Been way too long! AH! Sorry :(

Anyway, lets go over some things:

-This chapter contains religious content. No offense to anyone.

-Implanted throughout the beginning half of this chapter are hidden messages, and if you find them all, then you win! There are five or six, and here's a hint: Italics and to the left

-The ending isn't written all too well. Odd dialogue and bad/unclear transitions. I was rushing through it 'cause I was getting antsy and whatnot. M'bad.

-If you're confused about anything, don't worry! Everything's going to come to light eventually! Or if you ask me extra nicely I might just tell you haha

-Super special thanks to Taranova for all of the help! Really, without her, this chapter would not exist! Seriously, I would have quit! But she didn't let me, and for that, lets all thank her! THANK YOU!

-Please review!

That's it :)

Misery had become his currency for life, his means of day-to-day life. It followed him like an addiction, a damn drug that was so warm in his pretty veins, like the morphine coursing through him.

It was deep inside him, gnawing at his nerves with hot teeth, grinding down the sharp edges of agony to dull blades of pain. Ruining his thoughts. God, destroying his thoughts.

Spotted panthers. The green lion. Crow. Beak. Blue as lead. Blood, there. Where? Everywhere.

Everything was fading away, shooting back, fading away, shooting back. Bright stars danced in his mind, swirling around the black haze of a demonic ash no priest could ever rid him of. They lightened the darkness, wonderfully so, to reveal the peacock's feathers and the rainbow in the sky above.

Ramblings of these visions puttered from his dry lips like hollow nothings. Meaningless words of someone teetering between sanity and insanity.

Yielding and moving, then stopping completely. Up and down, back and forth. Every direction and none at all. Sanity and insanity, the fine line between them was abused and cracked, dead, like him.

Imperfect white and red. Dead like who? Al? No, not dead. Where is he?

Sky above. Liar.

Forever and always. No such thing.

Others fell, too. Then not him.

Red stains on your soul. No no no!

Evidence on your fingertips. Only others. No, not him! Not me!

Vibrant red, the shade of blood. Perfect white and with many others…in bright colors…

Everywhere red. Pale white and black…the substance…the substance…not him!

Remember the pain. False citrine…lies…false citrine…false…not him!

"I'm sorry," he said, words torn as sobs rattled in his chest and tears cascaded down his ashen face.

His hands hurt.

"I had a dream," he whispered to the black-haired man before him. Roy looked in the man's eyes to see red snakes slithering through the snow; the bright fluorescent lights above cast a white glare, giving the man's eyes a glassy, lifeless sheen. For a brief moment, he wondered if he were talking to man at all.

Hell, it would be easier to talk to a doll.

He cleared his throat, his long fingers trailing through his neglected hair. "I had a dream," he repeated, voice still to a careful whisper. "A little girl… She was burning in a fire. S-she was trying to scream, but her lungs had already melted in her tiny chest. They—shit, all of her insides—were pouring out of her mouth."

He paused to see the man look back at him with a deep sadness swirling in his doll-like eyes, and Roy knew his story, though short, had already snipped the delicate strings of fatherly love and care every man possessed.

"Her skin was dripping down on her teddy bear like paint."

Vivid images built in Roy's mind, etching a deep frown on his face, and he noticed his companion sporting the same distraught creases in every feature of his visage. He wanted to forget the dream, but since the hours of his waking, he could not. Speaking of it, he felt, was the only way to let it go.

"But it didn't stain or burn," he added after a shaky intake of air. "The teddy bear, I mean. Even as it laid in her ashes, it was untouched by all that grime."

He shook his head, a humorless chuckle rattling in his throat.

"Ashes. Those weren't ashes, not at all. One big puddle of…of… Fuck, I don't even know. Blood, bones, and organs, I guess."

Roy shrugged, and the man shrugged, too, perhaps in agreement.

"I don't know," he said with a sigh, looking away from the man for a brief second. "I had a dream."

He looked at the man, smiled, and said, "Fuck 'em."

With that, he took hold of the cabinet and pulled its glass top away, revealing three shelves of pill bottles and various hygiene products. He grabbed a stout, white bottle, popped the cap, and palmed two capsules. Taking a plastic cup from the top shelf, he filled it with water from the vanity faucet. With the aid of the cold and crisp water, he swallowed the two pills.

