Roy glowered at the edge of his desk, fists clenching rhythmically. It was with great difficulty that he stayed quietly seated, door shut and blinds closed, sequestered safely in his office. Migraine throbbing in the back of his skull, vision flickering irregularly, an insistent voice demanding he get up and do something to that...that...criminal. He'd very nearly given in to the thought several times already. He'd only managed to stay put thus far because he knew exactly what would happen if he did give in.

It would be so satisfying to march into that room and take control of the interrogation. To pry the precious answer from her sneering lips. To burn away that smug look, roasting her inch by inch until she finally submitted to his will. And then, once he had what he wanted- what he so desperately needed- it would be so easy to make her disappear. All it would take was a single miscalculation on his part and with a snap of his fingers she would be no more than a stain on the carpet, a bad taste left in his mouth, a memory waiting to be washed away with a bottle of alcohol.

But those thoughts were from a smaller part of Roy that was so pissed he could hardly see straight. The larger part of his being- the self-aware, pragmatic, logical, disciplined part knew he would regret doing anything at all in his present state and had locked himself in his office, away from the tempting screams and curses echoing down the hall.

At least the rest of the team didn't know about the snippet of information she'd let slip. That would have been truly disastrous. It was bad enough that Havoc knew. It had taken a threat to remove him completely from the investigation before he'd agreed to leave the interrogation to his fellow soldiers. He was probably out in the main office right now- still fuming about his orders, but knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that it was for the best.

Roy found himself wondering what exactly was going on in that room. He knew he probably shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. Were they playing the 'good' soldier, 'bad' soldier game or were they playing 'bad' soldier, 'worse' soldier? He found himself hoping it was the latter, but if a motherly Riza got more answers than cold-blooded killer Riza he couldn't really complain.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a loud banging on his door. He barely had time to stand, chair tipping to the floor with a clatter before the door swung open wildly, banging into the outside wall. Havoc rushed in, eyes glowing with intensity, mouth a razor's grin. He wasted no time saluting, merely meeting Roy's gaze with a manic look of his own.

"A report just came in from the warehouse district. A few of our men found what looks like a crime scene outside of Warehouse Seven."

"Warehouse Seven...that's only about a mile from the station. Excellent. Havoc, get our reserve team ready for deployment, and tell those soldiers to set up a perimeter around the scene. We don't need anyone muddying up the trail."

Havoc's grin widened, baring his teeth, eyes glinting.

"Yes, sir."

The two men exited his office in a frenzy, Havoc already getting Fuery to reestablish the connection with Squad Nine while Roy swept into the hallway, nervous energy crackling through his body, fixing his objective firmly in mind. He burst into the interrogation room and steeled himself before turning menacingly to face the now-silent female.

He considered her silently while fighting to keep himself under control. She met his gaze with glassy eyes, expression flickering between terrified despondency and bitter defiance. Pulling anxiously against the thinly padded restraints anchoring her to the table, tangled hair fanning outwards to hang in uneven clumps, nails still dyed black with old blood, puffed and pitted shoulder an angry red, bleeding lips and tear-streaked face hiding behind the radiating ooze of dark blue across a delicate cheekbone.

The entire room had stilled upon his entrance, his inspection and struggle for self-control lasting only seconds in the eternity of perfect silence. He spoke softly, voice like silken steel.

"Ms Bee. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. I was...preoccupied. My name is Colonel Roy Mustang. It has occurred to me that you must be terribly worried about your...Eddie, wasn't it? I thought I should let you know that we are getting close to a breakthrough. It seems he was seen. Quite recently, in fact. As we speak, my men are forming a squad to retrieve him. Forgive me if I'm wrong, Ms Bee, but...you wouldn't happen to know anything about Warehouse Seven, now would you?"

A heartbeat of calm and the room exploded with activity.

The captive screeched, eyes widening in murderous denial, fighting against her restraints harder than ever before, flinging her body around with wild abandon, tears streaking down her discolored face. Falman and Breda materialized at her side, grimly holding her down, forcing her to stay seated and still enough for Riza to stick a tranquilizer into her swollen shoulder.

They released her, watching as she quieted and slumped forward, mumbling softly to herself. When she finally stilled, each of his subordinates turned to face him, wary hope flickering behind tired eyes, waiting for the words that would breathe new life into them all.

Roy allowed a satisfied smile spread across his face.

"Looks like we've found ourselves an Elric."

The next hour is a blur of blue, white, black, gold, and gunmetal gray. The stench of burning fuel, thick smoke, and closely packed human hangs heavy in the air. Engines labor, tires rumble, cloth flaps, metal clinks and groans, muffled echoes spilling into the street.

