FMA: Collared: Chapter 3: Questions upon Questions

"Robbing the cradle a bit, aren't we?"

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if he could get away with melting the phone cord. "My my, word travels fast."

"To me, it does," Hughes amended. "The Brass aren't likely to hear about it until they get your weekly report."

"And—?"

"And they'll be glad you're taking your duties seriously, but your particular choice is going to raise a few eyebrows."

"Everything I do here raises eyebrows," he shot back.

"Sure, but a boy? There's enough rumors about you already, Roy, you don't need to help them along."

"Rumors I've used to my advantage."

"So far."

He sighed in exasperation. "He's a hostage. The point is to gather information on the enemy."

"That's what it says on paper."

Roy sighed again and rubbed his eyes. Of course he'd known what most people would assume, but that didn't make it any less aggravating.

A beat later, Hughes added, "All right, what are you protecting him from."

He dropped his forehead to his hand and smiled ruefully. "Himself, mostly. He can't have been in custody more than a half-hour before he pissed off the guards."

"And you think they'd take it out on a kid?"

"They already were. That's the kind of thing Hakuro encouraged. But he's not a child, he's at least fifteen or sixteen."

"That old? The word I got was that he's just a little guy."

Roy chuckled. "He is, but only in size, not age, and he's tough. According to reports, he took down at least three soldiers before they managed to subdue and capture him."

"Are you sure you want someone that dangerous in your quarters? I know you're not a fan of the collars, Roy, but I hope you're keeping one on him."

"Yes, and the chain. I'm not stupid." He rubbed his forehead. "But he's not some killer. He took those soldiers down by disarming them and trying to pin them with debris. None of them were seriously injured, but it wasn't for lack of opportunity."

"Hmm, I'm thinking that had something to do with his capture."

"Most likely. I watched him try to escape when they were processing him, and he would've gotten a lot farther if he'd been willing to kill."

"Still, it wouldn't do to drop your guard."

He scowled. "I'm not an idiot, Hughes. This kid isn't a killer, but he's far from harmless. But he's not stupid, either; I doubt he'd try anything when he's at such a disadvantage."

"Can you count on that?"

He scoffed, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. "Of course not. But he's hampered by more than just the collar and chain—he's missing his right arm. The automail had a blade attached, so it had to be confiscated. If he starts giving me trouble I could confiscate his leg as well. I'd hate to do it, but missing both an arm and a leg would severely limit his options."

"Two automail limbs, at his age?" Hughes tsked. "Poor kid. I wonder what happened?"

Roy snorted. His friend's fatherly impulses were never far away. "Maybe I'll ask him while I'm working on him for information. That is supposed to be the point of this, isn't it?"

Hughes chuckled. "You're probably the first field commander in years who's kept that in mind. But Roy—" his voice turned serious, "—watch yourself. You're a great tactician, but you leave yourself vulnerable in more ways than you think."

* * *

Havoc eyed the suit of armor as he shoved the last box onto the shelf. It had been set on the floor behind a crate, sitting knees to chest like a child playing hide-and-seek. "I swear that thing is watching me."

Breda groaned, digging his knuckles into his lower back. "You've been out in the sun too long."

"Oh come on," Havoc grumbled. "You've got to admit that thing is creepy." He edged up to it as if it would jump out at him. He felt ridiculous, but couldn't shake the feeling that this thing was more than a pile of metal.

"I'm more worried about who left it there," Breda pointed out. "And why."

The blond soldier prodded it with the toe of his boot as the other man ambled up beside him. "You think it's rigged to explode?"

"I doubt it. If you want to plant explosives, you don't put them in something that shouts 'look at me'." Breda lifted the helm and turned it over in his hands. "Same with surveillance. This thing stands out too much."

Havoc peered into the neck opening, fumbling in his pockets for a flashlight. "So if it's not a booby-trap and it's not wired—why is it here?"

"Got me." He frowned, poking at the absurd spike in the middle of the helm. "It looks like a decorative piece, but it's all beaten up like someone's been using it."

"Who could wear this thing? It's huge." He shone the flashlight around the chest cavity, then shook the armor, listening carefully. "Seems empty."

"We should probably take it apart to be sure."

"You hear that?"

"What?"

Havoc gave the armor a sharp shake, then held it still, listening. After a moment he threw his weight against it, shifting it away from the wall so he could look behind. "I thought I heard . . . I dunno, like a gasp or something."

"The wind?"

"Sounded like a little kid."

Breda rapped the helm against one leg of the armor and then the other, listening to the hollow ring. "You sure it was from this thing?"