He shut the cabinet door, his visitor returning with a smile creased on his porcelain face. Roy placed his fingers gently on the man's cheek, returning the smile.

"Thanks for listening," he said softly. "I owe you."

Sighing, he turned away from the mirror, his reflection sliding from the glass to appear as a blurred shadow on the wall. There was a black waste bin against the wall, and in it was a bloodstained bandage from the day before; there was a dark mark on his wrist, far from healed. He wondered what his companion on the wall thought of that soiled gauze. It didn't matter, he decided. The day before may as well had been a dream, a dream he was casting away.

On his way out of the bathroom, he flicked the light-switch, and the room—white linoleum, white walls, white porcelain—fell to absolute darkness. He shut the door.

Fake tiles changed to a soft carpet that filled the spaces between his toes like sand. His eyes coasted lazily down the hallway as he tried to decide where to go; he was tempted to stretch out on the sofa, remote in hand, and not give another thought to anything beyond the flickering screen. However, he knew there was work to be done at Central Command. And of course, there was Edward.

His body stiffened as the boy's simple name rose in his mind like a ghostly whisper. The stench of the cell—blood, sex, the burning of sand and skin—met his nose in an odd remembrance of that day.

He had failed, failed horribly. He had promised, swore on his life, to save two souls, and he knew he was barely succeeding in saving one.

"I don't know," he said absently, his breath hot and heavy against his lips. He looked at the brown carpet, saw a dead fly—killed by only the grand laws of nature—nestled between the long yarns. Death seemed to follow him everywhere, cloak him with its black body.

He stared at the small creature, the minute decay of its body sifting through the air to reach beyond the five senses. Death filled his nose and mouth; he could hear the black haze ringing, see it growing, feel it tingling against his fingertips. Beyond those five senses, stretching to a rare sixth, Death found his soul, that intangible myth that made a human so valuable, so easy to destroy.

He shook his head.

Immaculate was the world of his dreams, a world free of the black burns of death and decay. However, a man could not live in such a world, for life could not be without death.

Fetus in the womb, rotting. Death in life, life in death; the never-ending cycle that swallowed the world in every way. He was at the center.

Artists of the past depicted such grand laws, labeled them with care and thoughtfulness, or disdain and scorn. He had seen it.

Imagination, however, could only carry the mind so far when caught between the threads of a canvas. He had seen this as well.

Life was complex, he knew, filled with twists and turns that could not be studied or predicted, known to any extent (much less portrayed in a painting). The only certain aspect of living, if one chose to live at all, was death; the end of the beginning, and perhaps the beginning of the end.

Epitaphs of "true believers" spoke of such promises—acceptance to the celestial realm of God, where man could fly. Those silly engravings spoke of outlandish guarantees of a pain-free, fruitful life beside God and all those halo-crowned creatures. Would Alphonse Elric's stone grant the same promises? He did not know.

Dolorous thoughts cracked his mind deeper as the new name came forth. That boy, does he have wings, like Michael or Gabriel? Does he stand beside God as an archangel of purity and innocence? His snowy wings a gift for all the good he'd done while grounded?

Roy didn't, couldn't, believe in those images for himself. He had never found comfort in religion, though he had sought the scripture of different cultures throughout his life. Regardless of his personal beliefs, he could not imagine that young boy not living past his final breath.

There was comfort, a distant warmness, to believing that boy was in a better place, a place devoid of pain and blood, devoid of all the horrors he had faced while alive.

"Al?" he called out softly, the simple nickname rolling off his tongue with an unexplainable amount of foreignness. "Are you there, Al?"

There was no reply, which Roy expected, yet could not comprehend—when you speak out to the dead, God allows their reply.

The fly was poorly buried—killed only

by the grand laws of nature

He looked at its decaying body between the yarns. Called out again …

"Alphonse, are you there?"

Nothing.

"Alph—"

The phone rang.

He clenched his fists. His fingers burned and ached.

They were red, very red. Bloodstained and so very ugly.

His past, that unchangeable story, was on his fingertips.

It was burning him

Alive.

Burning him

Dead.

He clenched his fists. His fingers burned and ached.

