The title is a Russian word (the exact meaning of which I'm keeping hidden until the end, although if you know Russian I suppose you already have it haha). I'm substituting Russian for Drachman here. It will make sense in the end, promise :) However, I've got no way to write anything Russian except just google translate... if any of you guys actually speak it, I'm sure it's mangled so badly it's laughable. Sorry :( Drachman text is in italics.

Anywho... here is my dark Team Mustang fic :) It starts off pretty lightly, and is actually a little silly in parts; don't let that deceive you. It gets bad. If you want something lighthearted, then step out now :/ It'll be under 10 chapters, most likely, but these are LONG chapters, around 10k each. I plan to update every three days (key word- plan to. This is also final's week right here, people). Now that that's all said... we're off! Enjoy the ride, everyone!

Before

January 07, 1918

"Mustang rezhet porazitel'nuyu figuru, kak eto. Prosto dumay... nadelyayut yego kak i yego sestry, a takzhe on by veroyatno, poprobovat' k datirovat' sam."

Fuery paused for a moment, brow furrowing as he deciphered the Drachman. Then he abruptly flushed, a very unmanly giggle bursting out before he was able to hide it, and Falman shared a highly amused, mischievous look with him.

Roy rubbed at the pulsing vein in his head and considered throwing his staff off the train.

"Firstly: quit gossiping in Drachman. Or if you must insist, at least gossip better. I heard my name in there, Falman."

Falman gave an unrepentant nod, smile not lessening even in the slightest, while Fuery at least had the grace to hide his smile behind his hand. Roy sighed.

Such disloyalty. Such mutiny.

"Secondly," he groaned, eye twitching, "Havoc: please stop encouraging the rest of the men to pick up your habits. First it was the smoking; now it's the gossiping. This is unacceptable."

Havoc huffed at him, sulking in his seat. "I fail to see how any of this is my fault." Then, sullenness became a sly smirk, and he tacked on as a smug afterthought, "Honey."

His eyes glinted in amusement, and once again, Fuery had to muffle a giggle behind his hand.

And there it was again.

Disloyalty. Mutiny. Cruelty.

Roy sighed through pursed lips again.

His men truly were brutal.

Shaking it off, Roy drew himself up straighter, puffing out his chest and tossing his hair over his shoulder in a decidedly preening like move, baring his teeth in his sweetest smile. "You all are just jealous of me," he announced, just quietly enough to not have the words be overheard by any nosy passengers. "Clearly, I'd make a gorgeous woman."

Hawkeye looked so incredibly pained it was as if he had stabbed her. She just looked at him for a moment, mouth slightly open, then shut her eyes as if the sight had deeply disturbed and folded her arms, refusing to look at any of them. "Sir," she muttered in a reprimand, shuddering.

"That's ma'am, to you."

She shuddered again.

Havoc snickered again behind his hand. "Oh, Royza, dear," he chuckled, voice shaking with barely restrained laughter.

Falman said something else in Drachman, surely something obscene, given the way Fuery instantly turned bright pink, and Roy merely raised an eyebrow at him. He twirled a long strand of hair and gave him a flirtatious wink- and was thus wonderfully treated to the sight of his subordinates nearly suffocating as they struggled not to laugh. Or, in Fuery's case, cry in horror.

This mission was already off to a fantastic start, he decided.

"Ma'am," Hawkeye snapped through gritted teeth, her eyes still shut. "Please refrain from mentally scarring the troops." She cracked an eye open then, observing him dryly with not even a hint of a smile. "...You just had to make a name for yourself, didn't you."

Roy sat back quietly, still smirking gleefully, and concluded that this really wasn't going to be such a bad time after all.

He and his staff were currently on their way north, trailing Rimsy Gorbachev. Also known as the man who had spent a little too much time lingering around the Fuhrer's office- signs now all pointed towards him being a Drachman spy. Now, the wisdom of his team being chosen for the mission was a little lost on him... the Flame Alchemist, in this blizzard? Not to mention, the Flame Alchemist that didn't speak Drachman? Certainly not one of Fuhrer Grumman's brighter ideas.

But, those objections were neither here nor there, at this point, because here they all were, bundled up on a train northwards and watching the border fly by past frosted glass. Their uniforms had been left behind in Briggs, due to necessity; for the duration of the mission, they'd be disguised as civilians. After all, Drachma was not about to grant permission for an Amestrian military expedition to cross its borders, not to retrieve a spy sent by their government in the first place.

Of course, going incognito was not the easiest task in the world, when he so happened to have been the face of the government revolution three years prior.

Which led to his current predicament.

Long, glossy black wig.

A woman's blouse.

And, god...

Makeup.

Roy scowled severely to himself. Not even Riza wore makeup, but had that stopped anyone from insisting he needed to, to pull off the ruse? Hardly. In fact, they'd all been almost criminally gleeful about it all- save Riza, who'd taken one look at him and hadn't stopped glaring since, as if this had all been his idea.

He'd drawn the line at fake breasts.

Because, just, no.

(His mother and Grumman had both seemed rather disappointed at that. He'd nearly killed them both.)

Of course, that was probably the reason Grumman had given him this mission in the first place... the old coot had always been looking for an excuse to shove him into a dress just so he wouldn't be without company with his proclivity for cross dressing.

Well, nothing to do but take it in stride...