"Sure sounded like it." Havoc straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. "This is going to sound crazy, but what if this is . . . you know . . . that 'ghost' we keep hearing rumors about."

Breda snorted. "The 'haunted statue'?"

"A suit of armor looks like a statue."

"That's nothing but the locals trying to use scare tactics. Someone in a costume."

"Or armor?"

"Sure, maybe, except that this thing is empty."

"Well, if it was a ghost. . . ."

"Is that your official opinion, Lieutenant Havoc?"

Both men turned and saluted as their commander entered the store room, trailed by Fuery. "Uh, no, Sir," Havoc clarified. "It was just a . . . we're a little stumped."

"I can see that." The slight smirk softened the dry statement as Mustang took the helm from Breda. "And you're sure this is a new addition to our stores? Not something left over from before?"

Fuery shrugged. "I can't guarantee the accuracy of the old logs, but no one I've spoken to remembers it being here. The supply master is still on the line to Central but he gave me an odd look when I asked."

"It seems like an awfully large item to have fallen through the cracks."

Breda nodded. "That was our thought. But it's pretty large for someone to have just moved it here over night, too."

The colonel raised an eyebrow at Havoc. "Unless it moved itself?"

The taller man groaned. "It's not my theory. Everyone talks about those rumors—"

Mustang shook his head with a good-natured smile. "I'm aware of them. But until I see some proof of these 'hauntings', we frankly have more important things to worry about."

"Understood sir."

Mustang set the helm on a nearby crate and frowned at the armor. "Did you find anything suspicious or dangerous?"

Breda shrugged. "You mean other than a huge suit of armor appearing out of nowhere? No. It's empty, and I can't see anything attached to it."

"Mm. It's quite an elaborate set-up for a distraction, if it is that." He sighed. "I need to increase the patrols in this area anyway. Let's make sure they know to be on the look-out for—" he shot Havoc a look, "—anything that moves."

The lieutenant grimaced, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. "Can we go grab dinner now, Sir?"

Mustang waved them off and they hastened to the exit. "Tell the cook to send mine to my quarters."

"Oh?" Breda paused in the doorway to grin back at their commander. "Two plates, or will you be sharing?"

Havoc couldn't see the look Mustang gave him, but given the way Breda scrambled out of the store room he could guess.

* * *

Ed leaned back to peek into the main room. Mustang was busy chatting with a courier who'd dropped off some papers. He made a face and amended that thought: more like flirting. Maybe that was how he kept his command happy. The young man scowled and turned back to the sink, grabbing the neck of his tunic and hauling it over his head. He wanted to get himself cleaned up while the bastard was distracted. He'd already had to sit through eating dinner with that guy and had had about enough awkward conversation as he could stomach. Mustang, of course, hadn't seemed the least bit uncomfortable.

Ed squeezed the wet rag out against the edge of the sink, then scrubbed it over his face and, more gingerly, over his neck. At least Mustang had been true to his word and unlocked the chain. The collar was still an annoyance, but it was nice not to have that constant pull on his neck.

A sudden stinging made him hiss and he snatched the rag away, frowning at the bright red stain that was seeping through the fabric. He must have rubbed off the scab on his neck.

Ed twisted his head around to try to get a good look at it in the mirror, and finally sighed, dropping the rag into the sink and swishing it around in the water. At least it seemed to be no more than oozing. It was probably safer to let it bleed out rather than rub whatever was on the rag into the open wound. "Fucking guards," he muttered as he squeezed the rag out.

Reaching around, he gingerly daubed the rag at the open port. Automail was designed to withstand the elements, but fine grit in the wrong area could cause connection problems and having the socket exposed in a place like this was asking for trouble. "Fucking guards," he hissed again, twisting the rag to try to get at the crevices.

"Care for some help?"

"Gah!" Ed whipped around and jumped back, striking his hip against the corner of the sink and stumbling against the wall.

Mustang smirked over at him, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded. "I was going to offer to wash your back, but if you'd rather use the wall. . . ."

"I don't need help from you!" Ed wasn't normally self-conscious, but the way the other man's eyes were traveling over his body was making him feel very exposed. Mustang reached over and he flinched away from the hand, but all the soldier did was brush his hair away from the side of his neck. The older man shook his head with a sympathetic wince, before turning to the shelf to open the first aid box.

"It's fine." Ed swiped his hand over the bloody line and edged away along the wall. "It's not bleeding that bad."

"There's no point in risking an infection."

Mustang stepped toward him just as he bumped into the toilet, and he shot a frantic glance around the small room to try and find some way to slip past. The taller man approached him with his hands raised and a disarming smile on his face as if Ed was some cornered animal—which he very much felt like. The thought made him scowl.

