
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9565994.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Fullmetal_Alchemist_(Anime_2003)
  Character:
      Edward_Elric, Alphonse_Elric, Roy_Mustang, Riza_Hawkeye, Sloth_(Trisha
      Elric), Frank_Archer, OCs
  Additional Tags:
      30screams, themed_sets, Multiple_Points_of_View, interconnected_One_shots
  Series:
      Part 3 of Pandora's_Universe
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-03 Updated: 2017-05-02 Chapters: 11/30 Words: 9111
****** The Thirty Times They Tried To Scream ******
by Unoriginality
Summary
     30 stories of the fear that followed the release of Pandora's evils.
Notes
     Closer looks at events that cover from beginning to end of the
     series. (And as of right now, the end's a looooong way from sight.)
     Not posted in order, chronological or written. I'm sharing the themes
     for anyone who wants to use them for their own stuff. Each theme has
     two options. Each piece will be labeled according to which theme I
     chose to use.
***** Chapter 1 *****
            [https://s19.postimg.org/ac9tssg03/30screamscover.jpg]
1: A Bloody Knife | Echo
2: Trapped | In an Elevator
3: Cemetery | Gone Wrong
4: Rainy Night | Protection
5: Haunted | Changes
6: Broken Mirror | Midnight
7: A Confession | Cursed
8: Carnival | Stolen
9: The Shower | Cruelty
10: Nightmares | All a Game
11: Followed | Time's Up
12: Sunset | Coat of Arms
13: Pricked | Shots
14: Broken Heart | Diseased
15: Revenge | Awakening
16: The Flood | "Go Back to Sleep"
17: Rage | Pendant
18: Under the Moon | Music Box
19: The Mask | Cavern
20: Chains | Stranded
21: Whispers | Hopeless
22: Something Shattered | Commotion
23: Nightly Creatures | Loyalty
24: Shadows | Mist
25: In the Woods | Tablets
26: Crime | Vulgarity
27: Singing | The Hermit
28: Wounds | The Emperor
29: Shame | Wheel of Fortune
30: Death | Roll Credits
***** 11 - "Time's Up" *****
Chapter Summary
     "You get one minute."
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
it won't cost much
just your voice
you poor unfortunate soul
it's sad, but true
if you want to cross a bridge, my sweet
you've got to pay the toll
-The Little Mermaid
"You get one minute."
It was his own hand that was held up at that, displaying a single finger to
drive the point home.
One minute. For that arm.
Edward let the icy black hands slide over him, pulling him back into the
chaotic inner depths of the Gate, back into that insanity given a face. Colors
swirled and melted around him, blurring his vision, spilling over what
should've been defined outlines, twisting until it turned around everything in
his mind, touched on some other sense that science could never fully prove a
person could have.
A cacophony of noise and colors buzzed through his head, images his mind was
forced to open to and understand, then file away where he knew it'd take a
lifetime of study to ever understand again; he ignored it. He had to. Pushing
past the hoards of giggling black forms gathering around him with his one arm
and leg, he reached, pressed on towards the light that his heart recognized
long before his eyes could.
"Al!"
Each foot was a struggle to gain. The creatures were as intent on hindering him
as they were on helping the poor one-legged boy who could only move by bracing
himself against their bodies and pushing as hard as he could. They held onto
him, slowed him down with their weight.
"Al!"
He had to hurry. He only had a minute, one minute before he lost his brother
for good, before his brother was trapped there in that hell. Stretching his arm
as far as it would go as he used his leg to kick and push against one of the
Gate's creatures, he reached for his brother, fingers brushing the air just
centimeters away from that light that nearly blinded him.
"Time's up."
For a fraction of a second, Edward froze, nerves going numb as the Truth's
words sank in. A minute already up. No, it couldn't- Al was right there, so
close, just another few seconds..!
Ignoring the voice, kicking at the things that tried to drag him back, no
longer helping at all, he reached again, screaming for his brother. Come on,
Al, just reach! Please, I'm almost there!
Cold tendrils wrapped around his throat and yanked him back. He choked and
cried, Al's form slipping farther away as the tendrils dragged him away.
"Time's up," the voice repeated again, half-snarled, half-laughed and Edward's
throat burned, and he screamed-
 
"Time's up."
Edward jumped, the pencil in his right hand snapping neatly from the sudden
pressure as his fists clenched. Around him, the testing council that stayed
late, just for him to take the qualification test, were watching, waiting on
him to snap out of his waking nightmare.
Ducking his head in embarrassment, he handed his incomplete test in to the
officer collecting his paper. As soon as he was dismissed, he hurried out of
the room, leaving the broken pencil on the desk.
***** 6 - Broken Mirror *****
Chapter Summary
     "You disappoint me, Fullmetal."
Chapter Notes
     More Vietnam-styled war stuff. If you recognize Auman and Cooper, you
     get a cookie. /roundabout other fandom shoutout
     Explicit rape ahead.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
comin' back from surgery
comin' up on seventeen
some kind of oralplasty
or maybe a lobotomy
comin' back from surgery
comin' up on seventeen
i don't remember how i looked
before he got to me
-The Vincent Black Shadow
Snow muffled the sounds of the small squad that moved with deliberate care
towards the small Drachman village along the Amestrian border. Lieutenant Auman
moved down into a crouch, holding up a fist. The rest of the men followed suit,
moving down into position behind him, lining the poorly-marked trail they were
following.
Sergeant Cooper crept up next to the lieutenant. Words were exchanged, then
Cooper moved back over to the waiting men.
Edward huddled down under his thick coat.
"Okay, men, L-T's gettin' worried about how loudly we're moving. We're gonna
spread out. If Echo's out there, he'll hear us coming a mile away. Tyler,
Elric, you guys cover the right. Holn, Ramon, you two set up a trap a click
east of here. The rest of you..." Cooper grinned. "Try to walk quieter. You're
sounding like a pack of elephants here."
Someone snorted and flung a small handful of snow at Cooper, the snow too loose
to have packed into a snowball properly. Cooper smirked and crept back up to
Auman.
