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Chapter 8 - If I Were Brave

The hot water pounded down, blocking out all sound and streaming over his body, washing away blood and sweat and tears. Tucker tightened his fingers against the tiles, taking deep, slow breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It wasn't working. It still hurt. Would probably hurt for a while. And he could stand here all day, washing Envy off his body, but he could never wash out his mind. And the memory made him burn with fury and shame and it wouldn't - go - away -

His fingers tightened so much that his Automail left cracks in the wall of the shower stall.

One day, he would kill Envy. He /would/. He really would . . . one day.

***

It was a long time before he could bring himself to leave the shower; when he finally did his flesh fingers were wrinkled and swollen from all the water. And even after he dressed himself (gingerly, because damn it, he still hurt), it was a long time before he could bring himself to leave the room.

The place he and the Homunculi resided in was a good-sized house in one of the seedier parts of Central, a house whose previous occupants had mysteriously vanished a few weeks before he'd moved in with the others. Now he steeled himself at the door of his room, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hall, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he did.

But nothing happened, and he relaxed marginally. He tensed, though, when he heard footsteps coming toward him. Stiffening, he turned to the corner, ready to dart back into his room at a moment's notice.

But it wasn't Envy who came around the corner, sniffling and shuffling his feet. Tucker relaxed again. "Gluttony? What's wrong?" Because the rotund Homunculus looked very unhappy, huge shoulders hunched and one large finger in his mouth. Gluttony stopped and looked at him with his round, white eyes.

It was perhaps a little strange that out of all the Homunculi Tucker served these days, he should get along best with Gluttony; but prior to the switch, Tucker had spent the majority of time with animals and small children, and Gluttony was a little of both. And Gluttony was easy enough to make friends with: as long as you gave him food periodically, you were on his Good list.

"Lu-ust . . ." Gluttony whined, looking at the floor and shuffling his ridiculously small feet.

Tucker cocked his head to the side. "What about Lust? Where is she?"

But Gluttony just shook his head and shuffled off down the hall. "Lu-ust . . ."

Tucker scratched his head. This was definitely odd. For some reason Lust held the key to Gluttony's greedy little heart; if Gluttony was this upset she must have gone off somewhere. But where to, that was the question . . .

Caution wrestled with curiosity, and curiosity won. He crept off down the hall, just hoping he wouldn't run into Envy, and pressing his hands together to ready a transmutation in case he did.

But again he was in luck; when he rounded the corner he saw Sloth sitting in one of the armchairs. Sloth's appearances were sporadic, to say the least; unlike the others, she and Pride had public images to maintain. Pride, in fact, never came here at all; Sloth acted as his liaison to the other Homunculi. If she was here, it probably meant she had a message from him.

He approached her, cautiously. She had never been hostile to him - or to anybody, for that matter, not that he'd seen - but something about her unsettled him deeply.

She looked around slowly - everything she did was always slow, fluid, expending the least possible energy. "Hello, child," she said calmly, in a flat voice devoid of any emotion.

"Hi . . ." he moved forward a little. "What's going on?"

She held up a piece of paper in answer. "Orders. Investigate a doctor in the North who studied the Stone. Lust and Envy left earlier."

"Ah . . ." Tucker shifted his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lip. ". . . when will they be back?"

"Don't know."

He nodded, turning around to head back to the workroom. "Good . . . good."

***

Roy Mustang was not having a good day.

He was behind on his paperwork - well, that at least was normal - but he had barely slept in days, and that /wasn't/. He had chalked it up to an inexplicable bout of insomnia and hadn't given it much thought; these things had a tendency to just pass by. But when the general walked in on you napping, it got to be a bit of a problem.

And then there was Melissa. Part of the reason he'd been getting so little sleep was her calling at all hours of the day and night. Honestly, some people. They'd only gone on one date, and now you'd have thought they were married. She certainly seemed to think she had the right to annoy the hell out of him whenever she wanted, something that Mustang had always thought to be the wife's prerogative - one of the reasons he so judiciously avoided marriage. (Another reason was his fear that, as it had with Maes, marriage would fry his brain utterly and send him over the edge. He hoped to maintain his mental facilities a little bit longer than that.)

