Chapter Text
Mustang drums his damp fingertips against the slick, ruined leather of the steering wheel, skin sticking softly as he lazily turns the wheel, car gently moving in turn with the motion, gravel popping and cracking under the worn wheels of the car. Not for the first time since heading out into the desolate, unpaved roads, saved only by a few scattered broken down wells, rusted by rain and dirt, and the occasional small cottage nestled within the alcoves of trees, he is grateful for his insistence on an old military vehicle and not his own. He didn’t even want to imagine the metal of his car stained with such muck.
The car jolts as it crests over a small mound of who knows what lodged in the pathway, and he tightens his grip on the wheel, easing the car over the bump as the engine rumbles. Next to him, Havoc adjusts his seating, cigarette between two fingers as he pulls in a long puff of air with half lidded eyes. Ash sprinkles down from the cigarette butt and over his lap, dotting the stark blue uniform fitted against his Second Lieutenants legs, and Mustang wrinkles his nose at the burning scent of tobacco that attacks the back of his throat.
He doesn’t know why Havoc smokes them, and he would ask him to quit if it hadn’t been a military owned vehicle loaned out for missions such as these. Still, as Havoc blows out a puff of smoke, Mustang resists the urge to wrinkle his nose and snap at him to open a window.
Havoc is bored, plain and simple, and Mustang can’t find it within himself to fault him. They’ve been on the road for two - no, three hours, Mustang corrects himself with a muted sigh, and the damp heat outside, coupled with the sightless road and the ridiculous aura the mission they’ve been sent on carries, he almost wishes he had his own bad habit to keep him occupied. Neither he nor Havoc are much for small talk, and with how much time has passed, he’s sure they would have run out of things to talk about.
They could discuss the mission, rehash what is needed and go over the finer details once more, but that conversation has been had more times that Mustang cares to admit and he feels that if he discusses it one more time Havoc just might put his cigarette out on his tongue.
Not that he would blame him, anyway.
Mustang had to bite back his own urge of unparalleled violence when the shoddy file passed his desk just a day prior, thin with a bent paper clip attached to the corner, the bold-faced Amestrian dragon and fancy, flowy font staring up at him from his knotted wooden desk. It was unassuming, short and simple, yet hand-delivered by a squirrelly Lieutenant who refused to look him in the eye, shuffling his booted feet and causing quite a bit of disturbance as Mustang tried to glance over the file.
At first, Mustang paid it no mind with a halfhearted read through, allowing his thoughts to wander beyond that of work, of what he planned for his Saturday, nearly as antsy as the soldier in front of him to get out the door and back to his apartment. Even with the personally delivered piece of paperwork, Mustang wasn’t worried. Duties like inspections, town check-ups, and needless complaints were often delivered in such a manner, if only to ensure they made it to their superiors and were solved as quickly as possible.
However, as his silver eyes darted across the words with a hurried motion, Mustang could feel his eyes roll into the back of his head and his foot begin to rap impatiently against the patterned hardwood. The Lieutenant seemed to sense his irradiation, and tensed his shoulders, licking his lips nervously as Mustang looked from him to the document glued to his hands.
Coniston was a small town of neutral standing, a few hours from command, who only ever graced the attention of East City for their farming contributions, and most often, when they didn’t bring in their normal quota of barley and wheat. Mustang remembered it purely because of a farm inspection he had gone on years prior to ensure their crops were up to snuff and to approve the funding they had petitioned East City for for better farming equipment.
He thought that perhaps this was another inspection, though it wasn’t the season for such grains, and was irritably correct when the words “ complaints of squatters in a broken down farmhouse, local police requesting military assistance. Use of taboo alchemy suspected” glared up annoyingly at him from the paper in his hands, slightly bent against his desk. Normally, while a nuisance, Mustang just sent his own nuisance to handle them. Unfortunately, the Major that held such a title, his ever popular Fullmetal Alchemist, was off on his own little quest a few towns over despite Mustang’s qualms about splitting the brothers up, as Al wanted to stay and research a lead found in the library.
In the end, Edward managed to wear him down like he always did, and the boy was off.
Which meant the task of wayward alchemists was up to Mustang and whoever he chose.