Edward glanced at Private Tyler. Tyler gave him a nervous look, then shrugged
and motioned with the muzzle of his gun. Come on, I guess.
With a nod, Edward followed after Tyler, creeping silently close to the ground,
hands pressing into snow for balance. Like an animal stalking prey.
Following a blood trail.
The squad hadn't been moving loudly at all. The snow was too soft to crunch,
all it did was muffle any noises they had been making. Not even the Drachman
forces could've heard them coming.
They were setting up an ambush.
An ambush on an enemy that may or may not be there. It was only suspected that
Drachman guerillas were using the little ville as one of their many safe places
scattered across the border area, but the Amestrian officers that had the
misfortune of being stationed in the area didn't want to take chances.
So Edward and the rest of the squad found themselves on clean up duty. For
Edward, it was training, another mission that Archer sent him on to remind him
that he was a soldier now. He had to follow orders, no matter what he thought
of it.
He thought this mission was shitty.
Tyler motioned to him, pointing down the gully towards still-sleeping village
below. Edward nodded, dropping his gun off his shoulder and slowly moving with
Tyler down along the edges of the village.
Auman and Cooper moved into the village with the main part of the squad, guns
at the ready, moving to the doorways of homes. "All right, everyone up! Get
out, get out! Where we can see you!"
Cooper shouted an order to the other men to start searching the buildings.
Edward watched as sleepy, confused people stumbled out into the frigid night
air in their nightclothes, watched as some of the other men in his squad kept
them at gunpoint while the rest searched the homes.
"Sarge, we got a tunne-" His comrade's sentence was cut off as the world
suddenly exploded with gunfire.
                                      ***
"You disappoint me, Fullmetal."
Edward worked to keep the flinch off his face. Soldiers didn't flinch. They
didn't show emotion. Especially not when getting chastised by their superior
officer. If they were lucky, that's all the officer would do.
Usually, that's all Lieutenant Colonel Archer did. It was hard to tell though,
when he would decide more drastic measures were needed.
Somehow, Edward suspected that his commanding officer would decide more drastic
measures were needed. He just hoped that it didn't involve losing his state
alchemist certification. Anything but that, anything but losing that last
thread of hope for getting his brother back.
Archer turned away from the window that gave a view to nothing but the endless
white of the cold, frozen north, the dead brown trees and the occasional hint
of green of a conifer. Edward kept his eyes forward, his posture picture-
perfect of a soldier. Of a trained officer. Of a weapon for the military.
"Do you realize you got good soldiers killed today, Fullmetal?"
He was aware. It ate at him. But the people in that village... "They were
children, sir," he replied, voice cracking and squeaking and barely making it
above a whisper. He fought back the urge to cough as the effort scratched his
throat.
"So they were," Archer replied matter-of-factly. "Children that were just as
armed as their parents. I should think you of all people should realize that
children can be just as dangerous as adults."
Images of Nina flashed through Edward's mind. "Sir, we attacked-"
"Silence," Archer snapped, settling in his chair. "I do not tolerate lying,
Fullmetal, or perhaps your memory requires a bit of help. They fired upon your
squad first, according to the report from Lieutenant Auman."
Edward bit the inside of his lip until it bled. "Yes,sir."
"Are you contesting the reports from the platoon leader?" Archer raised an
eyebrow, fixing a cold, steady gaze on Edward.
Bile rose in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, swallowed down the
fear at that look. Please don't take my certification. Anything but that,
please. "No, sir."
"So you admit you lied to your commanding officer."
A pause. There was no way to answer that- no good way, anyway. "Yes, sir."
The chair behind Archer's chair squeaked in protest to the cold as Archer sat
back, arms folded against his chest, fingers steepled thoughtfully. "You
disobeyed orders. Your disobedience resulted in the death of good soldiers. And
now you have blatantly lied to your commanding officer. Fullmetal, are you
aware what kind of consequences that carries?"
More hesitation that Edward mentally scolded himself for before he reluctantly
shook his head.
"If you're lucky? You will be stripped of your certification and given a
dishonorable discharge." Edward could swear Archer paused like that to give
Edward's nerves time to tangle up further on purpose. "At worst, you will find
yourself right back in that prison the führer was gracious enough to release
you from."
Every muscle in his body went tense with fear at that.
Nonononopleasenotthereagain. Edward swallowed tightly. "Yes, sir."
Archer sat forward. "I hope you can give me good justification for your
actions, or a very good reason to give you yet another chance. You've tried my
patience, Fullmetal. It's growing thin."
Any wrong word now could mean the end of his last hope for getting Al back.
Edward swallowed down more bile, swallowed down the urge to cough that was
getting worse and worse. "Sir, I am a child, but I chose to be here. Those
children did not choose for the combatants of both sides to invade their lives.
They merely defend."
For a brief moment, Edward thought maybe, just maybe, he would escape with a
lesser punishment- delegated to hard labor, something, anything better than
losing his certification.
For only a moment.
Archer reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out some papers.
"Fullmetal," he said, picking up a pen and beginning to fill out the forms. "Do
you know how the squad before yours that was patrolling that area was wiped
out?"
Edward reluctantly shook his head before answering when he realized Archer was
not raising his head to look at him. "No."
"They had passed through that village. They were carrying supplies that they
shared with the villagers. An eight-year-old girl told her father that
Amestrian soldiers had passed through and were in the area." Archer lifted his
head, giving Edward a pointed stare. "The girl's father was a Drachman
guerilla."
At least these people had a reason.
His hands shook with the effort to keep himself still, to keep his expression
fixed and neutral, to keep from showing any sort of response except an
obsequious "yes, sir."
"It's a shame, Fullmetal," Archer set the pen down and folded his hands on the
desk. "You held a lot of promise. Unfortunately, you seem to have trouble with
the fact that war turns everyone into a soldier. Unfortunate, perhaps, but you
would not have been placed under my command to train you were it not true.
Since you refuse to accept your duty as a soldier and carry it out fully, I
have no choice but to remove that title from you."
