FMA Big Bang 2

[xeviscerax]

Chapter Two

There were only three people in the back of the ambulance, but it seemed like more. The sirens sent a howling shriek into the darkening city, shoving aside those on their way to their homes, bars, warm soft beds. Inside the ambulance, however, a battle of life-or-death was being played out before wide, staring eyes the color of rust.

Hawkeye didn’t know what to do with her hands. Ed was lying on a gurney barely a foot in front of her, and the urge to reach out and at least hold his hand was almost a physical ache. It lay there beside his bony hip, limp and lifeless and tipped with bloody nail-beds, shattered beyond use. Could Ed, in his unconsciousness, even feel the pain anymore,or was he so far beyond it that not even the feeling of broken bones grinding together could register? Her own hands balled into fists in her lap, eyes unable to look away.

She was a trained gunman, a sniper, the ‘Hawk’s Eye’. Her hands were her weapons; seeing Ed’s reduced to nothing but meat on the end of his arm threatened to make her ill. How much pain had he endured? She couldn’t begin to imagine, and tried hard not to.

The medic hovering over Ed’s prone body was trying hard to keep a steady hand as he pumped air into Ed’s lungs with a respirator. Riza wanted to ask him any number of things, but she was not given to losing her head in a crisis. It was one of the qualities that had allowed her to get to where she was now, and asking redundant questions just to hear the sound of her own voice would go counter to that carefully-honed patience.

It was clear they had found Ed just in time; if they hadn’t discovered him in that dilapidated hospital when they had, he would have surely died within hours. As it was, he still may not make it. The medic was grim-faced as he worked, checking every few moments for Ed’s pulse, face grimmer each time. And still, the siren wailed.

Eventually, the ambulance slowed and turned. Hawkeye looked up from Ed’s ruined hand as the medic jumped past her to slam open the doors. He wasted no time hauling on the gurney, and when the driver came around the back to help, they had wheeled him into the hospital before Riza could even jump down to the pavement. She hustled after them, past bustling orderlies and nurses in their squeaky, crepe-soled shoes. They shot her disapproving glares over their shoulders, and Riza couldn’t tell if it was her or the uniform they were glaring at. Neither mattered. She was locked onto the sounds of squeaking wheels transporting precious cargo like a dog on a scent, until they pushed beyond doors that even her uniform couldn’t get her past.

She stood before the still-swinging doors, watching the backs of the medics grow smaller and hearing the squeaking grow fainter with each thumping whoosh of her racing heart. It wasn’t until a hospital matron tapped her sternly on the shoulder with a pen that she snapped back to the reality of the moment.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t go in there,” the woman said with a firm frown, sounding anything but sorry. Gray hair held in a severe bun at her neck accentuated the sharp angles of her face, giving an almost reptilian cast to her features. Riza thought of the sand lizards that had populated the desert of Ishval.

“I understand that,” she managed to say, almost devoid of any prompting from her brain. “However, my commander ordered me to follow after and get as much information on his condition as possible.”

The woman looked affronted and seemed to stand a bit taller, though still short of the Lieutenant’s military posture.

“We have a suitable waiting room just down this hall, back the way you came.” The matron’s eyes narrowed, which made her appearance even more reptilian. “I’m sure someone will be out to speak with you as soon as possible.”

With that, the woman turned on her heel and strode back the way she had come with almost military precision. Rather than be offended at the brisk dismissal, Riza strode on stiff legs to the waiting room. It was nearly deserted, holding only a harried-looking man with a small boy draped over his lap, fast asleep. The man ignored her, instead staring fixedly at the clock above the entryway, although it was hard to tell if he was actually seeing anything.

Hawkeye took a seat a few chairs down from the pair and settled into a straight-backed, vigilant pose. She wasn’t about to think that any news on Ed’s condition would reach her any time soon, but she knew if she let her guard down, if her mask slipped just that little bit, the gravity of the situation might just make her snap. Instead, she fell back on her military training. She was a soldier first and foremost. A soldier could ill-afford to let their emotions get the better of them.