"Come now, there's no need for that." Mustang cupped his chin, and Ed resisted having his head turned. Surprisingly, the other man didn't try to force him, just stroked his tense jaw while he tucked the loose hair out of the way. "This may sting a bit," he murmured, before gently pressing a wad of cotton against his neck.

The astringent did sting, but the young man clenched his teeth and refused to so much as hiss. He wasn't going to play into this man's game—whatever it was. He glared up at him and cursed himself for the blush he knew was staining his cheeks. Mustang was smirking down at him but Ed couldn't tell if he was simply amused or if he was enjoying his hostage's distress.

After carefully wiping the blood away from the raw wound, Mustang took a small gauze pad from the first aid kit, smoothing it down beneath the collar and taping it into place. It was all done very matter-of-fact, as if a field commander taking the time to patch up a prisoner of war was common-place.

"There we are now," he said as he stepped back and tossed the used cotton into the trash bin. "That should give it some time to heal properly."

Ed poked at the bandage and eyed the man warily. "Uh. Yeah."

"Now are you sure you wouldn't like some assistance?"

"Yeah. M'fine."

"Very well, then." With a dismissive gesture, Mustang turned and headed back into the room. "I'll be wanting a bath in about forty minutes or so, but I won't need you until then."

Ed grunted his acknowledgement. He waited until he heard the colonel sit down at the table before peeling himself away from the wall and retrieving the rag from the other side of the room.

What was this man's game? He had to have a game, he was too conniving to not have a game. What was he angling for? Ed turned the thought over and over in his mind as he scrubbed himself.

Things had been brutal under the last commander. The army's policy seemed to be shoot first, ask questions later. No one was sure of the numbers, but everyone in Liore had lost loved ones and there was speculation that what the army wanted was to wipe out the town entirely. The commander had treated the prisoners like dirt—when he'd bothered taking them into custody—and what he'd done to his hostage made Ed's blood boil.

But then he'd been transferred out—along with the soldiers directly under him—and this Colonel Mustang had been transferred in. Overnight the body count all but halted. The number of prisoners rose but only because the soldiers had stopped killing the town folk out of hand. Skirmishes were broken up and insurgents were subdued but mostly without anyone dying. Their fight here stopped being a desperate bid for survival and started being more about irritating the army into leaving. Ed had felt like he'd been able to breathe for the first time in months.

Then he'd gotten snagged as a hostage and found himself holding his breath in an entirely different way.

Ed spared a glance into the main room before starting in on the irritating task of wrestling the tunic over his head one-handed. In the past when he'd been without his arm Al or Winry had been around to help him. As much as he hated accepting help, he was missing it now.

Mustang would probably be more than happy to help.

Ed cringed and rubbed his hand over his burning cheeks.

The colonel came off like a playboy, but he wouldn't have risen as far as he had in the military if he was harmless. The name of the Flame Alchemist was known even in remote parts of the country like this. Ishval hadn't been that long ago and stories still circulated about entire streets going up in flames.

Ed had seen those flames for himself when Mustang had arrived. A small group had decided to take advantage of the confusion of the personnel transfer, and Ed and Al had come along to see if they could sabotage the trucks. As soon as the first of the guerrilla fighters had made a move a wall of fire had shot across the courtyard, cutting off their advance and frightening the townsfolk into fleeing. Ed had ducked behind a crumbling wall, feeling more awe and fascination than fear. When the flames had died down, he'd been rewarded with his first look at the infamous state alchemist. The man with the bright red array stitched on his white gloves had looked . . . young. Ed had been expecting some sort of hard-faced killer, but this Mustang looked like he'd be more at home in Central's nightlife than on the battlefield.

Still, the youth reminded himself as he stepped into the bedroom, looks could be deceiving. No matter how nice Mustang looked or how kind he acted, he was still military, and Ed couldn't let his guard drop for an instant.

Mustang was flipping through the papers that had been delivered earlier. Ed inched over, hoping to get a glimpse of what had him so absorbed. As long as he was stuck here, he might as well take advantage of it.

"How long have you been here?"

Ed jumped back, his hand flying up defensively. "Wh-what? I wasn't—I mean—"

The colonel glanced up with a smirk. "How long have you been in Liore, I mean."

"O-oh. Uh. . . ." He shoved his hair away from his face and shrugged. "I dunno . . . half a year? At least?" The days tended to run together, but it had been long enough for Ros� to have her baby.

"Then this isn't anything you wouldn't know." He waved a hand over the papers spread out over the table. "These are statistics from the start of the conflict until now."

"Statistics?"

"Mm. Numbers."

Ed huffed. "I know what statistics are, you bastard."

