FMA: Collared: Chapter 1: the Options Before Us

"Looking forward to getting back to your quarters, sir?"

Roy gave Havoc a flat look as the lieutenant fell into step beside him. He had been wondering how long it would take before the ribbing started. "Is there something you need, lieutenant?"

Havoc chuckled and shook his head. "Nah. But tell that kid he owes me a rifle."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he sliced my best one clean through." He tossed off a flippant salute as he turned toward the officer's mess.

The colonel allowed himself a small sigh. His decision to take the young prisoner had been spur of the moment. He didn't regret it—at least, not yet. On the plus side, this fulfilled what was expected of him as field commander and would keep the higher ups off his back, even if his choice was a bit . . . outside of the norm. But just what was he going to do with the kid?

When he opened the door to his quarters things were surprisingly quiet. A covered food tray sat on the table, and beyond that the boy was perched on the edge of the bed, resting his chin on a knee and glaring. He'd cleaned up well; Roy judged him to be in his mid-teens, compact but with the build of someone used to physical activity. The flesh-and-blood arm the boy had draped around his metal leg was well toned, with a few pale scars visible from across the room. His pose was casual but he was not relaxed, and he was eyeing the colonel with a scowl, challenge and contempt clear in his pale eyes. Roy smirked in acknowledgement.

He strolled to the table and uncovered the tray, revealing bread, cheeses, and dried fruit. At that moment the boy's stomach let out a loud growl, and his scowl deepened into a snarl. The colonel glanced at the untouched platter in brief confusion, but when he glanced up to the chain securing the prisoner to the wall he nearly winced. The chain had been latched so far up its length that there was no way the boy could get to the table. He was sitting at the end of its reach already, about halfway down the bed.

Roy clenched his jaw to keep from frowning outright. It seemed he needed to give another talk about unnecessary cruelty and the proper treatment of prisoners. Schooling his expression, he set the cover down next to the tray and approached the prisoner. The boy turned, lowering his feet to the floor. He seemed ready to spring from the bed at a moment's notice. Roy wondered what he thought he might accomplish, missing an arm and chained as he was, but he had to admire the attitude.

He tapped the wall next to the chain. "If I let you up, will you behave?"

The kid glared at him for a moment, the desire to rebel written clearly on his face. He was obviously not one inclined to give in, whatever the circumstances. But he shot a glance toward the food tray, his jaw working as he fought some sort of internal battle. After a long moment, he gave a curt nod, his stomach apparently winning out, his glare challenging the other man to make something of it.

Roy held the boy's eye for a moment before turning to unlock the chain. So far he'd seen defiance and anger from the kid. He didn't seem like the conniving type, but the colonel knew better than to drop his guard. For one thing, he looked like the type who might try to jump him, damn the odds, and he really didn't want to have to hurt the boy.

Once it was released he ran the chain through his hand to the end; it would have been plenty long enough to reach the table. In fact, it would probably have given him most of the room.

The boy hadn't moved, still glaring skeptically, no doubt wondering if the chain was going to be pulled up short. Smirking, Roy showed him that he held the end link, then gestured toward the table.

The kid shot off the bed and sprinted to the food, immediately grabbing a handful and shoving it into his mouth.

"Careful," Roy chuckled. "You might choke, and then I'd be out a prisoner."

He paused long enough to flip him off, then resumed stuffing his face.

The colonel shook his head; this kid wouldn't have lasted a day with the POW guards.

The boy's hair was loose, trailing to an end between his shoulder blades and leaving wet splotches on his tunic. It was an unusual color and quite striking, but was caught Roy's attention was the flash of red that he saw beneath the gold strands, just over the silvery metal of the collar. He reached over and brushed the hair back, and sure enough, there was an angry red line of pinched skin where the collar had been snapped on. It was crusted over with fresh scabs and didn't seem to be currently bleeding, and the area had been cleaned, but he would have to tell the guards to be more careful.

It seemed he had a lot to discuss with the guards.

The boy flinched, and was watching him out of the corner of his eye, wariness momentarily overriding his hunger. Roy smirked and let the hair slide from his fingers, then grabbed the hem of the boy's tunic.

He flinched again, his arm snapping up only to be pulled short at the last moment, as if the boy had suddenly remembered his situation. "What the hell're you doing?" he snapped as he tried to skitter away.