Even as she thought this, Riza knew this was different. She had been to battle. She had been to war. She had seen dead bodies, on both sides. She had seen men and women torn to shreds, lying pale and still across the sandy, gritty streets of Ishval. She had heard the dying screams of children. It was war, she told herself. It was how war was; there was no changing it, no dressing it up to be anything but what it was: Systematic slaughter. She was a sniper, a cold-blooded killer.

But she was also the woman beneath the uniform. She was a confidante, a friend. Sometimes she felt almost like an elder sister to the men she worked with on a daily basis. She was sometimes a teacher, and always a student.

Looking down at her killer’s hands, Riza wondered when things had stopped making sense. This was no war.

The prisoners were being detained on the main floor, in what had once been the main receiving room of the hospital. It was no surprise to Havoc that the Colonel was heading in that direction. He followed behind his commander, occasionally shooting dubious looks at his back before glancing down at his hands; he didn’t know when, but Mustang had donned his gloves and was unthinkingly clenching his fingers. Sparks fell to the grimy floor, completely unnoticed by the one making them.

Havoc may not be the smartest among their small posse; that fell to Falman. He didn’t have the keen eye for military strategy, like Breda. He hadn’t been serving alongside the Colonel nearly as long as Hawkeye. What he did have, however, were good instincts. It’s what had kept him alive long enough for Mustang to notice him, to bring him into his fold, and keep him as one of his most trusted subordinates. And right now, Havoc’s instincts were telling him that there was about to be a major breach of military protocol once they reached their destination.

The Chief’s losing it, he thought to himself, once again staring at the rain of sparks falling from Mustang’s gloves. The corridor was eerily silent but for their marching foot-falls and the rasp of ignition cloth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this pissed except when he was going after Hughes’ killers. Then again, I can’t blame him. Seeing the kid like that...

Havoc frowned and clenched his own fist at the thought of how they had found Edward. It was obvious what had been done to him. Just the fact that he was still alive was a miracle in itself. He felt his own anger rising up, and an itch began to build in his trigger finger.

Which was exactly why he was nervous about Mustang wearing his gloves. If he went into that room with the intent to use them, he knew there would be little he could do to stop him. In his present emotional state, Havoc wasn’t entirely sure he would want to; just because he knew it would be against military regulations didn’t mean he didn’t want to see the bastards burn for what they put the poor kid through.

Thinking back on the horrific scene they’d stumbled upon just made him more angry, so Havoc instead focused on the Colonel. He may not have been under his command as long as Hawkeye, but he did know the man well enough to read what little emotional weather his usual stoic mask let through. His usual stride was almost a stroll, and almost always, his left hand was casually stuffed into his pocket, shoulders hunched just barely enough to pass as military posture.

That usual air of cocky arrogance was nowhere to be seen in the purposeful, predatory march he was having some trouble keeping up with. His head was lowered slightly in a determined glower that would send anyone ranked lower than a Major running for the nearest latrine. The blood marring his face, hands and pristine white shirt only added a feral edge to the picture he presented.

If Havoc had been a braver man - or Hawkeye - he might have tried to talk some reason into the Colonel. He might have told him it was unwise to confront the dissidents so soon after their capture. He might have at least asked him to remove his gloves before he demanded to be let in to see the captives, nearly frightening the poor sentry standing guard at the door into pissing his fatigues.

Havoc wasn’t brave enough to have that glare turned on him, and he merely followed his commander into the room, ignoring the looks his rumpled appearance garnered. He was not without his fair share of bloody evidence, although he tried hard not to think about it.

Mustang made it easier by attracting all of the attention, when he strode up to the nearest detained prisoner and hauled him from the floor by his shirt collar. The guards took a step back from the scene, and Havoc noticed several unsteady hands reaching for sidearms.

The unfortunate prisoner, who had his own bruises on display, cried out in surprise as he was slammed into the wall, causing a rain of dust and tile to fall from the dilapidated ceiling. Mustang ignored it, as he glared into the stunned man’s eyes.

“Who was it?” Mustang practically growled, clenching the fist that was not holding the man to the wall and causing another shower of sparks.

The captive man merely blinked and stuttered, somehow conveying that he didn’t know what he was talking about. That earned him yet another slam against the wall, and another dust-shower. He blinked desperately against the grime and nervous sweat running into his eyes. It was clear this man was beyond terrified, and would be no help. Mustang let him drop to the floor in a pathetic heap and watched him try to scramble backwards in the dirt. Havoc wouldn’t be surprised if the man had wet himself .

