For nearly two weeks, by then, Colonel Mustang had been beside himself. He at first convinced himself that Hawkeye must have caught the influenza virus that was going around headquarters, or had to run out of town for some emergency. But he knew that it was very much unlike her to disappear for two weeks at a time without giving word to anyone. And when he visited her apartment a week after her absence, he realized that she had not just run out of town, she was taken from town.
At once, he began chastising himself for not walking her home that evening despite her apartment being in the opposite direction. He began berating himself for keeping her in the office that late, as that was one of the things that made her so desperately vulnerable to whoever had come across her and dragged her off. Most importantly, however, he began wondering if she was even still alive after two weeks in captivity.
He had tried to convince some higher-ups to listen to him, but they wanted nothing of it. This was First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, they reasoned, who never left her apartment without at least one gun on her person. It was impossible, they believed, for her to have gotten carted off like one average damsel in distress.
But Mustang couldn't just let it go, couldn't find it within himself to assume that she was fine. He knew something just wasn't right, he had faith in that he knew his Lieutenant well enough to know that this was extremely out of character for her. He knew that something was very out of sorts, and came to the conclusion that he would have to figure it out himself as nobody considered helping him.
So how it was that he ended up summoned to the Fürher's office to discuss a suspicious letter was beyond him. He couldn't quite place what it was that the man could really want with him, and so he sat opposite the Fürher as he waited for whatever it was that the man wanted—and inwardly grumbled about how he was wasting time instead of trying to find his Lieutenant.
"We received a letter, Colonel Mustang. From two unidentified kidnappers, who say that they have First Lieutenant Hawkeye with them and want information from her. What I am puzzled by, however, is the handwriting on this note." The Fürher handed him the sheets of paper, held together with a small clip in the top right corner. "And the signature."
Mustang hardly needed to look at the pages before he recognized the writing on the page. "It's hers. That's Lieutenant Hawkeye's handwriting," he swallowed slowly as he started reading. "I'd know it anywhere."
The Fürher was quiet as Mustang read through the two page note.
"It says that they've had her in captivity for almost two weeks now," Mustang murmured, hardly at the bottom of the first page before he was tempted to shred the thing entirely. His fingers were rumpling the paper as he scanned the page. The Fürher nodded slowly.
"It says they attacked her from behind. That they…" he was shaking his head slowly, the paper nearly crumpled up as trash in the heat of the Colonel's temper.
Without allowing Mustang to complete his sentence, the Fürher interrupted. "The note goes on to say that they want information on an alchemical array that she has. It also says that they cannot decipher it, and wanted you to come do it for them. I don't think I understand why they would propose that…"
The other man paled slightly, ink-black eyes focusing wearily on the Fürher. "I do. Where are they? I'm going to get her."
"That letter should have reached Central headquarters by now, don't you think, Lieutenant?"
Every time they spoke her hard-earned title, their voices turned with a disrespectful lilt, as though they were using the term only to tease her. The first man continued to have his way, but by then the second had had his fill. Though they both took time out of their lives to come and torment her, they each had taken different roles.
The first was a nightmare. When he came, he wanted what he wanted, and if she resisted—she still did, despite the exhaustion she could feel deep within her bones—he beat her. Over and over and only when he was satisfied with himself did he proceed. The second, however, had become somewhat gentler. More often than not, he came with water and on occasion a slice of bread. He didn't treat the wounds, but instead would sit her opposite him and copy the array by hand, meticulously, until he had pages upon pages of work.
Today, the first had settled himself in her room. He had a box with him, and he currently held it tucked under his arm as he watched her, still naked, huddling in the corner of the room. "I asked you a question," he hissed, eyes narrowing.
"Yes." She lowered her forehead tiredly against her knees, closing her eyes. She couldn't recall the last time she had felt so bone-weary. Not even in Ishbal had she felt so fully and thoroughly exhausted to the point she was now. She wanted nothing more than to be done. To curl up and sleep for days, until the ordeal was over.
"You remember what it says. That Colonel Mustang better get himself down here by Saturday night." He was opening the box then, and handed her a gown. It was loose, filthy and small. At best, it was a flimsy hospital gown. With one hand, he tossed the 'garment' to her, and sighed. "If he isn't here by midnight on Saturday, you'd best say your prayers; because we'll take the information we want by force."
Mustang had expected the town to be remote, but not so small that there was nowhere for him to stay. It had taken persuasion and his military identification to get a spare room in the local tavern—the only place that was open when he arrived at midnight after a three-day trip by train. He had specifically stopped to make sure he had somewhere to return to before proceeding to the address where the kidnappers and his Lieutenant were.
He had to admit that at least one of these two men were fairly intelligent; the house was at the far edge of the town on a clearly abandoned street. From down the dirt road, he couldn't make out whether or not lights were on. Carefully opening his pocket watch, he checked the time, only to see that it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. At almost an hour late, he could feel his stomach tightening has he began to run towards the house, hoping that the two men would have the consideration to wait a bit longer in hopes that he was on his way.
As he approached the front door, he paused to listen. At first, he heard nothing but shuffling from what seemed like the second floor. And then he swore that he heard a scream and almost kicked the door of the house open as he went inside to search for her.
"You—" the woman's voice caught in her throat as she tried to tug herself from their grip, "bastard!" she shrieked, fingers clawing at the floor, the fiery prong searing through her skin, tears in her eyes. Hands were scraping at the second attacker's grip on her shoulders, desperate to get him to free her.
Instead of encouraging her release, the first attacker only dug harder into her flesh with the knife, and the second only gripped her arms tighter. The first leaned close to her, the fabric of his shirt pressing against the open wound on her back as she recoiled from the touch, and hissed a reprimand in her ear. "Shut up." Order delivered, he leaned back, scraping at the already burning skin, and she hollered in pain, gritting her teeth and yanking away from the one holding her. He slapped her hard against the back of her head, hitting the wound he had given her when they first found her, and she whimpered, struggle fading as pain clouded her vision.
