Shallow gasps of breath tore from his lungs, sweat dripped from his face, and his heart pounded between his ears, nearly as loud as the deafening clang of heavy metal against unyielding stone. Walls damp with a liquid he feared to identify stretched far above his head to meet with a ceiling unseen.

He didn't know how long he'd been running or what he was running from, but he knew he had to get out now.

Away from the nameless dread hounding him through the narrow hall that seemed to last forever. Away from the quiet voice tinged with fear, telling him to breathe, to relax, that everything was going to be fine, to trust them. That voice wasn't to be trusted.

Never again.

Never.

He wouldn't be fooled.

He sprinted down the dark hallway, finally spotting his escape-a door illuminated dimly by a flickering light. But the walls swelled in size, shoving the door further and further away, creeping closer to him until he was forced to slow down, to drag himself past the walls sideways, clawed fingers coming away sticky with a fluid he didn't care to think about. But still they came closer, pinning him into place. And he couldn't breathe, his heart beat against the wall itself, his ribs groaned, snapping and cracking as they were forced beyond their limits. The pressure, the ungodly pressure! But the door was right there-he could touch it if he just managed to get his arm up. He reached desperately, tacky fingers scrabbling at the dingy brass knob, smearing red over the cold metal.

But it was too late-there was no escape for him now. His skull ached- breaking apart piece by piece. He slammed his eyes shut and screamed- eyes flying open when the pain became too much.

Nothing was as it had seemed.

He felt...disconnected. Everything was loose. The pain was still there, but it seemed distant. More than anything, he felt numb.

A woman was holding him tightly, whispering reassurances in his ear, her tears wetting the side of his neck, mixing with the sweat that drenched his body. She was naked and clean-and from the feel of frosty air against his skin, so was he, much to his embarrassment. But then, being clean, or mostly so, was a welcome change. And the feel of her warm flesh against his own was heavenly, his chilled skin soaking in the warmth, but never able to quite shake off the sensation of being much too cold for comfort.

The woman loosened her hold and slid back, wide teary eyes capturing his own, though the sensation of tight restriction around his torso never eased.

"You're awake…You're…finally awake…Oh, Eddie I'm so glad! I was terrified. I thought you…you…What happened? Who did this to you? I'm so sorry that I wasn't there. I…I must have been asleep. I'm so sorry, Eddie! I'm so sorry…" She collapsed against his chest, sobbing once more.

Eddie…He felt a faint prickle of alarm. That name meant something. What was it? He searched his blurred memories for its meaning, the prickle of alarm growing into full-fledged panic as bits and pieces of his past returned to him. Let it be a dream, a nightmare. Let it be anything but real. They hadn't…and he wasn't…but they had and he was. And this…woman, no this thing, was touching him.

He tried to scream, to yell, to curse her into oblivion, to order her to let go, to stop touching him, to leave him alone and never, never, never come near him again. But the most he could do was whimper in between ragged breaths. She leapt away from him, hands fluttering anxiously over his still form, finally settling against his face with a whimper of her own.

"I know it hurts, honey. Just let me take care of your arm, and then I'll go find some help. Don't worry, your Bee will fix everything."

Lies. Lie, lie, lie. It was a trick. She was trying to gain his trust. He wouldn't give it. She was a destroyer. She could know nothing of fixing things. Her very touch was pain. Help shouldn't hurt, but if it was her, it wouldn't merely hurt. It would be agony.

Her hands moved to his left and gripped the metal protruding from his limb. She took a shuddering breath and yanked the rusted length out of the wall, but not out of his arm. A hoarse scream tore at his throat as his body thrashed against her gentle hold. She caught his flailing arm and braced it before ripping the stake free, begging forgiveness all the while. He screamed again.

The room spun sickeningly, blood laced with pus dripped down his arm, and yet it didn't hurt as much as it should. It didn't bleed as much as it should either. Something wasn't right. But his head was swimming too badly to decide what. A soft hand brushed his hair back, prompting him to open eyes he hadn't realized were closed.

"Eddie, I know this is going to hurt, but please try to stay still. I'm doing the best I can. Just hang on a little longer."

He watched her with tired eyes, panting heavily and listening to the erratic drum of his heartbeat, hoping against all the odds that the needle she was threading had nothing to do with him. But that had never helped him before. The odds were never in his favor. And they felt no need to switch sides now.

He whined unhappily, eying the needle with terror as it crept closer to his bleeding arm. He squirmed backwards, trying to get away from the silver menace, his fevered mind vaguely registering that he was already pressed against the wall, that certain aspects of his anatomy had changed. But he couldn't dwell on those revelations, couldn't take the time to be rational about things. The glinting sliver was inching closer to the gaping wound, darting in and out, thread billowing behind. It was trying to stab him, trying to pierce his skin again, to rip past his defenses and into his fragile insides. And then he was confined, unable to scramble away, to defend his bare skin from the threatening metal.