Mustang stalked down the line of captives to the next, picking him up and giving him the same treatment as his predecessor. The same slam against the wall, and the same question. This time, there was an answer; not with words, but a quick flick of the eyes over Mustang’s shoulder.

Like a hound on the scent, Roy turned his full attention on the lone captive leaning against the far wall. None of the other men captured with him seemed to want to sit near him, which didn’t seem to faze the man in the slightest. He was bound as the others were, with wooden stocks around his wrists and ropes holding his arms to his sides, but he was watching them with a detached amusement one might see on the face of a child watching a dog chase its own tail. When he saw the two soldiers looking in his direction, an eerie smile grew over his face.

There was dried blood covering his clothing.

Havoc knew the exact moment Mustang snapped. It wasn’t his first sight of the blood. It wasn’t even the way the man proudly jutted his chin upwards.

No, it was the wink that did it.

Before Havoc or any of the guards could even think to stop him, Mustang was across the room, fingers poised to snap, aimed directly at the man’s head. Every single detained man cringed from what they knew was coming. This was obviously Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. There was not a person in Central, military or otherwise, who didn’t know his name and title, if not his face.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” said alchemist hissed, stopping mere inches in front of the man, who didn’t seem at all concerned that his head was the target of one of the most powerful weapons in the entire Amestrian arsenal. “I ought to turn you to ashes right here and now!”

“Well,” the man said, and the mere sound of his voice against his ears made Havoc’s skin crawl. “I certainly can’t stop you. By all means, Flame Alchemist, snap away.”

Even from across the room, Havoc could hear the sound of Mustang’s gloves creaking. Every muscle in his arm was clenched with the wanting to set the man aflame. He was looking at the bound man the way he imagined he would have looked at Hughes’ murderer, if he’d ever come face-to-face with them. It was pure, uncensored hatred.

Mustang’s fingers tensed, one small snap and the man would be nothing but a pile of soot and ash.

A harsh clanging resounded through the room.

“He may not be able to stop you, Colonel,” a new voice intoned, “but I can. Just what is it you think you’re doing?”

The voice carried the weight of long-held authority, which snapped every soldier but Mustang into automatic attention. Mustang looked up as he lowered his arm, though the gleam of hatred never left his eyes.

“Major General Abrams,” he acknowledged.

The General reseated the sheathed sword at his hip and stepped fully into the room. All of the guards, Havoc, and even Mustang, saluted the man as he assessed the rooms occupants. The look on the older man’s grey-bearded face was not impressed. He gave Mustang a cursory head-to-toe inspection and frowned even deeper.

“What’s the meaning of this, Colonel? It’s not like you to look so... rough.”

Mustang dropped his salute and looked down at himself. It was true, he did look a bit harried, but circumstances being what they were, he felt he should hardly be held to military dress code.

“Sir, with all due respect, there are reasons for my appearance being what it is.”

“I’m sure there are, Colonel, but that’s a moot point. Why did I just walk in on you about to execute a detained man?”

Mustang’s rage was building, and Havoc was not looking forward to the moment the pressure seal broke. He could feel sweat beading on his brow and silently begged the Colonel to remember himself before he got them all court-martialed.

“General, I have reason to believe this... man... is responsible for the capture, imprisonment, and torture of Major Elric.”

“Indeed?” the General inquired. “Well, I’m sure you have proof of these allegations, or else why skip the trial and verdict and head straight for the execution?”

“Proof?” Mustang boggled. “He’s covered in blood! Blood that does not belong to him! The only person in this entire building to sustain injuries sufficient to cause that much blood loss is Fullmetal! What further proof do we need?”

Though the Colonel never raised his voice beyond a respectful vehemence, there was an edge to it that Havoc could tell was threatening to boil over into something else.

General Abrams seemed to mull his words over as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Hmm, possibly. Though we don’t know anything for sure. That’s what the courts are for.”

“Courts,” Mustang hissed, “are merely a waste of time.”

