Three Wise Monkeys

Hey! pale-blue11 here!

Yes. It's Sunday. Almost Monday. But I honestly didn't forget to upload. The problem was, I remembered just as we got in the car, and I haven't had internet access since. I'm sorry for the delay! And thank you so much to last week's reviewers :) it was the most feedback I've gotten for this story!

WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language, and torture in this chapter.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.

CHAPTER SEVEN • The Second Thursday

"Well?"

Colt turned towards the owner of the intrusive voice, his mouth instinctively twisting into something that may have once been a smile. Fear and dread morphed it, changed it, until that horrible smile became a cry for help, a cry that would never be answered.

The creature raised an eyebrow, expecting an answer. It sat on the shabby couch, arms thrown casually along the back and one knee crossed over the other. The position was uncaring, relaxed, deadly.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Colt managed to ask, "Well what?"

"Well?" it repeated, standing with an ease that resembled liquid. A deep crimson liquid, spilling from its victim's throat. "I think it's time we discussed payment, don't you?"

"Payment?" Colt echoed warily. His hands itched for a weapon, but there was nothing that would stand up to his uninvited guest. "You never said anything about payment."

At that, the creature laughed. It tossed its head back in mirth, long tendrils of hair brushing the edge of the couch and bouncing, dancing, as if they had a mind of their own. "Did you really think," it cackled, "that I would do this out of the goodness of my heart? That I would go out and help you kill all those people just for you?"

"I-isn't that what you've been doing?"

"Ha!" it held its sides, perhaps in an effort to calm down. "Is my name 'Charity'? Or 'Kindness'? That Heavenly Virtues crap doesn't really apply to me… which is why I'm here." The laughter died down in an instant and the creature leered at Colt. "Isn't that right, Jeremy?" It spun away, joy literally seeping from its bone-white skin. "Little Jeremy! Poor, average little Jeremy! Stuck in your brother's shadow—well now you're out! And it's all thanks to me! So I have just one thing to ask."

Colt didn't dare meet its violet eyes. Maybe, if he was humble enough, it would spare him. There was no other choice, since, "I have no money."

"Oh, stupid little Jeremy," it lamented, holding its head in mock disappointment. "It seems I was right about calling you average. When did I ever ask for money?" It leant in close, until Colt moved away. "I can recall capturing the Fullmetal alchemist for you. I can also recall you keeping him to yourself for days and days.""

Colt didn't understand. "So?"

"It's against my orders," it wandered back to the couch and fell into it, "to let the shorty die."

"But he can't die."

"Exactly." Envy grinned with pure, child-like glee as his transformation began. Then Colt was staring at himself, the other's skin crackling with dangerous energy. His temporary doppelgänger started to inspect his nails. "I just wanna have some fun with the runt."

"A-and what about the payment?"

He didn't even see it move. But then a semi-gloved hand clamped around Colt's neck, lifting his feet from the ground. "Wha—" he squawked, but a twitch of Envy's finger silenced him instantly.

"I don't want you here," the monster explained, his tone neutral. "You're annoying. You think you're superior, right, human?"

Colt was terrified. Warmth spread down his leg, adding to his humiliation. He stared into his own eyes, watching as they narrowed in anticipation, and prayed to whatever deity might listen that his life be spared.

The hand—his hand—tightened around his neck. His mouth twisted in delight and a truly crazed gleam filled the duplicate's expression. Then, faster than he could register it, Colt's head spun until he stared at the kitchen doorway. The echo of snapping vertebrae left him unable to breathe, as did the creature's final taunt.

"I hate idiots like you."

XxX

Ed didn't know what he expected when Colt walked in. Not a 'good morning' or a 'good evening', or even a 'how has your day been?' All of those were too casual, too friendly. That would make it seem as if Ed's hand wasn't bound at an odd angle, or that his ribs weren't showing through his skin. It would create a false sense of normalcy—a concept that Ed had almost forgotten. It was as if he had spent the past few years of his life under Colt's rule, not just a few days.

The hatred Edward harboured towards his captor was only overshadowed by one other thing: Ed's own ability to come back from the dead. Wouldn't it be better to just... stay dead? It would certainly put a knot in Colt's plans, that was for sure. There was Alphonse to think about, but where was he? Where was Ed's little brother? It had been so long... it was hard to imagine they were still looking for him. It took Ed only two days to locate Colt's house. Were they ever going to come?