If he was being entirely honest with himself, the cold bothered him more than the get up. Growing up with only a mother and seven sisters, and suffice it to say this was not the first time he'd had his face painted or stumbled around in a dress against his will. The cold was another matter entirely. He was the Flame Alchemist. He did not do cold.

Roy sighed, hugging himself with a faint shiver, and shifted to glare out the window, watching the blinding snow flash by.

They crossed over the Drachman border with no upset, keeping to themselves in relative silence and trying not to attract attention. They still got a few stares, nevertheless; they were all plainly not Drachman, and Drachma was hardly a popular location for tourists- but overall, the people who gave them a second look eventually opted to mind their own business. All in all, things could not have gone better.

Until, well over an hour before the train reached its next destination, they started to slow down.

At first Roy thought he was imaging it, the white blur outside the window making it difficult to get his bearings- but when his team started shifting uncomfortably, too, coughing and frowning, and Riza, ever perceptive, stiffened almost immediately, he knew it was no mistake. They were slowing down.

One hard look at his team and any lingering traces of levity from before faded immediately. They all straightened, preparing for the worst. Slowing down out here could only mean they were about to be boarded- and the only people who could stop a train like this were the government.

Given that they were midway through smuggling themselves into the country, it wasn't hard to guess why the Drachmans were stopping this train.

"Remember," Roy muttered, voice as soft as it would go, "do not, under any circumstances, fight back. We can not afford to set off an international incident. If the worst happens, we retreat and make for the border."

His team all nodded silently, prepared to face the harsh Drachman wilderness without so much as flinching. Roy grimaced, clenching his jaw, and forced himself to hold still, ignoring the trepidation building as the train moved slower and slower through the icy wasteland.

At last, when it was almost to a stand still, rough Drachman crackled over the intercom system. When the message was finished, there was a round of uncertain mutters from around them, uneasiness radiating throughout the car, and Falman frowned before he translated, seeming vaguely unsettled.

"Seems they suspect a fugitive is on board. The military is coming to inspect everyone's papers, sir."

Roy tsked, biting his tongue. This wasn't good. How had Drachma already found out what train they were on? Moreover, how did they even know they were here at all? Gorbachev had thought he'd gotten away scott free. How did Drachma know they were here?

Cursing to himself, Roy held his silence, instead sinking stiffly back into his seat and folding his arms. The train at last careened to a screeching stop, leaving them all trapped as sitting ducks, and only a few seconds later, he heard the slam and creak of metal as the Drachman soldiers boarded the train up ahead.

Subtly, his team shifted back into their original positions, Havoc dropping an arm casually around Hawkeye's shoulders while Breda sat next to him, interlacing their fingers. Painfully awkward, perhaps, but it was their cover- two married couples and their two friends. A family would attract less suspicion than six seemingly unconnected individuals. Roy leaned back again in his seat, trying to maintain a calm facade as he listened intently for the sounds of the Drachman soldiers moving throughout the train car up ahead.

It didn't take long for the soldiers to reach their section, clanging through the metal door without hesitation or finesse and marching into the train car reeking confidence. There were five of them, all buried under the thick furs of the Drachman military uniform and still brushing thick trails of snow off their shoulders as they walked throughout the car, stopping at each compartment to inspect passports. His eyes lingered on the one in the lead; a pale, dark-haired brute of a man, one meaty hand waving his men forward, the other one glinting in the north's special automail. He dragged his left leg in a gimp, stumping down the corridor with a in a rolling sort of gait that was surely a consequence from the pseudo-war that had been brewing along the border for centuries.

He looked like a right bastard, through and through.

He also looked dangerous.

Roy had not truly needed his gloves in quite a while; had committed an array to make a spark to memory long ago so he could accomplish flames entirely through clap alchemy- but it didn't change the fact that in that moment, he would feel much, much more at ease with his gloves on.

They waited for the Drachmans to reach them, watching as they moved on throughout the train without incident. When the soldiers reached them, Falman handed over their falsified papers without a word- and Roy, along with each of his staff, tensed in preparation to run.

The soldiers looked over each passport, glancing up to check physical descriptions and comparing their given names to their passenger list while their dangerous leader just stood back, arms folded, eyes narrow and expression implacable. The man just stared at them with the cool, unreadable stare of a military officer, examining them all in a gaze that left the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and hands fidgeting with the urge to snap. Damn it, they knew... they had to know...

The soldiers checked the names off one by one without pause or suspicion- even when they reached him. They just glanced at his passport, glanced at him, and then checked something off on the list. A moment later, one muttered something in Drachman, and their leader grunted quietly, nodding- Roy's pocketed hand squirmed urgently into his glove, Riza stiffened slightly, hand curling over her holster underneath her heavy coat; one by one his team all shifted under the oncoming threat, preparing to sprint-

The soldiers turned and walked away, moving on to the next compartment.

...What?

Numb with disbelief, Roy barely stopped himself from twisting to stare after them. He blinked, slowly raising his eyes to look at his team, who all looked just as takenaback as him.

After another moment of uncertain shock, Roy very slightly tilted his head in a shake, telling them all to stay calm, stay silent, and above all else, stay put.

They did as ordered. But not a single one relaxed, and Roy, for his part, could not blame him.

His glove stayed on for the rest of the ride.

"What the hell was that?!"