No. No no no. He knew better. Archer didn't want to give up on Edward this far
into things, and Edward knew it. Orders from Bradley himself that Grand had
given Archer the chance to carry out? He knew Archer better than that.
But Edward knew that was countered heavily by the fact that if he never carried
through on a threat, Edward would never learn.
Edward knew this game by now.
Almost on cue, Archer sat back. "Unless you have another suggestion,
Fullmetal?"
A chance to bargain. Part of Edward nearly wanted to cry with relief. "Lashing,
sir?" He could handle pain. He could handle as much pain as Archer wanted to
dish out.
Unfortunately, Archer knew that. "I hardly think that would be effective with
you, now would it, Fullmetal?"
It took effort to not rub at the scar that had formed nicely above his right
eye from the only time that Archer ever personally raised a hand to him. "No,
sir," he admitted.
For a long, agonizing minute, Archer was silent, watching Edward, a thoughtful
expression on his face, eyes cool and impassive as he studied the boy in front
of him whose future he held in his hands so casually. "Come here."
A reflexive urge to gag tugged at Edward's throat muscles and he fought it
back, legs and feet moving automatically, taking him around to the side of
Archer's desk. His commanding officer's words sounded like Edward was hearing
from underwater as he spoke- "obedience should be absolute, Fullmetal," - and
then ordered him down onto his knees.
Obedience should be absolute. No matter the order, it should be followed.
Even if the order was merely a test, an inane and unnecessary task carried out
to ensure that a soldier understood, remembered his place and would follow his
orders faithfully.
The urge to gag rose again and was forcibly restrained, shoved aside with all
thought as he waited patiently a moment, waited as Archer's pants were unzipped
and his erection was presented. It was almost soft, barely firmed from arousal-
there was no carnal pleasure involved for Archer, which was small comfort; it
was merely a tool of training.
Edward leaned forward and took Archer's cock into his mouth without word,
without question. When Archer's hand tangled in his hair, guiding his mouth and
taking complete control of how Edward moved and when, he made no protest. He
was a soldier, soldiers did not question, did not disobey.
Soldiers did not lose their certification.
A soldier was the only thing that stood a chance at getting Al back.
His hands braced on the seat of Archer's chair as his head was moved, his mouth
and tongue and lips sliding along the length of Archer's cock. His commanding
officer grunted slightly but otherwise made no noise, no indication except a
sudden tensing when he came and Edward choked and swallowed, kept from
retching, kept from even coughing as he was released and sat back.
With effort, he kept his fists from shaking as he waited patiently on his knees
for permission to stand and leave.
The ripping of paper drew his attention and he lifted his head as Archer sat
back in his seat, pants rezipped as if nothing had changed, nothing had
happened, to find Archer tearing the forms he'd been filling out. He realized
those forms had been his decommission papers, or something akin to that.
Edward found he was far too numb to be scared by how close he'd come to losing
his certification.
Soldiers showed no emotion when on duty. Human weapons even less so.
"Very well, Fullmetal." No relief, no reaction, Edward refused to allow it when
Archer finally spoke. "Get up. Report to Sergeant Lièvre in one hour. And do
not report to the mess hall at dinner. Report outside to the post."
Hard labor as well. Considering Edward had gotten valuable soldiers killed with
his insubordination, it was more than fair. At least he was still alive.
At least he still had his title and rank. And at least he still had a chance at
finding his brother someday.
"Now go get cleaned up. You have one hour. Dismissed."
Edward wasted no time saluting and hurrying out of Archer's office before the
lieutenant colonel changed his mind. He made a beeline for the washroom. He
still stank of blood- it clung to him, to his gloves, to his coat, to his face
and hair.
The showers were empty and silent when he stepped into them, the slam of the
door echoing like a shot. His guts twisted up, threatened, and he barely had
time to make a dive for a toilet before his stomach emptied itself, acid
burning at his scratched throat until tears stung at his eyes.
As he heaved and coughed, he didn't notice he'd started to sob and choke on the
tears, his breath shuddering and every muscle shaking from the release of the
adrenaline as the fear slowly leeched out of his system.
After what felt like forever, his body relaxed, numbed itself down as he sat
back, leaning against the stall for support. He gathered his strength, forced
his muscles to respond and got up, stripped and stepped into a shower stall. He
showered quickly, ignoring the way the water was red as blood rinsed out of his
hair and off his face.
A small transmutation cleaned and dried his clothing and he redressed, pulling
on his black turtleneck and pants. That wretched uniform jacket came next. His
gloves were shoved into his pockets. He stopped at the mirror to make take
assessment of any injuries now that he was clean, to make sure he was
presentable, or if he should report to the infirmary before finding Sergeant
Lièvre.
Fullmetal stared back at him, silent, cold. The blood was washed off but Edward
could still see it. There were scratches and scrapes on him, but nothing that
needed attention, except to keep them clean.
His footsteps echoed sharply against the bathroom walls as he walked up to his
reflection. The single clap banged in the dead silence of the room, and
alchemical energy snapped and snarled, and glass whined in protest as it melted
and twisted around his hand.
What stood in front of him then looked like some sort of horrific creature from
a funhouse.
There. Much better.
Fullmetal stood a moment longer, then turned and walked out.
***** 14 - Diseased *****
Chapter Summary
     Ernst sighed, warring between his training as a soldier, his rational
     good sense, and his own sense of duty as a doctor. The debate was
     brief, of course, because Ernst was a doctor first, a soldier second,
     and he'd made no secret when he signed on for this crazy parade that
     was how it was going to be.
     Of course, arguing with the lieutenant colonel often felt like
     arguing with a brick wall. Only the brick wall listened better.
Chapter Notes
     Remington is heavily based on Charles Winchester III from MASH.
     Because goddamnit, that man is funny.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
Ernst Remington the Third considered himself a man of great patience and
character, all considered. Patience was more than a virtue in the job he took,
sewing people up and occasionally performing so-called 'meatball' surgeries as
part of cleaning up the military's messes made it more of a necessity. He did
not argue the questionable 'morality' of war, and he accepted the two rules of
being a military doctor- that sometimes young men die, and that no doctor in
the world could change that. He performed his duty admirably and faithfully.
