FMA: Collared: Chapter 4: A Delicate Game

Note: Cook here is the guy who was in the kitchens in the Barry the Chopper episode of the first anime. Yay for background characters....

The kid was being surly this morning. Roy teased him about waking up on the wrong side of the cot and got snarled at. For once, he took pity and didn't press; Ed's mood was probably mostly to blame on being led around on a chain, which was understandable. The colonel wasn't fond of it either, but there wasn't much else he could do if he was going to take his hostage out of his quarters.

"You're fucking loaning me out," Ed growled, not for the first time.

"You would be bored all day in my quarters," Roy explained. "And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

The boy spat curses and Roy turned to secure the chain to the wall, hiding a sympathetic smile. "If you behave for Cook today then we might discuss it," he added. "But right now I'm afraid I must see to my duties."

"Bastard."

"So be a good boy."

Roy patted his shoulder and snatched his hand back before Ed could swat it. He left the kid to growl expletives at his back as he joined the cook in the kitchen.

Cook looked up from his cutting board and nodded to the store room. "I haven't taken on more than I bargained for, have I?"

The colonel smirked. "He's a good kid under the bravado," he insisted, pitching his voice so it wouldn't carry. "He just likes to hide behind anger. Feed him and I'm sure he'll come around."

The round man chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. "That I can do."

Roy left the cook to rummage around in his stores, no doubt looking for some choice treat that had been set aside. He did have some misgivings about leaving his hostage like this, but he was afraid of what mischief Ed might get into if he was bored. He was far too intelligent and seemed like the kind to go stir-crazy. Cook was a good man, and Roy had made sure there wasn't anything terribly dangerous in that store room. Just pots—lots of pots that needed scrubbing.

He nodded to Lieutenant Hawkeye as he left he kitchen. "Sorry for the wait. What was it you wanted to show me?"

The look she gave him was flavored by more than a bit of tolerant amusement. She had no doubt witnessed his exchange with the young prisoner. "This way, Sir," was all she said. "I was cataloging the recently confiscated items when something caught my eye."

"Oh?"

She shook her head as they made their way to the secure storage room. "You should see for yourself."

The colonel effected a put-upon sigh. "Very well. But you know this cuts into the little time I have to do paperwork."

"I suppose you'll have to make up the time on your lunch break," she said, her tone deceptively mild. "They have been going a bit over-long."

Roy pulled a face but wisely kept his next thought to himself.

Hawkeye unlocked the small storage room and then carefully locked the door behind them. Roy had been disgusted to learn that confiscated items had had a way of "disappearing" under Hakuro and had quickly put some knew procedures into place. Any item confiscated from a prisoner was kept in this one room, and only a select few had access. The change that had gone over less than well with the incumbent soldiers, but that was to be expected.

"Here, Sir." She indicated a bladed metal arm that had been set on the shelf next to a pile of dusty clothes. "I had just gotten to it last night."

Roy picked it up by the wrist and elbow, careful of the sharp edge of the blade. "This is Ed's, isn't it?" With a weapon like that it was a miracle he hadn't skewered any of the guards by accident during his scuffle, never mind design.

"Yes. He's currently the only POW with automail."

The colonel was only half listening. As soon as the forearm plate caught the light he could see exactly why his lieutenant had brought him down here. "Well." He ran his thumb over the edge of the plate. The metal was distorted, with the tell-tale artifacts of a hasty transmutation pointing right at the blade.

"You don't seem surprised."

Roy smirked, turning the arm over in his hands. "Come now. You've known as well as I have that our 'booby-traps' had to have been set up by an alchemist. There was simply never enough evidence left to be certain. Are there any arrays on the arm?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "Not unless they're well hidden. I didn't find any deliberate marks, just scrapes."

"It does seem well used, doesn't it," he mused.

"Do you think Ed could have transmuted that himself?"

He glanced at her. "You mean, could he be a rogue alchemist? I couldn't say. Someone else could easily have transmuted this for him." Ed was certainly smart enough, he was sure of that, but it took more than brains to make an alchemist. He set the arm back on the shelf. "All we know right now is that there is an alchemist. I'll need much more evidence than this before making any accusations. Until then, I see no point in spreading rumor."

"Understood, Sir."

They shared a brief look before turning to leave. Riza Hawkeye was a private person, and Roy might be the only one who knew how she truly felt about the State's strict control of alchemy. They had both seen what it had cost her father to cede to the military in order to study the science he loved, and they both knew the lengths he had gone to to conceal his true research.