But that wasn't important. Because, while Ed's mind ran off on a tangent, Colt was very much focused. And when Ed finally thought to glance up at him, he met satisfied black eyes.

"Are you ready for today's lesson?" Colt asked, as if he were a priest beginning a Sunday ceremony.

Ed stated up at him, blinking slowly. He wasn't ready. He never was. He doubted he ever would be. Sitting on the floor, cowering beneath the table, with both hands, an arm, and a leg missing, Ed felt more damaged than ever.

He was so stupid. So proud and stupid. Still a child, no matter his past.

"Get on the table."

Though his mouth was unbound, Edward did as he was told without protest. Colt had shown him what would happen if he caused trouble. He was reminded of it every time he raised his left wrist.

He lay on the table with his arm and leg straight, staring at the ceiling and wishing he could melt through the floor. What a useful ability that would be. Better than immortality.

Stringy, greasy hair hung across his face, but Ed daren't push it away. That was one of Colt's new rules: no moving. No moving, no questions, no speaking, no screaming, no protest. Nothing, basically. Ed's job was to lie there, like a doll, and pretend he was somewhere far, far away.

Far away…

F-far away…

Each time the knife touched his skin, those words would run through his head. It became a song, of sorts. Irregular, quiet, and strangely pitched. What would a song of torture sound like? If asked before, Ed might have said 'screams' or 'noise', a cacophony of sounds building into one, mind-shattering crescendo. But experience forced him to admit that silence itself was a form of torture. And it was much more effective.

Far… Far away…

If he concentrated hard enough, the metallic scent of his blood would fade. He could smell Risembool—like dirt paths and freshly-cut grass—and even see her valleys rolling away from him, seemingly into eternity. Oh, if only.

If he blocked out the pain as much as he could, each wound inflicted reminded him of the trainings with Teacher, of fighting with Alphonse, the bee sting he got when he was four.

Far away...

Each time he died was a camera flash, a memento of the important events in his life. His first fish, a family portrait, playing dolls with Winry. There was even a photo of himself and the rest of Mustang's team tacked up on Ed's memory-board.

If he just pretended he was somewhere else, he would be. He only needed focus, and a bit of patience. He could get through it, if—

"Hey." An unimpressed voice intruded on Ed's thoughts, successfully scattering them. "Don't be falling asleep. We're not up to the good part, yet."

Edward licked his parched lips, dreading what the 'good part' may be. In what might have been a whisper, or also a passing breeze, he managed to say, "Food."

Colt chuckled, as if remembering a good joke. "Maybe. If you do well."

Ed's spirits dropped. The last time Colt had promised food, it too had come with conditions. He hadn't met them before, but the hunger was tearing him apart. No matter what, Ed would do it for food.

"What..." he rasped. A glass of water would have been appreciated, "is it… I have to... do?"

There was no answer, but a gentle tugging on the bandages around his stump of a wrist. They were coming off, he realised with widening eyes. Did Colt plan to cut off his hand again?

Ed didn't watch, but the sound of his bones reshaping was impossible to ignore. They cracked and ground against each other, snapped and popped into the right place. When it was all complete, a cold object was pressed into his palm. A long, flat object with a sharp edge that cut into his new skin.

He didn't move. That was against the rules. Colt curled Ed's fingers around the knife, forcing him to hold it tightly. It would have been so easy, so easy to plunge the blade through Colt's unprotected neck. Colt would have been left blubbering up blood, and Edward would have been able to escape. Run, shout, yell, scream, fight.

Once he found his automail, of course.

But that didn't happen. The dream he wished up stayed just that—a dream and a wish. Instead, he listened obediently to Colt's instructions.

When they were finished, Ed couldn't help himself. His head whipped around to see Colt, shock and dread staining his face a deathly white. "Y-you can't be serious," he stammered, knowing that whatever Colt would do to him couldn't be worse than... than...

"I'm completely serious," Colt replied, a slight smile dancing on his lips. "If you want to eat, I want you to do this. I'm not working anymore, you know, and food is getting harder to come by."

Ed's mouth worked furiously, though few sounds came out. "B-but -"

"Well, if that's your decision." Colt lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I'll leave you alone."

"No, wait!" Ed cried out desperately as Colt turned towards the door. His voice was shaking and weak, dry with dehydration. Colt glanced back, triumph shining in his eyes. With as much effort as could be expected, Ed spoke. "I'll... I'll d-do it."

Colt smiled cruelly. "Good choice."