However, this latest change in the tiny supply station near the Drachman border
was testing all of his boundaries.
After all, a 'young man' was not quite the same thing as a 'young boy'. A young
man served as a soldier. A young boy should be home, playing cops and robbers
or some other such silly childhood game with his friends. Not defending a
military base alongside grown men, many of whom were at least ten years his
senior. A young boy did not belong in a place where the military allowed- or
rather, turned a blind eye to- corporal punishment. A young boy did not belong
in his medical unit with lash wounds on his back, and a young boy had no
business turning cold so young.
"I had hoped, Edward," Ernst said idly as he once again worked on stitching a
gash on the young boy's face, "that I would not need to see you so frequently.
Every time I do, I wonder how much longer that luck of yours is going to last."
Edward no longer squeezed his eyes shut in the presence of needles. He wouldn't
look at them still, but he'd slowly begun to learn to mask emotions, putting
himself on the path of becoming the grotesque image of the 'perfect soldier'.
Archer was doing his job, whatever it was he considered his job to be,
remarkably well.
The boy answered with a shrug, otherwise remaining still while Ernst stitched a
thin but deep gash on the boy's left cheek. Ernst wasn't surprised. The boy
avoided talking whenever he could, since that unholy madman running the place
insisted on prohibiting Edward's sign language in as many situations as
possible. Ernst sighed. "I don't suppose you would tell me what caused this
one, hm?"
Edward hesitated a moment, then lifted a hand to sign. "Spring bounced back on
me while I was reassembling my sidearm."
"Ah, yes, well, that stings a bit. I recommend you not let that happen in the
future," Ernst told him, somewhat dry-toned. Edward gave him a bit of a tired
look, but didn't answer. Ernst wasn't surprised by this fact, and let it go,
focusing on finishing his work. Gratefully, the wound wasn't terribly large,
just deep, and a few stitches finished it off. "There, done. Now I'll clean the
area one last time, and before you go, I'd like to have a look at your ports
and your throat, if I may. Just a routine check-up, but since I have you here
at the moment, we may as well be efficient about things, yes?"
Edward nodded, and once Ernst had cleaned the area around the stitches on his
face again, the boy quickly stripped out of his uniform jacket and pants, and
the black turtleneck he still wore under the uniform, exposing the flesh around
his two automail ports to investigation. Quickly, efficiently, without question
or hesitation. Good god. It seemed like everything he did had the proper
behavior of a soldier drilled into it.
Ernst held a great, heaping amount of detestation and loathing for the
station's commanding officer.
Of course, he didn't comment on it- he didn't care to do anything that would
confuse the boy more and potentially get him into more trouble -he simply
inspected the ports for inflammation or torn tissue. It checked out healthy, of
course. Ernst had little doubt it would, with the automail surgeon the boy said
he'd had. Pinako Rockbell was known as the best for a reason.
"All right, put your clothes back on," he instructed. "Then we'll take a look
at that throat of yours." Just as quickly as he'd stripped, Edward had his
clothes back on and was settled back up on the exam table. Ernst didn't have to
tell him to open his mouth, he simply did it, holding his tongue down out of
the way.
A cursory inspection showed far more irritation than Ernst was comfortable
with. Edward was far more susceptible to infection with that injury, and the
cold did little to help his immune system's ability to fight off infection.
Ernst frowned, setting aside the flashlight. "All right, you're cleared. You'd
best report back to that carnival's shooting gallery."
Edward saluted, then grabbed his coat and slipped it on before leaving to
return to the range. Ernst sighed, warring between his training as a soldier,
his rational good sense, and his own sense of duty as a doctor. The debate was
brief, of course, because Ernst was a doctor first, a soldier second, and he'd
made no secret when he signed on for this crazy parade that was how it was
going to be.
Of course, arguing with the lieutenant colonel often felt like arguing with a
brick wall. Only the brick wall listened better.
The lieutenant colonel made him wait when he knocked on his door, a rather
rudely long time, actually, before he finally said "Enter." Remington entered
and saluted, although he loathed giving such a gesture of respect to this man.
Archer returned the gesture. "What is it you need, Doctor?"
"Besides those medicines I keep requisitioning?" he asked, tone drier than
thirty-year-old scotch.
Archer gave him an impatient look. "Yes, Doctor, besides that. I put in the
forms, we can only wait for North Headquarters to respond."
Remington sighed. "I'm aware. Actually, I'm here to request three days of
medical leave for one of my patients."
"Oh?" Archer shuffled papers idly, apparently only half-paying attention.
"Yes, for Edward Elric." That had Archer's full attention. Remington continued
before the bastard could protest. "His throat is showing signs of infection.
I'm not surprised by this; I keep warning you about him using his voice."
Archer folded his hands on the desk, giving Remington a cold, level look. "I do
not push him past his limits, Doctor."
Remington would disagree, but he let it go. "Perhaps not, but that doesn't
change the fact that his throat is irritated enough that if he doesn't give it
a rest for a few days, I will likely be seeing him for an infection within the
week. Now, an infection could have him out for a week or more. I'm requesting
just a small handful of days."
The logic couldn't escape even one as stubborn as a mule as Archer, who
reluctantly conceded to allowing Edward the days off the doctor requested.
Remington counted it as a victory. "I promise, Lieutenant Colonel, I'll have
him back to duty as quickly as possible."
"See that you do," Archer warned, signing off on the requested medical leave.
                                      ***
Edward awoke in a fevered haze. Blankets tangled around him and stuck to his
skin, cold and clammy from sweat and the cold northern air. The wind outside
howled with a snow storm, rising in pitch with the shrieking along his nerves
and in the synapses forced to wake from the light stages of REM sleep. He
gasped for air, kicked and struggled against the blankets until he finally fell
off the bed with a thud.
