ILLUSORY

It's late, I'm sorry. But the next chapter's all finished and ready to post!

CHAPTER FIVE • Orders

"I already apologised, Al." Ed shivered, rubbing at his shoulder port in an attempt to warm it. But when he directed his focus to the shoulder port, a sharp pain would shoot through his thigh. It really was a relentless cycle—much like the argument in which he was caught.

"I know, Brother." Alphonse made no move to help him.

"Why do I have to do this? I'll get sick!"

"You left me outside."

Guilt, sharper and more damaging than any aches in his leg, bolted through his chest and seized his throat with vengeful talons. Yet somehow, despite the suffocation making his head swim, Edward still managed to mutter, "You can't get sick."

Instantly, he felt a million times worse. He was the worst older brother in the world. Al didn't say anything—he didn't even move one non-existent muscle—but that red light within his helmet seemed much more accusing.

"Just please do this for me, Brother." The words, though pleading, echoed through the armour as a command. "I wanna feel again, just for a moment."

"Can't you feel how fucking painful my automail is right now, Al?"

"Don't swear."

Ed groaned and thumped his head against the side of the house. "Why can't we do this inside?"

"It might get messy."

"But what about the bathtub?" Ed offered. If it had been anyone other than his brother inside that armour, he would have been terrified. The storm had ended, but still its clouds lingered, plunging Risembool into darkness. All he could see was Alphonse's giant silhouette and glowing eyes. "I could clean it."

"Just do it, Brother. You owe me."

"I already apologised!" Ed could blame his increase in volume on stubbornness. There was no way he could admit that his hesitation came more from fear. This wasn't the first time he'd been punished, but it was the first time Al looked so angry. "I-I promised, too!"

Al stayed silent and motionless, pressing Ed to continue.

"I won't talk to Mr Havoc again, Al, I promise! I'll just ignore him until he leaves. Alphonse, I believe you, okay?" His voice had risen to a shout just as a new rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes. "Okay? Don't make me do this, please, Alphonse."

"But I thought you loved me."

He did.

XxX

Winry knew something was wrong.

She may have been young, but she was far from stupid—no matter what that idiot said!

And something was wrong.

That idiot in question was wincing at odd points, so often that it was near impossible to blame his automail leg for the discomfort. He kept pulling at his woollen jumper as if it were strangling him, making sure that it remained separate from his skin at all times. Did he have a rash?

That didn't explain why his hands were shaking so much. It didn't explain the emptiness in his eyes. Perhaps he was still suffering from some of the previous day's effects. No, but that didn't make sense. He was conversing normally. He was eating normally. He seemed aware of his surroundings.

Then what?

"Hey, Ed." Winry nudged his elbow and inwardly cringed as he involuntarily let out a tiny hiss of pain. "Is your automail alright? I can help you warm it, if it hurts."

Edward shook his head and pulled the jumper away from himself again. It would be misshapen by the end of the day. "It's fine."

"Are you?"

"Of course." Ed ventured a grin, though it was weak at best. It soon collapsed into a glare. "Stop nagging."

Oh, it was tempting. There was a wrench in the front pocket of her overalls just dying to be used—but she couldn't forget her initial goal: locate the problem.

"Really, Ed, I think you should sit by the fire. It'd help."

Ed refused in quite a desperate manner: "Can't we fix it here?" His focus drifted, and he muttered, "I know, Al."

Winry drummed her fingers against the kitchen table. "What did Al say?"

Lips thinning, the boy paused for a moment. His brother was talking. "It doesn't matter, Winry. He wasn't speaking to you."

She huffed. "Does he know what's wrong with you?" There was no answer, so she sighed. "Fine. Just take off the jumper. I'll be back with some warm cloths for your ports."

Pure panic engulfed Ed's expressive face, but he was having trouble forcing the words out. There was a first time for everything, Winry supposed. It certainly was fortunate that she had spoken of his automail port in plural—a repeat of the 'your arm is flesh' argument seemed an incredibly bad idea. When he was in this sort of state… it was better to play along with his delusions.

"Don't worry, stupid." She folded her arms imperiously. There was a considerable size difference between the two of them, and it became wonderfully apparent when she stood and Edward sat. "You won't have to go into the lounge room. I can do it here."

