there was nothing to see here.

"I swear to you, Roy, we're going to find them." Maes vowed, each syllable imbedded with the months' worth of endless worrying and sleepless nights. And then he chuckled lightly, "Welcome to fatherhood, Roy."

He could hear the Colonel growl through the layers of military uniform. Roy was beginning to breathe evenly again. Good. Breathe and focus.

Maes was going to fix that damn coffee machine even if it took him the rest of the day.

But the two didn't move from that spot for a very long time after Maes had finally remembered to lock the door.

Scieska had left without saying a word.

...

"Here." Maes slipped the items into Roy's fingers. Four train tickets for the next morning to Turinene.

"Maes..." Roy looked up. "I'll send you to Hell and back you bastard!"

"Just you wait, Roy-boy," he held up his own train ticket and his lips curled to reveal his fangs. "Because I'm coming too!"

We made it. I feel this chapter had to focus more on Mustang and his team, but next chapter we'll be focusing more on Ed and Al and those creepy white daffodils...

Chapter 6 Focus will be up soon. For now though, I hope you enjoyed :)

Edit: Next chapter should be up tomorrow (Saturday). Tests have kept me busy, so apologies for the wait!