Ed didn't know how long he had been living in Colt's 'spare room'. Weeks, he would guess. Days of being left alone, drifting in and out of consciousness. But those days were better than the alternative. Colt's demands had become more difficult, and his attitude had changed, leading Ed to believe that the unsettlingly cheery man he met at first really was nothing more than an act. He wished Colt would replace the mask, and at least pretend to be considerate.

Maybe that was what caused Ed to hesitate, staring beseechingly into his captor's hard eyes. Perhaps Colt would be merciful, maybe reinstate the question-for-knife wound policy again. Maybe.

But there was nothing but gloating pride in his unremarkable face. Colt knew he had found it. That one... unthinkable act that Ed couldn't bestow on another—let alone himself.

It was time to toughen up, his stomach reminded him abruptly, before the pains started again. All the other scars would fade, but his hunger refused to abate.

"Well?" Colt prodded Ed's thinning arm hard, his nail leaving a shallow crescent in the flesh. "What's happening? Have you changed your mind?"

It seemed impossible that he still had enough liquid left for tears, yet still they pricked at the corners of his eyes. "No, I just..."

"Hurry up. And don't cry—it's pathetic."

Pathetic.

"Sorry."

The word described him fairly well, at that moment.

The knife in his palm was warm and sweaty from his tight grip. It shook, light reflecting from its sharpened edge like miniature bolts of lightning. Ed knew exactly how that blade would feel beneath his skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface. Not much—barely more than a bloodshot, golden eye—and streaked from a hasty clean, but it was enough to tear down any sense of control that he thought he might have had. Just like before, when Colt had taken his hand, Ed was completely helpless.

"Where," he said in a voice that was more of a croak. It sounded as if he had swallowed a frog, but he knew that was impossible. He was still too hungry. "What should... I-I do?"

"Exactly like I did." Colt guided the knife down to rest above Ed's heart. A thrill of fear ran through the victim—would it count as suicide if he came back to life? Or was that attempted-suicide? "Start here, why don't you?"

Edward's chest rose and fell rapidly, hitting the knife at every inhale. It was like the time he toppled into the river back in Risembool. Winry had dragged him out, but it was several hours before Ed could stop flinching at every noise.

Colt released the knife, leaving it to tremble in Ed's grasp. "On the count of three, all right?

"One."

Ed clamped his hand around the handle.

"Two."

It felt like a butter knife. That was what he had thought in the pub, wasn't it? A butter knife?

"Three."

Ed's heart was beating so fast he didn't think he would have to plunge the knife downwards. Surely, any faster and it would burst straight out of his chest.

But it didn't emerge, and Ed was forced to strike the killing blow himself.

His teeth ground together, nostrils flared, but he had barely penetrated even an inch. When Ed dropped his arm, the handle stood upright for only a second before clattering onto the wooden table.

Colt frowned and pursed his lips. "That wasn't a very good attempt, little alchemist. Why don't we try again?"

Ed wanted to tell him where to stick the knife, but he was too fatigued to think up any words. The blade was once again pushed into his palm, and held above his heart.

"Do it properly, now," Colt warned. Ed didn't need to be told twice. By not finishing the job, he was essentially prolonging his own torture. What person—sane or not—would choose that.

"One...

"Two...

"Three."

The world flared into detail, exposing every one of its little secrets. A small colony of spiders nested in the cornice above the door. A crack in the ceiling looked just like an oak leaf.

And then it was over—black. Complete darkness. Only for a second, it flared white, and Ed had to wonder if he had somehow done it. If he had somehow struck the final killing blow. Was that blinding emptiness the colour he yearned for?

Of course it wasn't. His relieved hope disappeared as soon as the white turned to grey, which in turn changed to black, and then he was left staring up at the ceiling. Again.

"So?" Colt asked eagerly, and Ed's eyes flicked over tiredly. "What was it like?"

Ed coughed slightly to clear his dry throat. "It hurt."

A little disappointed with the monotone response, Colt reached across and plucked the knife from Ed's chest. It was already working its way out on its own, like the dumb waiter from hell, sent back and forth from Edward's heart to the living. It—as well as most of the table—was covered in blood. But Ed didn't care about Colt's choice of decor.

"Can I... eat now?" he asked wearily.

"Not now," Colt replied, and Ed found himself too weak to argue. "It's barely midday. I'll bring something around for dinner, how does that sound?"