The shock of the frigid air against his sweat-soaked and flushed skin hit him
like a wall, jarring into the lucid dream still fighting for control of his
consciousness. The blankets felt smooth and cold and looked black, then once
again were clammy and a dull white of military issue. He kicked his legs free,
the cloth catching on something on his automail ankle and tearing. He struggled
to his feet, stumbled and smacked against the wall soundly.
Every muscle in his body shuddered with the struggle to not get sick, shivered
from the cold air the closed window did nothing to stop, with a bone-deep
terror and fatigue as he straightened, reaching for the nightstand. Without
thinking, his hands fumbled around for the chalk he kept around despite his
lack of need for it, his thoughts swirling dizzyingly behind his eyes. The wall
became those doors from his nightmares, black hands and vicious eyes staring
and reaching and laughing; he choked, forced his eyes back open, and it became
a wall again.
With his arms braced against the wall, he pushed himself to his feet, shivering
and struggling to breathe without the cold air scraping old scar tissue raw.
Sweat made his arm slide against the wall, causing his forehead to connect
dully. He blinked blearily, then jerked away at the phantom feel of leather
straps biting into his flesh wrist. A choked and hollow wheezing sound forced
through his throat as he clawed frantically at his wrist with dull metal
fingers. His thoughts froze in panic as the fingers failed to find anything to
catch hold of and the sharp response from his nerves in his skin continued.
His back muscles spasmed in anticipation of the lash, while his throat
constricted and his gag reflex fought against a weight pressing against the
back of his throat.
"One minute."
With a terrified, broken attempt at a scream, he forced his eyes open again,
staring blankly at the marked walls in front of him, at the transmutation
circles that could've only been drawn by a madman, circles that sprawled and
twisted and wobbled from shaking hands. A fevered attempt at writing memories
in the only language he could hide from the demons in his dreams
There were no straps on his wrists, no lash striking his back, nothing forced
in his mouth, no gunshots or cold snow striking his face, no black hands or
laughing eyes, or horrible staticky voices telling him his life was over in one
minute. Not even the echo of Al's voice screaming his name. The only thing in
the room was his own ragged breathing and racing heart and blurred vision.
Every bit of him shaking, Edward dropped the chalk and pressed his hands
together, a quick transmutation removing the traces of the nonsense circles
from the wall before someone decided he was in trouble for vandalizing military
property.
His stomach heaved, threatened, and he shuddered at the taste of bile, pushed
himself to his feet and stumbled to the door. His hands and arms moved on their
own, opening the door as his head swam. His weight spilled out onto the hallway
floor, his automail making a clanging thunk as it struck the tiles. Somewhere
distantly, he heard voices right before unconsciousness pulled him back under.
                                      ***
It had been two hours since Edward had been brought into the infirmary,
coughing and running a fever upwards of a hundred and two. Two hours during
which time Doctor Ernst Remington the Third had fought to bring the fever down,
fought to calm the coughing and irritation that tore at the boy's injured
throat. He'd pumped the boy so full of antibiotics, he almost worried he'd gone
too far with it.
Finally, the boy was resting, sleeping in one of the quarantine rooms, and
Ernst could stop a moment to breathe.
Children get sick all the time.
But damned if I did not warn that man.
Now that the adrenaline-fueled fear had settled, the anger came. He'd warned
Archer about the danger to Edward's health. And he'd been all but ignored, and
quite frankly, he did not appreciate it. Perhaps it was well past time to tell
the station's commanding officer exactly what he thought of him, risks to his
own rank be damned. He was a major, he wasn't terribly outranked, and he had
his own friends in Central that he should have long ago contacted over this.
Why he hadn't yet was beyond his ability to contemplate.
To Ernst's surprise, the lieutenant colonel in question had been waiting- not
particularly patiently, but waiting, nonetheless- outside of the infirmary for
a status report on his 'star pupil.'
"Star pupil" my foot.
The boy is this man's favorite new toy.
One would think the novelty would have worn off by now.
Simpletons rarely hold onto their toys so long.
"I'd like a status report, Doctor," Archer said as soon as Ernst stepped out of
the infirmary.
He bit back the urge to say something that would be too out of line. "He has an
infection. His fever spiked in response. I've got his fever down, but I want
him in the infirmary, resting, for at least a week. And if I may, Lieutenant
Colonel-"
"You may not," Archer interrupted. "What you may do is tend to your patient. I
do not want to hear from him until he is fully healthy again."
Ernst bit the inside of his lip for a moment. "I'm amazed you don't want him
back in the field as sooner than that, with all due respect, sir," he said,
with utterly no respect. He was quite fed up with this man and his attitude,
and damn be the costs. "I had warned you about the use of his voice. He was not
to use anything but his field sign as much as possible. Now-" he held up a
hand, cutting off the commanding officer, entirely at his own peril and he was
well aware of that, "-I suggest you find a position for him that allows use of
that sign language and minimizes his use of his voice, or I shall have to file
a report to Central and have him transferred."
Regardless of where Archer's orders came from, medical orders could override
them. And Archer knew it. He gave Ernst a vicious look. "I see. Well, then I
will make sure he is given a job that will make good use of field sign. Do be
certain to inform me when he is well again, Doctor, so I can fill out the forms
for his deployment to a firebase." With that, Archer turned and walked away,
leaving Ernst standing there in stupefied horror.
A twelve-year-old boy. At a firebase.
Dear god, what had he done?
***** 1 - Bloody Knife *****
Chapter Summary
     I just wanted food. Then I heard leather on skin.
Chapter Notes
     I decided to try for an image format. I hope this worked out okay.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
[https://s19.postimg.org/jb92xaznn/01_bloodyknife01.jpg]
[https://s19.postimg.org/uxt6yfmyr/01_bloodyknife02.jpg]
[https://s19.postimg.org/y5xobh98j/01_bloodyknife03.jpg]
***** 2 - Trapped *****
Chapter Summary
     The blank sheet in front of him mockingly reminded him what he could
     not do.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
Edward stared at the paper in front of him. Scattered notes and alchemy texts
covered the desk he sat at, scrawled on and ear-marked. Complex arrays and
formulas and equations were scribbled down as testimony to what the mind of the
young state alchemist was capable of.
