Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

"I screwed up."

He supposed it didn't matter if they were listening through the door; they couldn't have heard him.

No one could hear him.

And that was fine.

His good eye was trained on the window. It was dark enough in the room that he could see moonlight reflecting on the waxy leaves of the eucalyptus tree just outside the hospital walls. "Three years, and I couldn't even pass the six month mark."

He sighed quietly, dropping gracelessly to the edge of the mattress. His head was a leaden, throbbing weight, and he cradled it, resting his elbows on his knees and favoring his left side. Come morning, he probably wasn't going to be able to bend at the waist, let alone twist, but for now, muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatories were doing their job.

Everyone was doing their job.

"I've become a politician." He said it aloud, because while the idea was bouncing around his aching skull, it didn't seem real. Him. The one who originally gave her an order to shoot him if he ever strayed. He'd always feared he would become embroiled in some smaller, pettier issue, become too cold-blooded. Lose sight of what was important. He'd always assumed the symptoms of that would be obvious.

They weren't.

Mustang felt himself smile, as if it was amusing. As if he found it funny that he was calmly analyzing possible lies, determining logistics and coordination between all the people that would have to support any given story so that it would stand up to an investigation. As if it was only a mental pursuit to while away the time. As if there were no consequences.

It was a fact that he'd purposefully gotten rid of his bodyguards, and it was irrefutable. Parliament already knew that; it explained the two massive gentlemen outside the door, the ones that had almost refused to give him ten minutes alone with his chief of security.

His unconscious chief of security. She hadn't been given the antidote, after all, so she wasn't recovering nearly as quickly as Edward Elric had. And he understood that he had the Tringums to thank, that he wasn't hunched over, explaining himself to a corpse.

Riza was going to kick herself for this, over and over again. Another fight to look forward to. He didn't think she was stupid enough to try resigning, but it still wasn't going to be pretty. And he'd have to get to her before Hakuro did, coordinate their stories so there was no discrepancy. And Elric, too; he was probably going to be interviewed as soon as he awoke.

Seeing as he'd been a suspect in a kidnapping investigation.

Roy felt his empty smile broaden. It was ludicrous. Somehow a simple daytrip to take care of something Pride had left unfinished had turned into a mass casualty event. He'd learned when he'd woken that it was common knowledge that another Drachman assassin had succeeded, this time around. The Prime Minister was dead, and Parliament was trying to cover it up. Then an entire army had invaded the city, leaving a rare and thousand year old plague in their wake.

He didn't even want to think about what the papers would be printing tomorrow morning.

The assassination scare could be handled. He'd address the people over the radio tomorrow, assuming his voice recovered even a little. He'd admit that someone had attempted to kill him, almost fatally sickening several of his top aides. Including Edward Elric, one of the most renowned alchemists in the country.

But ditching his guards . . . what excuse could he possibly use that wouldn't seem transparent? He'd broken Parliament's trust. He'd done something completely irresponsible, something someone in his position couldn't afford to do.

But he couldn't have afforded to do nothing, either. Irving would still have come to Central, when 'Bradley' didn't respond. He would have visited the Tringums. He would have gotten hold of the amplifier research, and he would have combined his own compound with it.

And it would have killed him. They knew that, now. He would have died even if his son hadn't helped him along.

Mustang closed his good eye, but it did nothing to protect him from the sight that had been burned there an hour ago.

There was no other way this could have happened. He would have brought his son. His son would have used the amplifier. People would have died, sections of the city would have become dangerous.

But at least it wouldn't have happened on top of the leader of their country suddenly, quietly disappearing one Friday morning. It wouldn't have happened on top of the Chief of Security being incapacitated and hospitalized.

What was the right answer?

What should he have done?

Sent an army to the old man's address? Let them be overwhelmed? Quietly kidnapped the man in the night, sneaking him into Laboratory Four and interrogating him?

He might as well be Pride, if he'd consider taking actions like those.

But what if that had been the right course of action? What if fear of becoming like those he deposed was preventing him from doing what had to be done?

And if that was true, why hadn't Riza said anything when he'd given her her instructions? Why hadn't she corrected him?

"Was I wrong?"

He knew she wouldn't answer; not now, at any rate. He didn't need to weigh her already guilty conscious with his own. But if she was approaching her duties with the same concern, and not straightening him out when he needed it –

Not that she'd ever had a problem doing that in the past.