Bloodstained, yet no blood showed.

Hallucinations of the past, that unchangeable story.

Regret? No.

Regret? Yes.

That unchangeable story.

"Pale white and black with false citrine, imperfect white and red . . . "

His hands hurt.

It screamed at him, over and over, desperate for attention. But he found himself unable to do anything other than stand and stare, mouth wide and breath uneven. However, the black phone was relentless in its attempts, as it kept crying out its wailing plea.

The dead couldn't talk - no lips, no tongue, no teeth.

He snatched the phone from its cradle mid-ring and placed it do his ear. On the other side, all he heard was soft, easy breathing.

Time was passing by without any words exchanged, and Roy could no longer think so superstitiously.

No lips, no tongue, no teeth. To talk.

"Hello?" he asked into the receiver, cool and smooth against his cheek.

"Roy, hey, it's me. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that the funeral's at three, Vinton Cemetery."

The voice was both familiar and foreign. He knew the man, knew him well, but there was a strange waver to the familiar voice, something off-putting and irregular. Shaken. Frightened, maybe?

"Maes, is everything all right?" he asked slowly, carefully, as though his voice would scare his friend away into some black abyss.

"Yes. No. Maybe," came the hesitant reply, followed by a deep, ragged sigh.

Roy frowned; he was unaccustomed to hearing that tone from him, of all people. He knew he should have asked, should have questioned why, but he could not, for he knew the venture would be fruitless. The tone in which Maes Hughes spoke was not one for telling tales and stories of the broken soul.

"Well, I gotta go. There's somewhere I'd like to visit," he said instead, gently tapping his finger against his chin. "See you at three."

"Right. Oh, and Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful on the streets. You may be hard-headed, but that can only stop a bullet so much."

Small chuckle. Tone changing, slightly. Lighthearted humor, almost.

"Then I'll be sure to wear a helmet," Roy replied jokingly.

They said their good-byes, and the line went dead.

Careful not to disturb the resting place of the dead fly, Roy went down the hall to his bedroom to change his clothes.

The mirror was shattered, cracked and miserable.

Reflections cast in perfect white, with many others in view.

The peacock's feathers shone brighter than the rainbow in the sky above.

He saw it. It was comforting, oddly, making his heart warm and body relax.

But as he gazed out the window, streaked with old rain, he saw the colors dim to pale white and black.

The gray followed, false citrine also.

The substance came before him. His heart began to race. Sweat gathered on his brow.

The world became a mix of imperfect white and red, no longer pale. A melted vision of hideous brilliance.

The spotted panther emerged and pounced on the green lion. The blue-beaked crow flew away, far, far away. To freedom.

His hands hurt.

Black hands opposite, feuding. Noon, past thirty.

Roy sat in the pew, wooden and carved by skilled hands long laid to rest. He glanced upward; the ceiling was fine granite, decorated with ornate depictions of celestial beings. Angels in the architecture, trapped, wings bound by stone. He frowned, for those angels did not know the liberties of the sky.

Earlier he had been greeted by an unwelcome yearning for a white realm, a place untouched by blackness. He tapped his fingers against his knees, feeling out of place in the holy surroundings. He was a stained man, the black spot in all the pretty white, for the devil had touched his flesh.

Back in his room, his small haven, his mind had been invaded by thoughts and images so bright, yet dark. Triggered by a simple glance to his bandaged wrist, he saw that black angel, thrown from the highest reaches of Heaven.

He looked at it now, that white bracelet of linen, and toyed with it gingerly, mind ablaze with what he wished a dream.

On fire, burning, melting away

No longer could he look at his wrist; instead, he turned to the heavens, where angels could not fly.

To ashes

But his mind still screamed and flashed and reeked of that blackness.

Lungs and heart spewing from an open mouth

He had no answers to the questions that weaved through the images in his mind, and he wondered if anyone did. God, maybe? The angels trapped in the architecture?

That could not scream

"It really is beautiful."

Mute

Roy jerked his head, startled. Standing beside him, dressed in black and white robes, was the priest, eyes turned to the ornate ceiling. A friendly smile spread on the older man's wrinkled face as he turned his gaze down to Roy.

"Don't you think it's beautiful?" the priest asked softly.