"I-I-" he stammered, drawing his arms in close. "I have to take my jumper off?"

"Of course. Is that a problem? Are you shy?"

"N-no, idiot." Ed scowled, but it did nothing to put the colour back into his complexion. "It's just… It's too cold!"

Winry raised an eyebrow. "You're not even wearing socks; it can't be that cold. Could you heat some water while I get the cloths?

"Don't go to any trouble for me, Win." Edward smiled in a reassuring manner. It was suspicious. "It doesn't hurt at all. I-I think maybe I just need some rest."

"Hmm." Winry pondered his proposition, staring at him so intently that he seemed to hold his breath. When she voiced her agreement, her patient slumped in relief. "But I'll be bringing the cloth to your room when it's ready."

"Thanks, Win," he said before shuffling away. He walked with a prominent limp, shoulders drawn inward, as if that single, fateful night had aged him to retirement. Maybe it had.

With his absence, the kitchen somehow felt smaller—it was certainly more quiet, even though he had barely spoken. The boy had a strange effect on his surroundings, Winry had noticed from the moments she had first become aware of his subtle changes. He left a room feeling lonely.

As promised, she set a pot of water on the stove to boil before finding herself at a loss of what to do. Granny was still in bed, complaining of stiff joints and fatigue, and adamant not to be disturbed—unless, of course, for situations similar to yesterday. That left only Mr Havoc for company. A thrill of uncertainty flickered inside her; the man seemed kind enough, but she had often gathered the impression that he had a greater interest in Edward. That was to be expected—who in their right mind would find an ordinary girl more fascinating than a half-mechanical genius?

The water was starting to bubble slightly and steam rolled off of its surface in gentle waves. It wasn't quite boiling, but, unable to stand the solitude and the darkness pressing against the windows, Winry searched the cupboards for a small, metal basin and, that located, proceeded to transfer the water from the stove. On her way down the hallway, she collected a couple of towels and threw them over her shoulder.

Knocking on his door and receiving nothing in response, Winry called that his water and cloth was outside the door, and left. Again, she could find little to occupy her attention. She really had little choice.

Mr Havoc looked up at her approach, marking his place in his novel with a thumb. "Good morning, Winry," he greeted pleasantly enough, though she could help but notice the way in which he searched the darkness behind her for a shorter, older, figure.

"Granny's still asleep," she informed him helpfully. "Do you… mind if I stay out here with you?"

Havoc seemed startled. "Oh," he said, "Well… of course. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

As Winry took the armchair opposite, she knew he was remembering Ed's episode. It had barely been twenty-four hours, and they hadn't mentioned it once. Winry wondered whether that was unusual. Was it better to discuss confronting experiences soon after the event, or later, when they had had time to process it?

She shook her head and lowered her gaze. She couldn't bring it up, despite it lurking on the forefront of their minds. "I don't know."

Havoc's eyes rested on her with an almost tangible weight. "Did you wanna talk about Ed? You look sad."

"Sad?" Winry echoed, genuinely surprised. She wasn't sad, was she? What did she have to be sad about?

Her companion nodded, a small smile on his face. He also looked… sad.

The fire crackled. It sounded loud. Havoc looked as if he wanted to talk, but didn't know the words. Before Winry realised it, her own thoughts vomited into the air.

"He wants to join the military." Her fists tightened, scrunching her dress up around her knees. "He… He wants to join the military to do re-research and get Alphonse back, Mr Havoc. B-but i-if—what if there's a wa-war? Wh-what if he gets killed, too?"

It came quietly out of nowhere, and honestly left Winry reeling. Her chest was tight and cheeks were wet and she hadn't planned to say any of that! And now it was out there and Havoc was watching her in shock, half-poised to stand at a moment's notice. She felt like an idiot, just blurting all that in such a rambling fashion! Havoc barely knew her, and here she was unable to shut up about her stupid personal fears.

"If h-he goes to fight, he'll die—I know he will! It's all pointless. Even if he-he—even if there isn't a war, he'll still be gone and it's pointless! He ca-can't bring Al back from the dead." Dreadfully tired, and absolutely mortified at her honesty, Winry collapsed against the back of the armchair. "I'm… I'm afraid that he'll leave, too. That idiot."