"I'll speak with Warrant Officer Falman," Hawkeye said as she closed and locked the door. "There may be details in prior incidences that have been overlooked."

"Mm." The Colonel ran his thumb over the chip of fuzed sand in his pocket, a piece that had been pried up from the courtyard the day before. "There very well may be."

* * *

The armor was still sitting tucked back behind a crate at the end of the last row of shelves. Someone had replaced the helm, but otherwise it looked much like it had the day before. But was it maybe turned just a little to the left? Feeling more than a bit ridiculous, Havoc eyed it, pacing from one side to the other within the confines of the shelves. Reports of commotion around the POW camp last night and sightings of something large moving through the shadows had immediately put him in mind of their mysterious addition to the store room, and he'd half expected the armor to have vanished. The fact that it was still there probably should have put his mind at ease, but something just seemed a bit off.

Havoc took a drag on his cigarette and frowned down at the pile of metal. He supposed someone could have shifted it, but why? And how? The thing had barely budged when he'd shoved at it the day before.

"All right buddy," he muttered. "I know you're hiding something. It's just you and me right now." He picked up the helm and turned it over in his hands. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but there had to be something. "You wouldn't get this beat-up from being set in the corner. But how. . . ."

"Are you expecting it to answer back?"

"Ah!"

Havoc jumped and fumbled the helm. It slipped from his hands and bounced off the armor, skittering across the floor until it hit the crate.

Lyra stepped over and delicately knelt down to retrieve it. "Aww, you're going to dent it."

"It's—already dented," Havoc stammered. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and surreptitiously tried to straighten his uniform. "Well—I mean—"

"Mm, it is a little battered, isn't it." One elegant finger traced over the stylized mouth. "Poor thing. Someone must really love this."

"How do you mean?" The lieutenant ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the armor. "It's a mess."

"That's what I mean." She bent over to peer into the neck and Havoc was suddenly presented with a wonderful view of her cleavage. "It's like your favorite teddy bear, you know? No matter how worn it gets, you just can't make yourself throw it away."

"I, uh, I guess." Havoc cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, and found himself now staring at the way her dark skirt stretched tight—

"From the styling I'd say it looks like an antique, but it wouldn't be worth anything to a collector. So someone must have another reason for keeping it."

Lyra edged over, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. Red-faced, Havoc turned away completely, feigning interest in the shelf. "Oh. Yeah. I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Mm-hm. It's well oiled too, did you notice? Especially around the joints. And there's . . . something. . . ."

"What's that?" Curiosity got the better of him, but by the time he turned around Lyra had straightened up.

"Yes, I'd say this is very important to someone," she mused, gazing down at the helm with an odd, knowing smile.

"Okay. But—" Havoc gestured to the store room. "But why put it here?"

"Maybe this someone thought this was the best place for it." The alchemist set the helm in place and carefully centered it.

"But—"

Whatever he'd been about to say was lost when Lyra placed her fingers against his chest. "Do keep an eye on it, won't you? I'd hate for something to happen."

"Uh . . . s-sure. If you think it's needed."

"Oh, I do."

* * *

"Fuuuuuck." Ed set down the scouring pad and straightened his back with a groan. Not having a second arm to brace himself as he bent over these damn pots was really starting to tell. He had no idea how long he'd been in here scrubbing away what had once passed for military food, but it had to be getting on to lunch. "Bastard better not leave me here all day," he muttered to the empty room.

Ed wiped his hand on his tunic and picked up the last of the pastries the cook had given him. They'd been a bit stale and nothing like confections from a real bakery, but they were an unexpected treat after months of rationed food. The people of Liore weren't starving—not yet—but with no end to this conflict in sight food was being stretched and no one had the time or energy to do anything more than basic cooking.

The young man frowned to himself as he licked the last of the sticky glaze off his fingers. He wasn't surprised that the military had better rations, but they were still rations. It couldn't be common for the cook to share sweets with a prisoner, even if that prisoner was scrubbing pots for him.

"Hm." Ed swung his leg over the bench and stood. Cook seemed like a pretty decent guy, he'd even chatted a bit before going back to the kitchen. He'd probably be less guarded than a soldier would be—certainly less guarded than that irritating Colonel.

