Chapter 11: Torment

Fair warning, the chapter title is a warning within itself. Violence and torture ahead. I was mean and had the rebels (and by default Drachma) capture our alchemist friends… This chapter made me question my rating, but I think I've kept it to a 'T' rating. I've marked the two back-to-back torment sections with "XXXX" if you want to skip. Basically, Damien is cruel, but you don't need to read it, as I go more into how his behaviors here fit into Damien's overall character later.

Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. The notifications and the reviews make me smile! Instant stress relief! :)

In a dark room, on the floor of a cell in the base of the enemy, Edward woke up. Misery, in addition to the still intact restraints, kept him from lifting even a finger. The last thing he remembered was being forcefully dragged away from the cold, presumably lifeless body of Roy Mustang, the inside of a truck, and then nothing.

The darkness of the room greeted him, matching his mood and the little security he had felt with Mustang in the middle of the wilderness and before his re-captured, shattered like crystal hitting a stone floor. Fear clawed at his mind and threatened to suffocate him as his thoughts shied away from the memory of Mustang left in the snow.

Down the hallway outside Edward's cell, around a corner, and down another hall, in a sterile white room, Mustang lay on an operating table leftover from the days when the mental hospital was still in use. His wrists and ankles were bound to the table, as was his chest. The restraints, however, were currently unnecessary as Mustang remained unconscious. An IV drip was hooked to his left arm, providing the necessary nutrients for bare survival. A heart monitor recorded his heartbeats, and a single thick blanket was draped over his body to warm him slowly.

Their captors wanted both alchemists alive but by no means went out of their way to make them comfortable while doing so. A weakened alchemist was easier to deal with than an alchemist in top condition and far less likely to escape once again.

Hands lifted him up and bore him out of the snow. Despite the seemingly benevolent actions, the intentions of the hands were not. The hands did not remove him from the cold, damp snow into the warm-ish confines of the waiting vehicle to save him but to do further harm.

Previously, he thought he could hear his name, but the voice had disappeared, to then be replaced by the waiting hands. Soon, though, the hands left, and warmth enveloped him, lulling him into deeper dreams.

When Mustang woke and the dream faded, the shrill beeping of the heart monitor was like a jackhammer to his temple and a throbbing weight to the base of his skull. Mustang's headache was one for the century. He knew instinctively that he would not be able to move. Despite the restraints, his exhausted body felt like it weighed a ton.

His attempt to open his eyes felt like an insurmountable task. He, however, eventually managed to open his eyes briefly, only to close them again against the bright whiteness of the room. Mustang blinked rapidly so his eyes could adjust to the light. Once his eyes adjusted, he took in his surroundings. Mustang quickly noted that the room was barren except the table on which he lay, the heart monitor, the IV drip, and the blanket, which concealed the restraints from view.

Dammit, what happened? The last thing I remember was cold and snow.

As he tried to shift his position, Mustang could feel the restraints on the skin of his wrists and ankles. He could also feel the pressure of the restraint across his chest, which was tight enough to restrict his breathing slightly. Inwardly, he cursed again.

Where the hell is Fullmetal? Panic surged in Mustang's chest, and the heart monitor's pace picked up. This can't be good.

Mustang's eyes fluttered as his heart rate slowed once more. He had used up what little energy he had in assessing his situation and in his sudden panic over Edward. Not only that, but the after-effects of hypothermia still lingered. With each breath, Mustang sank deeper into his exhaustion until he could no longer keep his eyes open and no longer stay awake.

Elsewhere, Damien nodded to Jimmy. "You'll be in charge of giving the kid water every two days. Don't forget and keep to the schedule tightly." Damien paused, and then thinking for a moment, turned his attention back to Jimmy, who had not moved but stood staring at Damien.

"Also, don't talk to the kid. At all. Not one word, even if he asks questions, or throws a fit, or insults you. You're probably the only one here who can ignore him despite anything the little twit might say. He hasn't met you yet, and I want to keep the kids from knowing as much as possible. You'll also be guarding the room. No one is allowed in the room. None of us, and most certainly not our guests. I don't want their influence with the kid yet."