Soldiers slip out of their cramped quarters, brandishing weapons, quickly, quietly, carefully closing the remaining distance and encircling an old warehouse with the number seven painted across weathered wood in fading whitewash. A spark from a gloved man bearing stars and stripes on proud shoulders and they tighten their formation, erasing the space created when two officers answer his call.

A whispered conversation and a scruffy blond jogs to the small side door hanging ajar. He squats beside the entrance, back to his fellow soldiers and is still. Seconds tick by and the male straightens, flashing a signal to the waiting couple.

The female joins him, readying her weapon with a distinctive click. The gloved officer forms precise hand-signs, silently instructing the remaining guard. Orders given, he joins the waiting pair and after a brief conference, the trio passes through the open door and disappears from view.

Seconds stretch into minutes, marked only by the slushy stamp of frozen feet.

The female returns, solemn and pale.

She speaks, voice barely audible over strong wind. The soldiers respond, those nearest to the truck trading weapons for tools and cloth. The others stand down, cradling weapons in calloused hands. Those burdened with supplies follow the blonde, sparing the blood-spattered floor no more than an indifferent glance.

The scruffy male waits for them by a dilapidated staircase stained rusty brown around gouge marks in weak wood. He tells them that this is as far as they go and relieves them of their burdens, balancing the objects skillfully in his arms. Every soldier in the area is to return to base on foot. The mission is over, no questions asked, no answers given. They will report to their usual commanding officer and resume their usual duties.

Like good soldiers, they salute crisply and follow orders. Within moments they are outside and relay the message, leading the company of rough-housing soldiers back to headquarters.

Inside, the trio of officers set to work- keeping eyes fixed firmly ahead, as if ignoring all else in the room would make it less real. As if keeping out of each others' sight meant that they were here alone- that it was all just a deeply personal nightmare, hitting much too close to home. An ugly hallucination pressing against their psyche, giving way at the last possible instant in a violent heave to consciousness.

But there was only so much time they could avoid each other. Only so much work to do. Only so many pieces to put back together before they had to confront their worst nightmare- were forced to admit that maybe everything was real; that maybe, just maybe...there were worse things in the world than death.

Shining black tape rolled tightly and shoved into a box with crumpled, ink-smeared paper. Bits of metal folded carefully, almost lovingly, inside thin cloth. Crusted over tools jumbled together in an old sack. Contorted digits, jagged edges, exposed copper peeking from under a length of wool that wasn't quite long enough. Silent witnesses to the small group of soldiers, officers, leaders- trying desperately to be more than what they truly were.

Imperfect.

Emotional.

Human.

Three words are spoken. Three simple words. Curse, wish, order, prayer, promise, and sentence. An ending- or the beginning of one.

Hands cradle an awkward bundle of wrapped metal, gently, reverently, as if his burden were too precious, too fragile to be held by someone so large. The woman follows him, hugging her own burdens tightly to her chest, never more than two paces behind shoulders slumped ever so slightly. They exit the building without another word, faces clear, but eyes shining brightly with repressed emotion- refusing to acknowledge the bloodstains and splintered wood but hyper-aware of each marred section of floor, taking great care to step around each.

The couple moves through slick snow, laying their burdens down in the truck's open bed.

Sweet to the point of being sour, a familiar smell drifts in the wind. Underneath wind's whistle and snow's creak, susurration the color of bright orange and flickering red whispers at the edge of hearing.

The disheveled blond joins them now, ash caught in his beard, a cigarette hanging from his lips. They set off together, ghosts following a small black dog freed from his cage and given a scent to track. He led them through darkening streets, down a path only he knew.

In the center of the single room that makes up the second floor of an old building, a mattress is ablaze. Pillows curl in on themselves. Blankets burn away thread by thread. Sticky, soiled clothing hisses and crackles in token resistance, railing against flames that rise to touch the ceiling above. The floor begins to sag, tongues of gold licking at wooden boards swollen with crimson, giving way in a flurry of sparks. The entire building bulges and collapses in on itself.

A raging inferno builds, feeding on rope and clothing and wood and blood and tears and semen, a tower of flame stretching upwards in a massive memorial pyre, stark against dark sky, smoke blurring the line between heaven and earth. Falling flakes turn ashy gray, mourning innocence lost, soiled with memories once trapped inside thick walls.

A small group of mere mortals, tiny, insignificant, helpless when faced with the hard truth of the world marches on. They are not gods. They are not all-powerful. They are not infallible. They can't change the past, can't bring the dead back to life. Can't right all that is wrong in the world.

But that won't stop them from trying. Can't stop them from searching. From hoping.

And if all else fails, nothing can stop them from bringing the rest of the world down to hell with them.