"Assessing," Roy answered calmly, trying to hide his amusement. Mostly. "I need to know what sort of shape you're in."

The kid looked like he was seriously considering introducing the older man to his fist, but he held himself in check, twitching and flinching as Roy's fingers brushed against his ribs. It seemed he could behave, when he felt like it.

He slowly circled the boy, mentally cataloging the injuries he could see. The bruises from the guard's boot looked painful, but when he ran his fingers over them the boy's reaction didn't indicate cracked ribs. There were some other, older discolorations and scrapes. Nothing that looked serious, but this obviously hadn't been his first skirmish. He'd have to check the reports again; a blond boy should have stood out among the mostly dark-featured desert citizens.

Roy smoothed the boy's tunic and stepped back. The young man was watching him out of the corner of his eye, his expression guarded and hostile. But there was a definite blush across his cheeks.

The older man smirked, lowering himself into a chair and casually resting his ankle on his knee. The game just took on a new dimension. "Please. Have a seat." He used the end of the chain to gesture toward the second chair.

The boy snarled down at the metal links, but edged over to the chair. He perched on the edge, clear of the table and angled so that his missing arm was facing away. Automatically minimizing his disadvantages. Interesting.

Roy tapped the chain against his boot. "Come now, I'm not going to bite." He smiled. "Unless you desire it."

The blush flared up even stronger than before and the boy glared, before stuffing a hunk of cheese in his mouth as if it was an act of defiance.

The colonel chuckled to himself. He had no taste for an unwilling bedmate and despised the way most hostages got treated. The very thought of ordering someone into that sort of situation turned his stomach. But seduction? That was a different game entirely. He would have to play his moves carefully, but the potential reward would be worth so much more.

"Now then," he continued. "What's your name?"

The kid glanced up from where his gaze had fallen onto Roy's gloved hand. "Wha'd'you care?" Said through a mouthful of food.

"Well, I'll have to call you something. Unless you're good with 'Goldilocks'."

The boy sputtered and choked, slapping a hand over his mouth as he glared. It seemed to be his default expression.

"No?" Roy mused, helping himself to a piece of dried fruit. "You'll have to give me something better to work with, then."

He swallowed and coughed, and finally cleared his mouth. "M'name's Ed. Fuckin' bastard."

"Just 'Ed'? No family name?"

He shrugged, the gesture lopsided. "Does it matter?" His attention flicked again, caught by Roy's glove.

"I suppose not," Roy allowed. "So tell me, Ed: where are you from?"

Pale eyes snapped back up to his and narrowed. "How d'you know I'm not from here?"

The older man chuckled. "Your coloring, for one. You're clearly not native to this area. And your accent, for another. Eastern area, yes, but farther south. Not the desert."

Ed flushed and glared.

"As for your features. . . ." Roy took a moment to study the boy up close. His hair wasn't simply blond but a deep gold, and his eyes very nearly matched. They had an unusual shape, and combined with his strong cheekbones, upturned nose, and wide, expressive mouth, made him look just a touch exotic. Not someone who couldn't blend in with a crowd, but not a typical Amestrian. "I have to admit, you have me stumped. I might want to say Drachman if your skin were lighter, but that's not quite right."

He scoffed around a piece of bread. "Y'r one t'talk." He swallowed, then added, "What are you, from Xing or something?"

Roy smirked. "I can assure you, I was born in Amestris."

Ed hmphed and helped himself to another piece of fruit.

The colonel tapped the chain against his boot and watched as the boy's gaze drifted down to his glove once more. This wasn't innocent curiosity or confusion, he recognized the bright red stitching for what it was. The question was how much did he understand the array, and what did it mean to him. Despite his straightforward rural speech, there was intelligence behind those unusual eyes, and the kid obviously had a history. Having him as a hostage just might prove insightful.

Roy stood, and casually stretched his back. "It's been a long day, and I think I should like a bath. You will assist me with that, of course."

Ed's hand froze halfway to the platter. "Y'mean, draw the water and set stuff out?"

"Mm. And then stay on hand. For anything I might want you to . . . assist me with."

"While—while you're—"

"While I'm in the bath, yes."

He smirked down at the horrified embarrassment. He did have some sympathy for what must be going through the kid's mind, but that was a card that he didn't mean to show just yet.

* * *

Ed huddled under the blankets on the narrow military cot he'd been given. It really wasn't fair that this area went from scorching during the day, to downright icy as soon as the sun set. Between the shifting extremes of temperature and the sand, his ports were aching almost constantly.