Jimmy merely nodded and, taking the canteen from Damien, began his trek down the hall.

The clanging of the cell door opening woke Edward from his fitful sleep. Edward jerked but could not move. A large man came into the cell with a canteen.

"What do you want?" Edward seethed, but the man did not answer and lumbered over to the prone Edward and reached down.

Edward squirmed as he tried to wriggle away, "stay away from me!"

The man merely reached out and, taking the back of Edward's head in his hand, lifted and turned Edward's head upward, so he was facing the ceiling. The man did not turn Edward to lay him on his back due to his restrained wrists, making Edward's neck twist awkwardly. He then began to slowly pour the water into Edward's mouth, which was still open in protest.

Because of his position and the speed at which the man poured the water, Edward was only able to drink a little over half, and the rest flowed from the corner of his mouth as he sputtered. It dribbled down his cheek and neck to the floor. When the man stopped, he gently laid Edward's head back down. Then, the man left, leaving Edward to himself, still sputtering and alone with his thoughts as he glared at the now closed door.

Edward wasn't sure how long they left him, but he was almost certain it was well over a day. As their captors had previously assured them water every two days, Edward hoped that it remained the same.

It will be the only way to measure time.

Time passed as Edward struggled with his bonds in shorter and shorter and fewer and fewer spurts of energy. His stomach growled incessantly but soon evened out as he grew used to the hunger once more. The room was chilly, and Edward shuffled every so often in an attempt to warm himself.

The man came back two days later, although Edward was unaware of the passing time, and again his captor only brought water. The man smirked as he left Edward with only enough water to survive and a small puddle underneath his head that would only serve to make Edward colder. The man never said a word, and Edward did not bother trying to converse with him.

All struggling against the bonds that held him stopped. He was tied in such a way that he could not clap, could not shift himself into an upright position, and if he wanted to move, would have to inch his way across the floor like a worm. Lethargy set in, and Edward began to sleep more to avoid the knowing of his stomach and the dull ache in his muscles from not moving.

A week passed from the day of their capture.

In those days, Edward did nothing and was left alone except the few times they brought him water. However, the rebels were not lax, and over those days, Mustang was given very little time to himself.

Over the week, he had received small shocks that grew in intensity. Blows to the head and torso, which caused bruises and abrasions, filled his days. Each session ended with drugs, which caused hallucinations or that made his skin feel like sandpaper was scrapping across his skin at a mere breath from his captors. When he was not so disoriented from the pain, his thoughts turned to his team, but mostly to Edward. At first, he said nothing, but last time, when one of them mentioned the small alchemist, he violently pulled and jerked against his bonds, angrily snarling at them to leave Edward alone.

Mustang knew full well his demands would not be answered. He had no leverage. He knew threats would only serve to give his captors more leverage, but the mere thought that they would do the same to one of his subordinates as they were doing to him, and in this case, a child made him furious.

Like Edward, he was only given water, but Mustang was given a little bit of water at the end of each session if only to keep him hydrated enough to be aware for their sessions.

Down the hall, around the corner, and down the second hall back to Edward's cell, Edward's eye drifted closed. Sleep overtook him once again from one of his brief moments awake. Above him, the light flickered once, and then again twice, before dimming and burning out, leaving the room in complete and utter darkness, unnoticed by the sleeping alchemist.

When Edward woke up many hours later, in part due to the pounding headache from lack of food, and restless sleep, he noted the all-permeating darkness. He had to blink many times to convince himself that he had actually opened his eyes.

When he realized the ever-present light was turned off, he closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as his heart picked up speed. The room was barren, and he could see everything except the wall behind him, but the darkened corners still held monsters. Even when the light was on, they were there, and one monster, in particular, had ashen grey skin, ribs protruding from its chest, and a pool of blood slowly spread out beneath it. Now they Edward could not see; it was just waiting to pounce.

XXXX

At the same time, back in the room where Mustang was being kept, Mustang was jerked from his musings by the door opening.

The medical specialist entered the room and walked over to the table, and pressed a button on the side. Mustang knew what was coming next.

The operating table was designed so that the bottom half could be lowered closer to the floor and the top half pivoted and rose so that the person restrained on the table would be in a near upright position.