The blank sheet in front of him mockingly reminded him what he could not do.
It'd been two years since he left Rizenbul. He hadn't written a single letter
that whole time. Lack of opportunity stopped him the first seven months; he
hadn't been allowed contact with the outside world while he was up in Acheron.
He had no real excuse after that, though.
The tip of his pen hovered just over the paper, unmoving.
He had no idea what to write.
What could he say? So much had happened, but he wasn't about to tell them any
of that. There was nothing he could say about his research, either. He was no
closer to getting Al back than the day he left. There was no way he'd say as
much to them.
His entire world had been reduced to just that- getting his brother back and
trying to outrun the nightmares.
And nobody knew about any of it. And he couldn't tell any of them.
Everytime he tried to write home, Edward realized all over again that he'd
become trapped by his own silence.
***** 29 - Shame *****
Chapter Summary
     It was a natural chemical reaction. A process of the body on level
     with the need to eat, or sleep, or rid oneself of wastes. One of the
     basic needs of the human body.
     Simple chemistry.
     It still made him sick.
Chapter Notes
     Graphic sexual content. No, not incest, just fucked up.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
It was a natural chemical reaction. A process of the body on level with the
need to eat, or sleep, or rid oneself of wastes. One of the basic needs of the
human body.
Edward understood that. He was more familiar with the peculiarities of the
female body from his studies in his attempt to recreate his mother than he was
his own male body, but he still understood that. It was basic. It was
universal. Everyone needed that release the same.
Simple chemistry.
It still made him sick.
He tried to ignore his body's pleading as long as he could, refused to
acknowledge it. He'd had more experience than he cared for with male sexuality.
He wanted nothing to do with it. He knew more intimately that he had right to
where the nerves were, what it felt and tasted like.
He wanted to leave that nightmare with the rest of them.
It wasn't until he'd find his hand drifting down across his abdomen as he
hunched over his work of its own volition, wasn't until his thoughts would not
focus on the arrays and equations or even something as simple and routine as
cleaning his gun, until his thoughts had gone the way of distraction, drifted
to fantasies that made him want to retch that he'd give in.
Anything to make the thoughts go away.
Anything to make the memories and the way his body responded and the images his
mind came up with go away.
With a frustrated snarl the pencil snapped in his fist and he slammed it down,
yanked off his coat and threw it against his suitcase in the corner. The
suitcase wobbled and fell onto its side with a thump and he settled on the bed,
kicking off his boots and struggling out of his pants, cursing and growling
under his breath, like an animal fighting with an unwanted leash around its
neck.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, kept biting,
working open the sore that had long-since developed there as his flesh hand
worked free his aching erection, shoving aside garments that were already
uncomfortable from the pre-come that had gathered at the head.
Sex was a punishment. It was control, a control he didn't have over himself and
he closed his eyes against the images and memories and fought back the thoughts
and urge to see someone else suffer as he had, the need to take control back,
and oh god, he hated himself, chewed the sore in his mouth until his thoughts
had to focus on that more than the fire shooting up his nerves from his groin.
Pain never tamed his thoughts for long. His body was too accustomed to that, it
was like a familiar old friend, a hateful lover that was never far, that his
body embraced as much as it rejected it.
It never kept the thoughts away.
In fact, it just made them worse. His body fed on the flood of endorphins that
mixed with the hormones and took his thoughts and reactions farther and farther
away from his grasp until he could feel the frayed threads in his mind starting
to snap, strained to the breaking point.
There was only one thing that could change the course of his thoughts, one
thing and he hated himself for it every time he turned to it, clung to it and
the guilt that came with it like a lifeline from the darkness and anger that he
normally embraced as a protective cloak from the fear.
"Al-!"
His hatred and anger turned inward, attacked himself viciously as he let the
desperate need to have his brother back pull his mind away from what he was
doing and the twisted fantasies that it dredged up.
Guilty as charged. Convicted and sentenced.
His brother's name scraped at his throat and his broken voice as he came,
muscles taut and tense and his whole body shuddering and his breath coming in
strangled gasps. Silence fell over the room, fell over his mind in that brief
lull as the chemicals slowly receded, released their grip on him.
He wanted to scream. Of all the releases a man could want, that was the one he
was denied.
***** 17 - Rage *****
Chapter Summary
     Edward had learned very well how to hate.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
Passion. It lies in all of us, sleeping, waiting. And though unwanted,
unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us.
Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the
source of our finest moments: the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the
ecstasy of grief.
-Angelus; Buffy the Vampire Slayer
He'd never felt anything so exhilarating. So addicting. It provided a release,
a freedom he had forgotten the taste of, trapped up north in the frozen snow,
training until his hand was blistered, bleeding and cracked and chapped, until
he couldn't remember what it was like to breathe without seeing the
condensation from his breath in the air, until his brain had shut down all
thought processes in the cruel winter.
It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, white hot and powerful, and it
spilled over in his mind, like a poison that seeped into his blood and spread
throughout his body. It warmed him, made him feel again, made him live. It
pushed him on, it made his feet move forward again, trudging through snow that
no longer bothered him, no longer slowed him down.
His commanding officer was very good, he would decide later, looking at it
objectively. He knew how to whittle away society's morals and get down to the
animalistic part of man, and then hone it into a weapon for the military to
use. That was his job.
He did a very very good job.
Edward had learned very well how to hate.
Of course, the man never figured that it could be directed at the military.
That Edward would develop a Pavlovian reaction to the sight of the uniform
until even the softest hand could be met with hostility, wariness, mistrust.
It always crept just beneath the surface, that beautiful, vicious drug, that
black rage that colored his vision, that burned both hot and cold, that sent
people looking the other way and trying to get out of his path. A quiet
companion that lurked at the back of his mind, a welcome distraction from the
nightmares, from the guilt and the horror that was never far behind him.