"Yes, it's captivating," Roy said slowly, not quite sure how to answer. He did not find the granite scene beautiful, because the artist had depicted the angels as trapped and helpless. But it was captivating, and he could not imagine how much time and effort had gone into creating such a magnificent masterpiece. Captivating, but not beautiful.

"It's good when you can see beauty in things, even though times are dark," the priest said. "It means that your eyes are open and your heart is hopeful. Many people have lost hope and have closed their eyes to a better, beautiful tomorrow."

"Yes, Father," he said, agreeing. His eyes were closed, and his heart too, for he could no longer see the beauty in the world. Not even in God's house.

"My son," the priest said, placing a hand on Roy's shoulder, "things will get better."

"But how? Things are just so..."

"Eyes open," the priest interrupted, "and heart hopeful."

Roy nodded his head, bringing his gaze to his lap. He could not argue with the holy man, could not bring himself to crush someone's beliefs when times truly called for hope. But his problems could not be solved by such mediocre advice.

A silence overwhelmed the atmosphere, choked it carefully with delicate fingers; Roy could not take it, could not stand the silence, and so he posed a very simple question, one that had been looming in his thoughts from day one.

"Father, do you think this is punishment?" he asked slowly, eyes flickering down to his bandaged wrist. During the Eastern Rebellion, he was fond of saying that his punishment would come, that Death would meet him in a crueler fashion that he had met those innocent people. What he had seen in the past few days was far worse than his time spent at war.

However, there came no reply, and at this, he turned to face the robed man, finding him absent from his spot. Roy looked all around him, but could not find the man in sight; he had left, seemingly vanished, and Roy felt somewhat disheartened by that.

He frowned, turning again to study the gray faces of the winged-beings.

For trapping those beautiful angels in cold stone, the world was suffering. They could not fly. They could not vanquish the darkness. They could not open eyes and keep hearts hopeful. The angels trapped in the architecture could not help mankind, and so mankind was falling to ruin.

Black hands together, friends once more. One. Two hours to waste.

He remained in the pew and looked at all the beautiful granite wings and halos, while outside the world fell apart.

Images—memories—built in his mind's eyes: screams, racing for the prize of marriage, blood, hide-and-seek in the woods.

"J-just playing under the r-rainbow in the sky above . . ."

And he could see it, there, shining. All the colors he ever loved, together in a grand arch. The rain had stopped, the sky had lightened, and colors shown in the fair mist. Beneath it all, two boys were playing in the puddles: one hiding under pulled grass and branches, and the other searching, searching, and searching but unable to find.

Never able to find.

Because he's dead.

Ed screamed.

His hands hurt.

Stubble pricked the palm of his hand as he rubbed his cheek, a soft sigh leaving his lips. He felt like he was going to fall apart at any moment. Arms detaching from his body, legs falling to the freshly-turned soil, mind splitting into halves of sanity and insanity. Under the beautiful blue sky. He felt like he was going to fall apart, and he knew that one day he would. And the full sun. Everything had been carelessly thrown onto him, thrust into his hands. Murder and abuse and every dark pit of the human mind. All of it had been left for him to solve, for him to cope with for the world.

It was killing him, poisoning him slowly.

Pretty felt hats drenched in mercury.

People, all wearing black and grim faces, surrounded him (no, the casket, the casket), making him feel uncomfortable and small (and dead). His body stiffened, froze, unlike his troubled mind.

It was all their fault. He knew it was. Could point the finger. At them. All of them.

Yes, yes, his mind had soured during the short hours of the night. The sounds, the screams, the images were all so strong in his head, swirling round and round like a sickening cesspool of human hatred. There was no longer any hope for a grand end of salvation and deliverance; mankind had fucked up any chance of that peaceful ending with its latest doings.

A child.

Hughes looked down at the closed casket, which sat along the opening of nature's deep womb.

A fucking child.

The kid was dead and that was proof enough of humanity's end. Alphonse Elric was dead and mankind would pay for that.

Tears trickled down his face, hesitantly and softly. He had gone far too long without, and he cursed himself for every wet strand that fell upon his cheeks. It showed weakness. And he turned away from the crowd, all wearing black and grim faces, and wiped the tears away. But in the distance, passing under the metal arch of the cemetery's name, was a familiar figure, and he found comfort, though small, as he left the grave to meet the man.

