Warning: This chapter gets pretty rough/dark. I'm not sure how else to put it . . . just be cautious, m'kay? Moving on . . .


Roy couldn't help but glance nervously up the stairs every few minutes. Silas had offered to teach Ed some exercises to help keep his body from rejecting the automail while they waited for Havoc and Roy was debriefed on his team's findings, and though Roy knew Ed was perfectly safe, he couldn't help but worry when he was out of sight.

He had looked so tired and so desperate just a few minutes ago. What was this debriefing going to do to him?

Roy had the horrible, gnawing feeling that it might break him completely.

He turned back around to see Hawkeye staring at him. He tried to school his features into something blank and unaffected. "What?"

Hawkeye looked at him critically. "Sir, you look flushed. Are you feeling alright?" Without waiting for a verbal response, she put a cool hand on his forehead. He blinked and instinctively backed away a step, but it seemed she'd already formed some kind of deduction. Her gaze turned concerned. "Roy, you have a fever."

He gently took her extended hand in his, a silent apology for pulling back from her. Once he had her hand though, he didn't want to let go. Her hand was strong, like a lifeline, the simple touch triggering an ache in his chest that was lonely and tired and just wanted someone to lean on for a bit. After a night full of nightmares following a few days of little sleep, he knew himself enough to know he was nearing the end of his rope.

Still, he had a job to do. He couldn't back out, or even take time off. Not after he had allowed this to happen to Ed. To be sick was admitting defeat, and that was something Ed couldn't afford. "It can't be a very high one. I just feel a bit off."

She frowned at him. "Silas is going to look you over before we leave," she informed, pulling her hand back a bit. Roy's fingers tightened around hers, unwilling to give up contact just yet. She stopped pulling and gave him an analyzing stare. "You haven't been sleeping. And this has been a highly stressful situation—"

"Hawkeye, you already assured me I would be getting a day off this week." He gave her a small smile. "I'll take a break, I promise." It just may not quite be the one she had in mind.

"A day off isn't going to fix this," she said sternly. "You're getting sick, Colonel."

"I have an obligation, Riza," he said, his voice softer and more controlled than he felt. It felt like the only thing keeping him together was the hand he held. "He's not some project I can just leave when I don't feel well. He needs consistency and normalcy, and I can't give that to him if I take days off."

In her eyes, he saw her mask of stoicism slip just a bit, revealing a spark of uncertainty before she slammed it back into place. "You can't take care of him if you run yourself into the ground, sir," she said. "And besides, he needs to interact with other people. It's not good for him to be so isolated."

She had a fair point. "But even then, I can't leave him alone. Not at first. There aren't many people he will tolerate being by himself with." He didn't want to bring up the Curtis' visit. That would only give his Lieutenant more reason to force some time off on him, and he knew Ed couldn't handle it. Not after his debriefing.

Or maybe Roy wasn't as essential as he thought, and was doing all of this purely out of guilt.

No, he'd made a promise, to Alphonse and to Ed. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.

Again she tried to pull her hand back in an effort to turn away from him, and again his hand didn't release her. She looked down at his fingers as they twined with hers. "Sir?"

He closed the distance between them, close enough that their toes touched. All the while, she watched him with those sherry-brown eyes, a trace of knowing in her gaze. She knew what he needed. After all, she knew him better than he knew himself.

He slowly wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her body close to his. She allowed it, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. Her body was warm and soft, her scent familiar and comforting, and it helped ease the ache in his chest just a bit. "I'm sorry, Riza," he said. He was sorry for a lot of things. He was sorry for not being able to handle his own mistakes. He was sorry about dragging her and the rest of his team into its clean-up. He was sorry about not being able to keep himself together while he did.

One of her hands rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. "Don't apologize for being human, Roy," she said softly.

He felt his eyes burn with tears he refused to let fall. How did she get to be so strong and he so weak? "It feels like it's all falling apart . . . and tonight it may break completely," he whispered into her hair. "We've been pushing him and pushing him, and I don't know if he's going to be okay after tonight. And all of it will be my fault."

"You were just following orders."

"I should have known better."

"You did your job," she said, her voice still strong despite how thin and small his own sounded.