He picked up his head, opening his eye again to study his audience. Riza was oblivious, resting peacefully amongst the pillows that propped her up. To facilitate breathing. She'd probably had the same problem Edward had had. Her long blonde hair was mostly pinned beneath her head and back, and her normally pale complexion was more colorless than usual. She looked oddly small on the standard twin mattress, and the narrow metal rod that bore the bag of fluids trickling into her arm made her look all the more alone.

He knew that wasn't true, though. The men had been cycling shifts to remain with her, even through the search for him. Falman had told him before he'd assigned the man to other duties.

Everyone was doing their job.

"You're supposed to be keeping me honest," he reminded her, his voice no louder than a whisper. That was another thing he was going to have to explain away; according to Patterson, he could expect to be rasping his way through speeches for the next week, minimum. Then again, he'd accumulated so many other injuries during the fight that he could probably just lump his voice in with everything else. That was how he was planning to get around his eye. He was lucky the last hit had knocked the cotton patch clean off his face, so there was no evidence it had been inflicted prior to confronting Craege Irving.

They also needed some way to explain what Irving and his son had been doing in Central.

Hopefully Falman had gotten his uniform jacket – and Irving's letter - out of Edward's car before the letter had been discovered. He had no doubt the military had impounded the vehicle hours ago, and if the soldiers seizing it had had the audacity to go through the Prime Minister's jacket pockets, there was a chance Hakuro had already been advised of it. He was probably going to have to make things up on the fly, dependant on what the general already knew.

Which was going to make coordinating stories almost impossible.

Roy sighed again, then genuinely smiled as Riza mirrored it in her sleep.

"How are you going to bail me out of this one if you're sleeping?" he chided her gently, taking up the hand that lay above the sheets, just beside her. It was warm to the touch, indicating good circulation. He'd already been assured that she was going to be fine, suffering only from a lingering weakness. Her organs seemed to be functioning as they should, filtering the last of the chemicals from her bloodstream.

At least she could get some sleep.

Mustang turned her hand over in his, tracing a light scar on her palm. She'd told him once it was from training, at least a decade ago. A bullet had lodged in the barrel of the old handgun she was using during target practice, and the thing had blown apart in her hand. She called it her reminder that 'anything can happen on a battlefield.' No matter how well you cared for your equipment, she'd said, eventually it would fail. It was mechanical, and nothing mechanical was perfect.

"I called this imperfect world beautiful, didn't I." It was hard to relate that observation to the wards of sickened citizens he'd just come from. Reassuring them simply with his presence that he was aware of the problem, that their government was concerned and actively working, even late into the night, to make their city safe for them again.

And it would be. It was just going to take a lot of work.

He needed to get a move on. He had a lot of catching up to do.

But for a few moments, it was nice to just be still. He felt like he could breathe here. She'd always had that effect on him. He didn't even necessarily need any more reassurance than her silent presence offered. More times than he could count, it had been enough.

Talkative snipers weren't particularly effective, after all.

His lips quirked slightly at his brain's quip, his excuse. So many, over the years. There had been close calls, too, almost like this one. They always made him feel this way, and he always found an excuse.

It was never the right time. And though he could recognize it as an excuse, it was also true. Now was not the time to be concerned with his personal life.

He turned her hand back over, studying her fastidiously trimmed fingernails. Not so much as a dry cuticle. There was no swelling, no redness that he could see. He wasn't sure anyone had actually washed her hands since she'd handled the letter, though by now she'd absorbed whatever was there to be absorbed. That could have also contributed to her delayed recovery.

And here he was, disrupting her rest. He'd put off his battles long enough.

"Don't wake up until morning," he ordered, squeezing her hand gently before laying it back where he'd found it. Standing was much harder than sitting, and as he straightened he felt it again; an odd, deep ache in his chest. Several of the other alchemists that had fought Irving or been in the areas where fighting had taken place had complained of it, including the brigadier general. He was going to blame all the alchemic feedback he'd absorbed until a better reason came along.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to it, unless he was specifically asked by his physician. His appearance was scaring Parliament officials enough. The idea that after he'd been found, he might still die –

That was unacceptable. If they all died from this, there would be fewer than half the State Alchemists remaining. One thing was certain – he wasn't going to let another one of them touch that blasted amplifier.

Not even to destroy it.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself not to limp as he finished crossing the room. They'd gotten him back into official attire, sans his uniform jacket, so the only bruising that was visible was along his jaw. His eyepatch covered most of the swelling associated with the new damage to his eye socket, and he could hide some of the stiffness.

