A/N: Yay, I've finally finished this chapter! Sorry it's been so long, RL has been getting in the way of writing a lot recently and what with me not being the fastest of writers at the best of times... well, anyway, the important thing is that it's here now, right? Oh, and I know I said this was only going to be a two-parter... well, I changed my mind about that and there's now going to be a third (and final) chapter which will hopefully be posted much sooner than the second one. Hope you enjoy this chapter, also I don't own FMA, much to my continued disappointment.
Long minutes dragged by as they waited for the ambulance. Roy's hallucinations were growing increasingly severe and he struggled in Riza's arms, lashing out at the imagined spectres haunting his delirious mind. "Riza," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck, each word sending tiny shivers across her skin. "I'm so scared."
"Scared of what, Roy?"
"The shadows... they're watching me. Their eyes... they can see right through me. They're closing in on us..." He pressed himself closer, turning his face towards her shoulder like a child seeking comfort in the dark. Riza shivered, thinking of the homunculus Pride, its thousand shadowy tendrils reaching out towards her commander, pinning him to the ground and forcing him to commit a taboo. She supposed it should come as no surprise that the monsters that haunted their sleep should play a part in shaping the drug-induced apparitions that plagued him now. Riza dreaded to think what else he would see before the night was out.
If he even survives the night at all... whoever did this won't have just wanted to scare him... Riza shook her head firmly, refusing to give credence to the terrible thought. Roy would be fine. The doctors at Central Hospital were the best in all Amestris and they would have no trouble figuring out what had poisoned Roy. He would be back to normal by morning. But for now, it was her duty to keep him safe, to watch over him and to carefully and emotionlessly observe each of his symptoms so the doctors could identify what was killing her general.
Riza started as the door burst open, loud and unannounced. Roy shrank away and Riza could tell by a glance that it was not Havoc he was seeing outlined in the flickering light of the hallway. Roy's eyes were wide in terror and he pushed against her with frantic movements, cursing and pleading when she refused to let him go. Havoc remained standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes filled with uncertainty. He turned to look at her, the unspoken question clear, and she nodded once, displaying a confidence she did not feel. But the action succeeded in rousing Havoc from his frozen state and he moved towards them, caution clear in every step, motioning to two men standing behind him. Riza could see from their uniforms that they were paramedics and part of her that had been stretched tight with worry relaxed slightly at the sight. Thank goodness.
The paramedics advanced into the room, carrying a stretcher with them. Roy stopped struggling as they drew nearer and instead sat, trembling violently, against Riza, his eyes staring up at the men in abject terror. With great care, they lifted him, moving him onto the stretcher. Roy screamed at the touch of the paramedics' hands, thrashing and kicking, his gloveless fingers snapping uselessly. Riza rushed to his side, capturing his flailing hand in her own and murmuring meaningless words of comfort as the paramedics carried him out of the room. Havoc joined her, helping to hold Roy down as he tried to escape. Riza glanced at Havoc from across the stretcher; he was trying his best to keep his features frozen in the same careful impassivity displayed on the faces of the paramedics but the slight tremor of his tightly set mouth and the unnatural brightness of his eyes gave him away. Riza, too, was struggling to hold back tears. Seeing her cry would only upset Roy further.
The pain is not stopping. His skull is slowly collapsing under the unbearable pressure, shattering and caving inwards as his guts slowly twist themselves around each other, thousands of fine razor blades scoring into his insides. Even screaming hurts, but he cannot make himself stop. His skin feels as if it is burning and some distant part of his mind wonders if this is not fair judgement, delivered to him at last.
But even the pain is nothing compared to the terror gripping his mind as he stares up at his captors. The shadows haunting the edges of his vision have bled out of the corners of the room, solidifying and gaining human form. Huge, misshapen eyes and gleaming arrays of pointed teeth leer down at him from faces of shifting darkness and hungry, eager hands grasp at him as he lies, unable to move from fear. Bright sparks of agony follow their touch and the creatures laugh as he struggles in their clutches. He raises his hands, snapping his fingers but no twisting ribbons of flame answer his call, no burst of heat and light rises up to banish the shadows that surround him. A hot wetness falls onto his face, running down his cheeks like the tears he knows he is not shedding. He tears his gaze away from his captors, towards his rebellious hands and almost laughs at his prior confusion. Of course- how could he have forgotten? Blood continues to drip steadily from the wounds in his hands, bubbling up from where sharp blades had sliced through flesh and shattered bone to paint his palms and fingers in a slick coat of crimson. Yet the pain is a curiously distant thing, each throbbing wave of agony like a memory of something he had once suffered.