She held him for a while, until the knot in his chest loosened and he found himself able to breathe a bit easier. A small, sad smile tugged at his lips as he picked up his head from her shoulder and put it on top of her head, threading his arms over hers until he was the one holding her, the way it was supposed to be. "I swear, you're the only thing that keeps me together some days. Don't you ever cry, Riza?"

"It's a bit hard to find the sun if it rains everywhere you look, don't you think?" she asked gently, warm breath brushing his neck. She was trying to say she was being there for him, but all he heard was that she knew he couldn't afford her to cry in front of him, so she would do it by herself.

His smile fell a bit. It wasn't fair that she had to shoulder his insecurities and shortcomings as well as her own. "Always the strong one, aren't you?" he asked softly.

"Just until it's your turn again."

He smiled again. "Thanks, Riza."

The knock on the door made them both jump, the quiet moment shattered. She pulled away from him, and he reluctantly allowed it, but he kept his fingers firmly entwined in hers as he went to the entryway, releasing them only as he opened the door.

Havoc brushed snow off of his coat, cigarette burning bright in the darkness. Before he could stomp inside with the thing, Roy snagged it from his surprised lips and flicked it out into a nearby snowdrift. "No smoke," he ordered flatly. The blond knew better than to bring that thing lit up inside with Ed the way he was.

Havoc glanced at him apologetically. "Sorry, Chief. Forgot. With that blizzard building up, I was just trying to keep warm."

Roy brushed aside his apologies. He knew the blond didn't mean it, but that was just one more thing that would have helped tip Ed over the edge, and Ed didn't need the extra shove. "What did we figure out?" he asked, locking the door.

With both hands now free, Hawkeye grabbed the messenger bag she'd brought as Havoc flipped his open. Roy cleared away some of his research on the coffee table and they sat down on the sofas. Roy sat down next to Hawkeye, close enough that their sides touched. If Havoc noticed, he wisely kept his mouth shut as he spread out some files, favoring his bruised wrist. It was a horrid purpled and red, like putrid flowers blooming under his skin. Roy winced in sympathy.

"Armstrong was able to get in touch with his sister," Havoc said, picking up a file and passing it to Roy. Inside was an autopsy report. "Lieutenant Colonel Bearden's cause of death was indeterminable. Seems the wildlife got to him before a patrol discovered his body."

There were no pictures, but Roy decided he didn't really need to see them. "Did we get his file?"

"Missing," Hawkeye supplied. "All we know is that he transferred to Briggs last year. His superior claims that he was dependable, though a little off. Apparently his family died in a car accident right before his transfer, so he hadn't been himself."

Roy pursed his lips. "Something to look further into, then. Like why his records are missing. Any information on this 'Operation Firefight?'"

"We haven't been able to turn anything up on that front yet, but—"He picked up a thick file and set it heavy in Roy's hands. "Former Brigadier General Sherman. That's his whole file. I replaced it with a dummy file in the library, but it won't hold up to much scrutiny if someone actually looks at it, so I'd appreciate it if you'd get it back to me real soon so I can put it back without getting court martialed."

Roy looked at him. "You stole it?"

He shrugged. "In a manner of speaking."

"That's a yes," Hawkeye supplied, her own eyes narrowing.

Havoc raised his hands in innocence. "Hey, it's a library. You're supposed to check out materials."

"Not retired military personnel files," Hawkeye said. "Those are restricted. How did you even get back there? You have to be a Lieutenant Colonel to even enter that section of the library."

He smiled. "It was easy. I just got Breda to make a bit of a distraction."

"Distraction?" Hawkeye asked, her voice thin with barely concealed dread.

"Nothing extreme," he said with a shrug. He didn't look nearly as concerned as Roy thought he should, especially given the tone of voice the Lieutenant was using. "Though a trashcan or two may have spontaneously combusted. And maybe the librarian's desk."

Hawkeye turned her head slowly, a heated glare searing into Roy's temple. Roy wasn't sure he wanted to sit so close anymore. "Exactly what kind of example have you been setting for your men?"

Now it was his turn to raise his hands in an innocent, placating gesture. "Hawkeye, I haven't been there in over a week. You can't blame me for this."

She didn't seem at all dissuaded. She turned her attention back on Havoc, who noticeably shrank under her glare. "That's the second incident this week, Lieutenant. The next fire I hear about had better be produced in self-defense, or there will be consequences." She shot a pointed glance at Roy, who tried valiantly not to quail back. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Havoc choked out.