"You shut up, bitch," he threatened, "your Colonel didn't come for you, so you pay the price."
Through a painfully tight throat she choked out, "Just copy the array!" The pleading in her voice disgusted her. The desperation. That she was begging people who were willing to kidnap and kill her just to get information.
She fell still as the first attacker paused, coming around to her front. "You are beyond difficult," he said wearily, setting the knife in the fire for a moment, the heat turning it white-hot. He was at her level on the floor, on his knees. One hand gently caressed her cheek, the smirk on his face devilish and maniacal and wrong. "Difficult, but beautiful." The hand slid to her shoulder, to her side, to her chest, wandering and sending shivers down her spine and she tried to pull away so he couldn't touch her anymore but to no avail. Even after two weeks the man hadn't had his fill. "Don't be shy," he mumbled, the grin on his face bordering satanic as he knelt closer to her face, his hand again resting on her cheek. "Now, you'll sit still like you were told!" Suddenly, the hand on her face tightened, nails digging into her skin. She let out a gasp and started to pull away but he held tight, leaving a perfect set of scratches against her cheek, all of them bleeding.
Then he turned from her, shoving her form backwards into the second attacker, and returned to his knife. Removing it from the flames, he shot her a look that was indecipherable, and took his position behind her. She fell still, unable to fight back, unable to even try, to even be bothered to try. They were going to skin her alive. They were going to kill her. And all she could do was hope they were quick, because she didn't think she would be able to take their torture for much longer.
Mustang entered quietly despite his near act of kicking the door in, though it took all of his self control to remain silent. Up the stairs, silently. He could hear voices then, though he could hardly make out the words. First, a man's voice, hearing an obscenity murmured, a slap. Then, he heard whimpering, and a voice that had never sounded so painfully familiar yet so strangely different, pleading with them to copy the array. He knew instantly that it was her, and he started towards the door when he heard a third voice. One hand gently gripped the doorknob, and he opened it just a crack.
He froze. She was pale and bleeding, a loose hospital-gown type shirt hanging on her frame stained a putrid red color. One was holding her shoulders, his hands so tightly against her that his knuckles were white. The other had a knife, which was now skimming around the edges of an alchemical array that he knew well. She was shaking violently, her skin a sickly sallow color, bones protruding from both injury and malnutrition. Whatever self control he had left was gone when he pushed the door open. Three faces turned to him, and he didn't give them a chance to retaliate before he snapped and manipulated the air in such a way to create fire that would, with any luck, startle them into releasing her.
"Remove your hands from her immediately!" he yelled. He remained in the doorway, with a way to run in case, just in case he couldn't fight them alone. "I will not be deciphering a damned thing for you if you continue!"
Her blonde head raised from the floor, eyes wide with panic and then relief when she recognized the voice, the face. She yanked against the kidnapper, planting her feet on the ground, and in shock, he released her arms. She staggered forwards a few steps, tripping over her own feet and stumbling. Mustang caught her under the arms, trying to support her frail body. He couldn't hide the guilt at the sheer look of defeat on her face, defeat in every feature and every crease of her skin as she gripped at his shoulders to stay upright.
The kidnappers immediately rounded on Mustang, and his snapping fingers sent them reeling, the sickening heat prickling at everyone's skin. He heard them crash to the floor, and he balanced her carefully against his form as he snapped again, and again. For doing this to his Lieutenant, for degrading her to such a point, for having him arrive and to see her looking so defeated, defeated in a way he had never seen her in all his years of knowing her.
Her hand was wandering somewhere beneath his jacket, and he cast her a cursory glance, puzzled, when he felt her grab what she had obviously been looking for. He may not have seen her in nearly two weeks but her memory was good; he kept a firearm in a holster, tucked under his jacket, and she was aware of that fact. It was almost a default, along with the spare ignition cloth glove—a gun for when the rain came. The hand that wasn't holding onto his shoulder to keep herself upright was clicking the safety off the gun with expertise, her eyes wide with something along the lines of terror as she held the weapon ready. But she didn't shoot.
The room was eerily quiet, the only sound being the flames crackling in the background. Mustang's eyes were focused on her shaking hand. She was staring absently at the weapon, her gaze completely blank. There was a moment of a stare-off, Mustang glaring icily at the two kidnappers and the two kidnappers standing at the ready, prepared to retaliate. Finally she pulled the trigger, her aim off perhaps by a centimeter but still landing the man with the knife flat on his stomach on the floor.
Mustang watched, waiting. The second man was scrambling with little success; in his panic he was looking for a weapon that would be effective in a battle of two against one. She still held the gun out and prepared, the man's scrambling slowing her attempt to fire at him. But this time, she did not shoot. With no other choice and in fear of losing her, he snapped. He would face flames—a particularly painful way to die; he made the decision to solidify both deaths and keep her from further harm. When he started screaming, he could feel her recoil against him, the gun slipping out of her fingers and clattering to the floor, misfiring into the wall across the room. Mustang wrapped an arm protectively around her, his gaze shifting to her face. Her eyes were wide and horrified, brows furrowed, and she was trembling.
And as quickly as it had started, it was over. The men were dead. There was no doubt in his mind pertaining to their demise; there was no surviving the flames that he subjected them to. When he was certain that they were dead, he turned just slightly. Hawkeye was looking at him, and the moment amber eyes met obsidian, she burrowed her head into his shoulder and sobbed.
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for your reviews, guys! I'm working hard...I am going to try to space my postings of the chapters so that I have the entire story finished before I have posted the entire story.