So, with Havoc next to him in a rented car, Falman and Breda following close behind him, kicking up dust and gravel as they traversed the pebbled roads, he could only hope this would be in and out. Spending his Saturday in dress blues in the damp heat was not what he had in mind.
“Musing much?” Havoc drawls from where he sits, shaking his cigarette, and Mustang realizes his face has been pulled into a deep scowl. Any other instance, pointing out such a thing would have pissed him off to no end, but Havoc means no harm. Instead, Mustang blinks with a heavy sigh, slacking his features into a half grin, eyeing Havoc.
“Just wishin’ that damn kid was here to do this instead.” He says simply, voice a slight shade of amused.
Havoc barks out a laugh, light smoke wafting from his mouth as he pulls the cigarette from his lips. It’s the most noise Mustang’s heard in the last hour, and he jerks the wheel ever so slightly in surprise with a muffled curse, engine beeping in protest to the jarring movement. Havoc seems to have paid no mind, sucking in another breath from his cigarette as his laughs die to chuckles.
“Damn Colonel, normally I ain’t a fan of making the Chief do the dirty work, but after sitiin’ in this heat for hours, I’m wishing the same.”
The car shakes as Mustang guides it over the piles of gravel, and he takes a glance in the rear view mirror to check on the others still following close behind as a hint of a genuine smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “All we need is a bit of heat to drive out your morality, eh?” He quips, screwing his eyes to see through the cloud of dust the car has picked up. Yes, Falman and Breda are still close behind.
Havoc blows out a puff of smoke, and the scent of fumy air is sudden and rancid, and Mustang puckers up his face. “More like burn it out.” Havoc mutters with a sigh, leaning back in the ruined leather seat. Mustang feels the comment is incredibly ironic considering his habit.
Between the brief conversation and the amount of smoke Havoc has breathed in, the air takes on a foggy musk, slightly wavering and stinking of tar. Mustang thinks if he lets the man continue much longer, it’ll be difficult to tell the smoke sticking in the inside to the tattered leather from the clouds of dust kicked up from the tires. Mustang pulls in his own breath to speak, and the acrid stuff hits the back of his throat, causing a sputter of coughs to erupt, grating, rough, and tasting of burnt wood.
His Lieutenant sends him a look at the sudden flurry of coughs, flicking the cigarette. Mustang feels his eyes water with both the lack of air and too much smoke, and he waves a hand in front of his face, pressing a bit on the gas. The car reves.
“Havoc, man,” he coughs, wiping an eye. “You gotta toss that damn thing out.”
He tries to keep the irritation from his voice, after all, this is the first time he’s asked, but he wishes Havoc would pick up on occasion that not everyone wants to smell his stinking cigarettes all the damn time, but his tone still seeps of annoyance normally reserved for the unruly.
The man blinks, slightly baffled, looking down at the stick of tobacco burning in his hand. “Coulda said something sooner.” He mutters, reaching down to grip the handle to roll down the window. The rumble of the engine is louder as the window cranks downward, the gathered smoke wafting out into the wind, and as Havoc cranks it back up, Mustang trains his eyes back on the road as Havoc leans back and begins chewing his lip.
The sun glares through the windshield, heat dancing on his fingers, and Mustang picks up the pace.
***
Sweat is heavy on his brown, salt dripping from the tips of his nose and stewing in his armpits. Mustang tugs at his dampened collar, pulling the sticky fabric from his skin as he trudges through the weeds, boots crushing into the grass and dirt, his moist jacket twisting tight against his skin as he moved. If the heat in the car was bothersome, being outside is nearly insufferable as the sun beats down oppressively from above. If they threw a bit of sand in there, Mustang would have felt like he was back in a poor parody Ishval.
He doesn’t dwell on such thoughts, though. Instead, he focuses his attention on his men plodding alongside him through their own torrent of weeds and branches equally sweating and suffering, and the looming brick barnhouse in front of them that represents the finishing line for their subpar quest. It’s definitely abandoned, Mustang can tell that much, with the crawling ivy and overgrown paths, but still sanding well.