"Hey, man," he greeted, shaking hands and switching into a tight, brief embrace. Roy Mustang was dressed in a fine suit of black, one Hughes knew was reserved only for such dark occasions. Deep lines creased his face, making him appear far beyond his actual age. Worn out and ragged. Drying up to dust.

"I take I'm not late."

"Not at all. C'mon," Hughes said, leading the way back to the grave.

As he stood amongst the few others, Roy realized the artistic beauty of the casket: polished wood, cherry, brass rails along the sides, and streaked with sunshine. It hid the ugliness, protected it from peering eyes. But it was beautiful. And beautifully obvious the artist had bled his fingers dry to create the gorgeous sheen.

The sacred words of the priest fell upon his deaf ears as useless. He was entranced, his entire focus taken by the weaving, intwining black lines on the casket.

When the holy book closed and the crowd dispersed, he didn't notice.

He followed the lines again. Saw past them.

When thick-armed men began to lower the casket and bury it, he didn't notice.

He was stricken with what laid under the lines and the polished wood.

The image burned his mind. Of bone and rotting flesh.

"Roy?"

He had stood still, mind numb from the imagined image, until the men had finished and left, leaving him alone. But at the familiar voice, his mind became aware of his surroundings and he turned his gaze to the man. The sun was setting.

"In a way," Roy began softly, giving a subtle nod toward the fresh grave, "I'm kinda glad he's no longer with us. He can rest now, right? For once, he can sleep peacefully, with no more worries of trying to fix this messed up world. He can just sleep. He can just—"

When glass cracks, it's no longer so pretty. It cracks, then shatters, the pieces scattering in a million sharp shards. They're jagged in their edges with cruel, pointed tips.

They were piercing his flesh, burying in his heart to touch his soul. He could feel them sinking in, quickly escaping as a wet coolness on his face that traitorously betrayed every ounce of dignity in his being.

"Maes, is this my fault? Is he dead because of me?" he asked, head bowed and eyes shut in a desperate attempt to retain his strength. The wet shards slipped by. He hated it, but he wasn't strong enough to grasp them, to hold them back. They stung him. They hurt.

"I didn't stop them, and I knew what w-was going to happen. I knew, Maes, but I didn't s-st—"

A hand touched his shoulder, hushing his broken voice; he could feel the warmth grace his flesh even through the thickness of his jacket. He slowly raised his gaze to meet the man he so fondly thought of.

"I think you should come with me, Roy," came the soft reply, hesitance lining every word.

Boxes of evidence reached toward the white ceiling and loose papers covered Hughes' desk. The room was dim with afternoon sunlight, the bulb having burnt out at some point.

"I've been investigating what happened in the desert."

The office, usually kept so organized and neat, was a box of chaos.

"Of course, what I've been looking most into was the Elric brothers' captivity."

His voice died away, like the light bulb had just faded away to nothingness.

He coughed, lowering himself down in his chair and casually picking up a paper from the desk.

"I know, Roy. Almost everything that happened to them, I know," he said slowly, taking his time to pick out the exact words. If he wasn't careful, he would say it all in one breath, and he worried it might kill the man. Small doses.

"For some reason, the Xing government took pity on the Ishbalans. They took them in and supported them, and after what must have been years of brewing hatred for us, they teamed up. Started building these laboratories in the desert catacombs directly between our borders."

"How many of these labs are there?" Roy asked, propping himself against the desk.

"We're not sure. There are hundreds of the catacombs, supposedly, but we just don't know how many have been converted into labs or where exactly they are."

"Go on."

"Yeah, right," Hughes nodded. "In these labs, they began experimenting with drugs, and to test them they would at first use them on each other, but that got too dangerous. So naturally, they took in a third party."

"Civilians."

"That's right. Just small villages at first, but in the beginning trials, majority of the villagers died. They ran out of test subjects and were forced to go into bigger areas, which just so happened to be in our territory. When this started happening, we were called in. The military, I mean."

"So they were plotting chemical warfare?"

"That's what I think. The drugs they were testing were...cruel. Meant to kill. Meant to cause chaos and insanity."