Roy sighed, leaning back against the newly shut door to their seedy hotel room and folding his arms, narrowing his eyes at the outburst that had been building every since they'd gotten past the Drachmans. "Havoc-"

"They had to have recognized us!" Breda nearly ranted, tossing his small bag at the wall to collide with the plaster with a muted whump, the captain pacing around the room in a nervous work off of tension. "There's no way- come on, Royza Christmas is a terrible disguise. You look like a fucking idiot! There's no way that fooled them!"

"...And, thank you for that," he muttered, eye and gloved fingers twitching.

"Men," Hawkeye announced sternly, raising a hand to stop them before this dissolved and fell apart even further. She didn't say anything else, but that was all she needed to say, and, sighing in relief, Roy proceeded forward to sit on the edge of one of the beds, massaging his temples with one gloved hand.

Sighing heavily, he straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to sit a little more erectly and reclaim control. While he waited for his men to calm down a little, he yanked the irritating wig off and ran a hand through his mussed hair, scowling as dangerously as he could to discourage any comments.

It only worked halfway, because while Fuery was definitely cowed, Falman had probably never even cared one way or the other, and Breda was still too distracted by what had happened on the train to pay him much mind, Havoc raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "Thought you were supposed to wear that disguise for the whole mission, sir-"

Havoc was promptly interrupted when the thrown wig hit him in the face.

The moment he lifted it off, the thing dangling by a few strands of fake hair from clenched fingers and held it at arm's length, looking vaguely disgusted by it, Roy snapped.

"Men," Hawkeye sighed again, looking increasingly pained. She rose to her feet as Havoc yelped and dropped the flaming monstrosity to the floor, reeling back, and calmly stomped the tiny blaze out. "I realize you all tend to lose your sanity even at the best of times, but we have a bit of a situation here."

Roy grimaced, his irritated smirk fading. She was right. "Agreed," he announced, sitting up straight again. "As rudely as Captain Breda proclaimed it- he was right, earlier. I sincerely doubt our passports were good enough to hold up under any serious investigation, nor do I buy that this random inspection of our train was just a coincidence. It has to be related to us."

Falman dropped on to the opposite bed, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward, position tense and contemplative. "But how did they know we were here? Not even which train we were on, sir- how did they know we were here at all? Gorbachev thought he escaped Amestris without a tail. In fact, he very nearly did. How does Drachma know we're here at all?"

Roy grimaced again. "I don't know. ...And I don't know why they let us go, either."

After all, Drachma had nothing to gain and everything to lose, by letting them into their country like this. At this point, their goal wasn't even to prevent Gorbachev from passing on any classified information he'd stolen to his government; that had likely already happened- they were simply trying to grab him to learn what the information was and his methods, to be better prepared to guard against future attempts. Why on earth would Drachma ever risk letting them succeed?

"Maybe they weren't aware you were going to be leading the expedition, sir?" Havoc tried after several moments, sufficiently recovered from flaming-wig-to-the-face. He sat next to Falman, fingering an unlit cigarette. "They might've decided they wouldn't be able to beat you and are waiting to ambush us later."

Roy sighed heavily through his nose, unconvinced. "Maybe," he hedged reluctantly. It was a nice ego trip, to think his mere presence could've scared off a whole squad of armed Drachman soldiers on their home turf... but, he still sincerely doubted it. And Havoc didn't sound too sure of himself, either.

"We should contact Briggs, sir." Hawkeye cleared her throat, glancing around at the rest of the men. "General Armstrong is used to dealing with the Drachmans. She may see some sort of explanation that we're missing. Besides, she'll want to know the status of our mission."

"General Armstrong," he huffed, glaring severely. "Yeah, advice; in between mocking me and unsubtle hints that I'll be six feet under before I ever make Fuhrer before her. No, thanks."

"Sir, that really has no bearing on this mission, or asking for her advice. "

Damn. Why must his adjutant be so obstinately logical? Still, Roy shook his head, but he did at least consider the idea first this time. "No," he muttered at length. "I don't think this is worth calling her over- not to mention it's going to be difficult to contact Amestris at this point. The risk isn't worth it right now."

Hawkeye gave him a reluctant look, plainly just as unsettled by recent events as them all, and Roy sighed again, trying to appear more at ease than he really felt. Looking distressed would only serve to further distress his men; he put on a brave face and cleared his throat, hoping to restore some sense of normalcy. "At this point, our only option is to proceed as planned. I want us all to be extremely careful, though. Keep an eye out for anyone tailing us, especially that one with the automail. I really don't like the looks of him. But, overall, don't forget that we're still here to grab their spy and get back to Amestris- that's all. If we are careful, then there's no reason not to succeed. Clear?"

As one, his staff all responded with a cheerless yes, sir, and Roy sat back slightly, nodding. Good. Order restored.

"Who knows," Fuery piped up after a moment, smiling weakly as if he didn't even really believe what he was saying. "Maybe the Drachmans really were looking for a fugitive on the train and have no idea about us. We could all be overreacting!"

Roy sighed, unable to help a small smile. That was Fuery, all right. An optimist to his core. Not that he childishly believed himself anymore; that had been knocked out of him when he'd been to the southern front and brewing civil war- but he still tried, not to put himself at ease anymore, but to help the rest of them. That was definitely Fuery, all right.

Of course, if Fuery was going to be a hopeless optimist, then he couldn't really help himself from being a hopeless pessimist, now, could he? "After everything you've seen under my command, Lieutenant," he rebuked softly, raising a finger, "you should know that if something seems too good to be true?"