She was on top of him and she was naked and he was naked and she had a needle and he couldn't move and he was screaming and she was screaming and they were both screaming and he didn't know what to do and he panicked and he fought and she wouldn't let go and it was in his arm. And it hurt and it was dull and it was tearing his skin and they were still screaming and it hurt and he couldn't think and then it was out, but it was attached to him. Get it off, get it off, get it off, away, away, far away from here, in a place where needles were never around to threaten him, where he was safe and happy and warm and had clothes and could move where he wanted, when he wanted. Home. He needed home. He needed...he needed Winry and Alphonse and Teacher and that bastard Colonel because then everything would be fine and he was safe and they would never let the needles get him. But he needed them now and they weren't there so he'd have to find them and the needle was still there and it was inside him again and it was pulling his skin and he couldn't get away from it and he couldn't scream anymore because he couldn't breathe and why weren't they there? Why didn't they save him? They must be angry with him. He'd done something wrong. He was always doing something wrong. He said he was sorry, but the needle, the needle. It wouldn't stop and they weren't saving him and he tried to say it louder but they still couldn't hear him or maybe they just weren't listening or maybe they didn't believe him so he said it again and again and why couldn't they believe him? He was sorry, it was all his fault, he'd do anything they wanted, just make it stop. And it went on and on and on. In and out, blood and pus, pain and agony, sobs and screams, black and blue and red and pale, pale white.

And it was over and the needle was thrown away, but clumsy knots of black had replaced the tainted gleam of silver, so very dark against the angry red and tired white puckering around the snarl. And she finally, finally stopped touching him and he could move and breathe again, but she was touching him again and talking to him, but she was hoarse and crying, though he couldn't imagine why, and he couldn't hear her words over the thunder of his heart and the grate of air across his sore throat.

And then she was gone. Suddenly and wonderfully gone. He almost couldn't believe that she'd actually left, that he was alone, but he forced himself upright and she was really...truly...gone. He wasn't tied up, he wasn't drugged, everything hurt, but the irritating numbness was allowing him to move with only slight difficulty.

He could leave. Right now. Just get up and walk away. Nothing was stopping him. He was...free. He could go home. He could see Al and Winry and everyone, and it would all be just the way it had always been. No needles, no monster-wife, no Bee to sting him and drug him and hurt him. Home. Paradise.

He laughed at the thought. He had nothing to lose and he was already halfway up. He just needed to finish the job. He tried to lever himself upright and abruptly realized what his mind had tried to bring to his attention so long ago. His other arm was...missing. It simply wasn't where it was supposed to be. He stared at his shoulder blankly. How strange. His automail didn't usually disappear without warning. He couldn't imagine where it could be hiding.

He looked down at his lower half and though his head was swimming, he could see very clearly that his leg was still there. It was undamaged, too. Interesting. He'd almost expected it to be gone. Perhaps this was another game. Hide-and-seek, or maybe tag. Well, he was tired of playing. He was leaving. Now.

He used his feet to scoot back to the wall and used it to help himself upright. This was considerably more difficult than it should have been. The disconnected sensation had blunted the pain, but it also made his movements clumsy. Not only that, but it took much more energy than he remembered to complete so simple a task as standing. He snarled, forcing himself upright and pushed away from the wall, bringing his flesh leg forward to take the first step across the room. And he fell flat on his face.

He screeched in pain and frustration, slamming the palm of his hand against the blood-covered floor. He contorted his body desperate to find out what new thing kept him from his goal, only to find his own foot flopping uselessly at the end of his leg. He glared at it, cursed it, flailed his leg around, anything to make it work. But as usual, his body had its own ideas. He growled and rolled back on to his stomach. If he had to crawl, so be it. He was getting out of here. He was going home. Paradise would be his, and screw everything and everyone who dared try to stop him.

He dragged himself across the wooden boards, metal foot working in concert with shaking flesh hand, smearing blood newly moistened with sweat across the stained floor. It was a torturous process. He moved so very slowly, but so much of his energy was being used. This could never work. He couldn't get home this way. He needed to stand and walk. He needed...a crutch, a cane, anything to help him get out. He looked around wildly, alert for anything that could make his journey easier.