"They were going to attack us," Roy concluded, absently rubbing his cheek.

"They already did."

The voice that spoke was grim and dark, rough. Roy could hear the bitterness flowing from the usually upbeat man.

"The suicides," Hughes said. "Everyone just killing themselves over night. The tap water everyone was drinking with, bathing with, cooking with was poisoned."

"With what?"

"Devil's Whisper. According to the files, this particular drug had been in production for nearly three years. It makes the user hallucinate and inevitably attempt suicide. Over a dozen people died from it. Only three survived the trials."

"Who were they?"

"A woman by the name of Susette Runa," Hughes replied, looking at the paper he had been holding between his fingers. "She's in a hospital in the north, receiving both physical and mental help. The other person was accidentally injected with the drug. We found him dead in the catacombs, burned alive."

Roy remained silent. He remembered killing an Ishbalan, snapping his fingers to ignite his brown flesh. The stench of burning flesh was still fresh in his physical memory.

"The other survivor was-"

"Ed!" Roy interrupted, eyes wide. "It makes sense now. He was full of that shit when we took him out of the catacombs. We didn't know what was going on, but now it makes sense. While we were taking him back to the base, he snapped. He just went insane and started screaming, grabbed Hawkeye's gun."

"Yeah, I heard," Hughes commented softly after a moment of silence. "Anyway, you're right. The blood samples matched the contents of the vile he was found with. He had been infected shortly before you had arrived. But before then, they used him as a guinea pig for it. They tested him over and over, almost a dozen times. Have you noticed the puncture wounds on his arms?"

"Sadly, yes, I did." Roy turned away from the man, looked up at the ceiling to watch the fan turn. His fists tightened at his sides. "What else did they do to him?"

"Ah, that was the main drug they used on him. They also tested a wide range of sedatives and hallucinogens, a prevention medicine for hyperthermia, even a drug that stops alchemy. They all worked too."

Roy muttered a swear under his breath, his teeth grinding. He had wondered why such a brilliant alchemist like Ed had been held captive for so long and abused so terribly. He had wondered the same about Alphonse.

"Roy, I think you should know that Ed fought back. He didn't go down without a fight. It's all been recorded in his files. They called him a Hell Hound on several occasions," he said, chuckling lightly.

"That sounds about right."

"He gave them a run for their money," Hughes added, letting the paper float back to the desk.

"But what about Al?" Roy asked in a bare whisper. "What happened to him?"

"I..."

Tension rose in the air as the silence grew. The atmosphere changed drastically, and Roy wanted out. He wanted out of the room, into the fresh air, because the walls were closing in and the air was slipping out through cracks.

Not yet.

Roy was still turned away from his friend, and he only heard body movements and button clicks. Then, the protesting crackle of a speaker. He faced Maes at last, but found him walking around his desk and heading for the door.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice ragged.

Maes Hughes closed the door behind him just as a scream came through the mesh grate of the cassette player.

"It's just us, Alphonse. I've decided that I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life. Years from now, long after you've rotted to ash, I'll listen to this. And smile. How. I. Will. Smile!"

"N-no..."

"Now, now, you're going to love me for this. That brother of yours sure did! Speaking of... I bet he's being fucked so hard right now. If you concentrate hard enough, you just might feel the pleasure he's feeling at this very moment."

"Don't...t-tou—"

"I can see it in your face, Al. All of that pain is catching up with you, isn't it? The drug is wearing off. Oh, and I was worried you wouldn't be able to feel this!"

"Stop, n-n—!"

"Ah, fuck, you're so tight. Shit, your brother didn't do his job very well."

"Please, s-stop!"

"You pretty thing, just pretend I'm your dear Edward. Just imagine that it's him inside you again. Fuck! It's a sin to be this tight. We're gonna have to fix this."

"Oh, fuck," Roy said, chest heaving, eyes wide, mind burning.

"No m-more, please..."

"Just relax. This will only take a minute."

One blood-curdling scream assaulted his ears. He could feel that boy's pain.

"God, no."

"Oh, sweetie, how pretty your blood is!"

"Shit."