Fuery sighed, his smile fading. "It probably is, sir," he admitted reluctantly, and glanced nervously out their frosted over window.

Roy followed his gaze, unable to shake the nagging feeling that somewhere out in the snow, a team of Drachman soldiers were looking through it as well, watching them quietly, and waiting for their next move.

After

February 11th, 1918

In the cold, northern winters, the sun fell early, and rose late. There were perhaps only two or three hours of sunlight during the coldest months, and even now, as they slowly continued to dig themselves out of the snow and ice in a stumbling trot towards spring, Jean's estimate was only three and a half hours of weak winter light each day before darkness fell again.

But as the newest unwilling residents of this freezing Drachman prison, he still wasn't sure yet which was worse.

The sun, blinding them all as it reflected off the blanket of freezing snow that clung to every surface like tar, or the darkness, hiding the guards- and other prisoners- to leave him unable to dodge or block the next blow.

And there was always a next blow.

It was dark now, and had been for many hours. The daylight's status had no affect on the guards pacing around them, of course, forcing them to continue out the waste of time ditch digging this work camp seemed to sustain itself off of, each bearing rifles that they were only too eager to use. Even now, in the blackness of the night, there was no respite, and there'd not come one until they were so beaten and tired it'd be suicide to stay out here and freeze any longer.

It was so dark, however, that Jean could not even see the guards- even though he knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that they were there. Hell, he could barely see his own hand in front of his face, or his breath misting in the air. He could feel Breda on his left, though...

And if Fuery was doing right, he'd be out of sight even if the sun were out.

The harsh, metallic clanging of a bell clattered out over the freezing night, finally bringing an end to twelve straight hours of manual labor of shoveling snow and digging pointless ditches. He sighed, letting his shovel drop from shaking, numb hands and drawing closer to his comrade, sucking on one of the blisters on his thumb. Thank god. His back screamed with the effort of standing up and for a moment he just stood there and shivered, too relieved by the long-awaited end to the work day to focus on their mission.

Breda joined him casually by his side, jostling him forward and ending any such musings, and the two of them began to follow the disgruntled crowd as if nothing was the matter. Jean waited anxiously, his calm exterior offset by his pounding heart as he sucked more viciously on his thumb. Come on, kid, make it...

Only six seconds after the crowd had started moving, he felt something small and shaking worm in between him and Breda, panting heavily but falling into step with them as if he'd been there all along, and Jean grinned.

Nice job, Fuery, he thought, flashing a grin down at him down in the darkness.

He and Breda both wrapped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing in as close as they could get to share warmth. They continued to follow the crowd of Drachmans, Jean doing his best to ignore the grumbling around him in the unfamiliar tongue and just hoping it wasn't about him.

When they finally stumbled into the mess hall, the metal building not even close to warmer but at least it was well lit, Breda gave his two companions another meaningful look to remain silent and led the way. It was key that they not attract attention. As the only Amestrians here, and god, it was painfully obvious that was they were, each and every one of them standing out from the crowd, but they still tried to blend in, hugging themselves in their thin clothes and shivering as they slunk around the crowd. They did their best to collect their meager rations as unobtrusively as possible and draw back away from the crowd reclusively, finding themselves a spot where they could whisper without being overheard.

They still waited for a few moments then, ensuring none of the other prisoners, and, most importantly, those god dammed guards, were anywhere close to within earshot.

Then, and only then, did Breda nod to give Fuery permission to speak.

The young lieutenant sat up a little straighter in his seat, eyes bright and eager to pass on what he'd found out about their missing comrades even as he tried to cover it up. "Bishop is here, too," he whispered, casually leaning his chin against his hand, the gesture hiding both the fact that he was speaking and the edges of a massive bruise on one cheek. "They said why he wasn't with us, but I... I didn't know the word they used, I'm sorry." He looked away shamefacedly for a moment, obviously guilty, but recovered himself before Jean had the chance to chide him to get on with it. They were very limited on time here.

"Sounded like they were just treating his arm, though," Fuery passed on quietly, his brow furrowed as he struggled to remember what had been said. "But from the words they used, he's definitely alive."

Jean barely stopped himself from sagging with relief, and, next to him, Breda released a tense sigh, the white-knuckled grip on the table finally relaxing. Good... good.

He was okay.

Which just left...

"And what about..." Breda queried, his voice low. He didn't spell out who he was talking about- but, then, he didn't have to, because at those low, desperately hopeful words, Fuery's eyes went even brighter than before, and a stubbornly proud grin took form.

"Everything else I overheard was about King, sir."

Jean couldn't help but bite his lip anxiously, even as he continued to wolf down everything in front of him. "And? W-what about him?" he whispered back.

The last time they'd seen him...

Facedown in a snowdrift, getting the stuffing knocked out of his head, and on the verge of passing out.

Quite simply, the last time they'd seen him had not been good.

And that had been three days ago.

Jean knew he wasn't the only one starting to fear the worst.

Fuery, however, cracked yet another very tiny grin, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it his relief radiating from him so intensely it was palpable. "Here and alive," he whispered.

Jean exhaled heavily, barely stopping himself from dropping his face into his hand. Next to him, Breda froze for a second, closing his eyes tightly. It took him several moments to shake himself and put on an unaffected facade as naturally as a second skin, but his eyes were bright for the first time all day.