Besides the lack of care, it is also obvious to Mustang that the local police of Coniston have not bothered with their own investigation. Unless he found himself to be an idiot, and Mustang felt very strongly after his years of service he was not , no one had been down here for days. There were vestiges of an old path, grass crudely cut and flattened, but it was highly likely no one had been around her for ages, and certainly not when the complaint was filed.
Damn townsfolk, he thinks bitterly to himself as he crushes down another weed, sweat dripping from his face. He wishes for the second time that day that Edward was here to raise hell and return with a half-assed report.
Still, he keeps his mouth shut, and hurries as best he can on aching feet to the door of the barn.
“Finally!” Breda crows, looking worse for wear, face red and panting as they finally stop, leaning against the stone bricks. His jacket is undone and hanging, exposing his undershirt as he uses the edge of it to wipe his face. “Though I’d die of heatstroke.”
“Heatstroke is very unlikely.” Falman comments, gesturing to the canteen hanging from Breda’s belt. “You’ve been consuming an ample amount of water.”
At that, Breda scowls, and Mustang lets himself chuckle as looks over to Havoc, who is examining his gun. Mustang brings his hand to his own gun, strapped to his hip, running his fingers alongside the smooth muzzle, embracing the brief breeze that runs through the air, lifting his head to meet it with his eyes half closed. Havoc reholsteres his gun with a snide remark Mustang doesn’t quite catch, and the buzz of voices increases as he joins the squabble.
A moment or two later, as he catches his breath and wipes his brow with a dirtied sleeve, slightly cursing the military for such ridiculous uniforms, Falman raises his gravelly voice an octave.
“Men, we should keep it down.” He insists, shifting his eyes about like a worried deer. “We don’t know who is here. We can’t alert them to our presence.”
He looks expectantly towards Mustang, who rolls his shoulders back with a sigh and leans against the corroded bricks. Falman isn’t wrong, he knows, part of the reason they trucked all this way up instead of bringing the cars was to insure a bit of secrecy if need be, but Mustang really doesn’t feel there is anyone there. The building is oddly silent, save for the ambience of nature, overgrown and tossed about, and there is no indication anyone has been here for ages, police or rogue alchemists. While glad, he can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance towards it.
Wasted my damn Saturday for a useless trip.
“There’s no one here, Falman.” He says aloud, clucking his tongue. “Look around. The grass is all overgrown and there aren’t any footprints.”
Mustang says it kindly, but Falman still looks slightly rebuked, and Havoc gives him a pat on the shoulder with an amused grin. Breda splashes his face with water from his canteen, taking a swig while running his fingers through his freshly wetted hair.
“What’s the point of us being here then?” Breda grumbles out, water dripping from his eyelashes.
The question is hypothetical, and Mustang takes no time to answer it other than a mild glance in his direction and a swig from his own canteen. He allows his men to rest a bit longer, insisting on drinks to avoid the threat of overheating, even with Falman’s instance on the unlikeness of it all, Mustang has seen too many men fall by the wayside from it, before tugging on a dampened, embroidered glove. He is thankful that, even in the humidity, his alchemy will still work.
Not that he thinks he’ll have much use for it.
Still, even with the unlikeliness of conflict, Mustang still keeps his hand at the ready, and his men still keep their guns drawn and pointed low at the floor. He enters first, hand poised and raised, the other right alongside his hip just in case the damp air is too much, and he slowly pushes the wooden door open, it creaking in protest as he does so.
The inside is dark, bathed in a natural, muted light as the sun streams through the wooden planks above, and Mustang surveys, raising a hand to keep his men at bay for a moment. The barn has been modified on the inside, by alchemy, he can tell, from the faint transmutation marks on the walls and floor, and the interior is a glaring contrast from the outside. It’s empty, yes, but rather clean, with concrete floors instead of the dirt he had been expecting.
And, in front of him, is a short hallway. Mustang gives a brief glance to the right, but it's just an empty room, that much he can tell, and to his left there is nothing but empty space. He creeps forward, hand at the ready, carefully placing his boots soundless on the concrete, twisting his head every which way.
Once he is inside fully, he swallows, urging his men forward.
“Hello?” He calls out, voice low. “Anyone here?”
All that answers is a scurry and the sound of clicking nails.
Rats, probably.