Once he was upright, the men who entered after the specialist took to beating him just like every other session. Fists and feet plowed into his midsection, and feet kicked at his legs. Fists slammed into his chest and face.

One well-placed kick caused a sickening pop in his knee. Mustang barely held back a scream, which came out as a muffled yell.

It was then that Damien stepped forward, and the other men fell back. With one quick punch, Damien plowed his fist into the right side of Mustang's face causing the left side to slam into the table.

While Mustang was disoriented, Damien flicked a finger at the medical specialist who checked Mustang's knee but did not fix it and then repositioned the table, so Mustang was again on his back rather than upright.

Carefully the specialist measured out the necessary proportion of the drug and slipped the needle into Mustang's arm. Almost immediately, Mustang felt the effects. His body felt like it was on fire. The air moving in the room felt like sand roughly scraping across his skin. Soon fingers gently brushed against Mustang's dislocated knee, but to Mustang, it felt like fire.

No, they haven't done anything like this before!

Usually, the specialist would take care of any displacements before administering the drugs. This time, however, it appeared they would be doing things differently, and despite Mustang's foggy brain, he recognized the implications.

The specialist took Mustang's knee and popped the kneecap back into place. This time, Mustang could not restrain the scream of agony from the pain that shot through his body.

Mustang gasped in pain, eyes wide as sweat poured from him. The sudden shock had cleared his mind, but he was quickly succumbed to the fog once again, groaning.

Damien now stepped up to him and laid a hand lightly against his chest, but then, he began to press down with greater and greater pressure. As the pressure increased, so did the magnified pain from the drugs, and Mustang involuntarily pulled and jerked against the restraints, further damaging his wrists and ankles.

Then with a sudden jerk of pressure, Damien snapped a rib. Another howl of agony ripped through Mustang, cut off only by his sudden lapse into unconsciousness. Damien released the pressure. Mustang's face, even in unconsciousness, was contorted with agony from the drugs and his many wounds. Damien stepped back and allowed the medical specialist to begin his work patching Mustang up, setting his rib, and taping his chest. Once done, they left the room.

XXXX

XXXX

When they returned the same day, but hours later, four men stood in the room, looking down at the unconscious Mustang. Damien came alongside the table and harshly patted the side of Mustang's face. He kept up the pace until Mustang groaned and his eyes fluttered open.

It took a few moments for Mustang to register the presence of the four men, but when he did, his body subconsciously and subtly tensed. He coughed as his eyes fluttered. The drugs still running through his system made the muscles in his cheek flare.

Damien smiled with gleeful malevolence, an expression with the promise of pain.

Damien's hand gently ran up Mustang's chest brushing the broken rib, making Mustang flinch, and then ran his hand along Mustang's throat, stopping just where it met the underside of his chin. Damien rested the palm of his hand against Mustang's windpipe and tensed his forefinger and thumb, squeezing. Mustang gagged and drew in as much air as possible through the restriction. It was then that Damien leaned into his arm, placing pressure across Mustang's throat, and tightened his grip. Mustang tried to gasp, but the pressure was too great. He could not breathe.

No! No!

Mustang's body involuntarily jerked and began to pull at the restraints that held him in place. He tried to jerk his head out from under Damien's grip, but Damien's grip was far too firm. As Mustang's jerking slowed, Damien eased the pressure and removed his hand.

Mustang coughed and gasped, thankful for the air, but not for long. As he recovered from the first attack, the other three men were busy. Two hooked up a hose to the spigot in the wall and uncoiled the hose as the third wetted a towel. Damien removed the IV line and fluids as well as the strips for the heart monitor. As Mustang opened his eyes once again, the wet towel was placed over his face.

Something coiled in the base of Mustang's gut, and his body tensed. Mustang knew enough about torture methods to know what was coming. Then, one of the two men turned on the water so that only a small slow stream flowed through the hose. The other held the hose above Mustang's head and allowed it to flow over the towel, effectively cutting off Mustang's air supply.

Beneath the towel, Mustang received a mouthful of water. The water cascaded over his face, blocked his nose and filled his mouth.