At the risk of being shot, Roy cleared his throat deliberately and opened the file before him. "So, Sherman."

"Right," Havoc said, seeming to get his bearings about him. "Falman and Fuery did some comparisons on your histories. The only place you could have met was at the military academy. He taught a course called 'Military and Ethics' before he retired. You would have been one of his last few classes."

Roy frowned, then the memories clicked. Of course. That's where he'd known him from . . . he remembered speaking up in class, questioning the other man's totalistic views, and what he had called 'ethics,' Roy had called 'immoral.' The man was a malicious scumbag if Roy had ever seen one, and had taken every chance he could to single Roy out of the class and make him miserable for having the nerve to contradict him. Hughes had shaken his head and told him to let sleeping dogs lie, but Roy couldn't stand the way the man talked about superior races and eugenics and things as if they were somehow justifiable.

How had he possibly forgotten that? "Yes, I remember . . . he couldn't stand me one bit, and I didn't like him any more than he liked me."

And there was no such thing as coincidence.

Roy looked at Havoc. "After he left the military, what happened?"

"Seems he took an interest in politics, applied for an administrative position in North City, but the Fuhrer declined his application for unknown reasons."

Roy flipped through the file thoughtfully. "And where is he now?"

"His whereabouts are unknown," Hawkeye supplied. "Seems he's gone off the grid."

Something in his gut constricted as he again stared at the man's picture. Cold eyes glinted back at him, and he felt his insides writhe. "Find him," he ordered, glancing between Hawkeye and Havoc. "I want to know where he is yesterday."

Havoc gave him a sloppy salute. "We'll have an update for you tomorrow, sir."

Roy nodded, the feeling of finally heading in the right direction filling him with a soft flicker of hope that he hadn't felt since finding Ed's whereabouts. Things were finally moving. Slowly but surely, things were being made better, if not right.

XxXxX

Ed hated this room. Nothing good ever happened in this room.

By some miracle, he had once again made it to the chair with Mustang's help. He was tired and scared and just wanted the whole thing over. He could feel their eyes on him, waiting expectantly for him to begin, to pick up where he'd left off.

He fisted Mustang's sleeve in his hand.

"Alright, Ed," Hawkeye said gently. "We ended with your first interrogation. They asked you about 'Operation Firefight.' What happened next?"

He didn't quite suppress a shiver. He tried to remember Izumi's face, but he couldn't quite recall it.

"That was when the brought a body down to the basement."

XxXxX

The door opened, jarring him from a light sleep and sending a slice of light over his head with nearly blinding intensity. Despite the way it seared, he stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. He didn't want to get caught on the ground again. His left side was on fire, with six knife wounds trailing up his body. Four days without food and only enough water to keep him alive had begun to have an adverse effect on him. His mind was dull, his movements lethargic at best, and his body had started to take on a thin, sickly look, the shadows between his ribs beginning to become prominent. His insides felt hallow and empty, a permanent ache settling over his body with his stomach as its focal point.

Still, he wanted to be on his feet. It was harder for them to kick him that way.

The wolves became quiet and watchful, all of them staying well off to the side where they had been dozing moments before, glinting eyes watching and waiting.

Three men came down the stairs. Ed recognized the first as the Interrogator. Behind him, the other two men manhandled a large canvas bag.

Ed tried to summon a glare, but even to himself, it felt weak, like his body thought expressions were too much trouble. "What do you want?" he demanded, his dry throat making the words sound like sandpaper.

The Interrogator smiled, stepping aside before he got to the bottom of the stairs to let the other two by. "We thought you might be hungry," he said.

Ed's stomach let out a hopeful whine, but Ed didn't have the will to be embarrassed about it. He watched with eyes that couldn't help but be eager as they unzipped their cargo. Ed wondered why they'd brought it in such a bag, and why it took two men to carry it.

Then, they rolled out the body.

It was a man in military uniform, the bars on his shoulders indicating he was a Lieutenant Colonel. What little was visible of his skin was pale and clammy, glassy eyes opened and lips parted, his expression forever frozen in a terrified plea. A deep red gash interrupted the cold pallor, cutting across his neck with heartless precision, a stream of dried blood crusted below the wound like claws.