They advance. Havoc has his gun pointed, watching Mustang’s right as the pad down the hallway. Breda is at his left, finger brushing the trigger of his handgun. Falman watches his back, surveying for any folks that might have tried to sneak around to attack from the side. Mustang’s calvary skirt swishes as he walks, boots quick but quiet against the floor. Inside the bar, with the absence of the breeze, the heat is even more oppressive, and he licks his lips as his body feels suddenly heavy with the weight of the air.
Something twinges at the back of his mind that it isn’t just the heat that has suddenly made him wary.
The hallway opens up to a room, more brightly lit and slightly messed, the family sights of horse stalls on both sides. Mustang furrows his eyebrows as they fan out, examining the stalls. Horse stall doesn’t really fit it anymore. They’ve been modified, the normal wooden structure reinforced with metal and glass, the latched gate replaced with a sliding door. The normal opening where a horse would hang its head has been patched with bars, clipboard hanging from some.. The skittering sound increases.
And there is an awful, pungent smell Mustang thought he would never smell again.
He’s tossed back. He’s young again, heart ramming against his ribs with sand in his hair and mouth. The sun beats down against his scalp, sharp and burning, and he’s wrapped in his white overcoat that blocks the worst of sunburn. His boots kick up sand and he can’t swallow because his throat is so dry he’ll taste blood, and that smell is overwhelming and filling every bit of his nose, bathing his tongue and watering his eyes.
He blinks, and he’s in the desert, and something is staring back at him, tall and lanky and uncanny, beady eyes bright glaring sun.
Mustang’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t quite breathe, and blood pounds in his head.
“The hell is that smell?”
Havoc’s repulsed tone breaks through. Mustang blinks again, and the desert vanishes, replaced with the abandoned barn. His head hurts, and he swallows against the dryness in his throat as his heart thumps painfully against his ribs.
“Damned if I know.” Breda grumbles in response, covering his nose. “Smells like a stinkin’ skunk.”
Mustang shakes his head without thinking at Breda’s comment, stepping forward on legs he didn’t even notice were shaking. The stench is no skunk, he knows, as he strides towards where he heard the skittering, towards a stall with a hanging clipboard. He wishes it was a skunk. Mustang chews the inside of his cheek, biting down hard enough to draw blood, heart rate rising to a painful rate, lungs aching with lack of air he refuses to breathe.
The smell worsens, and Mustang hopes that the watering in his eyes is a result of that. He can feel his men’s eyes stalk alongside his back at his sudden break from formation, still and unyielding yet bottled with confusion. Mustang wants to explain, but he can’t, he just can't until he knows, until he sees with his own damned eyes if he’s right.
He makes it to one of the stalls, blurred with his tears, and glances over the edge and through the bars.
Familiar, beady eyes stare back, perched in a skinny, matted face, bony body attached to long stilted legs.
Mustang feels the blood drain from his face as he suddenly feels faint. He catches himself before he can fall on the door to the stall.
He tries to breathe.
His throat is tight, and his vision blurs.
“The fuck is that thing?” Havoc hisses, suddenly at his side, but Mustang can hardly hear him. The blood is pounding in his ears and the world is swarming, voices muffled and blurred like they’re underwater. His grip on the stall is painfully tight, but he feels that if he lets go his knees will buckle and he’ll collapse on the floor below. He can sense a hand on his shoulder as he gasps for air that just won’t seem to get into his lungs, and his shoulders are tense.
“It’s a Maned Wolf.” Falman answers, far-away and distant yet too close at the same time. “They’re native to Ishval.”
The word reverbates in his head, knocking around his skull. The hand on his shoulder is gripping and tight, and he can feel his fingernails dig into his palms. Mustang’s thoughts spiral as Falman continues to speak.
Ishval. Maned Wolf. Ishval. Ishval.
He never wanted to see one of those damned animals again.
There is a sharp pain in his head, and it takes Mustang a moment to realize that its him causing it, and he’s knelt against the floor with his hands pressed to his temples like he’s trying to crush his thoughts. He can’t see, or maybe he can, but nothing will register beyond flashing images of fire and blood and blackened skulls spilled across the ground and those animals running across the sand on lanky legs with charred limbs in their mouths and -
“Mustang. Mustang. C’mon, man, you gotta snap outta it. C’mon, Roy. It’s ain’t Ishval. You’re not there.”