"Aren't you the smart one."

There was that purr again. Ed scowled and feigned interest in the window while he waited for his cheeks to cool down.

Mustang leaned back in his chair and held his arm out. "All right then, smart one. Tell me what you make of these statistics."

Ed eyed the man as he sidled toward the table, accepting the invitation but doing his best to avoid the arm. "What'm I gonna be able to tell you that you don't already know?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be asking, now would I?"

Ed grunted, but turned his attention to the papers.

Some of the notations were unfamiliar, but the major components were pretty clear. The number of "engagements," casualties, prisoners—he flicked the edge of a page that showed a big jump in the worst numbers. "This is when that sonova—that guy who was here before you—got transferred in, isn't it? General Hack-row, or something."

"General Hakuro, and yes." Mustang's tone was carefully mild. "That's within days of his transfer."

"He really fucked things up." Ed quickly pointed to the oldest records to defend his words. "I mean, look—this whole week had only ten casualties, and no fatalities, and then bam—" He struck his palm against the incriminating form. "He shows up and suddenly it's ten, twenty a day. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put that sonovabitch here? Why?"

"The Fuhrer keeps his own council on such things. I'm sure he had his reasons."

"Okay then—if the Fuhrer thinks he's such a great commander, why suddenly transfer him out and you in?"

"I can hardly read the mind of Parliament, either." Mustang gestured to the papers. "But there's more here than casualties."

Ed narrowed his eyes, giving the soldier a long stare before turning back to the records.

"Do you know what started this conflict?"

"Yeah." Us.

"Do you know what's kept it going?"

Ed shrugged. There was idiocy on both sides of this. He didn't see that it mattered anymore, he just wished it would end.

As he scanned across the records, a few more notations started to make sense. He found an uptick in property damage that signaled when he and Al had returned, and the sudden jump in military deaths that indicated Scar's arrival—that number dropped as quickly as it had risen when the Ishvalan had decided to pursue other tactics, no doubt the military was still trying to make sense of that. Ed also found the dip in civilian casualties and the rise in prisoners from Mustang's arrival. He shrugged again. "What'm I looking for?"

Mustang stood and stepped in beside him, and Ed twitched as a hand came to rest on his back. "You could see the point when General Hakuro arrived. Take another look at the days preceding and following it."

The warm, gentle presence just below his shoulder blades was an incredible distraction, and Ed glared down at the papers, willing the figures to make sense. "The numbers are lower. Like I said. They . . . they were actually going down. Things were under control, why did they transfer—?"

"That is the question, isn't it. But the military can't take full blame for the continued conflict. These also note which side was responsible for each engagement, when it was clear."

"Isn't the military just going to mark that down in a way that makes themselves look good?" Ed muttered.

Mustang's thumb rubbed his back. "There may be some small bias. But the information is interesting nonetheless."

Ed hunched his shoulders. It felt kinda nice, but . . . he didn't want anything from this man to feel nice.

A fair number of the "engagements" had been started by the townsfolk, but that was hardly surprising. They wanted the military gone. But those numbers didn't seem to be related to Hakuro's arrival, and now that he was looking Ed could see several incidents that hadn't directly involved the soldiers at all. Something—or someone—seemed to be stirring the citizens up.

"Cornello," Ed growled under his breath. No one had seen the charlatan for several months but they could feel his influence even now. His ravings had split the town into believers and non-believers but it hadn't turned deadly until the military butted in—but it seemed his words kept making a bad situation worse and worse.

"Mm. Is that the priest's name?"

Ed jumped. Red-faced, he scowled and turned away, cursing himself for the slip-up.

Mustang's hand stroked down his back. "Take it easy, you haven't given away any vital secrets." Ed could hear the smirk. "We've known of the priest and his supposed 'miracles' for some time. Word of that kind tends to travel."

"No shit," the young man muttered. It had brought them here, after all.

"Given the nature of his claims some theorized that he had the fabled philosopher's stone," the colonel continued. "My superior was already on the verge of sending someone to investigate when we got word of the unrest."

"Yeah, well, he didn't," Ed spat. "Have a Stone, I mean. It was bogus."

"Is that so?" Mustang was rubbing his back now, gentle strokes up and down his spine. "That's hardly surprising. Most such claims are."

Just when Ed was starting to wonder if all this touching was leading up to something he really didn't want to think about, the hand stopped. Mustang patted his hostage on the shoulder, once, before moving to gather up the papers.

"Every conflict has at least two sides," the soldier mused, "but the particulars are not always what they first appear to be. But enough of that for tonight." He favored Ed with a knowing smile. "I think I would like my bath."