A strong hand grasps his own and suddenly the pain feels very real indeed. He looks up and almost chokes on fear when he sees his lieutenant- Hawkeye, Riza, the one person he thought would always stand by him- staring down at him with cold, shadowed eyes. A malicious smile tugs at her lips as she digs her sharp fingers deeper into his wounded hand, her tight grip crushing shards of broken bone further into his torn flesh. He tries to pull away, horror and confusion breathing a feverish intensity back into his attempts at escape. But Riza is soon joined by another shadow, this time wearing Havoc's face, and his struggles for freedom are suppressed with pathetic ease. They are so strong and he is weak, far too weak to fight any further. He closes his eyes, defeated, and lets himself be carried away.
Roy was quieter now. Riza didn't know if that was a good sign or not but the paramedics seemed relieved. "We can sedate him if we have to," they'd explained. "But that's only as an emergency measure- without knowing what he's been poisoned with, there's far too much risk in giving him anything." Now that Roy had stopped struggling they were able to carry him to the ambulance with relative ease. They avoided the Great Hall and all crowded corridors- the sight of too many people might shock Roy into another panic attack and Riza could not allow anyone to see him like this.
The rest of the team were already waiting for them when they reached the ambulance. Madame Christmas stood nearby, a cigarette held to her lips between fingers that, to an average observer, remained completely steady, her composure never wavering. But Riza's eyes were far from average and, even caught up in the midst of her own panic, she could see the way the Madame's hand shook almost imperceptibly as her gaze lighted on the sight of her only son, his eyes wide and his body trembling from delirium, whimpers of pain escaping his throat. There was only room for one extra on the ambulance, so Riza swallowed down her own selfishness and offered Christmas the place. She was Roy's next of kin, after all; it was her right. But Chris waved away the offer, her words low and hurried as the medics loaded Roy into the ambulance.
"I know I can trust you to see he's looked after, Lieutenant. I don't know what's going on in his head right now, but he always seems to do better with you around." Riza tried hard not to remember the look of pure terror on Roy's face when she had taken his hand, only moments ago. "As for me," Chris went on, "there are some... enquiries that need making. I'm sure there are many of us here who'd like the chance to have a quiet talk with whomever is responsible for this."
Riza nodded mutely, not quite sure how to thank the woman. Chris gave her a small push in the direction of the ambulance. "Go on," she murmured. "He needs you there."
The inside of the vehicle was as cramped as she remembered, medical apparatus hanging from every available space and the siren blaring distantly overhead. Her last journey in an ambulance had not been so different, Riza mused. Roy, helpless and suffering, possibly at the brink of death as she sat by him, desperately struggling to hold back her panic. The paramedics' words had been an empty, background haze that time, so concerned had she been with the way his face grew more pale with every ragged breath he took, every faint beat of his labouring heart. But this time she could not afford to be so helpless, so passive. The paramedics bombarded her with questions almost as soon as the ambulance had pulled away and Riza was glad, at least, that she could do this much to help Roy.
First signs started about twenty minutes ago, when he left the table unexpectedly. Yes, a glass or two of red wine and some champagne before that. Vomiting and a headache, followed by stomach pain, disorientation and hallucinations. No, no idea... Riza's head spun from the dizzying barrage of questions, some which she had no way to answer. Of course she didn't know what Roy had been poisoned with, did they think the would-be assassin was simply going to announce their intentions to the crowd? The thought of the poisoner sent an uncharacteristic shard of anger piercing through her, white hot and vicious in its demands for retribution.