XxX

Havoc found himself utterly frozen, listening to the little girl's anxieties as they flowed from her and whispered cruelly in his ear. She was right. Of course she was. He often disregarded the fact, but Winry was Edward's oldest and closest friend. Of course she would fear his leaving.

But right now she was frozen, her jaw moving up and down in time to words gained and discarded in her mind. "I-I'm sorry," she eventually stammered. "I-I don't normall—I mean, I don't usually… do this. Just ignore it, really. I didn't mean it." Winry smiled, though it was somewhat weak. "It's Ed's choice; it has nothing to do with me."

In the following silence, it was clear that she was waiting. Forced slightly from his state of shock, Havoc's mouth moved on its own: "No, don't apologise, Winry. Honestly, it's good to be so… truthful."

Winry started to shake her head, cut off by another spew of words.

"But what if it helps him?"

"How can it?" She sniffled and wiped an arm across her face. "He wants to join the military to sa-save Alphonse, but Al… he's already gone. H-he's never been here, not since that night."

"The military may help him realise this," Jean offered, despite being sceptical himself.

"The military would do anything to increase their strength," she retorted bitterly. "I can't imagine that destroying Ed's motivation would aid them."

"But what—"

"Why are you defending them?" Winry cried suddenly, her thin fist thumping against the arm of her chair. "Why do you want him to leave us? Do you want him to leave us?"

"I-I don't!" Havoc raised his hands hastily in defence. The hurt in her eyes was merely another nail pried from the coffin of his resolve. "I'm telling the truth, Miss Rockbell. I really don't want to take Ed away from you."

Winry's gaze pierced him for several long moments—long enough to realise his mistake. I really don't want to take Ed away from you.

Shit.

Yet she said nothing. She didn't call him out on his blunder. Her lips thinned, she looked back to the ground, and muttered, "Just Winry's fine." But then Winry met his gaze once more, and Jean was startled to see the ice inside. "He's avoiding you, anyway. That's why he won't let me fix his automail in here—I'm sure of it."

This was news to Havoc. "He's avoiding me? Why?"

"Ask him yourself." The girl curled up, facing the back of the armchair and presenting him with her back. The pleasant atmosphere that had surrounded much of their previous conversation had well and truly vanished. "Mr Soldier."

XxX

The bedroom was empty. That was all that registered in Havoc's mind before he was barrelling back down the staircase and past the sullen girl. The storm was fantastically violent outside, illuminating the windows and brass knob as he hurled open the door. His heart was pounding so hard it was audible above the thunder, above the creak of the telephone pole.

Winry ran up behind him, her high voice loud with worry. "What's happening? Where're you going?"

"Winry!" Jean gasped, his breathing laboured despite his greatest exertion being his run down the stairs. "You said Edward was in his room, didn't you? Have you seen him?"

"He's not in his room?" Winry chewed on her lower lip. "Did you check the other rooms? Granny's room?"

"No," he responded quickly. If Ed had heard Havoc's conversation with Winry, Mustang would have his head! "I checked all of them; he's not there."

The girl made a small noise and spun around in a tight circle, perhaps in an effort to find Edward lurking behind the couch. "I-I'll go look again. Are you gonna look outside?"

Rain was blowing through the open door and soaking the wooden floor. Another flash of lightning shocked the landscape. Havoc nodded, his expression tense. "Of course."

And then he ran. His clothes were drenched in seconds, but he spared no thought for the discomfort. The jacket was simply an extra weight on his shoulders—it was nothing compared to the anxiety gnawing at his gut. Oh God, he hoped the boy was huddled under a bed or a table or behind a door or just anywhere out of this storm! The sudden certainty that he hadn't examined the cupboard in the kitchen almost forced him to turn back, before remembering the complete lack of a cupboard in the kitchen. He was making excuses. There was no way that he could justify losing his charge, and so he was creating fantastical scenarios in which Edward was inside, safe, and had not so obviously left the rear door open.

Boots slipping in the mud, Havoc slipped and skidded his way down the muddy roadway, his destination the cemetery. Where else would Edward have run? As far as the soldier had seen, there was little in the surrounding countryside—excluding, of course, the cemetery and some half-abandoned farmsteads. It really was a wonder that this tiny population deserved a train stop.

