The following morning, Breda was the first to arrive to work. Unlocking the door, he found the office in disarray; the floor was wet from the previous night's rain, the coat-rack leaning awkwardly against the wall as though it had been tipped over—and most importantly, what appeared to be a substantial amount of blood on the floor. The guns that Hawkeye had been preparing the night before sat abandoned on her desk, and her chair was pushed back and off to the side, which Breda thought was very unlike her.

Uncomfortably, he deposited his lunch at his desk, tiptoeing around the bloody footprints on the floor. There were only three partial prints, diminishing as they approached the office door. Drops of blood had dripped around the room, as if whoever was hurt had been pacing around.

Concern was starting to sink in. Nobody was here yet to work, and there were rumors that persons involved in the previous day's attack had gotten into Central Headquarters. Though Hawkeye was far from what he would call a 'sitting duck', Breda had to admit that in many ways she was very vulnerable sitting in the office, alone, so late. If the building was abandoned, nobody would have heard cries for help, gunshots, or any sort of struggle. Whatever it was that had happened, Breda finally figured, the injured party had to be Lieutenant Hawkeye. The footprints were too small to belong to anyone else who had access to the office and the treads didn't match any military boots.

Fuery arrived shortly after Breda came to his realization, puzzled as to why the larger man was standing in the center of the room, brows furrowed in thought. The smaller officer could sense the panic in the room; the redhead irritably had crossed the room and grabbed the telephone, stabbing numbers into the keypad.

"What's going on?" Fuery asked, swallowing.

"I think Lieutenant Hawkeye might have been attacked by the handful of terrorists that got into headquarters yesterday. There's blood all over the place and the footprints are too small to be any of ours." After a few moments spent glaring at the phone, he slammed the headset into the receiver, frowning. "It's not just her, either."

Puzzled, Fuery waited for the stout man to continue.

"The baby, you know. If something happened to her, then the baby can't be all that well off. It's why the Colonel wanted her to stay here last night," Breda elaborated, his grimace darkening as he glared at the phone.

Shifting his weight as he placed his keys on his desk, Fuery looked around the room, eyeballing the footprints. "She didn't answer her phone?"

"No."

Fuery sighed, looking around the room. "Well, I'm sure Colonel Mustang would know what's going on. Have you tried calling him?"

"Not yet, and had you not interrupted me I would have!"

Fuery slinked two and a half steps away from the paunchy Second Lieutenant, frowning. He could feel his nerves growing increasingly rattled as Breda stared at the telephone, listening to what Fuery presumed to be ringing. Once again, the larger man slammed the phone into the receiver. No answer.

"Damn it! He's not answering either. We have to call Investigations. Something could have happened in here. If she's hurt, or been kidnapped or whatever, we have to let them know. Internal Affairs can track her down, but not if we don't tell her she's missing." Breda stormed out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Timidly, Fuery stood dead center in the office, eyeballing the quantity of blood, the footprints. Mustang's coat was hanging on the rack, soaked to a point where it still dripped into a small puddle on the floor.

He straightened his glasses. Mustang's coat was on the hanger? It didn't make sense—when the man left the office yesterday, he took his coat with him. His coat being back in place meant that he had been back in the office the evening before. Carefully, he tiptoed around the mess and back to the coat rack, crossing his arms. From here, he could tell for certain that it was, indeed, his commanding officer's coat.

The door opened, and Falman took three steps in, only to stop dead in his tracks. His eyes widened at the scene, and he looked desperately at Fuery for some sort of explanation.

"We don't know. Second Lieutenant Breda went to talk to Investigations just a few minutes ago." Fuery looked around. "We tried calling Lieutenant Hawkeye and Colonel Mustang but neither of them are picking up their telephone…"

The taller man folded his arms tightly, his gaze following the footprints and disarray. "Hopefully Investigations will know what's going on. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes might know. He's been very involved with the Colonel and Lieutenant lately, keeping tabs on how both of them are doing."

At that moment, Breda returned, Hughes and now Havoc in tow. They almost walked into Fuery, and the younger man scrambled backwards to avoid being collided with.

"You're saying that nobody got in here, that this was all some…some…prenatal baby accident scene?!" Breda's voice was wavering, irritable as he tried to voice his concern and disbelief.

"It's called a placental abruption. I was trying to get Riza to go home, but she was worried about the rain and wanted to wait till Roy was back. But she was sick, and I could tell so I went to call her doctor…when I came back from that, she was bleeding and we made a mad dash for the hospital." Hughes rubbed his eyes tiredly, as though he had spent the majority of his night awake. "She's doing fine now though."

All four men breathed a collaborative sigh of relief.

"As far as getting this place straightened up..."

Author's Notes: I promised you outtakes, deleted scenes, and omakes! Here is the first one. I don't know how I decided this, originally, but from the start I decided Breda would be the first in the office.

This takes place the morning after Riza has the placental abruption--sort of between chapters 12 and 13, though part of this scene runs concurrently with a scene in chapter 12 (the morning where Roy is talking to doctor Ballard).

Enjoy!