A pained whimper broke Riza away from her vengeful imaginings and she looked down to see Roy staring at her with glazed eyes. Having ascertained that he was in no immediate danger, the paramedics had moved aside to allow Riza to sit closer to her general. She could see them out of the corner of her eye, taking notes on all of Roy's symptoms coupled with the little information she had been able to provide. Roy moaned again and brought a hand up to clutch at his shoulder, his eyes clenching shut with pain. Riza hurried to take his hand in her own, not wanting Roy to hurt himself in his delirious state.
"Hawkeye." Roy's voice was hoarse, the syllables of her name catching in his throat. Dark eyes blinked open once more and Riza could see them darting around the crowded interior of the vehicle, trying to absorb every detail. "What are you doing here?"
Riza could detect no panic in his tone, only a note of mild bemusement, and allowed herself a faint glimmer of hope that perhaps his hallucinations were lessening. "You're on the way to the hospital, Sir. I'm here to look out for you and make sure you're doing ok. Don't worry; I'm not hurt at all. And you..." She swallowed, keeping her voice resolutely strong. "You're going to be fine too."
Roy smiled, squeezing her hand weakly with his trembling fingers. "Thank you. I... I know I shouldn't be, but I'm glad you're here. Throughout all of this, I've felt better knowing you were watching over me." Roy twisted his chin, glancing down at his shoulder. "How... how did I get shot?"
The heat is almost unbearable. The warm, dry air presses down upon him from all sides, burning his parched throat with each rasping breath. His body aches all over, a constant, dull throb that speaks of dark bruises and broken skin but the pain is nothing but mild discomfort compared to the sharp waves of agony radiating from his left shoulder. He glances down- his jacket glistens wetly with blood, the dark stain growing larger with each second as the wound continues to bleed. Confusion wells up in his exhausted mind- why has no one tried to stop the bleeding? Are there other, more injured casualties? He doesn't remember an attack, but the Daliha region was hardly secure- there were snipers and explosives everywhere. He just hopes no one else was hurt.
His movement sends a vicious spike of pain coursing through his body, searing his mind of any further thoughts and he concentrates on lying as still as possible, clenching his eyes shut in an attempt to block out all sensation. He doesn't quite succeed and a weak cry escapes him, sounding humiliatingly like a sob. He forces himself to open his eyes: assessing the situation is vital. It feels as if he's lying on a bed, but he can't be sure- if he is still in enemy territory then even the slightest sound could give him away to the Ishvalans. He knows he can expect no mercy from them.
As he'd thought, he is lying on a bed of some kind, in a small room cluttered with medical equipment. He becomes aware that he is in motion; there is a slight vibration coursing through the hard surface of the bed and, as he learns to focus, he hears the low rumbling of tyres running over uneven desert road. So, an ambulance then, or perhaps the back of a truck turned into an impromptu medical vehicle. The details don't really matter. What does matter is the woman sitting by his bed, her blonde hair tinged red with blood, dirt and blood streaking her pale face. Hawkeye is beautiful, even like this, and he knows he has no right to think that but he does so anyway. But what is she doing here? She should be at her post, that crumbling tower on the hill, not here with him. As much as he is grateful for her presence- and he is, he cannot deny that he is almost pathetically grateful- he cannot understand why she would abandon her duties just for him.
He shuts his eyes as another spasm of pain hits him, his hand reaching up towards his shoulder, an unconscious movement, and he notes with detached curiosity the way the blood seeping through his fingers pulses in time with the beating of his heart. There is so much blood, more than there should be. There should be someone putting pressure on the wound, some attempt to stop the bleeding, he knows that much. But Hawkeye does not seem to be concerned, so why should he be? His hand is coated in blood now; he can feel its warmth spreading across his skin. Hawkeye takes his hand, holding it tightly. His bloodstained fingers curl around her palm; his hand and hers, now both covered in blood, a metaphor made reality. He would laugh at the irony but the pain has stolen his strength, has left him weak, helpless, unable to do anything but lie still and try desperately not to scream.