“Interesting opinion, Colonel, and you’re entitled to it,” Abrams said, leveling him a stern look through steely eyes, “but the State will decide his guilt. You, however, will hand over your gloves and your sidearm and leave these premises immediately, before I have you thrown in the brig for assaulting a captive prisoner. Am I clear?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Mustang would not only defy his orders, but roast the General along with everyone else in the room. Gritting his teeth, he stripped his gloves off one finger at a time before surrendering them to the General’s aide, followed by his rarely-used pistol.

With a stiff bow to the General and a parting look of pure loathing at the still-grinning man on the floor, Mustang took himself from the room, brushing past Abrams without a backwards glance. Havoc saluted and followed his commander out of the room, jogging slightly to catch up to the man’s furious pace.

“Sir, where-?” was all he had time to say before Mustang cut him off.

“Find us a car, Lieutenant,” he said. “I don’t care if you have to take the General’s. We need to get to the hospital.”

“Yes sir, but Colonel-”

“What, Havoc?” The way Mustang whirled on him made Havoc flinch back.

“N-nothing, sir! I’ll find a car right away!”

It wasn’t until they were on the road that Roy took stock of the evening. Fullmetal was found, finally, after months of searching, investigating. He was found, but not safe and sound, as they’d hoped for, and not dead, as they’d feared.

Somewhere in between, the grey area of being relieved, and yet horrified, that he was still alive. Was he still alive? Had he even survived his discovery and subsequent rescue, or had he succumbed in the end? What a sick, sad irony it would be, for Edward to survive his months of captivity, only to run out of time just when salvation had come.

What did they do to you, Fullmetal? Roy asked the phantom in his mind’s eye.

Don’t touch me, he wanted to say.

He wanted to scream it. Even with all the strength he could muster in his pain-wracked body, it wasn’t enough to make the words come out. His throat, raw and bleeding from the force of his earlier screams, protested even the thought of forming sound. All he could do was whimper as the jostling of the gurney and the doctor’s rough handling aggravated his wounds. From what he could see through the red-sticky mess of what was left of his hair, he was back in the hospital. His eye rolled wetly in its socket, the only motion of negation he could safely make.

This wasn’t right. Mustang found him, didn’t he? He couldn’t be here. This couldn’t still be happening. They found him, they did! He knew they did!

Didn’t he? Or was it all just a dream? Just a way for his subconscious to cope with what was really happening. He knew this was real, at least; the pain was too great for it to be anything other than reality. So he was back here, and it was going to happen all over again.

“Nnnh!” Ed rolled his head to the side, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His eye rolled up, but all he could see was a dark shadow above him that seemingly ignored the monumental accomplishment of his throat allowing any sound at all. Things were moving too fast; they usually waited at least a few days between interrogations. He couldn’t do this again, not so soon.

“He’s starting to come around, Doc,” a voice sounded from somewhere above him.

“Damn it, I was hoping he’d stay under. Alright, hustle, people!” The gruff voice sounded strained, and seemed to come from right above his face. Ed didn’t recognize the voice, but that meant nothing. It wasn’t like he’d tried to get to know his interrogators.

The gurney gave a thumping jolt as it slammed into a pair of swinging doors. Ed couldn’t help but cry out, and immediately began choking on blood from his torn vocal chords. Pain blossomed anew through his skull and pulsed down through the rest of his body. He felt every bruise, scrape, laceration as his body fought for breath.

Dimly, Ed realized he was choking on himself. A strange sort of peace suffused him, even as he choked and sputtered and sprayed red liquid across the arms restraining him; he was going to die here, finally. The pain would go away, and the burden of holding onto the secrets they had all but killed him for would be lifted from him. He could finally rest.

“He’s choking! Get an air tube in him, now!” That same gruff voice barked orders like a drill instructor. And why not? It was the military that did this to him in the first place.

Ed bit down on the plastic tube being forced between his jaws, but it was a weak effort and it went down regardless. There was another panicked moment when it seemed it would go down the wrong tube, but it slid effortlessly down his throat and into his windpipe. Suddenly he could breathe again, the black fog suffusing his brain banished for the moment. Ed couldn’t tell if he was grateful or not.