"Course he is," Jean mumbled after several moments, though he was pretty sure he was failing magnificently at sounding unaffected. "Mustang could thrash these idiots in his sleep. Course he's fine."

As if they hadn't all been scared out of their minds otherwise.

Breda shot him a vaguely amused look, one eyebrow raised; Fuery didn't even try to call him out on it, the young lieutenant just nodding in bold agreement. Rolling his eyes, Breda made a small gesture to get on with it, looking back towards Fuery again. "Anyway," he muttered gruffly- hiding the stubborn grin that he seemed just unable to banish. "What'd they say about him?"

Fuery's smile faded at that, and he looked away guiltily, seemed upset with himself. "I... don't entirely know," he admitted reluctantly, shoulders hunched. "I didn't know most of these words, either. I'm sorry... But it sounds like they're trying to force him to use his alchemy. And they were calling him Flame, so they know what he can do."

Jean frowned, his grin fading away into anxiety as he stopped in his marathon of eating for a moment. Use his alchemy? "...But... isn't he a prisoner here, like us?" he muttered, confused and completely lost. "Why would they want him doing alchemy? He could completely destroy this place if he wanted to..." He glanced uneasily around the noisy room, wondering if the Drachmans were really that stupidly overconfident. Did they not realize that if it was Mustang against all fifty guards against this room, if their commander had his alchemy, he'd win in an instant?

Of course, not that it mattered much, whether he'd win or not... in their current situation, Mustang would sooner shoot himself before he did something so astronomically stupid.

It was quiet for several moments, their group all contemplating what could possibly by the Drachmans' strategy. At last, Breda cut in. He wasn't looking at either of them, his gaze focused downwards on his food and his mouth barely moving while he ate; no one watching would be able to tell it was a conversation. "Think about what Drachma wants, you two. With all this snow, he'd be quite limited in the damage he could do- and besides, even if he wasn't, I doubt keeping this dammed place safe really matters to them. But, if they can goad King into attacking them..."

He didn't need to say anything else. Jean's eyes widened when he realized the implications and he swore internally, fists clenching.

Attacking them would be astronomically stupid.

And that was exactly what Drachma was trying to force him to do.

...This is bad.

And apparently not done with the bad news yet, Fuery then cleared his throat hesitantly, his eyes wide and worried. "And that's not all," he mumbled, voice tense. "They're keeping his gloves soaked with... something. I don't know what; I didn't know the word, I'm sorry. But whatever it was, they found it... funny."

Breda started quietly. "...Funny?"

Oh, that did not sound like a good thing.

Fuery nodded, his eyes darkening at the memory. "Yeah. One of was laughing about it... said he'd like to see Flame try and burn them now. ...Then said he really didn't want to be in the room with him whenever he finally snapped, though..."

Jean frowned again, rubbing his face with his hand. This just kept getting worse. Soaking his gloves? But why? The only thing he could think of was water- but that didn't sound right, and besides, it would do nothing to further the Drachmans' plan. They wanted a goaded Flame Alchemist- not a goaded Flame Alchemist who couldn't start fires.

Breda rapped a finger quickly on the table to get their attention. "Alcohol," he murmured.

"What?"

"Alcohol," he repeated, his face grave. "He makes a spark with his gloves, yeah? Well, alcohol's extremely flammable. If you soak his gloves with that, he's worse than useless. ...Any attempt to do alchemy will create an uncontrollable explosion right in his face."

Jean couldn't stop himself from gasping this time, horrified. He wanted to deny it- but no, now that he'd said it, it was only too clear that was exactly what the Drachmans were hoping for. Those bastards. Mustang could wind up killing himself- and even worse than that-! "We've got to warn him!" he hissed furiously. "If he tries it even once, then everything will..." He cursed quietly, chewing on his lip again. "Fuery, do you think you can find out where he is?"

The young soldier nodded firmly. "Give me two more days."

Jean sighed grimly, clenching his aching fists. They might not have two days, he wanted to say- but, it was no good to worry the men like that. And besides, if Fuery said two days, that meant he'd already judged it would take four, but determined to cut it down simply because they needed him to.

He would just have to trust Mustang. Even if he didn't know the full extent of what the Drachmans were doing, he wasn't going to be so easily goaded into using his alchemy. He'd obviously made it through three days without trying- surely he could make it two more...

Next to him, Breda steadied himself, lying his hands out on the table. "All right," he said quietly. "Here's what we're going to do. First-"

The approach of one of the other inmates- Nikolai, he was pretty sure- from behind Fuery left his fellow captain shutting up immediately. He dug back down into what was left of his dinner and, getting the message, Jean did the same- Fuery, however, couldn't see what was happening behind him, and was just a second too slow to react.

The brute's hand shot out, taking the unsuspecting lieutenant unawares and tossing him to the ground. Fuery let out a small yelp of alarm but the Drachman ignored him entirely- instead, going for his untouched meal. Untouched, because Fuery had been too focused on first getting all the information he'd gathered across to even eat.

Nikolai said something in Drachman, laughed loudly- a few men nearby followed suit, instantly giving Jean the impression that this idiot was the ringleader of his own little gang. Pathetic schoolyard bullies was what it felt like to him, and he glared dangerously, fists clenching- but condescension became fury when the man picked up Fuery's food and, with that, started to walk away.