It became almost a security blanket, a safety net that caught him when his
guilt would rise in his chest and choke him, when he'd hear his brother's
screams again, feel those black hands, see those dead eyes that stared and
laughed and the feel of his brother's fingers brushing against his before he
disappeared. His anger would find a target and flare up, lash out and wrap him
up in its cruel embrace, punishing others for sins that were as much his as
they were theirs.
Divine retribution. Let them pay the price that he had.
The dead can never come back to life. Any who failed to heed that warning were
punished. Any who violated what little moral code Edward had left to him were
judged.
People were made to fear the name Fullmetal.
He may have failed his brother, may have failed Nina. But his anger ensured
that he didn't fail anyone else. His anger kept him from stopping, from giving
up.
His anger had become his own prison.
***** 27 - Singing *****
Chapter Summary
     Once upon a time, his brother had been good at singing.
     Edward didn't sing anymore.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
Once upon a time, his brother had been good at singing.
Edward didn't sing anymore.
Over the years, in those little glimpses, brief moments when Edward's thoughts
were so keenly focused on his brother, on the other half of his soul still
trapped in the Gate, Alphonse was able to see and hear his brother. He tried to
talk to him, to comfort him, to let him know he was still alive, it was okay,
he didn't need to hurt like that.
It broke Alphonse's heart, listening to Edward's fears as they'd bubble to the
surface, listening to the tattered remains of his brother's once beautiful
voice as he whispered quiet confessions, begging for forgiveness from someone
he was convinced couldn't hear him.
If Alphonse could, he'd give his own voice to his brother. He'd agree to give
up whatever he might have left of himself to give Edward his voice back. He
wanted to hear his brother laugh again. Hear him argue with someone over some
scientific theory that was way beyond what someone his age should've been able
to comprehend.
He wanted to hear his brother sing him to sleep again, like he did after their
mother was no longer there to do it herself.
Truth was a cruel master, though, and Alphonse couldn't do anything from where
he was but listen to the hoarse whisper that was all that was left of Edward's
voice, and cry for his brother.
***** 20 - Stranded *****
Chapter Summary
     The three Drachman guerrillas that led the group were followed by two
     more, dragging a figure in the dark blues of the Amestrian cold
     weather gear. The Amestrian was missing his goggles and balaclava,
     displaying a number of bruises and a bloodied lip. Despite the
     swelling from the injuries, Edward recognized him as Jonathan
     Cubbins, a man that was on his patrol.
     Sweat started to bead on the back of Edward's neck. What happened to
     the rest of the patrol? Where were they when Cubbins got caught? Far
     away, or too close?
     And how long would it be before Edward could safely leave?
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
O'Riley's death had made him careless.
That was all he could think, hunched under the branches of a conifer tree. The
branches hung heavy over him, snow dragging them down and creating a small
lean-to for him to hide in. The world past them was pitch black, and the
overwhelming silence made the creak and groan of the wood under the weight of
the snow sound like a storm in his ears. He had no idea how long he'd been
there, or where his patrol might've gone without him. Or if they'd come back.
There were so many crisscrossing tracks from their men and Drachman guerrillas
and animals, that there was no way of figuring out the way back. At least not
in the dark, not until there was at a little sunlight to see with.
Edward huddled down under the layers of his uniform, feeling colder than he
should past all that material. His bones ached where steel rods had been
screwed in, and his muscles were so tense from fear that they hurt. His toes
felt numb, and it took everything in him to keep his teeth from chattering
under the balaclava over his face. His goggles were smeared from the tears he
was trying desperately to stop. He was lost, he was alone, he was cold, and he
could be in danger. And not just from the guerrillas, nature had her own forces
out and about.
The image of Lance and Scott's half-eaten intestines on the forest floor snuck
up behind his eyes and he shuddered, wrapping his arms around his knees. The
position was awkward with his M-1 on his lap. He wouldn't let it stray from his
person. He saw to that.
But that was the only lesson he seemed to have learned from the attack that'd
left the second lieutenant dead. Not paying attention had gotten O'Riley
killed. And not paying attention had gotten Edward separated from his fellows
on the patrol. McLaughlin had been in the group, but he'd been on point, and
Edward had lagged in the back, until the darkness had swallowed the others
whole.
He should've been paying attention.
Edward squirmed as an itch traveled along his lower back. Even if he weren't
worried about drawing attention of something with noise, with the layers of
cold weather military gear, there was no way he could get to that. He huffed
before he could help himself, the warmth of his breath wetting the lower parts
of the weave on his balaclava. As quietly as possible, still wiggling a bit to
try to ease that itch, he lowered the face mask and rubbed his lips dry.
From somewhere off to his left, snow began to crunch underfoot of something. He
went stone still, barely even breathing, straining his hearing to determine if
it was human or animal coming his way. If animal, he'd have to risk his alchemy
being seen and put up a wall around him. If human, how many and who.
Please be my patrol, he thought. He kept quiet in case it wasn't, but leaned
forward a bit to get a better look past the snow and branches.
The footsteps turned out to be human in origin, but the light-colored bulk of
clothing on them said they were Drachman. The Amestrian cold weather uniform
was dark. Edward shrank back down against the tree trunk as much as possible.
He silently begged for them to not see him.
The three Drachman guerrillas that led the group were followed by two more,
dragging a figure in the dark blues of the Amestrian cold weather gear. The
Amestrian was missing his goggles and balaclava, displaying a number of bruises
and a bloodied lip. Despite the swelling from the injuries, Edward recognized
him as Jonathan Cubbins, a man that was on his patrol.
Sweat started to bead on the back of Edward's neck. What happened to the rest
of the patrol? Where were they when Cubbins got caught? Far away, or too close?
And how long would it be before Edward could safely leave?
Edward could barely breathe, watching in horror as the Drachmans shoved Cubbins
up against a tree trunk. One of the men dropped a pack he was carrying onto the
ground and pulled out a length of barbed wire.
Oh please no, please no.