Mustang, again, jerked at his bonds in the vain attempt to escape. He tried thrashing his head, but the towel was big enough and now wet enough that it could not be dislodged as it stuck to his face.

Mustang's mid grew hazy, and as his jerking weakened, the water flow stopped, and the towel was removed.

Mustang gasped for a breath, only for the towel to be replaced and the water to start flowing again. This time, the men did not stop the flow of water until Mustang's jerks turned to twitches and ceased altogether.

Once the towel was removed, Damien slapped Mustang's face. The force was enough to wake the man, and Mustang coughed up water. He lay there panting and feeling weak. His injuries from the beatings and the newly introduced form of torture wracked havoc with his body and mind.

Then, the towel was replaced for the third time. Mustang was too weary to care. This time, they left the water on for less time, but it was only because Mustang lost consciousness much more quickly. When Mustang did not respond to Damien's slap, he took the palm of his hand and slammed it just above Mustang's belly button but below his ribs, forcing the water from his lungs with the second heave.

Mustang convulsed, coughing up the water that filled his lungs.

Unable to recognize what was happening, Mustang did not notice the towel being replaced once again. Damien smiled and nodded to the man by the spigot. The water was turned on for the fourth time but turned off not even a half minute later at Damien's nod.

Mustang was sputtering and breathing weakly but otherwise conscious this time. Damien gripped Mustang's jaw and turned his head to face him as Damien leered down.

"You'll be ready soon enough."

The words left Mustang confused, but he was in no position to recognize them or acknowledge them anyway. Mustang's vision was blurry, but he still registered the leering face of his tormentor, which was soon blocked by the towel as it was laid across Mustang's face once again.

This time they again waited until Mustang's body stopped its twitching before stopping the flow of water and removing the towel.

Damien placed two fingers against Mustang's throat, feeling for a pulse. He smiled at the lack of a steady thrum beneath his fingers. Again, he struck Mustang's midsection and, when nothing happened, indicated for the men to prepare Mustang for a shock treatment. Pads were put in place, and Damien stood back. A button was pressed and an electric shock pulsed through Mustang. Damien felt for a pulse and then stood back as the second wave of electricity sparked and arched through Mustang. On the third go, Mustang convulsed, coughing up water. Damien turned Mustang's head to the side, allowing the water to flow to the floor as the other three undid his restraints for the first time since Mustang was brought into the room one week before.

Once the restraints were undone, they shifted Mustang to his side as he continued to cough and gag. Mustang, however, remained unconscious. At Damien's word, Mustang's hands were bound behind his back, and two of the men slid him off of the table. Each held Mustang under the arm at the shoulder as he slumped between them. The third man began cleaning up the supplies as Damien led the two out of the room.

The top of Mustang's feet slid along the floor and, only because the men held him high enough, his knees did not do the same. The movement caused his head to sway where it slumped forward against his chest.

XXXX

Down a hallway and around a corner, then down another hallway, Damien led the two men dragging Mustang to a door. Damien drew out a key and fitted it into the door's lock.

The cell door clanked and rattled as it was unlocked. Inside, Edward flinched, the light had only gone out earlier that day, but his sense of time was so distorted, especially in the dark, that he could hardly tell. Edward watched someone step inside the small cell and recognized him as their tormentor from before, Damien. Edward had yet to see anyone but the one person who would give him the water.

So, that bastard Damien was here!

Edward growled, but the broad man merely gave Edward a cursory look and then moved to the side. Much to Edward's relief and more so to his horror, two men stepped inside the cell, dragging a very unconscious Mustang between them.

Edward watched as the men dragged the unconscious Mustang into the cell, wondering all the while what they had been doing to Mustang. Edward, however, could only imagine how Mustang might be feeling if he were awake.

The two men dropped Mustang in the middle of the cell and left with barely a glance at Mustang, let alone Edward. Their tormentor merely looked down on Mustang's limp form and gave a derisive snort when he glanced at Edward before turning and walking out the door, leaving them in the dark and cutting of Edward's vision of Mustang.

A few minutes later, the man who typically gave Edward water entered, replaced the bulb, and left. Now Edward could see not just the old bruises that had littered Mustang's skin but new ones as well.