Jean was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, heading off with a fist in the air. "Hey!" he shouted, launching himself over the table to stand protectively over Fuery. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Nikolai glanced back at him in haughty amusement, silence falling around them. Jean was well aware this brute saw himself as something of a leader around here, and for good reason- he was one of the biggest men here; Jean himself was only half his size. He'd probably thought he'd just swagger over here, assert his dominance by picking on the youngest and smallest in this group of foreigners, and that would be that.

Well, too bad for him.

Nikolai had actually started to approach, moronically raising his own fist, completely unaware Jean was trained in military combat whereas this brute had only been in street tussles before. Smirking slightly, Jean prepared to sidestep and crush him-

Then Breda snapped at him.

"Jean. Shut your mouth, and sit down. Now!"

And that was all he needed.

Right.

Too dangerous.

...Right.

Starting fights was the absolute last thing they needed- even if it was to protect one of their own or not. Even if that thug was standing there beating Fuery right in front of him, his hands would still be tied, and he'd not be able to do a damn thing except watch.

They simply could not afford to give the Drachmans any more ammunition.

Come on, Jean. Do what Mustang told you. Just keep your head down... stay calm...

Survive.

He couldn't do it.

Very painfully, so reluctantly he gritted his teeth and shook, Jean took a breath, then forced his hands up into a gesture for surrender and peace. He met the Nikolai's eyes meaningfully, giving him a hard look as he tried to get his message across without words. Neither spoke either other's language, so this was the best he could do- but, thank god, it did stop his advance.

Nikolai paused, smugly glancing down at where Fuery was still collapsed on the floor. Jean insides clenched with fury but he kept himself still, refusing to be goaded. Rather, he forced himself to offer up a placating, submissive grin- it was almost painful, to look at the bastard like that- but it did the trick, when, with a smug smirk, Nikolai turned his back and trekked away, his lapdogs- and Fuery's dinner- with him.

Jean's fists clenched again, and he stood there and glared until the man was more than far enough away to ever be considered a threat to his comrades again.

Count yourself lucky my hands are tied, you bastard.

If this had just been between him and the Drachman, that would've been fine. His pride was hardly the worst thing to ever be wounded, for the military and Mustang's sakes. But Fuery was still on the floor behind him, now gone all day without food because he'd risked his life to get them this information, and this was not over yet.

So, gritting his teeth, swallowing his pride yet again, and cursing all of this god dammed country down to hell, Jean turned his back and looked up towards one of the calmly watching guards.

It went against every instinct he had, to call for help like a child, but everything that this was was for the greater good. So he forced his kindest, most submissive smiles, and called "Hey." He pointed down towards Fuery, as if the bastard hadn't just watched him get thrown to the ground and done nothing to stop it. "My friend's food was stolen. Can he get another?"

The guard grunted at him, looking straight through him. "Don't speak Amestrian," he said- despite the fact that Jean knew quite well that he did.

His temper flared again. "You were looking right at him, damn it! You saw what just happened!"

"Don't speak Amestrian."

Jean swore, his fists clenching again.

Really, he'd had no right to ever expect anything different.

That was just the pecking order in this place, after all. Guards, then inmates- then, brand new foreigners like themselves. Foreigners who didn't even speak the language. Everyone was pitted against them, and the only friend they'd find in this place would be each other. The guards had their ulterior motives, of course, but to the other inmates, they were just Different. They were just the Others, the ones that stood out, the ones that'd be the easiest to knock down. They'd known this wouldn't be easy going in... this was just yet another obstacle in their path.

One they had no choice but to climb.

So, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, Jean forced himself to again turn his back, taking great pains to smooth out the hostility from his face, then reached down to help Fuery to his feet. "You okay?" he asked softly, wincing at the red mark underneath the dirt smudges and bruises on his cheek. That was going to look nasty later...

Fuery gave a small nod, pulling off his glasses to examine them. "...Sorry," he mumbled, unfocused eyes still not looking at him. "Should've seen him coming..."

Jean rolled his eyes. "With what, the eyes in the back of your head?" He gave him a pat on the shoulder and climbed back over the table, taking his seat next to Breda again. "We should've warned you."

Fuery sighed as he put his glasses back on, but didn't say anything. He sat back down as well, shifting uncomfortably and looking down at the empty place where his long gone dinner had been. He bit his lip forlornly and looked away, rubbing his stomach.

Jean didn't even have to look at Breda to know the man was thinking the same thing he was.

"Here," they said together, pushing over what they hadn't devoured yet to the lieutenant.

Fuery started a little, looking at them with wide eyes. "W-what?" he stammered, then shook his head. "Guys, it's my fault, really, I'm-"

"As the highest ranking officer present, I order you to take it," Breda interjected firmly, then pointed down at the meager remains again.

Jean rolled his eyes at him. "Now you're pulling a Mustang, idiot. And that line is dumb even when he uses it. ...And, hey! We're the same rank, dumbass!" He shared a conspiratorial wink with Fuery, then let the smirk soften into a fond grin. "Just eat faster next time, okay?"

Fuery blinked a little, his cheeks flushing as he slowly relaxed into a relieved grin, then finally just gave in and threw himself at the food.

Jean watched him fondly a moment, still grinning, then let his smile fade. His fists clenched under the table, and, slowly, he shifted to look over his shoulder.