"Warm enough over there?" his bastard keeper asked from the other side of the room. Ed just grunted. "It wouldn't do for you to catch a chill, there'd be far too much paperwork."

"M'fine," he insisted.

"Mm."

Ed stared at the wall and waited, but aside from the sound of papers rustling, the room was silent. He let out his breath as quietly as he could, and tugged the blankets up further. He'd been feeling exposed and vulnerable ever since they'd taken his arm, and the collar and chain weren't helping any. He could still feel that man's fingers ghosting over his ribs, and it made his skin crawl. He hated to be touched when he couldn't control it, and right now it seemed like just about everything was outside of his control. He kept expecting to feel hands on him again, or to hear an order, or—something. Everyone knew the rumors of how hostages were treated, and after what happened to Ros—Ed had been in a state of dread ever since the commander had singled him out. And after the way things went in the bathroom, he'd been sure the git would try something. He'd certainly been hinting broadly enough. And had made sure Ed had had a good—view.

He tugged a fold of the blankets over his face as he felt his cheeks heating up. What was the guy's name? Mustang? Ed had the fleeting thought that it wasn't entirely . . . inaccurate.

Ed groaned into his pillow and scrubbed his hand over his face. All right, so the bastard had a . . . decent body, and obviously wasn't shy about putting it on display. He was still one of the military's curs, he was the fucking commander of this pack of curs, it was a given that he had some sinister motive in mind. The way he'd been teasing Ed all evening—leaning in closer than necessary, brushing against him, all the double entendres, giving him that damn view—made it pretty clear which way he leaned.

And yet, he hadn't done anything. Not even a grope. Ed felt like he'd been on tenterhooks all evening, but in the end, all the man had done was secure his chain to the wall by the cot, and then . . . head for the bed. He'd even bade him sleep well.

Probably biding his time.

He had other matters to worry about. Under the cover of the blankets, Ed wriggled his fingertips beneath the collar—he hated to think of is as "his" collar. The skin of his neck was still irritated and swollen, but he'd been anxious all evening to inspect the inner surface.

Perfectly smooth. Like it was covered in chrome.

"Fuck," he hissed, then froze. He waited, but the only sound was a stack of papers being tapped together, and then the small lamp on the other side of the room clicked off. The teen let out his breath, and eased his fingers free.

With the array hidden beneath the outer layer there was no way for him to map it, and no way to figure out how to counter it. He scowled. All right, so the military had a few clever people, obviously.

He'd heard the rumors, of course. The collars were primarily used to control rogue alchemists, and would disrupt any alchemy used by the wearer or used on the collar. He just hadn't figured the military was clever enough to actually come up with something like that and had written it off as scare tactics. Sure, the government was trying to control the use of alchemy so badly they were willing to choke the life out of it, but that didn't mean they could.

And then he'd tried to transmute the chain from the wall. The energy had snapped back and shattered, like a thousand knife blades shooting up his arm and through his chest. After he'd managed to pick himself up from the floor, he'd been surprised to find he was still in one piece. But it hadn't been an ordinary rebound; something had snared his transmutation and redirected it.

Ed pulled the blankets off his face, suddenly finding them too confining, and glared up at where the chain was latched to the wall, the metal picking up the weak light that filtered in through the window. His cot was right outside the bathroom, and he had enough lead that he could . . . take care of things if he needed to, but he wouldn't be able to do much else. Like get close enough to do any mischief to the man in the bed on the other side of the room, for instance. Smart.

He shifted and tried tucking the chain under the pillow, then immediately yanked it back out when it put pressure on the collar. It looked like he was just going to have to put up with rolling over onto the damn thing. He smoothed it out so it ran parallel to the pillow instead, running his fingers over the links. For what it did, the chain was actually pretty delicate, but that didn't make it any less obnoxious. It was humiliating, being leashed like some disobedient dog, even more humiliating than having his arm taken away. If this was the way the military treated people it was no wonder so many hated them. When he got out of this. . . .

Ed scowled, tucking the blankets around his shoulders. He wasn't quite sure what he would do. But somehow he would pay them back for this—for what they were doing to the people of Liore in general. And for what happened to Ros—if Ed ever found that son of a bitch he was going to give him a very special payback.

But first—first he needed to find a way to free himself.