Maes . . . that reminded him of the call last night. Edward and Alphonse would be arriving today. He wondered when they would get here. He wondered what sort of mood they would be in. He wondered how long it would take to get Ed worked up into a tantrum. (Ed-baiting was Mustang's favorite game, and his skills had only sharpened over the years. He guessed it would take about five minutes, this time.) And, because he was Roy Mustang and suspicion was his modus operandi, he wondered what had been the cause of that strange tone in Maes' voice when they'd spoken the night before.

And then he realized that that was probably why he never got any paperwork done - because he'd spent the last five minutes just staring at the wall and letting thoughts drift across his mind. He probably could have gone on longer, too.

The phone at his desk rang. "Yes?"

Lietuenant Hawkeye sounded much more awake than Roy felt. It would have annoyed him, but he figured there should be someone on his team who could function properly before 9 AM. Without coffee, even. The woman had skills. "You have visitors, Colonel."

He groaned. "Is it Melissa again? Because if it is, then you and Havoc are authorized to use deadly force. I'd even take care of the paperwork for you."

Hawkeye didn't laugh. He'd probably have been rather frightened if she did. "It's not Melissa. I'll send them in."

Less than three seconds later, amid cries of "Wait, Brother, slow down!", Edward Elric threw wide the doors and stormed into Mustang's office, blue eyes flashing over the dark circles under them. His clothes were in a state that suggested he'd slept in them, his hair was tousled and messy, and he looked rather in need of a shave. He also looked furious.

Edward marched right u to the desk, Alphonse trailing apologetically in his wake, and threw a stack of papers onto Mustang's desk, "Did you know anything about this!?"

Mustang raised his eyebrows, then looked down at the grainy photograph on top of the papers. Black hair. Automail. Ouroboros.

Oh, no.

***

The train steamed north, and Maes Hughes drifted in and out of sleep for a while, until the sun got high enough to shine right in his eyes, and his neck hurt from the awkward angle of leaning against the window.

Maybe it had been a little rash: to just take off first thing in the morning, with barely a word to Gracia - he did feel guilty about that, she deserved more of an explanation. But . . . but he couldn't explain this to her, really. He was having a hard time explaining it to himself. But he had some leave set aside, and Roy had ponied up the information readily enough, and . . . and he had to do /something/. What happened last night had really unsettled him. It still felt weird, remembering it . . . that kiss, fierce and clumsy and desperate - and it occurred to Maes that it may well have been Edward's first - stuck in his mind like a splinter. Ed needed his help. He had to do /something/.

He'd go crazy, otherwise.

And Gracia, bless her heart, didn't press him. She trusted him, probably more than he deserved. She was a smart woman, smart enough to know when to let Maes do what he felt he had to do, and when to grab him by the shirttails.

He smiled slightly just thinking about her. There wasn't anyone else like his Gracia. When he got back, he'd have to make it up to her. Maybe with a romantic candlelit dinner - one of those fancy restaurants, down by the lake . . . an evening out on the town, followed by a night in . . . his lips curled into a smile at the thought. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, drifting off again as he drew nearer and nearer his final destination.

***

Mustang looked up at Edward, for once speechless. Edward was trembling with fury, the lines of his body rigid and his teeth clenched tight. "Goddammit, answer me!" he shouted, clenching his fingers into fists as Alphonse hovered confusedly in the background.

"Brother . . ."

"Shut up, Al," Ed snarled fiercely, cowing his little brother, "He knew about this. He must have." He turned back to fix his furious glare on Mustang. "He knows /everything/."

Mustang took a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly and looking up, meet Ed's angry blue eyes with his own calm black ones. "If I had known, Edward, I would have told you. I didn't know."

"I don't believe you!" Ed's voice was full of emotion, anger and desperation and things that hinted that he was reaching his limits. "You know everything that goes on, I can't so much as sneeze without you knowing about it, you bastard Colonel, so how the hell couldn't you know!? About this - about the Stone - why didn't you tell me . . ." Ed's voice trailed off, becoming less angry and more helpless with each passing moment. Though Roy only had half an idea what Ed was talking about, he could see clearly that the man was obviously upset, stressed, utterly exhausted, and very angry - a dangerous combination in any man, but especially so in one with a powerful alchemical gift. Under the desk, Mustang pressed his fingers together, just in case this did indeed get ugly.

Alphonse, however, could always be counted upon. Resting a large gauntlet on Edward's shoulder, his voice was calm and gentle when he spoke. "Brother . . . please. You're . . . you're starting to worry me."