He met eyes with Nikolai instantly.

Jean tilted his head pointedly towards the men, saying without words that if the brute wanted to pick a fight with any of them again, he'd be doing it with him. He warned without words you don't want to touch them. Fight me.

The Drachman grinned nastily, and went back to his ill gotten meal.

Challenge accepted, then.

Nodding to himself, Havoc shifted back around to look at Breda and Fuery, satisfied. I'll look after them for you, Mustang, he thought to himself determinedly, squaring his shoulders. So you better be looking after yourself, too.

Roy

He hadn't seen anything in days.

They'd blindfolded him. Of that, he was sure. He knew what the difference was, between eyes that wouldn't work and eyes that were trying, and his were trying, still. There was just this damn, dumb cloth in the way. All things told, he actually wasn't that bothered by it.

He'd been blind for weeks before, after all.

Weeks!

So, this was nothing.

Nothing.

Besides, he reflected idly, it wasn't as if he was missing anything particularly gorgeous anyway. Drachma was quite the hideous country. Probably would be spending most of the time with his eyes shut, anyway.

He'd voiced that opinion, to his captors.

Figured the kick to the head had been worth it.

...Okay, the concussion not so much, but still. Nice little bit of fun in his days of complete tedium and boredom.

Oh- look at that. Speaking of that! Here it came again. Lovely.

He'd gotten quite good at listening to the footsteps in the metal hallway, learning which ones meant a guard just passing around and which ones meant he was about to have company. Quite good at figuring out which kinds of voices meant guards talking, and which kinds meant he was being shouted at and probably needed to figure out how to best protect his head in the very near future. This set was company time. And oh, joy, it was the worst one of the lot. There was a little bit of a rolling gait in his step, a limp, and his breath reeked of cigarettes. Colonel Azarov.

Though it had been so long since he'd actually seen him, Roy was actually starting to forget what he looked like. He imagined he looked like a cross between Bradley and Havoc, though, really, he had no idea.

Havoc.

His team.

...

Keys scraping in the lock dragged him back, a metallic jangling that grated on the ears. He situated himself a little more comfortably against his corner, raising shackled hands in the closest he could get to a wave and attempting a genial smile. Probably looked stupid. Lip was split and damn, that smarted, but- hey, it was the thought that counted, right?

"Good morning!"

Azarov stilled and muttered something at him, something obscene, he imagined, then switched to Amestrian. "You. You, always too happy. You too... too cheerful, for man in prison," he sneered, sounding smug, rough accent contorting its awkward way through the words, and Roy snorted.

"Perhaps that's how you see it. It's really just that my mother taught me to always be a gentleman." He paused; smirked a little. "A lesson I can see yours skipped on."

Ow. Okay, ow. That definitely felt like a boot. And that definitely felt like the wall his head had slammed into a moment after the boot. Ow.

It took a second for his head to stop spinning; too long. His senses came back just in time to tell him the man was closer now, looming over him and ready to strike again. He dragged together another cheesy grin, fumbling to find the words beneath the pounding in his head. "See? This is what I mean! That's not how you treat a guest..."

Out of nowhere, a filthy, grubby hand grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head back so severely his neck felt like it was being snapped. "Oh?" the man growled, and then he was right in his face, "Then tell me, Amestrian. What would your country do to our soldiers, yes? How you treat them?"

He had to bite back a sigh. This one did this a lot; the hair-pulling, the face-spitting. It was disgusting, not to mention ultimately pointless. What exactly was he trying to get out of it? Confirm Drachma's reputation as mud-crawling, filthy, mannerless bastards?

"Well," he grated out after a moment, shifting uncomfortably under the weight pressing down on him and trying to turn his head at least a little out of the way; the hand in his hair yanked him back like he was scolding a child. "First off: we would offer beverages."

The Drachman snarled wordlessly, sharp, ungroomed fingernails scraping painfully against the back of his skull.

Roy smirked again. "Oh, my apologies. Is the word too sophisticated for you? I'll be base, then; lower myself to your-"

Boot to the head.

Ow. Again.

Ah, hello boot! Nice to meet you again!

Ow.

"...level." He swayed unsteadily, only kept upright by the hand that had dived back into his hair after withdrawing to kick him in the head. For a moment all he could process was the pounding reverberating inside of his skull, but he stumbled back to find himself again, grinning through the pain and blood and dragging the words to continue to lurch out, now shambling in an unsteady death march. "Y-you know... water?"

He wanted to pass out, now. Skip the rest of this pleasant conversation. Skip next boot to the head.

But, alas...

"Water? You want water?" Azarov grunted at him, and then, he laughed. Laughed right in his face like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Then ask for it, Amestrian filth."

Ah, this game again. Lovely.

He just grinned at him, this time. Was a little too winded and reeling to put together the wiseass response that would've been most appropriate. Besides, they had danced this jig a few too many times, by this point; it had quite gotten old, in his opinion. Ask for water? Sure, easy enough.

In Drachman.

Hughes was never going to let him live it down that he'd ignored his advice and gone for Cretan over this brute of a language, in the Academy.

"Nothing to say?!" Suddenly he was being dragged up, up, and up, lifted by the roots of his hair, and the bastard was right in his face again. "Nothing to say, Amestrian?!"