For the first time in many days, Edward tugged at his bonds but only managed to give himself new rope burns and make the healing cuts at his wrists reopen. Edward's heartbeat slowed considerably but still remained a touch above its normal active state. The room was silent, save for his breathing and the shallow gasps coming from Mustang.

Images were flashing behind Mustang's closed eyes, images of sand, concrete buildings, blood, and terror. Terror everywhere. Mustang coughed violently as, in his mind, the ever-present smoke tried to choke him.

In the cell, Mustang's ribs, littered with bruises and fractures, protested the odd angle they were forced into from the bindings at his wrists and from laying on the cold hard floor. Edward flinched as a cough echoed in the hollow cell, ricocheting off the walls.

"M-Mustang?"

Edward shivered.

He can't be dying. He can't be.

Edward struggled again, with the full knowledge that he would be unable to break the bonds. They escaped once. Their captors would not let them escape again.

It was not until the next day that Mustang awoke, slowly but surely to the dwindling and sporadic calls from the young alchemist. Edward called out every so often, hoping that eventually, Mustang would show some sign of life, some sign of consciousness.

"Mustang?"

Mustang merely grunted, but hope surged in the young alchemist's heart.

"Mustang, you finally awake?" Edward changed the worried tone to a grouse once he realized the older man was somewhat conscious.

Mustang merely hummed then grunted, his throat too sore to allow much else.

Slowly Mustang took in his surroundings. He felt the hard floor beneath him and the awkward tilt of his back from his arms forced around his back and the ties at his wrists. Even more slowly, Mustang blinked open his eyes. The room was dim.

Edward watched Mustang as patiently as he could.

Obsidian eyes met golden, and suddenly Mustang realized Edward was lying in front of him. As realization became clearer, Mustang shifted his weight, straining against the bonds around his wrists and the tight pinching sensation from his battered ribs. Along with the sudden burst of adrenaline, nothing would stop him from maneuvering into an upright position to have a better look at his young subordinate.

Edward's attempts at sounding annoyed were fruitless, even if Edward was unaware of that fact. Mustang had seen soldiers break in the Ishvalan war. He knew what a strong front looked like. Edward's eyes betrayed the worry and fear underneath.

The 13-year-old child may have seen hell, but he certainly hadn't had an experience like this. Something both Edward and Mustang could acknowledge.

Edward had watched his father leave one early morning. Edward had watched his mother succumb to a deadly illness, unable to do anything to help. Edward still had his younger brother, and he had his teacher, but a teacher could not replace a parent. The six months with their teacher taught them much, and they did trust her, but consistency was what Edward lacked. One left, one died, and one was eventually left behind.

Now, the commanding officer, the one constant in Edward's life, the one person who he could trust at this time, was almost brutally and violently taken from him. Edward had lost so much and was desperately trying to regain another. So, for this one thing to be so jeopardized was too much for him to hide. It did not matter if Edward thought Mustang was a jerk and a creep. It did not matter that Mustang was an idiot and egomaniac with a god complex.

Mustang took care of his own, and that was the most security that Edward had had for a very long time.

Mustang struggled again, this time managing to lift his body from the floor and maneuver into a kneeling position despite the burning in his chest while Edward watched with widening eyes.

Mustang coughed once and shivered as he met the teen's gaze but then broke contact as he shifted backward and sat down. He sat like that for a while, catching his breath and giving himself time for the pain to recede, even if only slightly. Now that he was sitting, Mustang carefully put weight on his hands and drew them underneath himself so they were under his knees rather than behind him. Still, more slowly, he brought each leg up, one at a time, and shifted his hands around them. Edward watched the process in fascination.

Mustang took in the sight of his youngest subordinate for the first time since they were separated in the forest. Mustang registered the ropes securing Edward's arms to his sides and the tell-tale signs of bound wrists behind his back. Mustang took in the bindings at Edward's ankles and the coils of rope around his knees.

They probably didn't bind me as much due to the beatings, but still.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Shock flitted across Edward's gaze, and he looked at Mustang incredulously.