Some of the tension went out of Edward at his brother's touch: his shoulders sagged, he let out his breath in a long, unhappy sigh, his dusty-orange bangs falling into a face that looked nothing other than tired. "I'm sorry, Al . . . I just . . . I don't know what to do . . ."

Mustang watched as Ed sank into one of the chairs by the desk, and he was left with the distinct impression that, had the chairs not been there, Ed would have folded right down onto the floor. Alphonse's hand didn't leave his brother's shoulder as the elder Elric did his best to regain his composure. Mustang laced gloved fingers together and rested them on the desk, waiting patiently. It took a few minutes, but when the Full Metal Alchemist met his eyes again, his gaze was steady.

"I think," Mustang said calmly, "that you had better tell me everything that's on your mind, Edward,"

***

Some time later, Ed sat back in his chair, sighing heavily and crossing his arms over his chest. It was a while before anyone spoke.

It was Al who broke the silence. "I think what we want, Colonel, is a little time off."

Ed growled, not looking up. "Like a couple years . . ."

"Brother, please . . . I know you want us to investigate things for you, Colonel, but . . . this is personal. And since evidence suggests that Tucker and his acquaintances were trying to create the Stone . . . well, we'd still be investigating leads, wouldn't we?"

Mustang smoothed his bangs off his forehead only to have them fall obstinately into his eyes once more. "Well . . . this is a lot to think about. However . . . " he looked at Ed's face, saw the exhaustion and the almost-despair that hinted at a major breakdown, and soon. "I think it's best left alone for tonight. Obviously you two are tired and stressed and you could benefit from a good night's sleep."??Edward made a face. Of course they were tired, it was Mustang's damn fault for sending them out on all those damned useless missions . . . but the prospect of rest, real rest, after the day and night they'd had, sounded too good to resist. It was physically impossible to sleep comfortably on a train. He'd been on enough of them to know. So he just nodded mutely, and Mustang went on.

"Good. Your usual room at the dorm is still available. Report back to me tomorrow at thirteen-hundred hours, sharp, and we'll discuss this. Dismissed."

Ed nodded courteously, then got up and walked quickly out of the office. Alphonse looked at his brother, then back at Mustang. He looked as worried and apologetic as a suit of armor could possibly look. "Thank you, Colonel," he said, bowing quickly, before hurrying after Ed.

Mustang sat back in his chair, and started sorting through the stack of papers Edward had left. Some of his questions had been answered, but new ones had been raised in their wake. Why hadn't he known about this? He held up the blurry photograph of Tucker that Ed had shown him. He'd been honest when he said he hadn't known anything about Tucker's whereabouts - but if the military had had this photograph, why hadn't he known? He made it a point to know everything that might be important to him, especially where the Elric brothers were concerned. It bothered him that he hadn't known this - it was the sort of thing he ought to know.

And there was something else bothering Ed. Something he didn't want to talk about. Mustang was pretty sure it didn't have anything to do with Tucker or the Stone, because Ed was mature enough to know that withholding information of that nature was detrimental to himself and his brother - so it must be something else. But Mustang had no idea what; all he knew was that it was bothering his alchemist, his ally - his friend, if ever he or Ed would admit to it - and he didn't like it.

He studied the photograph, looking at it but not really seeing it anymore. His mind was far away . . .

***

It was past midday, not that Tucker could see it. The workshop was in the basement, and he hadn't left it since his conversation with Sloth that morning. He'd spent the morning hunched over the worktable, and it was hard enough sitting there for hours, working through what seemed to be an unanswerable riddle; remembering in graphic detail exactly what had been happening to him the last time he'd been in this room . . . that made it even harder.

Eventually he stood up with a sigh and collected all his notes - or as much as he could carry - and headed up the stairs, depositing them on the coffee table in the living room - not as big a workspace, but at least it was warmer and better lit and didn't have such unpleasant associations in his memory.

He'd left some of his notes and equipment down in the basement, though, it had been too much for one trip - and so he headed back down the stairs once more.

He blinked in surprise. He'd only been upstairs for a minute, two, tops, and in that small window of time Gluttony had snuck (as best as a . . . Tucker supposed 'man' was as good a word as any . . . of his stature could sneak) into the basement. Tucker saw him reaching over the desk, stuffing his broad, grinning mouth with the shards of red stone Tucker had taken from the site of the experiment.