Apparently the bruising on his jaw was enough, however. The Speaker and several of his constituents had winced the second they saw him. He'd then made an effort to show only his right profile to the injured in the wards he'd visited. It had been a fantastic mesh of deep blue and purple, so he could only assume it had either darkened, or was starting to slowly slide down his face as the blood beneath his skin began to settle towards the body's lowest point.

Maybe it would make Hakuro take it easy on him. It was unlikely, but he'd take what he could get. A little pity could go a long way.

He passed the empty bed on the other side of the room, glancing over it as he put his hand on the doorknob. The sheets had been changed, which meant it would only be a few more minutes before another patient was moved to the room. He'd been lucky to get the time alone.

Maybe it wasn't luck.

He'd have to thank Patterson, for sticking his neck so far out.

Especially since he was treating Major Breda.

The men were like shadows. He wasn't sure they weren't necessarily a good addition to his security force, save that they were mostly unnecessary. They were normally the top team assigned to the Speaker, so he was pretty sure they were only on loan. He'd have to be extremely careful that they didn't overhear anything they didn't need to.

Another logistical problem, considering they'd followed him everywhere else but Riza's room. And he was pretty sure they only obeyed his order to stay out because he was on the third floor of the hospital, unlikely to be in good enough condition to jump to the tree outside and disappear again.

It was kind of amusing, in a way. He was the most powerful man in Amestris, and he was effectively under house arrest.

He headed immediately towards the ward on the floor that had been set aside for critical care patients. He hadn't seen Kain and Breda for a couple hours. If either of them was awake, they'd probably like the company. It was getting too late to visit citizens, and he knew if he sat down for longer than he just had, he was probably going to sleep for fifteen hours. The muscle relaxers were letting him move around, but they were also putting a pretty aggressive edge on his exhaustion.

Yet another problem.

He had gone about ten steps before he heard another pair of feet fall in step with him, to his right. Approaching him on his bad side.

"Prime Minister."

It was said in a tone of greeting, so he just nodded once and continued. If Hakuro was going to be rude enough to try to blindside him, he wasn't going to get eye contact.

Speaking of getting entrenched in petty issues . . .

Roy was too tired to make a face at himself, and he turned his head as General Hakuro matched him, stride for stride.

"I've chosen the officers that will be involved in the investigation, Prime Minister. Rest assured, we will find the parties responsible."

Unlikely, considering one was apparently buried in the rubble of an apartment building, and the other was currently killing the lawn on the parade grounds.

"I have prepared a wartime declaration, should you be so inclined –"

"I've already told you." He forced the air to strike the back of his throat, to give himself enough volume. It hurt, but it was better than having everyone cup their ears. "I don't believe the Drachmans are responsible."

Hakuro was silent a moment. "I had hoped the injuries dealt to your personal aides might have finally opened your eyes, Prime Minister. You cannot continue to ignore these attacks."

He didn't respond. It would be fitting to inform the general that his aides were no more important to the country than its citizens, but it really wasn't true. It didn't have to be, either, to make him an effective leader. Silence might be admitting he cared more about his subordinates than strangers, but he'd really made that obvious years ago.

"The Parliament would back any action," the general tried again.

"When we have evidence, we'll move. Not before." He swallowed around the stinging, staring at the long, wide-tiled hall. For a second, he forgot why he was walking it.

"For God's sake, Roy. You were a soldier before their patsy." The general's voice was low but serious. "You know damn well how weak you're making this country look –"

He raised a hand, silencing the man beside him. And it worked. It was a neat trick of being higher-ranked than Hakuro was; he'd truly become almost bearable. Except for the passive-aggressive crap he occasionally pulled.

"You're right." That would probably pacify him into shutting up long enough to get the point. "I was a soldier. And if I wanted to start a war, I'd do exactly this. Making obvious assassination attempts. Your evidence, the grass that was identified . . . not only is it found only on the northern slopes, but it's rare even in their country. No one accidentally went into a florist's shop and purchased it." Sheska's research had revealed that six other types of grasses were native to their northern climate, and all were more readily available, but also further north. The fact that it had been a native grass found relatively near their border was telling.

"If I wanted to instill terror, I'd frame every country with possible hostile intentions. Make them think they had more than one enemy. Spread their army across all the borders." It was hard to keep talking. At this rate, he would be unable to address the country via radio tomorrow. He'd have to find another solution, or stop talking right now and not say another word until morning.