Suddenly, he was in a room so bright he could feel the weight of the light. His eyes were closed against the harsh illumination, but bright star-bursts flashed behind his lids. This was new. He didn’t remember it being this bright before. It was always dark; always. He almost preferred it that way. It made it easier to look away when he couldn’t handle the snarling, jeering faces of his interrogators. It made it harder for him to see how much blood he’d spilled.

This must be a new trick, he finally realized. They must have discovered this one last defense against their methods. Ed decided, this time, that even though they wouldn’t get his secrets, this would be the last time they questioned him.

There was a flurry of movement around him, and Ed found himself hoisted up from his gurney and deposited, almost gently, on a table directly under the brightest of the lights. He screwed his eyes shut further, and although it split the gash across his face open anew, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing the look in his eyes. They had taken away his most useful tools when they removed his automail, but he wasn’t as helpless as they wanted to believe. He still had most of his teeth, after all. The ones that mattered, anyway.

If he wasn’t mistaken, biting one’s tongue in half was one of the quickest ways to bleed to death. He only hoped he had enough presence of mind to spit it into their faces before he was done.

A sudden, harsh pinch on the inside of his arm startled him into flinching, his eyelids fluttering dangerously close to opening. After a brief moment, he realized what it was; an I.V. Despite his resolve, his eyelids flew open in sudden, irrational betrayal. The bastards! They could put anything they wanted into him now! He’d heard of the chemicals interrogators used to pry secrets out of spies. He’d read about them in his research; even Hughes had once confided to him of their existence. Is that what they were planning to use to force his secrets from him?

With sudden, panicked strength, Ed thrashed against the hands that had, up until then, only lightly been restraining him. He nearly overturned the bed before their grips tightened, forcing him back down. Shouts and the sound of a metal tray crashing to the floor followed, but Ed was too panicked to pay them any heed. His eye shot to the needle embedded in the crook of his elbow, the clear plastic tube that ran to a bag that could be full of anything. He wrenched his body away from it in an attempt to pull the needle free, but there was too much slack. All he did was cause his injuries to protest and remind him that, even if he did somehow manage to get free of the drip, there was no way he was getting free from the bed or his captors.

A wail of helpless desperation fought its way up his throat, but the breathing tube never allowed him to make a sound. He began choking again, bringing his shattered hand up in a useless attempt to pull it free. All this accomplished was to punch himself in the face and the breathing tube to jostle painfully inside his throat. More hands appeared from nowhere to hold him down against the bed and pull the tube from him before he could injure himself further.

“Get him sedated!” the barking voice was ordering. “He’s going to kill himself if he keeps this up!”

Yes! Ed remembered his resolve. Now that the breathing tube was gone, it was no longer a hindrance. With a feral snarl, Ed bared his teeth, stuck out his tongue, and clamped his jaws shut as hard and as quickly as he could.

The pain was excruciating, but nothing he hadn’t endured before. The spurt of blood in his mouth hit the back of his throat and started him choking again, but he fought against his own body’s instincts and allowed it to drain down his throat. With any luck, maybe he would drown in his own blood.

“Shit, he bit his tongue! Get his jaws open!” This time, the voice sounded less gruff and more horrified.

Fingers pried at his mouth and jaw, pinching, pulling and scratching his gums raw. The blood welled up in his mouth and began leaking from between his teeth like gruesome paint. If he could just hold his jaw shut for a few minutes more...

A slow, heavy weight began to tug at his consciousness. Ed shook his head in a helpless negative; the bastards must have sedated him. It was getting harder to keep his jaws clenched. A sharp pinch to the sides of his jaw had him loosening just enough for someone to slip their fingers between his teeth and wrench his mouth open. Blood gouted from his tongue and down his chin before a soft, absorbent wad of gauze was stuffed into his mouth to stem the flow. Ed floated in the ether as the doctors assessed the damage.

“He only broke a few vessels, thank God,” one said in obvious relief. “If he’d bitten down any harder...”

“Why did he do it at all?” asked the gruff voice that most of the others seemed to heed. “I’ve been doing this job a lot of years, and I’ve never seen anyone try to kill themselves after their life was saved.”

There was more said after that, but Ed’s head was too heavy to pay much attention. He let himself drift into the dark, tranquil sea of chemically-induced indifference, hoping that when he woke up (if he woke up), that last thing he heard turned out to be true.

Chapter Three