Mustang knows he’s not there. Mustang knows he’s in a bizzare, transmuted barn and he knows there are no Ishvalans around, just that fucking animal and he knows there is concrete beneath his feet and not sand, but breathing is hard and that rational side of his brain is slowly loosing out against the panicked side of him and his chest hurts. He gulps in another breath of damp air and reaches out to grab something malleable, something to pull him from his mind and back to reality, and wheezes when it's gripped tight.
“You’re fine, Roy. Just breathe. Just breathe.”
He focuses on the voice, deep and controlled, and sucks in another breath, lungs heaving. Something squeezes his hand, still speaking roughly yet softly, and Mustang manages to connect the gravel tone to Havoc’s smoke-addled voice and he blinks, once, then twice, and the word slowly comes back into focus.
His heart is still pounding, blood roaring in his head, but he can think again, and he stares at the dusty floor below him, trembling and shaking but back sinking back into the rational part of it all. A shaky sigh escapes his lips as Havoc’s fingers drum against the back of his hand, a grounding gesture, and Mustang looks up to see his face, eyes light with understanding and concern.
Falman is staring at him from behind Havoc, and Breda is standing next to him, hand on Mustang’s shoulder, and he swallows, bringing his free hand to wipe his forehead of the gathered sweat.
“I’m fine.” He wheezes, and Havoc nods, helping him to his feet. He knows he’s not, but Havoc’s no idiot, and he won’t press the issue as long as Mustang can get back up on his feet and finish the task at hand. It takes a moment, but soon, though still addled with the effects of panic, Mustang can stand heavily on his feet and look back at the animal cowered in the cage.
The maned wolf looks back up at him, not so looming and frightening now that Mustang has managed to shove back the memories of Ishval. It’s young, he notices, not quite three feet on its long, nimble legs, its colors not yet fully faded into the typical golden look of the animal. It’s skinny, but not skeletal, though the fur is matted and dirty, and it further supports the idea that the barn has been abandoned some time ago.
Its paws are raw, which is no surprise, considering the urine and feces scattered about the makeshift kennel. It hesitantly trots forward, slow and limping, tilting its large ears at Mustang. Mustang stares, and it yips softly, quiet, curious, yet worried. It’s not scared of them, but it's skittish, and it backs up and lets out a low whine when Mustang pulls the clipboard from the bars. That’s when he sees how swollen it’s belly is, and how it swings side to side when it walks. A glance to the corner, and he finds a squirming pile of grayish pups yipping quietly.
An uncomfortable feeling of sympathy gathered in his stomach. As freaky as she was, she was a starving mother, who had been left by the humans she depended on, and Mustang couldn’t help but feel sadness for her dilemma.
“Find out how many of these things are in here.” Mustang commands tersely, voice still hoarse from his outburst. “Investigations will need to come out here and help them with the military vets. If you see a clipboard,” he waves the one in his hand. “Leave it, but see what you can find out.”
The three men nodded. Breda’s hand leaves his shoulder as they fan out across the barn, each heading to a separate horse stall turned kennel. Mustang goes back to the clipboard in hand, glancing it over. Most of the information is simply that, information, such as age, sex, and place of origin. The wolf in front of him is called RI-429 aka Riley , and when Roy says it out loud, she trots forward with perked eyes and soft eyes, whining softly. It was pitiful.
The next page is more confusing. It speaks of blood types, bone and muscle structure, with X-rays plastered crudely to it. Each of her puppies are named, the sire, a WE-475, as well as rambles of compatibility and chances of success, and if Mustang had continued to read along, he would have assumed this was a breeding program for exotic pets or something more sinister.
Instead, he flips to the next page, and his stomach drops, and for the second time that day, his breath is pulled from him.
There, a loose paper taped to the top, was a picture of a young female. She couldn’t have been much older than twelve or thirteen, and it was obvious she was unaware she was being photographed. Underneath her photo was a list of information ranging from height and weight to blood type and eye color. And, right along the bottom, scrawled out in dark ink, were the words:
Unable to attain specimen due to RI-429 pregnancy. RI-429 retired to breeding. Transmutation will occur with JA-710 and specimen EE.