"These attempts were all obviously Drachman. You should be less focused on them and more worried about who would want to draw the majority of our army to the north."

He certainly was.

Then again, this hadn't been an assassination attempt. As far as he could tell, there hadn't been a serious attempt on his life since the inauguration. That could have been because of his security, because there was no point in drawing them north anymore . . . a dozen reasons. Either way, he was pretty certain the party in power in Drachma wasn't particularly dying for war with Amestris.

And even though they were pretty obnoxious, politically, and had one efficient propaganda machine telling their people that all their ills came from Amestris, using that as a reason to crush them would make him no better than Bradley. He wasn't going to penalize other countries for transgressions made against the former regime.

Those aggressions were justified. They'd probably all been on the list to be transmuted into Philosopher's Stones for Dante.

Besides, he wasn't actually certain Amestris would survive a full-out conflict with the Drachman army. Not without aid from the National Alchemists, something he'd promised he wasn't going to do.

So for now, as weak as it might make them look, he wasn't going to throw the country into war. In a way, his refusal to fall for the bait might have been no end of frustration to the parties that were trying to orchestrate this conflict. The fact that he was confident enough to do nothing in the face of attacks against him personally probably reflected better on their country than thoughtlessly striking out.

So the weak comment, he was going to take with a grain of salt.

The general chewed on his words as Roy gathered his bearings. He'd seen so many hallways, he'd forgotten where Kain and Heymans were.

One of the doors opened, to his left, and a familiar, young figure stepped out into the hall. As it was, the doctor happened to be facing his direction, and as the man's face instantly clouded, he braced himself for another fight.

This one was going to involve bedrest, he was certain.

"Enough."

He'd learned to add a little authority to his voice, but otherwise, he was the same doctor that had ineffectually attempted to protect the Elric brothers when they'd arrived back in Central. He was quite talented, though; he'd managed to treat Edward surprisingly competently, and while a good deal of the credit for saving Alphonse's life had gone to Russell and Fletcher Tringum, he'd done what he could to make the other man comfortable.

He'd also kept his mouth shut about the automail, the visits, and done his best to protect the involved civilians, like Winry Rockbell ,from Hakuro prior to the election.

Breda picked good friends.

"To your room, Prime Minister."

"Can you give me an update on the conditions of Major Breda and Second Lieutenant Fuery?"

Dr. Patterson was too far to hear him, but he was pretty good at reading lips, because he frowned. "It's too soon to tell if they've stabilized or not. I'm afraid I have nothing so positive to say about you."

He approached his patient, and the bodyguard to Mustang's left immediately stepped forward to block him. Patterson gave him a look.

"Let him pass," he rasped, and the hulking man waited several seconds before obeying. It was their silent way of protesting, he was beginning to learn. They silently protested most of his orders, but so far had only outright disobeyed two.

The first was to go away. The second was to remain fifteen feet behind him at all times. The second time, one of them had actually spoken, and explained they could not be effective from that distance.

That had been the point, but apparently these two didn't have much in the way of a sense of humor.

Patterson stepped closer, inspecting his patient's face critically. "Dammit," he commented mildly, solidly tapping the exposed portion of Mustang's right cheekbone. He flinched before he could help himself; the light tap radiated to the back of the socket as though it had been bored into with an uncapped pen.

"To your room. Now," he added, as if it would lend heaviness to his command.

"I'm afraid there's more pressing business for the Prime Minister to address," Hakuro said, rather politely, at his left. "There's the matter of the investigation, sir, as well as approval for the rotation schedules in the city. We don't want any civil unrest this evening, and we've already received reports of small fires and some looting in the damaged business sections –"

"I don't have time to rest right now," he whispered harshly, ignoring the general. Surely Patterson understood –

He received a sour smile. "I'm afraid I have something much less pleasant planned for you, Prime Minister."

Ah. Another treatment of some kind. Lovely. As if in response, from down the hall came the low keening of someone in obvious distress.

Roy was fairly sure his expression had fallen to one of resignation, because Patterson looked satisfied, and turned. "Follow me, gentlemen. Depending on the condition of the other patient in the room, I may allow you to continue your 'pressing business.'"