He stopped, suddenly, his core temperature plummeting for a reason that could not possibly be the rain. He could smell smoke.

Smoke! In this weather!

Certainly, the acrid scent could be nothing more than a neighbour's fireplace—it would not be unusual, given the chill in the air. But this was too strong, too potent, to be a controlled flame. Havoc turned and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the storm.

Bright against the darkness of the sky and fields, the pinprick of light several hills away kindled a distant awe within him. It was beautiful; the flames swirled and battered against the inside of the window, illuminating that single room with warmth. It wasn't magnificent in size, but in colour. So red! It was so orange! The crimson and gold battled for dominance, neither winning nor losing, but increasing in brilliance with every second.

Edward was in there.

The knowledge came from nowhere. The following certainty stemmed from the same abyss. And then his boots were again slamming on the path, but this time they did not stumble. They were sure, thudding over mud and grass and rocks and, at one point, a low fence. Havoc didn't bother to follow the road; he cut through the paddocks, fuelled with adrenaline and desperation. It was faster. He would make it there in time to find Edward and rush him to safety—he would.

He would.

He would.

He tripped in the front garden, slamming his knee on the ground, and hurried forward. The fire had spread hungrily over the left façade of the house, but the flames had yet to break through to the exterior.

That was a stupid thought.

Ironically, it was as this passed through Jean's mind that the window burst, raining shards of glass in tandem with the storm. He was thrown backwards, protected only by the metres of distance between him and the house, and his own arms before his face. A fragment slipped through his guard and trailed cruel fingers along his jawline, tracing scarlet over the injury, towards his shirt collar.

Then he hit the ground. It had no right to creep up on him so suddenly, nor to steal his breath in such a greedy manner. It wasted precious seconds; he couldn't move for several drawn-out moments. The first word past his lips came out in a pitiful wheeze: "Chief."

XxX

He wasn't entirely sure how the fire started. Needing to escape the house—needing to escape Havoc before Alphonse decreed another punishment was in order—Edward had run to the only place possible.

His old family home.

He hadn't been through that cheerful green door in months, so for a second he entertained the thought that the door, which appeared almost black in this light, was not his door at all, but that of a forgotten neighbour. The interior of the house was even more dreary. The words 'I'm home' tingled on his mouth, yet the lie never blemished the nostalgic corridor before him. It died instantly as he realised that, while this may have been his family home, it was now barely more than the shell of a house.

Burn it, Alphonse whispered. No, that wasn't Alphonse. Edward shook his head frantically from side to side, revelling as the wound on his chest throbbed in pain. That voice, that familiar whisper, had originated from his head, not the armour by his side. He really was an awful brother, trying to blame Al for his private thoughts.

Burn it.

Edward tossed his head from side to side once more before squinting down the corridor. He couldn't see a thing.

"Why don't you light a candle, Brother?" Alphonse suggested, and this time it was Alphonse. It was a kind proposal, not the demand Ed's mind had conjured in its stead. Ed agreed.

There were candles in the library, left over from nights spent pouring over heavy alchemy texts. The boys had started with gas lanterns, but the gas had gradually diminished, leaving them with little options. The candles they had bought in an effort to continue their study still lay in a haphazard pile beneath the window. There hadn't been much chance to use them, and even less reason to move them.

Now there was. Edward lit one and set in within an empty lantern, repeating this process until light flickered against the library tomes.

"This brings back memories," the armour remarked quietly, surveying the small room.

"It does." Ed chuckled. "Just lying here, night after night, dreaming of Mother and her smile."

Alphonse dipped his head in either reverence or acknowledgement. "It sounds sweet when you say it like that."

"How else would you say it?"

Humming, Al rubbed a hand over his chin. "I would say… we spent those nights basking in our own arrogance, believing we had the power to defy death."

Edward flinched slightly at the malicious words. "Arrogance? Al, you wanted more than me to see Mother again! There was nothing arrogant about it!"

"If you say so, Brother."

"I-I do," Ed insisted. He refused to believe that he had lost his brother due to arrogance.

Not lost—temporarily disembodied. There was a difference.

Sure there was.

"Any… Anyway, do you have anything you want to do, while we're here?" Ed pulled at his wet clothes, making a face at their state. "Actually, I do. I'm gonna see if we left any clothes here."