"Hey!" Tucker exclaimed, "Get away from there! I need those!"

Gluttony looked up and actually pouted at him. "Don't wanna."

Tucker sighed. "Please, Gluttony, I need those so I can do my job." For some reason this conversation felt very familiar. "I'll find you something good to eat later, okay?"

Gluttony shuffled his small feet and stuck an overlarge finger in his mouth, looking at the ground. "Okay . . ."

Tucker darted forward and gathered the remaining bits of stone before Gluttony could change his mind. He also snatched the few remaining notes, his compass, the books he hadn't gotten on the first trip, and carried his load back upstairs. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the couch, ready to work - but he soon found himself stalling. Instead of getting back to work, he found himself rolling one of the larger stones between his teenage-boy fingers, feeling the tingle of warmth and power that it sent dancing up and down his arm. It may have been merely a cheap imitation of the genuine article, but the red stone was powerful indeed. Luckily Gluttony hadn't got all of it.

He sighed and held the stone close, examining its scarlet depths, as if it alone could give him some piece of mind, as the minutes ticked by.

***

"Papa, will you play with me?"

He sighed and turned around in his chair, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "I can't right now, baby. I've got to finish this."

She pouted, sticking out her lower lip and looking at him piteously. "But I wanna play with you . . ."

He spread his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, Nina . . ."

She sniffled and turned to go, toddling slowly. He could always tell her mood by the way she walked. This was not a good mood. Had she been a dog, like Alexander, her ears would have been back and her tail between short little legs.

Tucker bit his tongue, then called after her. "Nina . . ."

She turned around to look at him, and those blue-green eyes melted his heart all over again. He spread his arms and smiled gently. "Come here."

Her round little face broke into a delighted smile. She ran to him and he lifted her up and hugged her tight, feeling her little arms wrap around his neck as she nuzzled him like an affectionate puppy. He sighed, but it was a happy one this time. "I love you, Nina. I'll play with you soon, I promise."

She pressed a clumsy kiss to his cheek. "Love you too, Papa."

***

Tucker curled his fist around the little stone, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Nina . . ."

He tried not to think of her. Really, he did. Because when he thought of her, not only did it make him miss her, it made it that much harder to cope with his life as it was now. It made him remember that it was his fault, and no one else's, that he had this body and kept this company, (or more to the point, that this company kept him) . . . if he were to be honest with himself, he'd admit that there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't think about what might have been . . . if he'd been successful with the transmutation - or if he'd killed the Elric boy instead of switching bodies with him - or if he'd been caught by the military police instead of escaping into the dubious protection of this gang of Homunculi - or . . . if he'd been brave . . . brave enough to do the right thing, for once in his life, to take care of Nina instead of trying to sacrifice her to his own needs . . . brave enough to not only want to take care of his daughter, but to act on that desire . . .

He'd always told himself that he was the victim, that he never had any choice, that he did what he did because it was the only thing he could do . . . but in moments of clarity he knew that to be just another lie. There was always a choice - and always, without fail, he made the choice that was easier, that better served his own needs - he was never brave, because he never chose to be.

And the sad thing was that he would never be brave. Because he knew himself too well. He knew he would always choose tot take care of himself, no matter what. Any other concerns were secondary. Even his own daughter . . . he hated himself, because he knew that was true, he knew it . . . and he knew with equal certainty that that would never, ever change. He was a coward, through and through; always had been, and always would be.

But he couldn't stop himself from wondering what might have happened if he'd been braver . . . Could have. Should have. Would have. But not Did.

No . . . never Did.

***

It was getting dark when Maes Hughes reached the little farm town Roy had sent him to. There were still a good number of people about, though, wrapping up their day's business, and they were willing enough to talk to him. The uniform commanded respect, and his smile insisted upon friendliness. And when he introduced himself by way of showing off the latest batch of photos of Nina and Elysia, for some reason that led people to like him even more. Or at least, consider him to be not much of a threat. Either worked.

They said they didn't know any Marco, but when he asked for the doctor, they all pointed him to the small, unassuming house on the edge of town.