"What?" Edward's panic gave way to shock and a tinge of anger. "How can you ask that?" Burning anger flared, "How can you ask that? Have you seen yourself? Just like last time, they barely touch me, and this time you come back with bruises and scrapes and injuries and ask me if I'm okay?! They left me alone, and I had no idea what they were doing! You've been gone the whole time! Do you know how hard not knowing is? How…"

The pause was deafening as the young man struggled to admit the fear that coiled in his chest aloud, "how hard and scary it is not knowing? I didn't even know if you were still alive. The last time I saw you, you were collapsed in the snow, and I've been here alone!"

Edward's voice broke, "and you come back here and only ask if I'm alright? I survived automail surgery! I survived committing the taboo. You should be more worried about yourself!"

The outburst was enlightening and slapped Mustang in the face like a bucket of cold water. He looked over Edward again and the bonds that securely kept him in place.

"How long have you been tied up like that?"

Edward did a double-take. He had just berated Mustang for asking about him, and Mustang hounded him again like a dog at an old bone.

"Look, Edward, I'm up. I'm awake. I'm fine, or I will be fine. Tell me what happened."

Edward blinked.

"You collapsed in the snow, like an idiot. You pushed yourself too far. I only just found you, and I wasn't sure if you were even alive, and then they came, and they dragged me away, and I thought they'd left you!

"They dragged me into their truck, and I couldn't get away, and you were just lying there! You wouldn't wake up, and then the door was closed, and I couldn't get out, and then I woke up here, and you weren't here like you were the last time, and I thought you were dead or left for dead, and it would be all my fault, 'cause you're stupid, and you almost died, and I've been here forever, and they wouldn't talk about you. The guy who comes in wouldn't talk and all, and I thought... I thought..."

Mustang shuffled forward on his knees and gently helped Edward into a sitting position. Mustang also took note of the damp floor beneath Edward's head and inwardly cursed. The room was chilly as it was, and the damp floor obviously did not help as Mustang could feel how cold and clammy Edward's skin was.

Edward's shoulders were shaking, "and I was alone, and the room is cold, and they almost never come, and it's dark. It's dark like the basement."

Mustang shuddered at the memory of the room where he found the transmutation circle before finding Edward, but he continued to help Edward sit and helped him lean against the wall. Once he was sure Edward would not tip over, Mustang then sagged against it himself.

"Hey, hey, Edward. I'm here. You're not in the basement. I know it's not a nice place, but I'm here, and I'm very much alive."

Young eyes met older eyes, and one set began to lose their panic as the other stayed steady.

They sat like that for a while before either spoke again.

"I'd try to untie you, but I'm going to need a minute, and we need to consider their potential reaction."

Edward only nodded, even if he did not say it out loud. Having someone there after a week of solitary confinement was comforting, even if it was the egomaniac.

Only an hour or so after they had sagged against the wall, the door to their cell opened once more. The large man Jimmy entered, and finding the two alchemists propped against the wall, only tilted his head slightly before approaching with the glass of water, pressing it to each of them in turn, and then leaving.

Outside the room and out of sight of the captives within, Damien stood leaning against the hallway wall and smirked. His plan to leave the kid alone and in the dark, both figuratively and literally, had produced his desired results. The kid was frightened, and that arrogant, reckless brashness was slowly chipping away. The older one, after long hours of torture, knew exactly what was at stake, and now with a trembling kid to take care of, he would be much easier to control. For Damien, control, after all, was what he liked best.

The next step of Damien's plan would hopefully whittle down the older alchemist much more than any torture he had been trained to withstand or been through at this point by their hands.

Yes, this one has a weak spot, his subordinates. And now that one of them was a child, who needs more protection than the average soldier, it will be far easier to control him. The man might try to treat the kid like an ordinary soldier, but the kid was still a kid.

Damien smirked. Good luck, dog. Good luck defending your pup.

Damien pushed off the wall and walked away.

Two days earlier, a team of surveyors had arrived in the small town of Yoxequa. The second team from the military held their cover, but despite visiting the town, they found nothing suspicious. Only Envy, still masquerading as Private Dolion, noted the suspicious Herbal Shop, but with a concealed grin, said nothing. Now, two days later, the team moved further south, into the woods south of the town.