Draped in Wires
by. Poisoned Scarlet

Theme 068: Rebellion

It was a strange feeling, when you were on the border of death. It was especially strange to be on the verge of death for the second – no, third time in his life. For him, this time, it felt like someone was gently submerging him in calm but cold waters; sound muffling and sight blurring. The once warm rays that peeked through the guttered clouds above him no longer offered him any comfort and the gust of wind was more howling than his own wheezy breath.

It was even worse when you came to the conclusion that you could do nothing about it.

For a second, he considered clapping his hands, transmuting, and somehow escaping the danger with only scrapes and bruises like in his youth. But there would be no transmutation now, no narrow escape from death, because he no longer had the necessary tools; no longer had the towering Gate of Truth shadowing him from behind, like a protective guardian.

He was on his own now.

He was barely aware that in his military pants, in the right pocket, there was a dagger suited just for these types of situations. It was there, waiting, and he became more aware of the dagger with each fleeting second. The blood was starting to pool around him and he knew he was losing too much.

He needed to do something.

He reached out with his hand, his fingers digging into the concrete. A gun cocked behind him and he slowly retracted his hand. He was aware that Mustang and Hawkeye were somewhere ahead, trying to negotiate with the Alchemist rebels that created a loose fence in front of him; keeping them separated although he knew it'd take seconds he did not have to stand up and run, given the state he was in.

The rebel group supported Bradley's reign: a loyal bunch of half-witted alchemists who used their skills for their own desires rather than for the people, as they were no doubt taught to do. It was no secret that he, Edward Elric, along with his brother, were one of the most renowned alchemists of their time. It would have been a title to brag about if he could use alchemy. But he supposed he wouldn't have been able to preform it anyway: his right hand was shaking and bleeding. They took their precautions and had first shot his hand clean through the middle before anything else.

That was how they had taken him from surprise when he walked out of Central Command that evening, about to head down to the parking lot to wait for Mustang to take him home as per usual, where he knew Winry and Nicolas were waiting.

But he had never made it so much as ten steps.

He had been caught in a headlock, his reflexes kicking in automatically. His heart racing in his chest, his blood pounding in his ears, he had managed to stave off whatever assault they had first planned but hadn't managed to stop the next. They had grabbed his hand and, for a second he hadn't a clue what the hell they were thinking, then it occurred to him that the general public still believed he was an alchemist and he barely managed to swear when they shot and a splat of his own blood covered his cheek.

The shot had been heard and he supposed that was how Mustang had been alerted so quickly.

This isn't how imagined I'd die, Edward found himself thinking, darkly. His vision was starting to blot at the fringes and he knew the rebel group was starting to wonder why he had not tried to preform an ounce of alchemy. It soured his mood to think he was going to have to let them believe he was a phony but he knew revealing the truth would be far more dangerous.

"He has a family to look after!" Mustangs strong voice rippled through his conscious. "Can you not understand what it feels like to rip a father from his son and wife? You should. Didn't your wife not pass away during the insurgency?"

The leader, he could just see, started to spit in outrage at his remark. He became terribly aware that Mustang was directing the leaders fury at himself rather than on him, as he laid in a pathetic heap on the floor; a gun wound straight through his hand and side, his stomach cramping with pain from their kicks and swings.

Winry...

Was he going to die?

Didn't I already have this conversation with myself? He thought. I'm not going to let her, or anyone else, cry over me just yet...not yet...I might not have my alchemy, he thought fiercely, forcing his heavy eyes awake, but that doesn't mean I can't kick their asses with my bare hands!

He flashed his eyes to the right, the black boots he could barely see. He knew they had their guns to his back and he knew making sudden movements would be foolish and reckless on his part.

"We'll see, Mustang!" the leader spat, turning to him. He grunted as he was lifted off the floor by the collar of his coat, teeth gritting when his hand twitched and sent a flare of agony up his arm. "If he's so great, why doesn't he do something to defend himself? It was almost too easy!"

You bastard,Edward growled inwardly. He flashed his eyes to Mustang, who's face had gone eerily still. He knew whatever mercy he had was gone now. He motioned to the man holding him with his eyes, hoping he would be able to read the message he was trying to convey. He moved his hands a little when Mustang creased a brow.