After what seems like an eternity, the pain begins to subside and he finds that he is able to breathe again. He has to talk to Hawkeye. It is only through her that any of this could begin to make sense. His throat burns when he tries to speak, his voice nothing more than a raw whisper, the way it gets after days of battling through fire and smoke. But he has not been sent out on a mission for almost a week, he is sure of that. Or has he? He doesn't know what to think anymore.
Hawkeye answers, her callused fingers, still slick with blood, running over his trembling hand in an attempt to soothe. Their conversation is a shadowy blur to his confused mind but he must have said something wrong because suddenly Hawkeye is turning away, speaking in frantic tones to people he cannot see. He tries to reach out to her, to ask her what is going on, but it is at that moment that another wave of pain hits him, stronger than any before. He writhes helplessly on the bed, fingers digging into the coarse fabric, nothing but incoherent screams passing his lips. Distantly, he feels Hawkeye rush to take his hand again, but even her presence can do nothing to calm him.
Riza was nearly in tears by the time the ambulance reached the hospital, her stoic composure worn down by Roy's constant, agonised screaming. She could hardly bear to see him like this and it was the knowledge that there was nothing they could do that tore at her heart the most. Morphine would be useless, for the pain Roy was suffering was purely hallucinatory. Riza had suspected as much when Roy asked about a bullet wound that did not exist and the paramedics confirmed her fears- there were no known poisons that caused extreme pain which could also explain all of Roy's other symptoms. But more than Roy's immediate suffering, it was the implications of this imagined pain that sent a cold spasm of fear through Riza's stomach. If the doctors could not differentiate between which symptoms were real and which were hallucinatory, how could they ever hope to cure Roy? He could die like that; his precious life slipping away while they did nothing but watch, all the medical expertise in Central useless against the unknown killer. He could... Stop it, she told herself firmly. Speculation is useless. All you can do is focus on the situation in front of you.
It was only through constant, almost prayer-like repetition of this mantra that Riza was able to keep herself calm enough to help the paramedics. She held him down as he struggled to escape, crying and dry-retching whenever the paramedics came near. They rushed Roy out of the ambulance and through the winding corridors of the hospital to a private room, the narrow halls echoing with the sound of Roy's terror-filled cries. Once they were no longer moving he appeared to calm himself a little, although several of the stronger paramedics were needed to hold Roy down while a nurse took a sample of his blood. The nurse explained to Riza that this was absolutely necessary in order to identify the poison, but it was useless to reason with Roy in his state. From the way his wide, unnaturally dark eyes darted continually around the enclosed space, Riza could tell he was still caught up in some awful, drug-induced delusion and she could only imagine what horrors he might be seeing. At least before he had seemed aware that he had been traveling in an ambulance and that she was with him, even if she knew he had not truly understood what was going on. She had been able to reach him, then, to comfort him somewhat. But as the effects of the drug progressed, Riza knew that Roy would inevitably sink further and further into the dark haze of his delusions, a twisted maze of madness and terror through which she could never hope to follow. She had sworn to protect him from anything, with her dying breath if necessary, but against this she was helpless.
Riza was cut off from her dark thoughts by the abrupt slam of the door as a scowling, dark haired doctor walked into the room, the scent of tobacco clinging to his white coat. Knox walked in swift steps towards Roy, his customary grimace doing little to disguise the concern in his eyes. Riza knew that the flood of relief that rushed through her at the sight of the doctor was wholly irrational: Knox was in no better condition to cure Roy than any of the dozens of other physician in the city. The fact that he knew Roy, had fought monsters besides him, cared for him in ways not unlike the father Roy had never known should not make any difference. Yet it did.
Knox's eyes ran over Roy's shivering form, both arms now flung over his face, as if trying to shut out the world. The doctor appeared to be running through some kind of mental checklist, occasionally glancing down at the paramedics' hastily scribbled file, the scowl on his face growing ever deeper as he went on.
"Well, Lieutenant, I'm not going to lie to you," Knox's gruff voice broke the silence and Roy flinched, his arms slowly moving down to allow him to assess this latest intruder. "From the symptoms we've seen here, Mustang could have been given any number of poisons. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always just give him the antidote for the most likely one, atropine, from the belladonna plant, and hope for the best, but I'd really rather not risk it. If he hasn't been given that, well... the antidote could potentially make things a lot worse for him."