Bile climbed high in Ed's throat and it was all he could do to stagger from his sleeping spot to the end of his chain and retch stomach acid on the stone floor.

"Dinner," the Interrogator said simply. "Come now, men, the dog 's leash doesn't reach that far. Move it closer."

Ed didn't want the body anywhere near him. He wiped his mouth on his only arm. "Keep it away from me," he choked, unable to leave the wall's support. "Get it away."

They ignored him, dragging the body so that it was lying right next to his sleeping spot. If he ever slept again, he'd be waking up next to a corpse.

"Don't be ungrateful, boy. It's not every day you get food." He chuckled like it was some sort of joke.

"That isn't food. That's a human being," Ed said, backing away from the body as far as his chain would allow. It pulled on his neck and he stopped, unable to get four feet between him and the cadaver.

"Well, I can assure you that if you don't eat it, your roommates will," he said, gesturing over to the animals. The creatures' noses were all pointed at the dead man, eyes wondering from the Drachmen, then back to the corpse, waiting for an opening. "And who knows when food will arrive next?"

"Get him out of here," Ed snarled, trying to bring himself to stand on his own, but his body was shaking with weakness and he couldn't leave the wall if he wanted to stay upright.

"You are in no position to give orders, little boy," the Interrogator said. "Borsk?"

The big man stepped over, then knocked him on his backside like Ed was made of paper. Cold stone bit into his naked body, the pain on his abused ribs making him gasp. He tried to get on his feet, but Borsk just rolled him over with a booted foot and planted it painfully in his gut, like a hunter staking his claim.

"Such a pathetic little boy," Borsk purred, reaching down to tweak his nose with a cruel, patronizing hand. Ed twisted his head, trying to worm away from the man that smelled like death, but the boot came down harder and the hand grabbed hold of his neck in a painful grip. Ed cried out and clawed at the man's wrist with his only hand, but it didn't move. "Such a tiny thing. I could kill you right now with just a push of my thumb." As if to demonstrate, a finger drove into his trachea. Ed's eyes went wide as his air was almost cut off, his lungs straining to draw breathe. "I see it in your eyes: you hold out for rescue, but no one comes," Borsk chuckled. "How naïve."

Ed wanted to tell him to shut up, but the hand on his throat had slipped underneath the collar and was now cutting off his air supply entirely.

It didn't take too long for his vision to start tunneling. He scratched at the hands with panicked fingers, but the man was as immovable as a mountain.

His lungs were on fire.

"Borsk," the Interrogator warned, his voice sounding far-off to Ed's ringing ears. "We need him alive."

With a feral grin, Borsk released him. Ed gasped in a choking breath, rolling to his side and holding his throat as he took in sweet oxygen in ragged pants. Borsk planted a dismissive kick to Ed's backside on his way past. Ed curled up, too dizzy to do anything more than grunt in pain.

"Well, then, enjoy your meal. I'm sure the wolves will show you how it's done, if you're not sure how to begin." With that, he and the other two turned, leaving the room and once again shutting him in the dark.

Leaving the corpse just feet away from him.

The wolves didn't need to wait for their eyes to adjust to the dimness. Ed heard them creeping through the basement, passing him by as they fell onto the body.

Ed covered his ears and tried to ignore the grumbling in his stomach and the sickness in his chest.

They removed the mostly-eaten corpse a day later and brought down a bowl of dark, greyish meat. Ed ate it and managed to convince himself it was chicken.

He threw it up moments later.

XxXxX

Ed?

Edward?

Fullmetal, come on, snap out of it.

XxXxX

They weren't coming.

Ed could feel it in his soul that they weren't coming.

Even though he knew they had to be looking—Alphonse would have it no other way—they weren't going to make it in time, and there was something about being on your own that made everything seem so much more than you could possibly handle.

He had waited as long as he could possibly afford to wait. If he sat there any longer, he would be so weak and injured that there would be no way he could escape on his own, and that would be that. They hadn't come yet, so putting his hopes on a rescue would be wishful thinking, at best. If he wanted to stand a chance of escaping on his own, it had to be now.