He flicked the chain free of the pile of cookware, holding it out of the way as he edged across the room. He could just get to the door without it pulling on his neck. Ed gave it a sharp yank, mostly out of principal, then turned to look out into the kitchen.

"You can't be in here."

Ed startled, but the cook wasn't talking to him. He was facing the entryway to the mess, where two men in uniform stood, one a solider and the other in the uniform of a POW camp guard. The soldier was sporting a black eye and both looked unsettlingly familiar.

"We're not after your precious food stores." The soldier's eyes settled on Ed and a tight, vicious smile spread across his face. "We just need to take care of a little something."

"Please, you can't be in here. The colonel—" Cook tried to block their path but the two men shoved by him.

Ed backed up and shot a frantic glance around the store room. Nothing but pots and the small table and bench he'd been working at. "Fuck." He whipped the chain out of the way and put the table between himself and the door; as defenses went, it wasn't much.

The soldier with the black eye sneered as he entered the room, stalking around one side of the table while the guard took the other. "All right you little bitch. We've got some unfinished business."

Ed narrowed his eyes, bracing himself with his hand on the iron pot he'd just been scrubbing. "Oh yeah?" he said with a challenging grin. "It took a few more of you last time."

"Cocky brat—"

The guard lunged. Ed swung the pot into his chest and then snapped a kick at the soldier, catching him in the side of the knee. The leg buckled and he cried out in surprise and anger, but as he went down he caught the chain.

Ed choked as he was yanked to the floor, landing hard on his empty port. Disoriented, he swung his automail leg blindly. He scored a glancing blow and the pressure on the collar eased slightly, but before he could get to his feet the other man grabbed his right ankle and jerked the leg out from under him, while the first man strengthened his grip on the chain and wrenched it in the other direction.

Ed gagged, grabbing at the collar as he kicked down reflexively. He had no idea what he hit, but the guard dropped his foot with a curse. Ed pulled his legs beneath him and swung a punch at the soldier. It just barely clipped his jaw, but it distracted him enough for Ed to bring his fist down full force on his hand, smashing it against the chain.

Ed shoved himself to his feet and yanked the chain back, coughing. "Back off, fuckers—"

The soldier shook out his hand and snarled. "You're going to pay for that—"

He lunged and Ed twisted, deflecting his momentum to the side, but his missing arm threw off his balance and he staggered. Before he could recover the guard slammed into him and he stumbled. His foot caught on the edge of a pot and they toppled, the larger man landing against him with almost his full weight and knocking the wind from his lungs.

Gasping for air and writhing, Ed punched and kicked frantically at the two men but it was a losing battle and he soon found himself pinned. In a last-ditch effort he sank his teeth into the nearest wrist but all that got him was a cuff upside the head, rapping his head against the stone floor.

For one dazed second, Ed thought that the deafening crack had been his skull. The two men seemed to have frozen above him, staring at the door, and he lay still, not sure what had just happened.

"Corporal Howards. Private Jensen," a woman's voice barked. "Stand down."

As soon as they released him Ed scrambled back. He pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall and looked between his attackers and the blonde woman standing just inside the doorway. He recognized her as the soldier so often seen with Mustang, a sharpshooter if the rumors were true. She had her gun trained on the two men, but scarier still was the cold stare she was leveling at them.

"Your actions are unacceptable," she continued, "and will be reported in full."

"Lieutenant—"

"Please wait for Colonel Mustang in his office. Warrant Officer Falman will escort you."

The two men stared back with jaws clenched and faces going red. The solider—Ed didn't know if he was Howards or Jensen, and didn't much care—slid his eyes to Ed for one last, hateful glare before he and the other man walked stiffly out of the room to join the tall soldier who'd been standing behind the Lieutenant. Ed eyed them, waiting until they were gone before he let himself cough and rub at his neck.

"I'm so sorry, son!" Cook squatted down in front of him, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do. "I got the lieutenant as quickly as I could. Did they hurt you much?"

"Nah." Ed coughed and tried again, flashing a grin to make up for the rasp in his voice. "Nah, I'm fine. They haven't got what it takes to best me." It had been close—uncomfortably close. He didn't want to admit how shaken he was.

The lieutenant put a hand on the cook's shoulder. "Perhaps you could get some ice?"

"Ice. Yes."

Cook bustled off and the woman knelt down in his place, offering the young hostage a smile. "Ed, isn't it?"