Riza nodded, not trusting her voice to speak at that moment. "It's not as bad as it sounds, though," Knox continued. "We're conducting analysis of his blood right now and your team have brought over samples from everything he ate and drank tonight, along with any other materials that only he would have come into contact with. The lab guys are testing everything for suspicious compounds and we should have the results in an hour or so." Knox sighed harshly, his hopeful words belied by the anxiety in his voice. "And on his birthday, too," he muttered. "Poor kid..." He moved round the bed, taking Roy's wrist to check his pulse. At the touch of the other man, Roy lashed out and Knox was only just able to jump away in time to avoid Roy's flailing fist from colliding with his jaw. Knox cursed under his breath and stepped back a few paces, holding his hands out in front of him in a non-threatening gesture. Roy's eyes were open now and he was staring at the doctor with unconcealed terror, his entire body trembling violently.
"No," Roy whispered, but it was the voice of a much younger Flame Alchemist that echoed from his shivering frame. "No, not you, please, I can't... I-I know you hate this too, Knox, I know you're a good man..." Roy was almost sobbing now. Knox's face had bleached whiter than the lab coat he wore and Riza wanted to turn away, to keep from witnessing whatever intensely personal horror replaying between the two men. "So please... don't make me... d-don't make me hurt more people!"
Knox moved back even further, scrubbing a hand across his ashen face. In contrast to Roy, he suddenly seemed far older, weighed down by guilt and regrets that Riza could understand all too well. She said nothing but with a single glance at her face Knox must have seen all the questions she refused to ask. "He's reliving Ishval, I'd expect, or at least some version of it, although I'm sure you probably guessed that." At Riza's silent nod Knox continued, his words halting and his voice unbearably pained. "I suppose you've heard... stories... about what some of the doctors... myself included... did to Ishvalan prisoners during the war?"
Riza nodded again, not trusting herself to say anything. All the soldiers in Ishval had heard those stories, blood-curdling tales of shadowy laboratories and unimaginable torture conducted in the name of science. She remembered the nights keeping watch in the abandoned tower on the hill, the way the dark silence of the desert would be broken by haunting, inhuman screams travelling through the still air. Occasionally the screaming would be accompanied by bursts of unnatural light radiating from the bombed out Ishvalan hospital, the brief flash in the darkness like something from a ten-cenz gothic novel. Except this was no cheap storybook horror designed to thrill an audience; real people were suffering behind those carefully guarded walls, their deaths too terrible to contemplate. The thought that Roy might have been involved in such experiments made her stomach churn in horror. She had always known that there were aspects of Roy's wartime experiences that he would share with no one, not even her, dark, terror-filled memories that even now woke him screaming from nightmares. Yet to learn that Roy might have used her father's alchemy to torture innocent Ishvalans...
None of them were blameless in that war, she reminded herself sternly. They had all committed terrible crimes and she shared every bit of the blame and guilt for what Roy had been made to do.
Knox was looking at her, she realised, a carefully guarded expression on his face. "I see you're aware of what I'm talking about," he said, his voice low, unable to quite meet her eyes. "And you've probably already guessed what I'm about to say. Neither of us could speak to the other for years after Ishval without being reminded of the things we did together during the war... nearly broke Chris' heart to see the kid suffering so badly and nearly destroyed our friendship when I wouldn't tell her what'd happened. After that business with the homunculi things got a lot better, but as I'm sure you know, memories like those... they never really go away."
He drew in a shuddering breath. "I suppose I should have been prepared for this; hallucinations often draw from past events, particularly traumatic ones... it's only to be expected that he would start having flashbacks to Ishval. I guess it'd be best if I go... I'll find another doctor to treat him, someone who won't distress him quite so badly."