Mustang feels his blood run cold as his brain absorbsthe words.
They were making chimeras.
God, no. No no no no no. This was supposed to be a simple mission, a simple bust and wranglement of rouge alchemist causing trouble if it went that far, or just a simple sweep to check off the boxes. He was not supposed to run into a ring of abandoned maned wolves and the written musings of failed and future transmutations.
Riley whines again from where she is, paws bloody and coat stained with god knows what, her pups mewling in the corner, and all Mustang can do is stare in shock at her face and the fate she had narrowly escaped. He reattaches the clipboard, stepping back. Riley’s transmutation may not have gone through, but what about JA-710 and specimen EE? There had been no indication that a human was even in the barn, and Mustang knew the scent of a dead body all too well. All that was in this barn was the rank smell of urine mixed with waste.
Spinning on his ankle, shock and new panic rolling about in his abdomen, Mustang rushes down to the stall next to Riley’s, shouting over his shoulder.
“Look for a JA-710!”
The confusion radiating from his team is blatant, but Mustang doesn’t stop to explain as he makes it to the next stall. All he can think about is some poor, unfortunate being, pulled from their home and meshed with an animal to live a life of agony and misery. Shou Tucker’s talking chimera flashes through his mind briefly, the pure pain glinting in its eyes and the horrible sounds that reverbated from its throat and the awful way it died, in too much pain it turned to suicide and starvation.
He stops when he sees the next maned wolf in the following stall, two away from the mother and pups, but unlike Riley, who is free roaming, this one is muzzled and tied to the wall with a short leather leash. It’s head is downcast, and the tuft of golden-black hair that gives the animal its telltale name is long and hanging. It’s surrounded by waste, and alongside the obvious malnutrition, there are urine burns along its legs. Folded in the corner, matted and huddled, Mustang can’t tell if it's animal or chimera.
He grabs the clipboard. The noise startles the animal, but Mustang pays no mind, scanning through the document with quick, fearful eyes. Flashes of info catch him, names, the age, place of origin and cost, but he ignores it all, all of it, in favor of finding the serial number he knows the number has assigned.
JA-710.
“I found him!” Mustang calls out, and he can hear footsteps headed towards him as he looks back at the wolf in the cage. It’s head is still low and drooped, still huddled in the corner with the muzzle tightly locked to its mouth. With bated breath, Mustang knocks on the bars of the kennel, and he sees the animal stiffen, perking its ears as he gives a soft, shaky whistle. He can only hope they managed to get here before the transmutation. His breath is hot and quick as the animal lifts its head, turning towards Mustang, and Mustang feels his stomach flip inside out, bile rising in his throat when he sees it eyes.
They are human.
They are too late.
The maned wolf- no chimera -makes a sort of keening sound from the back of its throat, and unfolds its skinny, lanky legs to stand shakily on the filthy floor. It strains against the leather rope attaching it to the wall, and Mustang thinks he’s going to be sick when he sees the rest of the malformed creature in full.
The mane of the chimera is off, longer and lighter than that of a typical maned wolf, matted around its ears and shoulders due to lack of grooming. When it opens its mouth the whine, two long canines stick out from ropes of speckled gums, but the rest of the teeth are strangely, scarily human, and Mustang cringes away when he spots his gnarled paws, bent painfully like the human equivalent of a wrist with long, double jointed toes sticking from them. Instead of a dew claw, there is poor imitation of a thumb, each with a long, bent claw protruding from the tips.
The chimera, frankly, is sickening, and Mustang has to turn away from it when he grabs it’s clipboard from the where it hangs, seeing the shocked faces of Havoc, Falman, and Breda.
“It’s a human chimera.” Mustang says before they can ask, and Havoc’s face screws up in pure horror and he goes a bit white while Breda simply shakes his head in disgust. Falman peers over Mustang’s head, tilting his head at the animal. When they don’t speak, Mustang continues. “That one over there was supposed to be one too, but they switched to him when she got pregnant.”