His eyes widened in realization and before Mustang could say anything, Edward spoke: "You know, you've got some nerve ambushing me after work."

"I wouldn't be talking if I were you," the man growled at him.

"I'd get my hands off of me if I were you," Edward fired back, raising his hands and, hoping Mustang didn't totally screw his plan up, clapped them. Instantly, there was an explosion of smoke and dust; a streak of flames followed by a rather weak shoot of spikes from the floor. The leaders hand detached from his coat and he staggered sideways, his left grasping his bleeding right while he ignored the sear in his side. Through the blanket of ash and smoke, he could see figures running to and fro – panicked, his mind filled the gap, that their plan had just been demolished.

A hand grasped his shoulder and he immediately swiveled around, about to ignore the acidic sting in his side to defend himself, but came face to face with Riza, who rose a hand to stop his defensive attack and quickly flicked a finger to the side of her.

"Let's go – the Brigadier can't entertain them for long!" Riza led him away from the cloud of black quickly. "You were lucky he was close-by when you were attacked or who knows what would have happened!"

"Yeah," Edward wiped a drizzle of blood from his chin, "and he didn't make me look like a total moron, either."

"That was a rather brash move. Any other time and I would be lecturing you, you know," Riza wryly smiled, digging into her pocket and slipping out a handkerchief. He noticed she had replaced her guns in their shoulder holsters somewhere between her grabbing him and running behind the soldiers that had been called to assist Mustang. "You could have gotten off with more than a shot hand and some ruffling."

He considered telling her his side had a bullet lodged in it but waved it off when he saw he could, somehow, ignore the wound if he breathed in short breaths. "It was that or letting them shoot me," Edward grunted when Riza tightened the already soaked handkerchief around his hand. "And I'm not about to ditch Winry when she needs me the most!"

Riza smiled. "That's good to hear. Never change, Edward."

"Did I hint otherwise?" he smirked a bit, clenching his teeth when his side gave a roar of pain. It was getting worse.

"Go! Go! Go!" a shout came from ahead. He saw several squads in defensive formation begin to march out, their guns out and their eyes set, and he was relieved to see that whatever rebels remained were being apprehended by military forces.

From the cloak of ash, he saw Mustang step forward, tugging off his flint gloves.

"Full Metal, just what the hell did you think you were doing?" Mustang demanded once he was in ear-shot. "It's just your luck I'm smart enough to read eyes," he sarcastically said.

"Pipe down, Flame, it worked, didn't it?" Ed grumbled, holding his hand in his palm.

Mustang's eyes became drawn to the steady leak of blood dripping off the corner of his jacket. He shot them right back up to him and Ed smiled crookedly.

"I forgot about that."

"You—!" Mustang sighed sharply and waved a hand frantically at one of the soldiers who had stayed behind as guard. "Get me a stretcher ASAP – before he passes out on me!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Edward grunted, leaning on Riza heavily now. She pressed her lips together, glancing at Roy, who grimly watched as his subordinate clung onto consciousness. "It's just a flesh wound!"

"My ass," Roy replied darkly. "You're bleeding excessively. Where is that goddamn stretcher?" Edward could detect a pang of urgency in his tone. He supposed he must've paled considerably or somehow managed to look agonized or on the verge of unconsciousness because Mustang gave him one last look before rushing away from him, barking out words he could barely hear.

"Edward, don't fall asleep," he heard Riza's distant voice. "Edward, stay with me. You cannot close your eyes. Edward!"

"Tired..." he mumbled, eyes crossing.

There was a pause. "Edward, Winry is here."

That made him shoot back up, choking down a cry of pain. His eyes forced open, searching the ashy grounds desperately for the girl. "What? What is she—!" It took him a moment for him to discover she had lied. "Why did you lie—!"

Before he could finish his sentence, he was being pushed onto a stretcher – he had an unfamiliar face hovering over him – he felt a prick, the sting of a needle – a pressure applied on his side and he was about to scream before his hand gave a lurch of pain and it canceled out – and he heard Mustang's relieved voice ring out:

"You'll be alright, Full Metal. You're too stubborn to die"

He would have flipped him off if the sedatives hadn't kicked in.