"Y-yeah . . ." Ed replied, wondering if he could trust the change in demeanor. She seemed genuine.

"Riza Hawkeye," she replied, just as if they were meeting on the street. "Here." She eased his chin up, gently prodding at his neck and jaw with the pads of her fingers.

"M'fine," he mumbled. All this fussing over him was weird.

"Mm-hm." Her tone made it clear she was going to go ahead no matter what he said. Cook came back with a towel wrapped around some ice and she took it and pressed it under his jaw. "There's not much we can do about the bruising, but we'll see if we can keep the swelling down."

Ed grunted in acknowledgement as he took the ice from her.

"I think it would be best if Ed came with me for now," Hawkeye told the cook.

Cook shook his head. "Colonel Mustang has the key to the chain, I don't—"

He broke off in a squeak as Lieutenant Hawkeye drew her weapon. She took aim, and fired two neat shots into the lock on the far end of the chain. "I'll notify the colonel that I'm taking responsibility for his hostage for the rest of the day," She continued, calmly going over and tugging the chain free of the ruined mechanism.

Ed stared, dumbfounded—then squalled as the icepack slipped out of his grip and landed in his lap.

* * *

"Central won't be sending another truck any time soon," the supply master informed him with a tired sort of resignation. "Say they can't afford it."

Roy nodded as he watched the mechanics fuss around the out-of-commission trucks in the courtyard. The false top had been cleared away along with any remaining booby-traps, but the fact that it had been set up so cleanly and so quietly right under their noses continued to worry him. "Meaning our next delivery of supplies might not come on schedule?"

"No one said as much, but it was sounding that way. We can make due with what we have for the time being, but if we're pressed. . . ." He made a vague gesture.

"Mm." In other words, if the conflict escalated, if they took too many more prisoners, if more than the odd soldier took ill, or if the food stores were compromised, they might be in trouble. "How many vehicles do we have left?"

"Two. Enough to get a dozen or so out in an emergency, but the rest would be stranded."

"It's a long walk across the desert to the train station," the colonel agreed.

"Sir, if we don't resolve this soon—"

"Is that the contingency for our supplies? A swift resolution?"

The supply master grimaced. "I'm only repeating what I was told, sir. No one specified, but. . . ."

"But?"

"One or two hinted that Command might be more eager to send supplies if they knew they weren't going to waste."

"I see."

"If they. . . ."

"Go on."

"Well . . . if they saw some results."

He allowed himself a tight smile. "Central Command is getting downright pushy." Parliament had given Lieutenant General Grumman full authority and Grumman had passed that down to him. The Fuhrer and his inner circle could make noise and try to squeeze their supplies, but couldn't interfere directly without the cooperation of Parliament.

"Sir, they might—"

A gunshot interrupted the rest of the supply master's sentence, putting both men on alert. Hearing gunfire wasn't unusual, but this had sounded like it came from the mess.

"Hold, all of you!" Roy snapped at those nearby. The last thing he needed was a half dozen soldiers running in half-cocked. A single shot was more likely to be some over-eager enlisted getting trigger-happy than an actual engagement with combatants. All the same, his thumb was pressed to his first two fingers as he approached the mess hall. Foremost in his mind was that he'd left Ed in there. He didn't think he would have caused such a commotion, but he hadn't known the young prisoner long enough to be sure of anything, and he didn't want the kid to get hurt.

As he got near the kitchen Roy could hear a familiar female voice and it immediately put him at ease, his fingers relaxing as he stopped just short of the doorway. Hawkeye was using her insubordinates and idiots voice and it sounded like she had the situation under control. Not so happily for whoever was in her line of fire, of course.

A small group exited the store room, headed for the kitchen's back door, and the colonel stepped back to keep out of sight. The two men Falman was escorting were red-faced and seething and Roy frowned to himself. Both were leftovers from Hakuro's time here and, if he was remembering correctly, both had been involved in the scuffle during Ed's capture.

He should have been more careful.

If he knew Hawkeye he could guess where those men had been sent. He could deal with them later. The urge to go in there and make sure Ed was okay was strong but he fought it down, deliberately turning his back and walking away from the kitchen. This was a delicate game he was playing with his hostage, and one wrong move might upset the whole board. He could trust Hawkeye to see to his concerns—he winced at the sound of two more gunshots and tried not to think about the property damage—which left him free to better plan his next move.