Hello everyone, here with a new chapter... I sincerely apologize for not updating sooner, but school has been really crazy and it's taken me a long time to get settled into a decent schedule. Unfortunately, studying and homework comes before writing. And we're going to be tearing up all the carpet in our house (except in my room) and replacing it with wood... Which also might detract from my writing time.

Anyways, enough rambling. I need to get this posted so I can frantically work on other stories before I have to go back to school tomorrow.

(P.S. I can't thank all of you enough for the support. It's really helped motivate me into writing new chapters for this story. So you all should pat yourselves on the back, 'cause you're awesome!)

Rouse, absolutely petrified, stumbled along as he was roughly guided forward by the small patrol of Cretan soldiers. Every now and then, the soldier behind him would push the cold, metal muzzle of his gun into the back of Rouse's skull, emphasizing that if the Amestrian soldier so much as took a step out of line, he would have his brain matter all over the scraggly grass at their feet.

Meanwhile, they had tightly bound Ed's hands up. It was unclear if they knew his ability to clap to transmute, but they certainly knew he was an alchemist.

It was also quite clear that, even if they didn't have a clue about his clapping transmutations, Ed wouldn't be able to move his hands freely at all for quite some time.

Or fight, either, for that matter. The commotion had woken him up, but the amount of blood that he had lost, on top of his injuries, meant that he wasn't exactly at peak condition. Two soldiers kept prodding Ed forward in front of Rouse, and he could tell that the kid was losing strength fast. He kept tripping up and nearly collapsed to the ground numerous times. But the soldiers were in a hurry, so they just forced them both onwards at the fastest pace they could go.

Eventually they reached a small base, where they were quickly ushered in. Rouse's hope that an Amestrian squad would see them and come rescue them from enemy hands slowly crumbled. They were in the midst of enemy territory in some obscure, sheltered building. They were likely both marked as MIA… Or worse, KIA.

And he got the sick feeling that the latter term would definitely be applicable after a week in this accursed place, at most.

Ed, meanwhile, could hardly feel a thing. His arms and legs were like noodles, and his head felt all light and fuzzy. He had figured out that they had been captured by the enemy, but that was about all that his mind was processing other than 'god my back hurts like hell'. And then their surroundings were lit up with artificial light.

Were they going down stairs? He was pretty sure they were.

He didn't know where Rouse was, either. That made the logical side of his brain worried, but it took a lot of energy to be worried.

And then they stopped moving. It was cold, but he was grateful to be able to sit down.

Why did his hands feel constricted?

He looked down, finally noticing the rope binding his wrists.

Oh.

Well shit.

What was it that Teacher had said about unbinding rope aga-

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp flare of pain in his rib. He could just barely make out the form of a person leaning over him… Then he'd probably been kicked by this guy? He didn't really remember doing anything to upset the man, but then again, he had plenty of people out for him.

"Douchecanoe," he uttered at the blurry thing he thought was a person, his words slurred. It was the best insult he could even think of at the moment.

Ed thought he heard a voice, right before another flare went up on his face, and then the back of his head when it hit the wall.

Rouse struggled against his captors, panicking at the sight of Ed being pummeled into the floor. "Leave him alone! He's just a kid; leave him the hell alone!"

He winced as the soldiers shoved him down onto the floor as well, quivering as the gun was pointed at his head while they worked on tying him to an iron ring on the wall. They barked guttural Cretan at him and Ed before walking away, back up the stairs from which they had come.

"Hey… Hey, Ed?" Rouse whispered hoarsely, quivering slightly.

No response. The dull gold eyes are trained straight ahead, and the young alchemist is swaying and his head keeps bobbing.

"Ed..!" He calls, louder this time.

The glassy eyes shift towards the fuzzy noise, blinking slowly. Was that Rouse? Looked and sounded like him, but damn did he feel sluggish. "Mm, wha' is it…?"

Rouse sighs in relief. "Ed, we got captured by enemy soldiers… We need to get out of here, quick."

Edward's face is blank as he repeats the words in his mind, attempting to translate them.

Then it hits, and a slight scowl appears on his face. "Yeah, 'kay… I'll figure somethin'… Out…"

His head bobs dangerously low as his eyelids droop.

Why is he awake? He could go to sleep. He could get a nice, long rest.

Wait, no. He has to help Rouse. Help them both to escape.

But that could wait. He would only rest for a little bit before waking up, be a badass, and formulate the most epic, well-constructed escape plan that the world had ever seen.

Yeah, that sounded good. Rouse wouldn't mind at all, then, if he fell asleep. Which is exactly what he did.

Rouse watched, panic rising again as the young prodigy fell unconscious again. He attempted calling Ed's name multiple times, without even a fraction of success.

He slumped in resignation, staring hopelessly at the ceiling.

-FMA-

Mustang coughed violently, convulsions wracking his cold body. The Cretans had beaten him bloody, persistently asking about battle strategies, formations, the location of the main base camp.

Naturally, he had refused to speak.

Also naturally, they weren't too pleased by his silence.

They had pounded him, kicked him, and whacked him until his uniform was drenched with blood spots. Then they had torn off his shirt, beating him more and eventually breaking out knives.

Yeah, that hadn't been the most enjoyable experience in the world. But at least his body had been numb enough to endure the slicing and stabbing with only relatively minor discomfort.

Then a man had run into the room, whispering something to the leader.

The leader, the first Cretan Mustang had had to put up with, suddenly smirked, holding up his hand to halt the others. His contempt eyes had settled upon his prisoner, reveling in his handiwork.

"Sorry to disappoint, Flame Alchemist. It seems we have some new guests of honor that I must attend to. But don't worry, you'll be seeing me again quite soon."

He chuckled to himself before turning and walking out of the room, followed by his lackeys.

Mustang had then fallen half unconscious for a few brief moments, but was awoken by the freezing cold. The blood and sweat were magnifying the chill, greedily sapping the warmth from his skin.

His head lowered as his teeth chattered.

Whoever the new 'guests of honor' were, he felt terrible for them.

A dark part of his mind coyly put out a brief thought, which Mustang hurriedly shoved away in disgust.

"That's just fine. Let them torture the others, nice and slow, so that they won't come back here. It's me or them."

He stared blankly at the floor before closing his eyes.

He would attempt to sleep, even if he was uncomfortable. He got the feeling he was going to require all the strength he could muster, and soon.