Ed knew that if he wasn't so tired, he would have been roaring louder than a caged lion. But the way he was going, a strong whisper was the most he could manage.

Colt must have taken Ed's silence for agreement, for soon he was nodding his head, pleased with the day's effort, and leaving. Ed could only hope that he made good on his promise, and brought him something to eat and drink. Even milk was looking marvellous.

But thoughts of food couldn't occupy his mind forever. Soon, memories began to flood in. Well, not exactly memories—plural. A memory, and a very recent one.

His hand on the hilt, his blood flowing from a wound he inflicted, that short glimpse of what may have been the gate... He felt stained. Dirty. Impure. Again, the technicalities confused him—was he a murderer, because he had killed? But the victim was himself, and he didn't die. So was it attempted murder? Or attempted suicide?

Argh, his head ached.

Something warm and wet was sliding down his cheeks. His first though: blood. But the rational part of his brain corrected: no, tears.

Tears? Ed's arm shuddered up to scrub them off, smearing his face with more blood. He was sure he looked like a monster, with a crimson face and matted, clotted hair. But that didn't matter. Because inside Colt's domain, he was a monster. An immortal... joke of a human being.

If he was even human in the first place.

The Fullmetal alchemist. He was a joke, too, Ed decided. No one so powerful could fall so low. All it took was one man, a missing arm, and too many mistakes to bring the Fullmetal alchemist to his one knee.

His friends, family, colleagues—all jokes. They didn't care that he was missing. They were probably all laughing up at the office.

"Hey, Alphonse, where's your brother?"

"Oh, you know him. Probably off causing trouble. It's only been a few weeks, after all."

"Maybe he'll be taller when we see him next!"

The image caused Ed to grind his teeth. Maybe they weren't the joke, but he was. The Fullmetal shrimp, tiny hero of the people. Probably needs his little brother's help reaching the top shelf.

He wouldn't admit that the last one was true.

They weren't coming to rescue him. Alphonse, Mustang, Havoc, Riza... They all had their own lives, and who was he to say he was an important part of them? A teenage boy who couldn't even fix his own mistakes.

He reached up again to dry his face, but a sound stopped him. A clanking creak, right beside his table.

Tentatively, Edward opened his eyes.

His little brother loomed overhead, polished steel shining brighter than ever before. "Shh!" the suit of armour said, putting a large finger in front of where his mouth should have been. "Be quiet until we know it's safe."

Ed blinked, stunned. Of everything he had come to expect, his potential rescue wasn't very high.

"We?" Ed thought he was being quiet, but Al became even more fidgety.

"The colonel, the lieutenant, and me," Al started to shift anxiously from foot to foot, making more noise than Ed could even if he tried. "Havoc's waiting outside. Are you coming or not?"

"I'm coming, Al." Ed sounded a lot calmer than he felt. It was more than a little surreal. Inside, he waged an internal battle filled with emotions he couldn't even name. "But I..."

"What is it, Brother?" Alphonse was already at the door. Strange—Ed hadn't seen him move.

"I... I can't walk... at the moment," Ed admitted, his cheeks colouring in shame.

"Why not?"

"It's been weeks, Al." He looked away, unable to bear the sight of his brother. The war had been won, and a single emotion came out on top. Resentment.

"Oh, yeah." The suit of armour lounged against the door in a way that seemed very... not-Al. "Well, you see, there were other things that needed taking care of."

"Like what?" Ed demanded in his raspy mockery of a voice. "Why couldn't you help me first?"

"Hmm." Alphonse tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. "I wanted my body back, so I went to the Gate. I thought appearing in this form would be better, after all Colt's done to you."

"What..." Each word was more and more painful, "do you mean?"

"Isn't it nice to see a familiar face, Brother?"

Ed's sight began to blur, but not so much that he couldn't see the suit of armour disintegrating, like it was being pulled apart. "Al..."

But the face that emerged from beneath the steal wasn't that of his younger brother—not only Al, at least. It flickered from one person to the next: Al, the colonel, Mother, Pinako, Colt, Fuery—

And then it settled on one appearance. A large, toothy smile set against a white backdrop, and nothing more.

"He was so close," the Gate said in its many voices. "But you let him down."

Ed's throat was so sore, he couldn't make a noise.

I remember writing this chapter. It was about midnight, I was sharing a hotel room with my parents and sister (happy birthday!), and using the crappy wifi to research psychological torture techniques. Let me know if it paid off! Please send me a review :)

Next chapter will be on Friday, like normal.