Lance and Scott flashed through Edward's mind again. He put a hand over his
mouth to keep himself silent. His first inclination was to try to save his
patrol mate, but he couldn't risk his life on just one man. Not when Al still
needed him. Compared to Al, Cubbins was a nobody to Edward.
So instead, he held as still as possible, watching the Drachmans wrap the wire
around Cubbins's wrists, then around the tree, securing him with his arms
spread. Cubbins began to scream and struggle, cries for mercy falling from his
swollen lips.
Mercy wasn't something the guerrillas had for Amestrian soldiers.
Cubbins's winter clothes were sliced down to expose his bare skin to the cold.
More cries. Large spikes were retrieved from the Drachman's bag and, one at a
time, driven into Cubbins's hands, into the tree. In case someone got the idea
to try to rescue him. Like so many invading soldiers had before, at the hands
of the guerrillas defending their homeland.
Cries turned to screams.
Edward nearly lost his ability to keep quiet when a curved knife was pulled
out, the sharp tip pulled across Cubbins's chest, against the curve of the
blade. Blood spilled. Edward wanted to sob, drown out Cubbins's pain, drown out
the noise and the smell and the cold and he wanted to go home, not be there.
But he couldn't close his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to shut reality
out. It was like staring at a trainwreck, unable to look away, no matter how
horrific.
So he watched as Jonathan Cubbins was torn open until his rib cage was visible.
He watched when a string of small explosives were woven through Jonathan
Cubbins's ribs. He watched as the long fuse was lit and the Drachmans took off
at full speed.
He watched and listened as Jonathan Cubbins screamed for help, hands nailed to
a tree, barbed wire around his wrists, and explosives tucked neatly in around
his organs.
And he watched as Jonathan Cubbins exploded.
Blood splattered against the snow of the tree branches in front of Edward,
soaked through until the thin layer of snow at his feet dripped red, and shot
through the branches and onto Edward's face.
His breath congealed in his throat as thick red tissue slid down over his tear-
smeared goggles. He was certain his heart stopped beating when he could taste
the blood through his balaclava. His thoughts numbed into nothingness.
It was the sound of the tree Cubbins had been nailed to cracking and
splintering that snapped him out of the cold place he disappeared to. The tree
leaned heavily backwards, and no matter how likely it was or wasn't, Edward
didn't want to take the chance that it'd fall and the shattering trunk would
throw shrapnel in his direction.
He decided to run.
With his goggles almost impossible to see through, Edward scrambled out from
under the conifer tree, his M-1 strapped over his shoulder. Fear nipped at his
heels. Terror became his best friend when he heard voices yelling in Drachman
behind him. He tore down his balaclava to get the wet blood out of his mouth,
and slid his goggles up under his parka's hood. He couldn't see anything in the
dark, the goggles only made it worse.
His breath condensed into a thick fog in front of him, sliding back across his
face into streaks of water that froze his skin. The only thing he could hear
was the sounds of the men behind him, the sounds of the wolves drawn to the
smell of Cubbins's blood- blood all over Edward. His heartbeat pounded loudly
in his ears.
Another thunder crack of an explosion sang out in the dark and something hard
hit the front of his automail leg and jerked him off his feet. The snow was an
unforgiving fist of ice that he fell face first onto. It knocked the wind out
of him.
"It's Eddie!" McLaughlin's voice yelled.
Edward wanted to cry with relief.
Strong hands were wrapping around his arms before he could fully get himself up
off the ground and hefted him upwards. "I gotcha, Eddie," McLaughlin said, and
half-dragged Edward back towards the others.
The sound of the Drachmans still filled the air around them, making Edward's
vision swim. "Cubbins-"
"I can guess," McLaughlin said. He pulled Edward into a spot that the others on
their patrol had circled around, keeping him locked in with them. "We got it.
We're not gonna leave you this time."
Edward didn't believe that. O'Riley had made him careless. This ensured he
would never be again. They hadn't come for him, he got out himself. They'd
leave him again if he wasn't careful.
Nobody came for him in Acheron. Nobody came for him in Drachma.
Edward learned that eventually, he'd always find himself abandoned.
***** 7 - A Confession *****
Chapter Summary
     "I don't believe in you."
     The priests had retreated for nightly meal. Rose was with them. The
     congregation had scattered back to their homes for dinner. Only an
     altar boy remained, asleep in one of the confessionals.
     Behind the altar, Leto's statue looked down at the boy, unmoved by
     the hateful confession.
            [https://s19.postimg.org/evcvmtj43/30screamsbanner.jpg]
"I don't believe in you."
The priests had retreated for nightly meal. Rose was with them. The
congregation had scattered back to their homes for dinner. Only an altar boy
remained, asleep in one of the confessionals.
Behind the altar, Leto's statue looked down at the boy, unmoved by the hateful
confession.
"There is no god," Edward continued in his cracked and broken voice from his
place on the front pew. "You can't bring back the dead, either."
Leto had no answer, of course. Lifeless statues never did. Gods never did. And
Truth offered only cruel mocking.
"I've seen the Truth." Edward's hoarse whispering scraped at this throat and he
doubled over with a coughing fit. Too much sand and dust in the city. Too much
talking. Edward glared at the false god defiantly. He could swear he saw Truth
smiling back at him.
Too many memories and hurts.
He matched the smile on Truth's face, lips curling back over his teeth, more a
snarl than a smile. "I'm going to beat you," he hissed. "You haven't won yet,
you know."
He heard laughter. He ignored it.
"Because I'm better than you." Edward got to his feet and stalked towards the
altar. "So what's the punishment for saying that?"
Leto continued to be silent, but he heard the laughter all the same. "I've
almost got the Stone. Then you won't have a choice."
He was tired, he needed sleep. But the Stone was there, right there in the
church. Sleep was the last thing on his mind.
Reaching the statue, he placed his hands on the smooth silk cloth covering the
length of the altar. "So you'll give me my brother back." His weight sagged
against the altar. "I just want my brother back, you sonuvabitch," he
whispered, closing his eyes. "Give him back."
The chapel was silent.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