"No!" The word was out of Riza's mouth before she could stop it, the note of panic in her voice making her cringe. She almost blushed as she realised she was clutching Knox's sleeve and dropped it hastily, stepping back to try and cover her embarrassment. Riza took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She knew her objection was unreasonable; Knox was only looking out for Roy's best interests when he suggested finding another doctor. But Riza could not shake the deep feeling of dread that came with the thought of leaving Roy in the care of some stranger, some unknown doctor who cared nothing for him and may not even be trustworthy. "Please, I know it sounds stupid, but..." She tried her best not to show how flustered she was, needed Knox to take her concern seriously. "I think Roy... if he could make the decision... I think he'd prefer to have you in charge of his medical care rather than any one else. He's..." she gestured towards the bed, to where Roy lay curled up once more, silent and unmoving. "He's already calmed down a lot, I know I don't know much about things like this, but I don't think he'll react like that to you again. And..." Another deep breath. "I would feel better, knowing it was you looking after him. If something like this can happen in the middle of Central Headquarters when he's surrounded by people who care for him... then anyone could be involved. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but you're the only doctor I can trust right now."
To her relief, Knox did not brush away her concern. He gave no reply to her outburst, but Riza could tell that he had decided to stay. Instead he walked back to Roy's side, cautiously taking the unresponsive man's wrist again. He stood there for thirty seconds, the room filling up with silence save for Roy's ragged breathing. Riza watched as the doctor drew a small torch out from his pocket, holding it above Roy's eyes. Riza's heart clenched in worry when Roy flinched away from the weak beam of light, a small cry of distress breaking from his lips. Knox, however, seemed unconcerned, even pleased. Finally the doctor broke away and Riza strained to catch the words he was muttering under his breath. "Persistent increased heart rate... tachycardia and photophobia consistent with anticholinergic overdose..."
He turned back to her and Riza thought she detected a wary flicker of hope amidst the worry in his eyes. "His heart rate is still elevated and he seems to have mild photophobia, which explains why he was keeping his eyes covered before. Both these symptoms fit the normal pattern of the type of drug we believe he's been given." Knox coughed, pausing to scribble some notes in Roy's file. "There are still too many possibilities for us to administer an antidote just yet, but this does give us an area in which to focus our tests, which should greatly speed up the process."
Riza knew it was far too early to allow herself to feel relief, knew that despite Knox's optimistic words, Roy was by no means out of danger yet. She pushed down the hope that threatened to overtake her, refusing to allow herself the luxury of something that may yet turn out to be so futile. Instead she schooled her features into a careful mask of impassivity and responded politely when Knox rushed out of the room, file in hand, calling over his shoulder that he would send in a nurse to watch over Roy while he was gone, in case of emergencies. Riza greeted the young woman with as much politeness as she could muster in her distracted state, noting with relief that Roy seemed unworried by her presence. She pulled up a chair to sit by her general's bedside, yet again taking his too-warm hand into her own. Roy gave no response when her fingers curled around his, not even the slightest movement, but she could not let herself worry about that now. Everything that could be done was being done and now there was nothing she could do but wait.
The world is distant to him now. The pain makes all sensation reach him as if through a wall of liquid, light rippling and distorted, sound dulled and echoing. Hawkeye's voice is all that anchors him, her clear words cutting through the haze. Except- no, wait. Something is not right here; there is an edge to Hawkeye's voice that he has never before heard, a hunger that echoes in her eyes. There are too many teeth in her smile, each white and gleaming and sharp. He can see the reflections of that smile in the dried blood red of her irises, two miniature rows of teeth leering at him from cold, eager eyes. But it is not only Hawkeye; everything is wrong. His surroundings are flickering and distorting, the scene slowly rearranging itself into a different shape, each shift so subtle as to have hardly occurred. The air tastes like a snap of his fingers echoing in the silence of the desert, like oil sliding across water and its weight steals the breath from his lungs. The pain is receding now, replaced with fear that threatens to choke him in its intensity.
Everything around him is wrong.
He is still in the ambulance, the weight of the desert heat surrounds him and the lingering vestiges of pain are dancing through his veins. Yet there is no wound marring his skin, no blood staining his clothes. There is a woman sitting by him wearing Hawkeye's skin but she is not her. The copy is almost perfect but she is too cold, her corpse's fingers grasping at his skin's warmth, her voice like sliding steel. He wants to pull away from her but he is strapped down, thick leather restraints holding his limbs in place. Terror grips him and he cannot escape its hold. He has never felt so helpless. His body is useless to him, his mind paralysed by fear and he is defenseless against nameless, sinister forces, ignorant of all but the unspoken promise that greater pain is yet to come.