“There are babies in here?” Is all Havoc replies with as Roy flips through the clipboard. If Riley had her “specimen” listed in her chart, it’s likely that the poor sod JA-710 is meshed with has a file hanging beneath all of the wolf’s information. A looming guilt hangs over him as he flips, the knowledge that whoever this was would likely be put down if Mustang had any say, and he hates they were too late to do anything to help.
JA-710, aka James, has notably more information than Riley, but soon, Mustang makes it to the page labeled Specimen EE . It’s the same as the previous one, with details like weight, height, age, hair color, and all the rest listed, but Mustang glances over it, eager to find the name and photo he knows should be attached. And soon, he does find it, glued to the bottom of the page.
And Mustang can’t stop the strangled noise that escapes his throat as he drops the clipboard on the concrete with a loud clatter and his knee buckles, stomach sinking to the soles of his feet.
The photo is Edward.
It clicks. The unnatural blond glow of the chimera, the hanging bangs tinged with black, those burning golden eyes, the initials EE scratched into all the documents. Edward Elric. His Major. His subordinate.
Mustang twists back around to stare at the chimera. It stares back with those glaring eyes, wide and fearful, and oh God , it's Edward. Mustang’s mouth is burning and his stomach is flipping but still, he walks forward, away from the discarded clipboard, away from his team, towards the sliding door that holds the chimera, that holds Edward.
“ Ed?” Mustang nearly whispers, brushing his hand against the bars of the door. Edward merely stares, eyes wide, deformed paws shuffling anxiously on the dirtied floor. He shows no sign he’s even hears Mustang.
“Hold on, Ed? Colonel, what’s going on?” Breda snaps, clearly confused and irritated. “The chiefs ways away. He’s hours away.”
“I thought so too. But look at the picture. It’s him.” Mustang insists hoarsely, mouth dry as his hand dips down to grab the handle to the sliding door. Edward is still staring warily at him, no signs of recognition or recollation, only muted fear and a slight hint of curiosity in those scarily human eyes.
Edward was supposed to be on a mission. How did he get here? Why is he here? How did they even get their hands on him, transmute him into this freak of nature? Mustang’s world is swaying, but in the midst of it all, he can only really think of one thing, and that is he needs to get Edward out of here before the military gets his hands on him.
Nobody questions him as he pulls open the sliding door, the rank air of the kennel hitting him in full force as he steps inside. Edward keens at his intrusion, shuffling backwards against the wall, and Mustang can feel his heart crack like a tree branch, and a rush of air hits him all at once. The steel muzzles cinched to Edward’s face rattles as he tries to pull away, and braided teather digging into his raw neck. Mustang stops.
“Oh Ed.” He murmurs, lowering himself, and Edward only shies away more, disturbing sounds coming from his managed throat. His paws scratch against the floor, and the burns are only brighter the closer he gets. “It’s ok, Ed. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He slinks closer, and Edward, already pushed as far as he can go, whines in protest with his tail tucked. Mustang pauses his advance a mere few feet from Ed, and sticks out his hand slowly, letting it hover just centimeters off the ground. He waits until Edward is done whining to speak again, tone so low he can hardly hear himself.
“It’s me, Ed. It’s me. Colonel Bastard,” and his voice clips just a little bit as he says the words. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to take you home.”
Help him? His mind rattles, cruel and vigilant. Help him with what? Nothing can be done. He won’t even respond to his name. He won't even speak.
It takes a while, and Mustang’s legs are starting to cramp, but Edward creeps forward just a bit, eyes trained on Mustang as he reaches his long neck forward to sniff the mans hand. The cold muzzle makes contact with Roy’s fingers, and his skin prickles, but he remains still, letting the hot air from Edward’s mottled nose grace his knuckles.
Then, Edward’s eyes glaze over, and something strange overtakes him. His shoulders stiffen, head jolting upward, and for some reason, emotion can be read across his features as Edward’s burning eyes sharpen into something more. He pulls forward, and Mustang lets his hand rest atop the furred head, tangining in the dirtied, matted hair that’s replaced his telltale bangs, breath caught in his throat, heart still as a bizarre aura overtakes the chimera.
Edward looks, urging and frantic.
“Help.” He croaks, nudging Mustang’s hand with his muzzled face. “Help. Help help help help.”