"Should I wait here, Brother? I can watch the candles."

Ed nodded in agreement. "Thanks, Al. I won't be long."

Quickly, he ran up the staircase, lamenting the absence of his brother already. After his disappearance the day earlier, Ed was hesitant to let Al out of his sight. But someone had to mind the candles. And honestly, how could they maintain such a close brotherly bond if Edward spent all his time fawning over Alphonse like an overprotective aunt? They had no one but each other.

There was a change of clothes in the cupboard upstairs, fortunately, and Ed sighed in relief while stripping the soggy wool from his injured chest. The item landed in the corner with a forceful whump, but the boy didn't notice. He had caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He was so small—that was the first thing he noticed. His size was not only relative to his height, but the unhealthy slightness of his limbs and the hunching of his shoulders. Did he always look like this, or was it simply an effect of the storm outside? It was truly a miracle that his automail arm didn't hurt him more. As it was, the dull ache had grown so normal as to be ignorable. His leg, however, was another story altogether. Were he not accustomed to it, he may have been forced to the ground to carry out his suffering in silence.

Secondly, his gaze was drawn downwards, to the crude sketching on his skin. It was difficult to believe that it was etched with a knife, and not merely ink, since the puckered skin above the ordered wounds had recently acquired a puzzling numbness; they were no longer sensitive to his touch, and the blood had clotted long before. Only a few select lines had cracked during his exertion, drooling crimson down his scrawny chest and torso.

Had he closed the library door?

That barely mattered.

Not when he was confronted with this ghost standing before him—and in his mirror, no less! In place of his rightful reflection! Oh, but was it correct to call this apparition a ghost? A ghost implied some kind of spirit that may once have existed, but nowhere in his remarkable memory could Edward find a creature quite like the one that shared the general structure of his face. He regarded the spirit with the same insensibility as he had the scabs on his body. It was there, certainly, but the fact that it was there made little impression on the boy. He had to hurry back to his brother.

Why was he here, again?

To find clothes; to rush downstairs to his waiting brother; to escape for just a few moments. He wanted to breathe easily, only for a minute or so. It honestly was through no fault of his own that the minutes ticked by steadily with the eagerness of seconds. One minute, two, seven, twenty—they felt no longer than several instants. They came one after the other in quick, ordered procession; every tick was the beat of a soldier's boots on stone.

Gradually, the welcome ease of breath he had discovered began to fade. Edward initially blamed the sudden suffocation on guilt—after all, he must have been upstairs for almost a minute, right?—but discarded that theory upon smelling the air.

It smelt like smoke.

And now the status of the library door did matter. Depending on whether it had been left open or closed, his chances of survival could be slim. What if the flames had already blocked the corridor? How was there so much smoke already!?

Almost instinctively, Ed began an odd sort of chant: "Al—Al—Al—Al—" as he flew down the stairs. So engrossed in his brother, Edward missed the last step and landed awkwardly, jarring his flesh ankle. Nevertheless, his chant continued: "Al—Al—Al—"

Walking was difficult, but Ed staggered to his feet with the aid of the bannister, wavering slightly as his head spun and the hallway, lit only by small flickers of fire from beneath the door, separated into two. The floor shuddered as a loud bang! resonated from the front of the house, followed by the sounds of glass shattering and an increase of oxygen to the flames. It suddenly became much warmer.

"Chief!"

Ed froze as if the name had been screamed directly into his ear, though in reality it was barely audible above the chaos ahead. It was the shock that locked his joints rigid and dried his mouth completely. He had come her to get away from Havoc—how, then, was he here?

But maybe this was a blessing. Maybe he was lucky that Havoc had come—Havoc could help him put out this fire before it spread!

"Don't be stupid, Brother."

Al's voice, so calm in the cacophony, broke the spell and weakened Ed's knees.

"Al," he gasped in relief, noting remorsefully that he hadn't spared his safety a thought. Nor had he succeeded in his quest to find a shirt.

Alphonse spoke as if Ed hadn't interrupted, "We can't trust him to help us. We don't know him."

"B-but he's come here…" the boy argued in a quiet, tremulous voice. The combination of Al's strange demeanour, the fire in his childhood home, and the collection of aches on his body was sapping his strength at an alarming rate. "Why else would he come?"