They have stopped moving. He realises this slowly, his mind still shrouded in crippling fog. But the walls distorting his sight have fallen away; it is with clear vision that he can see the figures now crowding around him and it is all he can do to keep from screaming. They are hideous. The skin on the hands reaching towards him is melted and charred, blackened fingers scrape across his cheek and he gags as the scent of burned flesh assaults him. One of the figures draws near, bending over him as it gargles uselessly, its tongue a charcoaled mass lying dead in its mouth. Fluid glistens in the shells of blisters covering the figure's arms and face, vast tracts of flesh falling away completely. The oily yellow of exposed fat and raw, red flesh stand starkly against charred skin; not a single inch of the figure's body has been left unburnt.
There is no doubt as to who they are. Memories long since locked away burst through the barriers of his mind and he screams as the sickening array of forgotten sensations attack him anew with blinding force. The sight of red eyes boiling in their sockets, the sound of women screaming as they roasted alive, the smell... oh god, the smell of burning flesh...
They are his victims, reawakened from death to visit vengeance upon him.
He wants to beg, cry, scream for forgiveness but he knows it would be futile. He does not deserve mercy; he did not show any to these people and he shall receive none in return. But even so, he cannot stop the terror-stricken cries that spill out of his throat nor still his thrashing arms as their scorched and blistered hands grasp at his skin. They are lifting him now, each rough movement causing a jolt of pain to race through his shattered form. He tries his best to calm himself, to block out each sensation and silence his pathetic screams- some distant part of his mind understands that this weakness is intolerable. But the pain is like an angry child: it cannot be ignored and gives him no respite from its demands. By the time the figures release him from their grasp he has succeeded in his efforts somewhat; he is unable to stop the sounds that agony pulls from him but the clamouring echo of his panicked thoughts have quietened and he is able to make sense of his surroundings.
He is lying down once more, strapped to yet another stark, comfortless contraption, racing through the corridors of some shadowed building. The thing that is not Riza is with him still, cruelty gleaming in her too bright eyes and he turns away from her, unable to watch as she laughs at his pain. He looks around instead, battling the urge to close his eyes and hide himself away from these horrors. His breath catches when, in a burst of memory, the twists and turns of mildewed walls become familiar. Horribly, inescapably familiar. He understands now the purpose for which he was brought here and he screams as terror and revulsion threaten to submerge him. But screaming is useless, struggling is useless. There is no hope of escape.
It was another fifty minutes before Knox returned. Riza counted every torturous second, Roy's silver pocket watch clutched like a talisman in her hand. Roy seemed more lucid but Riza could gain no relief from that. Not when he was he growing steadily weaker before her eyes, his strength diminishing with every measured movement of the second hand against the watch's face.
"Riza," Roy whispered in a voice recalling days of wind-blown smoke and clouds of choking ash. "I can't feel my fingers." He took a deep breath, almost a sob. "I can't move them at all. Riza, what's going on?"
He turned to look at her, his face a picture of such desolate misery that Riza could no longer hold back her tears. She wanted to curse her weakness as the first hot tear cut a trail down her cheek and Roy's face twisted in concern.
"Riza? Why are you crying?"
She shook her head, unable to say a word. Tears were flowing more freely now, but she could not bring herself to let go of Roy's hand to wipe them away. They were so close to finding an antidote; Knox had said it was pretty much a matter of time... Why was it she was incapable of holding herself together now? But seeing Roy like this, so helpless and diminished, had cut into some small, locked-away part of her heart, a part that remembered every desperate prayer she had ever spoken, every loss she had ever endured.
"It's alright, Roy," she murmured, wishing her words didn't sound so much like lies. "You're going to be alright, I promise."
