Absolutely everything was hurting. And it all hurt so fucking much.
Especially his head. Oh, fuck, his head.
He was pretty sure the bleeding had stopped. He could feel the sticky substance drying on his face, but he didn't dare attempt to check. They had to think he was still out cold from the blow he'd received, the one that was making his head pound so violently.
He'd been here for nearly three weeks now. Or had that mark been passed? No, he was pretty sure it was less than three. It wasn't that hard to keep track of time here. His captors had a routine that helped him count the days.
They'd leave in the morning, when light was just beginning to come into the large warehouse through the small windows at the top of the wall. Since he was chained against the wall, hands too far apart to attempt to free himself, they left him alone. He took these hours to sleep.
They would come back in the evening, when the warehouse was beginning to grow dark and he'd gotten enough rest to glare at them as they entered. Unless he'd had trouble falling asleep and his eyes were still closed, in which case they would wake him up.
That was when they started the interrogating.
Most of the questions he honestly couldn't answer, but he never gave that away. He talked back with the sharp tongue he'd developed through years of working for the military. Not that one usually gained a sharp tongue from it, but he had. And it helped him to keep from letting the answers he could give from slipping out.
It was always just a matter of time before they started beating him.
Usually their bare hands were sufficient weapons. The slapped him across the face, punched his stomach, tore his hair out, bent his fingers at impossible angles. One of those fingers had snapped, just the other day.
Sometimes, they used provisions stocked up in the warehouse. Pocket knives slashed across his leg, his arm, his face. Old food was shoved down his throat in too large amounts, causing him to throw up violently. Gauze was wrapped around his throat, choking him until he was on the verge of passing out.
But they hadn't ever let him pass out until today. They couldn't ask questions when he was out cold.
They must be getting sick of him.
Once he'd gotten used to the pain in his throbbing head, he twitched his muscles one by one to take stock of the other injuries he'd received from the metal pipe he'd been beaten with today. Nothing other than a few cuts and bruises. They'd gone easy on him today.
He slowly opened his eyes, focusing immediately on the other end of the room where his captors sat, talking and snickering and sharpening their knives. They had a fire going. It was still night, so he hadn't been out for too long. Might as well let them know that. He shook one of his hands, the chain that held it away from his other rattling noisily with the motion.
The men's attention had been grabbed. Pigface was the first to stare at him with his beady eyes, a wide grin appearing under his snout. He deserved the nickname. The other men also looked, just not as quickly.
"Sleep well, boy?" Pigface asked, standing from his seat in the circle around the fire.
"Yeah, thanks for the blanket," he responded sarcastically, smirking weakly. Even such a slight movement strained at the wound he'd received earlier on his forehead, but he didn't show his pain. His agonizing pain...
Pigface laughed, motioning for a couple of his men to get up. Frogbreath and Snake were his choices today. He wasn't sure which was worse, the putrid breath or the piercing stare, but neither were hard to snap back at.
"Up for a little bit of conversation?" the beady-eyed leader of the group asked as he started across the room toward his captive.
"I could use some social interaction," he said, shrugging as well as he could when his arms couldn't move very far. "Gimme your best shot."
Frogbreath was starting it off tonight, getting right up in his face with an open mouth. He tried not to gag at the horrid smell.
"Let's start with your favorite subject," he said in a low voice, "The Philosopher's Stone."
He felt his face change at the mention of the Stone. He didn't want it to change, that's how they knew he had information about it. But it changed anyway. With that smell being stabbed into his nostril's, though, he didn't worry about it too much. He was too busy weighing the pros and cons of puking all over Frogbreath right then and there.
He wasn't even aware of the fact that he was being asked any questions.
Not until Pigface cut in, much earlier than usual. The man grabbed a knife from Snake's pocket, pushed Frogbreath out of his way, and held the blade of cold steel against his captive's throat.
His eyes widened in surprise.
"You better start talking soon, dammit!" Anger filled every crevice of every word. Strong anger. Hateful anger. Venomous anger.
Anger that could push even a sane man to murder.
And Pigface was hardly sane.
"If you keep this up much longer, boy, I'll fucking kill you."
Kill.
Edward Elric's eyes widened considerably as the word echoed throughout his mind.
Death.
His fear of it washed through him as images of all those past experiences flashed one after the other through his mind.
No, he couldn't die yet. Al, Winry, Pinako, Rose, Havoc, Riza, Fuery, Breda, Falman.
Hughes. Elysia. Gracia.
Even Roy, who he hated with every cell in his vertically challenged body.
There were too many people to leave behind, too many people to live for.
But this demon Pigface was pushing too tightly against his throat.
"Alchemists are a dime a dozen," the man hissed, "I'll do it."