"If you go to him for help," Alphonse said, "I promise you he'll just leave us here. That's what adults do."

"But, Al—"

"Would you believe me, or him?"

Ed frowned. "Always you, Al—you know that."

"Then believe me that it's better if he doesn't know we're here."

"Alphonse, really—"

A growling, guttural roar whipped through the hallway; for a stupid, single second, Ed blamed the fire. But as he turned, trying his hardest to appear unflustered, he knew his previous assumption to be dreadfully incorrect. The apparition behind him didn't resemble his younger brother. Not at all. It looked as if the heat—which was strong, but bearable—had warped the steel of his body, transforming it instantly to a compound resembling quicksilver. His helmet was misshapen, the once-proud horn dripping onto the ground like candle wax. One eye, dead and dark, drifted towards the thing's breastplate; the other glowed with fury greater than the inferno in the room ahead. This wasn't Al! It couldn't be Al! Yet Edward found himself uttering quick, thoughtless promises and assurances to 'Al'. He would listen—he really would, to anything—if Al would calm down! Please, Alphonse, don't be mad; just listen! There's no point in us both dying—can't we leave through the back door?

Al gave no reply, seemingly unmoved even as tears of desperation simultaneously rolled and dried on Ed's flushed cheeks. The temperature was rising steadily and his eyes stung from the smoke. A forceful hammering sounded behind him, as if something was trying to break open the door. No—no—Ed couldn't let them see Alphonse like this!

"Please, Alphonse!" he tried once more, knowing that there was little more he could do. His throat was sore; his voice was harsh and fractured. "Please—he won't know if we run out the back way. Alphonse, please. I-if I die, I can't bring your body back."

The monster suddenly seemed so much larger, so much more powerful, than his protector. Edward was a bug at the mercy of a curious child. Leisurely, without hurry, that child grasped his wings with chubby fingers, and pulled. He was being stretched in two directions—to Alphonse and to Jean—with only two options: be torn in half, or let go of one. Alphonse was his past, which left Havoc as his future—

But what adolescent thinks in such grand terms?

The choice could not possibly be his own, as Edward's brilliant mind had yet to make the connection—and now was not the time to make it. Just as the child tugged harder—just as both wings began to tear, depriving him both of a past and a future—Edward dropped. He hit the floor hard. The fire ate through its barricade.

It was over, the decision incomplete.

XxX

Havoc's shoulder ached fiercely and blood weakened the vision in his right eye, but he was unable to stop. He threw himself at the door again and again, each attempt more urgent than the last. The fire was so close, singing the sleeve of his coat whenever he failed to recall its presence, as if personally offended at being forgotten. He wasn't going to make it; his shoulder was going to shatter before this door budged even an inch!

The sound of splintering broke the familiar rhythm, and for a single, terrifying moment, Havoc believed that it was his bones that gave such an awful shriek. In his mind's eye, he saw his arm hanging limply, shockingly white bones protruding from his skin like wayward arrows. He saw himself fall to his knees in pain, gritting his teeth to prevent a scream, as the fire finally escaped its invisible restraints and leapt forth, engulfing him and his shrieks.

In reality, he was so immersed in his imaginings that he dropped straight to the floor inside the house—almost without noticing. It took several seconds for him to blink, register the wood beneath his face, and realise what had happened.

The corridor was completely filled with smoke; it rushed out the door as it opened, and the flames grew. Fire was scuttling along the walls like a horde of spiders, crawling towards the ceiling like snakes. Havoc swiped at his watering eyes, cursing quietly under his breath. It was useless. There was no way he could locate Edward in such a situation. What if he was upstairs? What if he were hidden somewhere, all logic abandoned to the blaze? And what if, heaven forbid, he were truly sitting in the rain in front of his brother's grave, completely oblivious to the fire and the cold? Havoc could have been wasting his time—and his life.

First things first, he needed to put some distance between himself and the burning room on his left. In just seconds, that door would lose its struggle and allow a burst of flame to shoot, unhindered, into his face. If possible, he would like to be further away when that occurred.