He jerked, unable to help himself from struggling in a panic. His bound legs flailed to get under him, to take some of the weight off his screaming scalp, words coming out before he'd given them permission. "You son of a-"

The blinding pain of a fist to his mouth sailed in out of nowhere. It smacked against his face with a heroic force that sent him spiraling out of the Drachman's grip to his knees again, slumped against the wall and gasping, straining against the shackles to get a hand to his bleeding mouth. "You- mmmph!- you fucking-"

The punch to the mouth came again, this time with its best friend of heel to the chest. It ground into a nice collection of bruised ribs he had going on, and he couldn't stop the pained grunt. Lovely. Just. Lovely.

Fuck Drachma.

He took a second to catch his breath this time, not about to give over a victory to these Drachmans like this. Control over himself was all he had, but as long as he had it, he was still winning, here- and this man knew it. He was trying to take it.

Well, it would take more than a few punches to make Roy Mustang lose control, thank you very much.

When he could, he cracked another sore grin.

"I can see decent hospitality is another trait your slob of a mother neglected to teach you."

...Okay, he probably did deserve that punch.

...And the kick to the stomach.

Azarov hauled him up again to knee him in the gut, leaving him doubled over and screaming obscenities in his head- not aloud, though, never aloud. He just hung limply in the air and kept that smug smile at the ready, full aware he was goading him, full aware it would hurt all the worse later, but still proud of it.

"You understand it yet, filthy Amestrian?!" He was kneed again and oh, fuck. His internal organs weren't thanking him kindly for being tossed around like scrambled egg, no, sir, they are not. "We don't want to hear your tongue! You speak Drachman here! You speak Drachman or don't speak at all!" This time it was a smack across the face.

Roy sighed again.

They always came to this point, inevitably. Azarov would get sick of putting up with him- not that he was doing his best to be most pleasant, really- and the Drachman would just start hitting him across the mouth just to get him to shut up.

Really, it was a nice respite for him.

Let him stop struggling to come up with clever, witty responses when his head currently felt like it was it was being overstuffed with tiny rodents desperately crawling to get out, and he really wasn't up for anything more than a nap.

That, of course, and continuing to exercise his self control.

He still had his gloves.

Sure, the alchemy shackles prevented him from drawing a circle, or touching his hands together in a clap- just barely. He could get so close to touching his fingers together it was agonizing, but even if he hadn't been able to... his gloves were still on. Snagged snugly around each of his fingers, and he knew they were his because with every breath, he could feel the warm arrays tingle, eager to take the oxygen and shape it to his will. Every night when he shivered and froze, he could feel it, desperate to curl its familiar fingers over the air around him and keep him warm. Every day when the wind howled outside and he was so very cold he wanted to die, surrounded by Drachmans shouting and kicking, he could feel his array begging him to take action.

In moments like this, the desire to fight back was almost overpowering.

Just a single snap of his fingers, and...

No.

Don't think about it, Mustang.

Don't you dare think about it.

"Pindos! Yobaniy mudila! IDI NA KHUI!"

Boot to the head again-

For fuck's sake.

When Roy spoke again, it was entirely to get another blow. This one, hopefully, strong enough to knock him out entirely.

He was tired of company, and more than that, figured it would be far easier to control himself from snapping if he was unconscious.

He took a moment, letting his head settle back into place and the pain ease enough to leave his voice steady- couldn't have himself looking weak, now. He swallowed the blood welling on his bruised lip and put on his best smile. Lifted his head so if not for the blindfold, he'd be looking Colonel Azarov straight in the eye.

Riza, do forgive me for what I'm about to say.

"You hit like a girl."

Annnd...

Oh, ouch!

Motherfucking-

Ow!

"Drachman women are not weak like yours, Amestrian," the man spat- literally, spat, right on his cheek.

If Roy hadn't been too busy gasping, he would've smirked- right after gagging theatrically just to piss him off.

Say that to Riza's face, you bastard...

He missed Riza.

"Being hazed was worse than this," he choked out past another bit of blood in his mouth- and he actually meant it; being a scrawny sixteen year old in the Academy and already set to outrank them all with his watch the day of graduation had made for real shitty friend prospects, but, well, in the end-

"Amestrian! Zedealy eta! ZEDEALY ETA!"

His skull cracked against the wall.

Or an automail fist.

Probably the fist, he decided, over the roaring in his own head. It was probably the fist.

A hand grabbed his hair again as he fell. He was held up by the roots, impossible metal fingers slowly ripping out the strands one by one in little pinpricks of pain that faded into the darkness encroaching him from all sides. "Zedealy eta, Amestrian!" Azarov screamed again, spittle flying onto his cheeks as he was shaken roughly, over and over again. "ZEDEALY ETA!"

He sighed distantly.

He really did miss Riza.

"Suchka! Suchka bly suhcara-"

And one steel-toed boot smashed directly into his ribcage.

"ZEDEALY ETA!"

Ow.

And that was enough. Because with that, his brain shut off, and he slumped forward until he just barely felt his cheek smash against the cold floor, restrained hands sandwiched underneath him, the edge of the shackles digging into perfectly shattered ribs.

Ow, owowow, ow! he couldn't breathe, ow ow ow- fuck shit ow- ow-

OW!

Ow...

...

Riza-...

Darkness fell.

Just in time, too, because in that last moment, he'd seen Riza, he'd heard Azarov, and he'd felt the fist coming down on his head one more time- and his fingers had started to curl to snap.