As he approached the house, his way lit by the vanishing rays of twilight, it occurred to him that he didn't have much of a plan. He'd come here because he was so desperate to help Ed and Al somehow, and talking to the world's foremost authority on the red stone seemed like a pretty good place to start . . . only now did it occur to him that there was little chance Marco would talk to him, and an excellent chance he would get shot - Marco had absolutely no reason to trust anyone in a blue uniform, photographs notwithstanding.

Still, he'd come this far, he had to follow through . . . nevertheless, the fingers of one hand curled around the spade he kept hidden in his sleeve, as he raised the other hand to knock on the door.

***

Tucker looked up from his work and saw Sloth standing by. He blinked in surprise. "You're still here?"?
She turned to look at him evenly. ". . . Yes." She didn't add anything. Tucker sighed at himself for forgetting - with Sloth, you had to learn to phrase questions like these.

"Why are you still here?"??". . . It's my day off."

"Ah." He went back to his work. Sloth continued to not move. After a while he looked at her again. "Could you go somewhere else? It's bothering me to have you standing there."

". . . I don't want to."

"Why not?"

". . . Too much effort."

He sighed again. He wondered if Sloth was this lazy because she was named Sloth, or was named Sloth because she was this lazy . . . it made him think. He felt a thought forming in his mind, one that he could see bits and pieces of, but the outline still obscured. Pride was a leader of men. Gluttony was an eating machine. Lust was . . . well, she was Lust. Envy . . . liked hurting people. They all fit their names to a tee, and he'd never bothered to wonder at that - that these Homunculi would just happen to fit their names exactly? Or did the names shape them, give them form and direction - and if so . . . weren't there supposed to be seven?

Yes, he was almost sure of it . . . he looked up at Sloth. "Aren't there supposed to be seven of you?"

". . . Yes."

"Where are the other two?"

". . . I don't know."

"Huh." Tucker sat back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. There was more to this than he already knew . . . it was definitely worth pondering.

***

Ed slept late the next morning, for the first time in what seemed like ages. When he woke up, once he remembered that he was in an East City dorm and he had nowhere to be until the afternoon, all he wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep. Which he did. Quite happily.

When he finally did get up, it was almost noon, and Alphonse was gone. There was a note pinned to the inside of the door, though. Al had gone off to wander around the city, and he hadn't wanted to wake Ed. That was fine with him, he thought as he went off to the bathroom to shave. He needed the rest, and he figured it was good for Al to go off and have some fun every now and then, without him.

Just cos his big brother was a stressed-out would-be basket case didn't mean Al had to be dragged down, too.

He shaved his face methodically, slowly, unhurried and doing his best not to think of much of anything yet. Because he'd found - especially lately - that once he actually got to thinking, his thoughts tended to be unpleasant. Thoughts of their mother. Thoughts of the night everything changed - or the nights everything changed, Ed reminded himself as he looked at the face in the mirror, there'd been at least three. Thoughts of the Stone. Thoughts of Hughes . . .

Ed shook his head, which was a bad idea because he cut his chin when he did. He was doing it again . . . he sighed and dabbed at the cut with a bit of tissue, then finished shaving. He combed his hair before tying it back into a ponytail. He'd tried the whole braid look, but for some reason it just didn't look right with this face. He put on some fresh clothes and then curled up in bed again, this time with a book, as he waited for Al to come back.

***

Tucker woke up slowly. He didn't hurt, exactly, but he had the distinct feeling that he would hurt if he moved.

He had fallen asleep over his notes; his head was pillowed on his flesh and blood arm, his legs curled under him, and his mouth was dry and bad-tasting. He blinked a few times and, against his better judgment, lifted his head.

Immediately his neck began to protest. It was quickly followed by his arm as blood flowed back into areas it hadn't been able to reach, and his leg put up a similar fuss when he moves slowly up onto the couch.
?Trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.

"Hello, darling."

Tucker gave out a little yell and feel off the couch. He looked up and saw Lust reclining on the couch, watching him calmly with her slitted eyes. "Sleep well?"

"You . . . you're back . . . "

She nodded.

"Is . . . is Envy here, too?"

She nodded again, and Tucker felt a leaden weight drop into his stomach. "He's around here somewhere." She smiled warmly, reaching out to help him up onto the couch. "Don't worry about him. What have you found out?"

He took a deep breath, trying to pus Envy out of his mind as he reached for his notes. "Well, I think I may have actually made a breakthrough."