"Now, let us try this ag—"

Roy slammed his fist down on the control panel in a crude attempt to hush the man's words and the onslaught of agonized screams that had not once faltered. That boy was never meant to scream; he shouldn't have even known how to make such a sound, but there it was, one terrible shriek after another, like some fucking song for the disturbed. And that goddamn motherfucker could only laugh.

"Ed!"

"That's right, Alphonse, that's right! Scream his name like you know so well how to do. Scream his name!"

"Edward! H-Help me!"

Roy sank down against the desk, burying his head in his knees and covering his ears. The screams and the awful words still reached him, terrorized him.

He could picture what was happening, despite only knowing the obvious. It was a bloody afair and knowing that was enough to tear him down.

"Stop! Please! God!"

"You whiny little bitch, just take it."

"Please, please!"

"Little fucker."

Then, the screams stopped, the desperate pleas too. And Roy knew Alphonse Elric was dead in that moment. Whatever had happened beyond the violation of his of body had killed him.

The sounds died away, soft static taking the place of screams and shrieks. It was over, but he did not stir from his pitiful position. He stayed, mind numb, legs unwilling to move.

"Roy?"

The door had opened. Footsteps and voice followed. He didn't notice.

"Roy? Say something," Hughes said. "Please."

He looked up, slowly. His face was red and streaked with tears.

"I'm sorry, Roy. I shouldn't have let you listen to that, but...it was just too hard for me to say."

"I understand," the raven-haired man said in a rough whisper.

"There's a lot you need to know, Roy. I won't lie about that. But some of it is just too much for me, and I've seen and heard it all."

Roy nodded as Hughes sat next to him on the tile floor, and once again, the silence grew. Minutes went by on the clock and there was barely any sunlight in the room. And then Roy had a revelation of sorts.

"Hughes?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you understand what he was saying on that tape?"

"Alphonse?"

"No, that man."

"What do you mean?"

"What he was saying... It was like something had happened between Ed and Al, something bad."

"You mean sexually. Yeah, I caught that," Hughes admitted.

"It was probably just talk, right?"

"Probably."

"Damn, I need a cigarette and a drink," Roy said, sighing, fingers slipping through his hair.

"But Colonel, you haven't smoked in years!"

"I wouldn't mind starting again."

"Well, I can't help you with that, but I do have something else." Hughes looked at his friend, his green eyes piercing the growing darkness. Then he eased himself to his feet and went out of sight. When he sat back down, he held the neck of a glass bottle. He twisted off the cap, took a swig, and passed it along.

"That's fine, Hughes. Quite a catch."

"Hey, Roy, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Just haven't had the time, I guess."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Do you think Ed knows about Al? That he, y'know, passed?" Hughes asked, swallowing a large gulp of the amber liquid.

"God, I'm not sure if I'd prefer for him to know or not."

"I guess we'll cross that bridge later then. Here." He passed the bottle. Roy took a sip and passed it back.

Back and forth the bottle went until the stout glass was only moist and the room was dark.

No more worries.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, Major General Hakuro. He's dead. They tried all they could to save him, but the cuts were too deep."

"Shit, that's not what we need now," he muttered, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. The room was suddenly smaller than it was. The stately banners on the wall seemed to fall from their place.

"Sir?" the yound man inquired.

"What, General?"

"Someone has to take his place, and you're the only one with the qualifications, not to mention the rank."

"You're right," he said.

"What about the public, sir? Do we tell them?"

"No, don't tell them the Fuhrer's dead," he said, lowering himself in the plush chair behind the executive desk. "We don't need that information leaking out to the enemy."

"Yes, sir."

The room seemed larger than it was, and the stately banners set themselves right in their place.

Like I said, ending ain't that great, but hey, something's better than nothing!

Again, special thanks to Taranova! If you like Mizer, then you will definitely LOVE her fic Blue! I certainly do! It's like readable crack!

So yeah, please review :D
PS: Think you found all of those hidden messages? Post 'em and I'll message you with the answers! I think it'll be fun lol There are only five, unless I missed one or two lol
PSS: Remember, if you're confused about something, you can either: 1) rant about all the plot holes and whatnot, though this is not preferred 2) ask me about it, 3) go on a zombie killing rampage, or 4) wait it out until you get answers in following chapters. The choice is your's. Choose wisely. XD

Thanks!