There. Just a few feet away there was a smashed crate filled with a variety of wooden poles that seemed promising. He crawled towards it, pulling himself clumsily upward to see the contents better. It seemed that these poles were used for extremely different things. Some were pointed, almost spear-like, while others flattened into broad patterns. Some were longer, some shorter, but all were sturdy pieces of wood, not likely to break under pressure. He used his automail leg to hold himself against the box and picked out a shorter pole that ended in a relatively simple pattern of circles. It seemed like the right length and with luck, the broader end would assist him in keeping his balance. He swung the pole up and out of the crate and managed to prop it under his armpit without losing his balance. He grimaced. His current position was by no means comfortable, but at least he was upright. Now came the difficult part. Walking.

He leaned heavily on his crutch and hopped forward awkwardly, keeping his flesh leg elevated just enough to keep his unresponsive foot from tripping him up again. He wobbled for a moment, trying desperately to keep his balance, going so far as to touch the ground with his dangling foot to stay upright. His mouth twisted with pain, the top of the pole jammed underneath his arm already forming a bruise. He took in a deep breath and threw the upper part of his body forward, managing to thrust his crutch just ahead of his automail, hopefully making the next lunging step the tiniest bit easier.

He continued this way until he reached the 'hole' in the floor. Narrow, old, and extremely unstable. His favorite type of stairs. He wilted at the thought of descending the splintering wood. Nothing was ever easy. He looked around his immediate area, hoping for something to make his trip gentler on his body. There wasn't much, but the pile of clothes just a few steps away more than made up for the lack of help. He staggered over to the untidy heap and let himself collapse into the wealth of fabric.

So soft and warm. He'd missed having clothes. He pawed through the pile, hoping to find his own clothes somewhere in the mix. No such luck. It was probably better that they weren't here. He didn't want to even think about buckles, leather, and all those ridiculous layers right now. He needed something simple and relatively warm. He could forget about long sleeves. No matter how much he hated the black knots embedded in his skin, he had no desire to rip them out. Nothing too heavy or long enough to trip over and absolutely nothing that would draw unwanted attention to him. He was trying to get home, not get caught. Unfortunately, most of the clothes were obviously unsuitable. Bright flowered patterns, enormous coats stuffed with heavy fur, sleeves that would drag the ground, button-down suits, and worst of all a lacy pink undergarment that couldn't cover anything if it tried. It took a while, but he finally managed to find something that met his criteria. The problem was that this particular item was...there was no avoiding it. It was a dress.

His sense of pride was screaming in the back of his mind, ordering his pragmatic side to pick something more manly or suffer the consequences. There was no way Edward Elric, the People's Alchemist, the original Military Brat, and Fifteen year-old prodigy was going to wear women's clothing. And that was precisely why the desperate teen forced the pale dress over his head. No one would expect it. He could escape in plain site. She wouldn't be looking for a crippled blonde girl. And that was reason enough. He squirmed, working his arm through the loose sleeves with utmost care, and reached for his crutch, shoving himself upright with new strength. Having clothes really did make a difference. Even if they were girly.

Of course, even something as wonderful as clothes couldn't make the descent down the stairs any easier. He halted just at the head of the staircase, trying to ease his breathing and floating head, hoping to find a better way to get down. He could try hopping down the steps one at a time or maybe slide down the banister and hope for a smooth landing. But then simply scooting down the stairs, while slower and extremely un-manly, was probably the safest and easiest on his body. Decided, he positioned the wooden pole on the lip of the first stair and began lowering himself to the floor. But his crutch shifted position. He overbalanced.

He was falling, tumbling, screaming, bleeding, and everything was a blur, but now it was black. Black and red, black and blue, white and red, black and red and white and blue and black, and never any other. The colors, the screams, the pain and he. Together forever and never to part. Roses are red and Violets are too. Everything's bloody, but where were you? Lost in the dark, screaming alone, but together forever with her.

Black and red and white and blue, and he's back at the start. So where are you? Out looking for something that you'll never find- caught in a race against time. What good was home so far away, out of reach, never to stay? Red and black. Blood and ash. Burned to the ground, cut to the bone. Destroyed forever- not to return. But black fades to gray and gray to white and the white became light...and he was alive.

Alive and awake, but the nightmare wasn't over. He had to move, escape, get out of this place. Leave the bloodstains and terror and memories behind. He staggered away desperate for home.

He had

A promise to keep.

A soul to give.

A body to love.

A love to kill.

But the world began weaving and the red was intruding, tainting the glowing, spinning place that was home. And he fell oh so slowly in some new place. Somewhere cold and wet and white all around. But he couldn't stop here- could never stop running. But he couldn't stand and the sky was falling. And he was still alone, but not for long. They were chasing, and he was racing. Clawing and dragging and limping and falling. Falling and standing, standing and falling, scrabbling and writhing there in the snow.

And cold was warm and warm was cold. His shaking stopped and the voices did too.

All but one that said

I'll never forgive you.