She crossed one leg over the other and gazed at him intently, resting her elegant chin in one gloved hand. "Really?"

"Yeah . . . there's supposed to be seven of you, right?"

She nodded. "Yes . .. there were seven of us, at one point; but they tell me there hasn't been a Wrath for decades, and Greed's been sealed away for even longer than that."

"Sealed away? What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure . . . you would have to ask Envy."

Tucker shuddered. "No thanks . . . anyway, I've been thinking about that, and I'm thinking that it needs all seven of you to work properly. The transmutation, I mean."

She cocked her head to the side, raising a lovely eyebrow. "Go on, my dear."

"Well, uh . . . I mean, you're named after Seven Deadly Sins for a reason . . . you're meant to be a group. You all need to be together, because that's the only way for it to work . . . You al have red stone in you, right?"

She nodded. "Yes . . . it makes us what we are. Makes us strong. Our master gave it to us after we were born."

"Right . . . now, if a human ate red stone, nothing would happen. There's something in you reacting with it, making you strong and immortal and . . . " his gaze flicked to her hands, to her impossible nails. ". . . and able to do the things you do."

"So you think that whatever makes us react with the red stone . . . would help make the Philosopher's Stone?"

"I think so. I mean, I don't know for sure . . . but I think it's a pretty good shot. And it didn't work because there were only five of you before. The exchange wasn't enough, and the transmutation fizzled. I think if there were seven of you, and we had a human component, a sacrifice at least as big as the last one . . . I think it could work."

She smiled and stroked his hair. "Excellent work, darling. I will contact our master and suggest it to her." She reached out and stroked Tucker's face. "Get some sleep, beloved. You've done very well."

He closed his eyes and nodded, then stood up slowly. "Yeah . . ." He started to walk away slowly, limping on his right leg, which was still half asleep, and every step sent pins and needles into his flesh.

When he made it back to his room, he checked it carefully first, to make sure there was no one lurking, under the bed or in the closet, or behind the door. Finding no one, he locked the door carefully. He sank down onto the bed, and after a while, he slept. Only as he was drifting off to sleep did it occur to him that he didn't ask how Lust and Envy's trip North had gone.

***

When Al came back from his wanderings, it was to find his brother sitting up in bed and reading and eating a takeout lunch. Edward's spirits seemed much improved, which made Alphonse feel very happy.

"You seem to be feeling better, Brother," Al commented, as they walked down to the headquarters, to meet with Colonel Mustang again.

"I am feeling better," Ed replied, smiling. "I mean, things aren't perfect, but . . . right now they just feel easier to deal with. You know?"

Al would have smiled if he could; instead he laughed softly. "Yes, Brother, I know. We still have problems, but it doesn't quite feel like the end of the world anymore, does it?"

"Yeah, that's what it feels like." Ed put his arms around Al's waist, and even though he couldn't feel the hug, the gesture made him very happy. "Thanks for putting up with me, little brother."

Al put an arm around Ed's back, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. "You're welcome, big brother. Believe me, it's not as hard as you make it sound like."

Ed smiled slightly. ". . . Thanks, Al."

When they reached headquarters, Lieutenant Hawkeye sent them on in to Mustang's office. She seemed in a good mood, even treating hem both to a warm smile. That made the contrast even more startling when they walked into Mustang's office.

The Colonel was sitting hunched over his desk, and he didn't notice them when they walked in. He didn't even look up until Ed slammed both hands down on the desk. "Hey, Colonel, wakey-wakey! . . . What's wrong?"

Because the Colonel definitely didn't look like himself as he raised his head to look that them. His face was even paler than usual, and there was an unsettling redness in his eyes, under which there were dark circles.

Ed's voice was concerned, now; Al knew his brother didn't exactly like Colonel Mustang, but it felt wrong to see him like this. He didn't like it, and he could tell Ed didn't, either.

"Colonel . . ." Ed swallowed, beginning to be afraid. "What's happened?"

Mustang looked at them - or more accurately, looked through them; it seemed as if he didn't see them at all. When he spoke, it was in a voice that sounded utterly dead. ". . . I received a phone call this morning. From Central." He took a deep breath, swallowed, and met Ed's eyes.

"And?" Ed whispered, as if afraid of what Roy would say next.

"Ed . . . Maes Hughes is dead."

End of Chapter 8