Everything about the situation was so wrong. She shouldn't be speaking to Roy like he was some anxious child, offering him meaningless promises she had no idea if she could keep. Right now they should be at Central Headquarters, Roy standing at the centre of a flock of admirers, wearing his most charming smile, as strong and proud as always. It was unthinkable that someone could have reduced her general to such a pitiful state. Yet, somehow, it had happened.
The dark thoughts circled around her head like vultures as the long minutes dragged by. Riza was more relieved than she could say when a sharp knock on the door broke her out of her reverie. She hastily put down Roy's watch and wiped her tear-stained cheeks with her sleeves, looking up just in time to see Knox burst into the room for the second time that evening. He was still scowling- sometimes Riza wondered if that was the only expression he was capable of- but his mood seemed lighter than before.
"Well, Lieutenant, we've managed to identify the poison." Knox announced, a smile finally finding its way onto his face. "Atropine, as I suspected, administered through the wine he was drinking. I had some of the hospital's alchemists knock up an antidote and there's no reason why we can't give it to him right now."
Knox held aloft a small syringe filled with clear liquid. For all she had seen miracles performed by Philosopher's Stones and the merest wave of an alchemist's hand, Riza could not help but wonder at how something so tiny could hold the key to her general's life. She stared up at the cantankerous doctor, unable to put her gratitude and relief into words. Not that she would need to. One glance at Knox's face told her that he understood all too well how she was feeling.
With a gesture of his head, Knox brought the nurse sitting in the corner over to stand by Roy's bedside. Riza started as the woman stood up to move- so involved had she been in Roy's suffering, she had almost forgotten the nurse's existence.
Riza stepped back to let Knox and the nurse administer the antidote, thankful that Roy made no attempt to fight them when they held his arm and slid the needle beneath his skin. Roy gasped as the solution spread through his veins, his eyes clenching shut as his body struggled to adjust to the conflicting sensations battling within it.
"How long will this go on for?" Riza asked. She moved back to stand next to Roy, stroking his hair in an attempt to offer comfort.
Knox shrugged, still watching his patient with a careful eye. "Maybe about twenty minutes, half an hour, for the antidote to take full effect. I'll probably have to administer a few more doses in that time, all according to normal procedure, I assure you. He should be back to normal after that, although I expect he'll be pretty worn out for a while afterwards. The poison had progressed quite far along; I didn't want to say anything at the time, but if our lab guys had been much longer, he'd have been a goner for sure."
Riza shuddered. Of course, she had been aware of the possibility that Roy could die that night, had considered it herself, but to hear it spoken of so plainly...
"Hey, stop worrying so much, Lieutenant," Knox said, laying an awkward hand on her shoulder. "He's going to be fine now, I promise."
Riza nodded, willing herself not to collapse into another shameful bout of crying before the medical personnel. She smiled her thanks as Knox moved to let her sit back by Roy's side, watching as he dismissed the nurse and pulled up a chair of his own next to hers. Knox checked Roy's condition every few minutes, a companionable silence settling over the room. Riza knew that, at some point, sooner rather than later, she would have to get up and call the rest of the team, to set their fears at rest and assure them that their commander would soon be recovered. As terrible as it had been to have to watch every second of Roy's agony, Riza knew it must have been almost as hard for her other team members to be kept so long without any information, knowing that their general could die at any moment. She didn't want to leave Roy, even for the few minutes it would take to make the call, but neither could she be so selfish as to leave the team in the dark.
Murmuring an explanation to Knox, Riza slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, walking with hurried steps to the pay phone at the end of the corridor. The operator was slow to connect her to their office in Central Headquarters and it was a conscious effort to stop herself drumming impatient fingers against the side of the phone box but eventually her call was put through. Havoc picked up on the first ring.
"Riz- um, I mean, Lieutenant? Is that you? What's going on? Is the boss alright?"
"Yes, Jean, he is." She was crying once again and she was sure Havoc could hear it in her voice. But, suddenly, it didn't seem so important. Only one thing mattered now. "Roy's going to be okay, Jean. Everything's going to be okay."
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews for the last chapter, it really encouraged me to know that people were enjoying the story. If you have time, please leave a review for this chapter, I love hearing everyone's thoughts.