His military training became extremely useful all of a sudden, as he forced long-dormant muscles into heavy strain. Inch by inch, he dragged himself forward, resting low to the ground, where the air was just slightly cleaner. The ceiling above him had caught alight, but this was barely visible through the smoke. In any case, Havoc refused to look. He would run quickly up the stairs, if feasible, to perform a rapid search of the second storey rooms. If Edward was there, he would bring him down. If he wasn't, Havoc would flee by himself. If he couldn't flee, he would die. That thought alone sent another surge of adrenaline through his tired muscles.

He crawled onwards, faster now, eyes closed against the smoke. Every now and then, he would open them to ascertain his position, and then continue. The stairs were always so far ahead, no matter how much he laboured. But then, as he travelled through one of those periods of flickering darkness, his arm hit something abnormal. It was soft, and solid, and human.

Who could—?

Edward.

"Chief!" Havoc roared, though their heads were merely breaths apart. The boy didn't stir. "Chief, are you hurt?"

Ed's bare back shuddered, and he opened one bleary golden eye. "Mr Havoc?"

"Can you move?"

He made a gesture that may have been a nod, then stiffly tried to roll over. He was barely conscious. Jean placed a steadying hand under his abdomen as the unsteady child attempted to mirror his position. The skin beneath his palm was slippery with sweat, understandably—but sweat had never been crimson.

"Edward," the soldier asked more frantically, "Are you hurt?"

"Nothing hurts," the boy replied weakly, sliding back to the floor. He looked as if he were ready to fall asleep once more. "It's warm."

Havoc clenched his teeth against some unknown, powerful emotion—perhaps fear and exasperation combined. "Chief, this is important: is there a back door?"

"Of course," Ed murmured, then he giggled. "Mr Havoc, this is important: do you prefer apples or tomatoes? They're both fruits—did you know that?"

"Do you know where you are?" Havoc questioned as he moved to pick Edward up. The boy swatted feebly at him.

"'Course…" Havoc manoeuvred him into his arms as Ed spoke quietly in his ear. The man was crouching now, preparing to sprint forward. He had one chance, or they would both suffocate. "The house is burning. N-no—I don't wanna move. Put me back. Put me down."

Jean took a moment to attempt to calm himself, but it seemed futile. "Take a deep breath," he recommended, before lurching forward.

XxX

17 June 1911 — Day 5 at Rockbell Residence

This assignment is impossible. There's no way that Edward Elric could be a valuable asset to the army, I'm sorry to report. It may seem insubordinate, and I apologise for this, but after the day I just had, I'm hoping that you'll find it excusable. I should start at the beginning.

Edward was avoiding me. I didn't realise it until Winry Rockbell said so, which I recognise as a mistake on my part. Another mistake is a bit harder to explain in writing. Essentially, I believe that she now knows that I'm a military dog, yet I have no way of proving this without casting more suspicion on myself. That brings me to after my conversation with Miss Rockbell:

I went to find Edward; he wasn't anywhere in the house. It was raining pretty heavily, and with that automail leg of his, it should be clear that it was dangerous outside. I thought he would be at the cemetery (a frequent haunt of his) but never quite made it there. Somehow, he had walked all the way to his old home and set a fire in the front room. Mrs Rockbell hasn't been able to wake him since I brought him back, so we don't know whether it was intentional or an accident. I can't see the Elric house from where I'm sitting now, but from the balcony, I could see that the fire hasn't been extinguished yet. There won't be much left come morning—or even night. It's hard to believe that it's barely an hour past midday; this morning seemed to last an eternity.

Mrs Rockbell, as I think I mentioned earlier, has been by Edward's side ever since we returned. She sent Winry away after finding some pretty horrific wounds on the boy's chest, without saying why. Winry locked herself in her room in protest, and while I can understand her frustration, I understand Mrs Rockbell's need to keep her away more. It looks like Edward has carved something into his skin, Mustang—it's a bit shaky, and I don't have much knowledge in this area, but it looks like a transmutation circle. It's circular with lines crossing the inside in a grid-like pattern, and in the middle is a symbol that I can only describe as a hook. I'll attach a sketch below this entry—does it sound familiar? It's terrible, Mustang. It takes up almost all of his chest and I'm amazed that he was able to survive such an assault, let alone move.

This isn't a job for the military, sir. Edward needs a doctor, and soon, for both his chest and his mind.

XxX

Thanks for reading! I'm not so keen about this chapter, sorry. Next one's the last!