Rushing footsteps came from behind, and a nurse in scrubs gave their party wide berth as she passed, clipboard extended towards Patterson. The general casually stepped between the suddenly distracted doctor and Mustang, separating them slightly as they moved to the side of the hallway. The keening was getting louder; obviously another patient for the ward.

So they were still getting sick.

Hakuro ignored the incoming citizen. "Prime Minister . . . while of course it is the job of the tribunal to hear your statement tomorrow morning, it would be . . . beneficial for you to give me specific details regarding this morning. Our investigation will be exhaustive, but if there are certain things that are best left buried . . ."

He let it hang, and Roy turned to watch the gurney pass by. Owing one to the general was something he hoped he never had to stoop to.

"I don't doubt your skills, Hakuro. I'm certain your men will do a thorough job, and I encourage it." Elric's automail was all but exposed at this point. The worst that could happen would be public discovery, followed by some call to pressure him to reveal how he'd restored the limbs. This actually gave them an unprecedented excuse, though; there were known alchemic amplifiers in the city, so there was nothing he could do to squash Philosopher's Stone rumors now. It would be extremely tacky of Elric to take one to restore his limbs while – eight, now, alchemists had died, but he could tweak that story as he saw fit.

Perhaps another alchemist found him dying, and did the best he could to heal him, thus restoring the limbs . . .? Edward would at least have until tomorrow to come up with something appropriate.

The crying patient finally passed by their party, and Mustang watched his bodyguards repositioning themselves to protect him from – from a child. This patient was no older than sixteen, and his uniform was a crisp, light blue. He was torn between a scream and a moan, thrashing weakly on the gurney. While his arms were being restrained by the orderlies, his bottom half was unbound, and surprisingly still. Despite one of his burly shadows stepping directly into the way, Roy could see the boy turn towards their party, obviously looking for help –

His eyes were so glazed, they almost looked filmed over. He didn't need to check with Patterson to know what was going to happen to that boy.

Is that what Breda and Fuery looked like, now? Was that what happened to non-alchemists that remained in heavily contaminated areas?

"We of course ran a background check on your physician," Hakuro noted, bringing Roy's attention back to their conversation. His voice still soft. "We found a relationship that leads back to Heymans Breda. It seems they were rather close at one point."

Patterson had hurried over to the patient, and after a brief examination he began a hurried conversation with the lead nurse. Mustang watched the scene silently, and it took him several seconds before the full impact of Hakuro's words sank in.

So he knew Breda and Patterson were buddies. Finding that link in itself meant nothing, but if he wanted to take this back five months, knowing Patterson might have been working as an informant for Mustang's team, he could conceivably start down the road towards discovering what had happened to the uranium bomb. He had no chance of ever proving it, but even raising the questions, especially now –

"That's unfortunate," he replied, and graced Hakuro with a look.

The general's face, for once, was unreadable. It was impossible to tell if he knew what he had. "Why do you say that?"

"I dislike losing subordinates. Even less so when they are personal friends. I can train them and equip them, but there's only so much a leader can do." The doomed young man was being hurried to a room to their immediate right, and Patterson caught Mustang's eye, gesturing for him to proceed down the hall. He immediately started walking after the doctor. "I can only imagine it must be something like the relationship of a doctor to his patient."

He had hoped the news would be good. Neither of his men had been well when he'd last seen them, and though they both put on brave faces, Kain wasn't nearly as good as the others at hiding fear.

"I'm certain they'll recover." Hakuro's voice was gruff. "They're good men."

Mustang was too exhausted to be shocked by the general's words. Ever so occasionally, this man reminded him of the general he'd known nine years go. The general that had been grateful to two young boys for saving his family from an automailed lunatic on a hijacked train.

"They are," he agreed quietly, finally recognizing the room he was being led to.

It was going to be a long night.

- x -

Author's Notes: Well, we had our slowdown chapter, so now we need some action, huh. Yep, that's what we need. Hmm . . . action . . . I should get on that, huh. ; ) I've looked for typos, and found a few, but I think this chapter is relatively clean for once! Yay for clean! Again, sorry for the lateness, and thank you all again for the reviews!

Don't forget – this was coplotted with the amazing and coughlazycough Inkydoo, who gets major kudos! If you give her more kudos, she might be inspired to actually write her plotted FMA fic, which is going to be stupendous! And filled with German! And Ed! Go forth and tell her to get off her butt and write it. ; )

And none of you have guessed yet, which means I either didn't leave enough hints, or no one likes cookies. This time, I offer brownies. ; )