The hard part had been breaking his automail. With the broken bones in his flesh hand and the muscles themselves so weakened by starvation and atrophy, he had been at a loss on how to go about it. There were no loose rocks or anything with which to carve into the stone beneath him, and the entire corner he was chained to was so smeared with dried and fresh blood that there was no way he could use the liquid to make a circle. There would be far too much interference from the collecting matter, and using something with so much iron in it to manipulate metal would only disrupt the transmutation, or even cause a rebound. His only choice was to carve it somehow, and for that, he needed something sharp.

He had finally managed to ledge the toe in a crack on the stone floor, and by twisting his leg at odd and painful angles, managed to splinter the metal. The thought of Winry taking a wrench to his head over his broken automail made him smile just a bit. He hoped he'd be able to give her that opportunity again.

As far as he could tell, he worked on the arrays for the better part of five days. They came for him once in that span, and the next day he had been too hurt to even move, much less carve on the tiny circles at the base of his chain.

Now, he was finally almost through, adding the last vital details on the coarse stone. He would be out of this place and home in a couple of days.

That's what he liked to tell himself, anyway, despite the tiny voice in the back of his head assuring him that he would die in this hole.

A shadow slithered in front of him and he flinched back instinctively. By the light filtering through the crack in the door at the top of the stairs, Ed could just barely make out the pale gray pelt of the smallest wolf as she stopped to regard him from only a few feet away. She was even thinner than before, himself included, with sunken eyes and a thinning coat, but that didn't seem to concern her much. For some reason, she had a ridiculous amount of interest in Ed. Of the three of them, she was probably the smartest, always stopping just out of Ed's reach and staring, taunting him with her nearness as if knowing he hated her being so close. The other two at least showed him a healthy level of fear when he was conscious enough to fight back, but this one never did.

"Hungry?" Ed asked with what must have been a crazed grin plastered across his face. He felt a little crazed. The beast continued to stare aloofly, unconcerned with his hostile tone. "Well, that's too bad, Mittens, because I'm busting out of here. You and your two friends better stay out of my way, if you know what's good for you." He had named her Mittens. Teacher always said there was power in names. Names made things familiar, relatable, and not quite as terrifying. Nameless creatures could haunt your soul, but you could fight against something with a name.

Alphonse had always wanted to name a cat Mittens.

Mittens didn't seem impressed with the threat. She continued to stare in a way that made the hairs on the back of Ed's neck stand on end, and as if by some invisible signal, the other two animals appeared from behind the stairs like specters from the mist.

The big grey one with the yellow eyes and the healing cut across her nose eyed him like one might a particularly troublesome morsel. He'd been the one to give her the gash with his jagged toe. He called her Grey. The other one—the one the color of ink with the crooked jaw and dark amber eyes—slinked along behind her. He'd named her Blackie.

He wasn't very good with names.

Grey met his eyes for just a second, and Ed thought he might have to gear up for a fight. Then she turned away and crept back to the far corner of the basement, along the wall and out of his sight, Blackie on her heels. Mittens stared at him a bit longer before turning tail and following.

Ed released a tight breath. He'd woken up once with Grey's jaws around his throat, and another time with them tearing at his injured side. He certainly wouldn't miss them when he was out.

Which should have been in about the next hour, if he could get the once-sharp edge of the automail to carve.

He was lucid enough to realize that he would only get one shot at this. If he didn't get away, there would be no next time. He might be killed for being too much trouble, or they would completely and totally incapacitate him somehow. Either way, failing wasn't an option.

Because they weren't coming for him. He was on his own.

XxXxX

Light flared, the chain turned brittle, and he was free.

Despite how weak the metal was, he wasn't able to break the collar from around his neck. His weakened, injured hand barely managed to snap the chain link from the collar, but he managed, letting it fall to the ground with a dull clatter. He would worry about the rest of it later, once he was free.

The first phase of his escape plan was now complete. He allowed himself a thin smile at the victory.

Reaching a shaking hand forward, he activated the second circle.

The wall before him shifted and reformed, the stone moving out and up with a bright flash of light and a groan of rock. A tunnel maybe twelve feet long rushed out in a wave of searing blue glow, curving upward and breaking the surface. A gush of cold air and blindingly pure light slammed him in the face and took his breath away.

Daylight.

Hope burned bright inside of him. Someone was bound to hear the noise, but if he smoothed out the snow up top, he could draw a circle and cover it up before they had time to figure it out.

Because why would they rush to see what a chained, crippled kid was up to?

The wolves slipped from their den below the stairs, all eyes staring curiously at the tunnel he'd made. He didn't spare them a second glance. He just started crawling, dragging his injured body up the sloped tunnel and to freedom.

He went as fast as he could, his broken ribs protesting almost as much as his swollen knee and abused shoulder port. He was in no condition to hike anywhere in the snow, and he knew that. He was relatively certain he barely had enough body fat to support basic bodily functions anymore, much less keep him insulated for any stretch of time. His bare foot would get frostbite within a few hours, and he'd succumb to hypothermia before dawn.

He knew all of these things, but he knew that dying in the snow was better than dying in that basement. He'd take his chances with the wilderness.

The air was freezing, icy wind biting into his bare flesh like teeth, and when he finally made it out of the tunnel, it was almost unbearable.

But it was the most exhilarating sensation he'd ever experienced.

The sky was clear and blue, quickly turning to navy as the sun went down behind the mountains. Snow blanketed everything, at least three feet deep, and for miles, all he could see where trees and mountains. A glance behind him revealed the stone house, dark and nondescript with a few vehicles parked out front.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. He quickly turned, smoothing out a section of the snow and sketching a hasty circle in the white powder. The tunnel closed up behind him and he staggered to his feet, heading for the woods.

Before he even crossed the clearing, he heard shouts behind him. He didn't look back.

He increased his speed to an awkward half-lope, but his body was injured and off-balanced and the air was stinging his lungs. He'd already lost most of the sensation in his bare foot, and the broken automail leg was starting to stiffen, the antifreeze in its tubes drained out when they'd stabbed the wiring with a knife.

He prayed, begging that he would somehow get away and make it back and see his little brother, and Winry, and even that stupid Colonel. He wanted to get Al's body back, and be at the Rockbell's for Christmas, and turn in his sloppy report to Mustang.

He wanted to go home.

Footsteps pounded the snow behind him.

He ran harder. They got closer.

Then his frozen foot slipped and the automail one was too slow to catch him. He went down hard, his body falling into the icy snow.

It was all over.

XxXxX

Edward? Ed? Roy, he's not snapping out of it.

Fullmetal, come on!

XxXxX

They strapped him down and argued for a while on the other side of the closed door. Someone said something about not permanently injuring him. Someone said he had to be kept alive. Someone proposed that they incapacitate him with the least physical damage possible.

Then they strapped his head down. Cold, cruel hands held his eyes wide-open. He fought, but no matter what he did, he couldn't move. They laughed at him and jeered and mocked him. One held a dropper over his face. Yellowish fluid splashed against his eye, and he couldn't thrash enough to keep them from easily dripping it into the other one.

His eyes were on fire and he screamed.

XxXxX

Fullmetal!


That just got out of hand . . . I'm a horrible human being . . . xD

Shameless Royai was shameless ;D I will not apologize.

The vagueness is intentional because some of that stuff we can be vague about and still get the idea without making too many people physically ill. Like I said, I'm trying to keep my rating. I think I'm managing thus far, but if you have a concern about it, please shoot me a PM and let's discuss it.

Not looking too good for Edo, here :c Hopefully he'll be able to snap out of it . . . hopefully.

Weeeeell, I don't think I have any announcements, except that our play is over and now I sit at home in the evenings and wonder what to do with my life since I don't have rehearsal . . . and weekends, no more performances . . . I'm becoming depressed. I need the sunlight or something. Or vitamins. Or video games.

But tomorrow I get to go to jui-jitsu and go find a sticker for my laptop. Because I want one. It's the little things, guys C:

Someone asked me where they can go to submit fan art for this fic (or any of my fics, really). Just shoot me a PM, and I can send you my email :) Then we'll get it uploaded to dA and I'll gush over it and link the world to it xD Or if you have a deviant art account, just find me (username x-RainFlame-x) and link me to it from there!

I'm getting to reviews from "How Long it Takes." To respond to reviews, apparently, it takes forever *tries to be punny* /shot/

Hope you guys are having a great week! If you have the time, drop a review, and I'll see you next time! :)

God Bless,

-RainFlame