Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.

Notes: This is considered a sequel, so you'll probably want to read read Loyal Dogs first. I've tried to make this so that you can follow along if you haven't read/have forgotten about the goings on of Loyal Dogs, but I make no promises.

Warnings: I'm not great at these, 'cause warnings aren't really a thing that I do often. So… expect not-so-cheerful stuff for this whole arc (chapters 1 to 6, roughly). Feel warned. Feel very warned.

CHAPTER ONE

The scream that burst forth from between his bloodied teeth was wordless, animalistic, tearing at his throat like a thousand shards of fine glass. Thick ropes wrapped around his legs at the ankles and knees, or twisted his arms behind his back. A thick block of warm metal was wedged between the palms of his hands to keep them separated. A collar—a fucking collar, like he was some wild animal they'd trapped, and not a human being—kept him secured to the metal floor of a beige flatbed.

Still, Edward writhed, fighting against his bindings as the leather collar dug deep into his neck, cutting short his laboured breath, and the coarse rope rubbed and chaffed against the skin of his left wrist. The bullet wound in his left leg shrieked its agony, his bruised ribs ached, and his swollen right eye throbbed madly, but he ignored it all. He let loose another wordless scream, hard and heavy and reverberating off the flatbed's canvas roof and rumbling floor.

His heart pounded a wild tempo, and adrenaline sparked and snapped through his veins like electricity. Cool logic and organised thought were drowned out by the primal howl of instinct. If he didn't get away now—right fucking now—

He struggled madly, felt sharp vibrations and heard the ring of metal-on-metal as his automail shoulder connected with the floor. A wound somewhere above his right eyebrow reopened, and he shook blood away from his swollen eye. It splattered against the scratched, dented floor, glinted crimson in the midafteroon light.

If he could loosen the bindings around his hands, free even one of his fingers by just a couple of inches, shimmy himself toward the bloody splatter…

He jerked at the ropes. Something sharp and red-hot streaked through his left shoulder, strong enough to make him pause in his frantic struggles for a heartbeat, and he spat out a litany of oaths. Above him, the harsh, grating sound of laughter cut above the truck's engine and the sound of his own struggling, and he turned to offer his captors the most impressive one-eyed glare he could muster.

"What's so damned funny?" He snapped out. But trussed up as he was, tied down with ropes and collared and thick metal block to keep him from transmuting, even he had to admit that he probably didn't make the most intimidating sight.

The two men responsible for guarding him exchanged looks with each other, then burst out into cruel laughter again. Both bore the dark hair and eyes so often seen amongst Aerugonians, and their skin was tanned from long hours under the southern country's unforgiving sun. They looked exactly the same, from the cut of their hair and their bulky beige uniforms to the scuffs on their brown boots, tall as a horse and build on similar lines. The only way he could easily tell them apart was by the chevrons and stars stamped across their shoulders.

One of the men reached beneath the bench he and his buddy were seated upon and dragged a well-used rifle from within the shadows. He said a few words, all lilting inflections and exaggerated vowels, and the rifle's muzzle stabbed at Edward's shoulder blade.

The pain flared up again, and he hissed. Something, sharp and cold like a shard of ice, caught in his ribs, sent creeping tendrils into his mind, but he pushed it all back and redoubled his fiery glare at the Aerugonian bastard who thought it'd be a good idea to prod him like some half-cooked hunk of meat.

"Go ahead and laugh it up, you bastards," he growled when they sniggered again. "When I get out of this, I'll kick your asses so hard that your teeth'll fall right the fuck out of your mouths."

The Aerugonian with the rifle tossed out a few more words, and while Edward couldn't make out what he was saying, the flippant, mocking tone was clear. His buddy added something, and they both roared. The rifle muzzle came back, hovered just inches away from the thick muscle between his shoulder and neck.

He stared down the length of the barrel, met the gaze of the asshole with his hands around its grip. Lips pulled back in a silent snarl, muscles taut, chest heaving, he muttered "just fucking try it. I dare you."

The idiot tried it.

This time, though, Edward was prepared.

Before the muzzle landed on his stinging, smarting shoulder, he pushed himself back as far as the collar around his neck would allow. His bound legs swung around, knocked the rifle out of the Aerugonian's hands. It fell with a clatter, skittered across the flatbed. He curled his legs in, lashed out with all the strength that the adrenaline in his veins would grant. Caught the man just below the knee with his metal heel with enough strength that something gave beneath the heavy sole of his military issued boots.

The man howled his pain, jerked away from the crazed Amestrian soldier with metal limbs. His buddy wrapped a hand around his arm, shoved him toward the other end of the still-moving vehicle.

But Edward's eyes were already looking past the Aerugonians, scanning the dented, scratched metal floor for the missing rifle. The second bastard would be on him any second now, he was sure of it, but Aerugonians fixed their bayonets to the side of a rifle's forearm when they didn't need them—he'd spied the damned thing while they were busy jeering at him—and if he could get it, then he could loosen the ropes cutting into his wrist and—

The air burst from his lungs as the remaining soldier dogpiled him, pinning his legs, crushing his chest, wrapping thick and hairy fingers around his fraying ponytail, slamming his head down onto the shuddering floor once, twice, three times—

He tried to shift, take the brunt of the impact with his still-bleeding forehead, but the grip on his hair was strong; bitter agony raced outward from his nose, and blood smeared across the metal beneath him. His vision greyed, swayed in time with his beating heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, fought for breath, blinked until the blood and dirt three inches from his face came back into focus. The asshole pinning him down snapped out a few orders in a rough voice. The other soldier, eyes narrowed and teeth bared and hand clutching his battered knee, rushed to obey.

The sharp rap of knuckles, then the truck's cab window slid open. A few low words that he didn't even bother trying to make out, and the thick, white cuff of a medic passed something into the waiting hands of one of the soldiers.

What the hell…? Edward's eyes narrowed a warning as the window slid shut again and the soldier neared. Whatever he'd been given, it was small, well hidden in his oversized palms. Edward's mind scrambled frantically, tearing apart the icy tendrils still burrowing into his thoughts, drowning the shriek of instinct that told him to fight and scream and flail. Pale fingers tossed aside mental notes and thick folders alike, searching for—

—a hazy memory, half-formed and grey, slammed against the front of his skull. Amestrian medics working frantically to staunch the flow of blood, to force misshapen limbs back into place, to reach screaming soldiers. White syrettes in their hands, needles forced into the first clear patch of skin they could find, numbing the pain and calming the injured—

"Don't you fucking dare!"

He planted his toes, bucked and jerked and tried to knock the man off his back, twisted his head as though he could somehow break through the thick leather collar, strained against the coarse ropes until the servos in his automail protested and the muscles in his shoulder shrieked. Another wordless scream tore from his lips, heavy with impotent fury and agony and, for the first time, a sharp note of fear.

But the Aerugonian bastard pressed a knee into his thigh, just above the automail, and it dug against the bullet wound that still bled sluggishly. The agony flared white-hot; his vision flickered wildly, his ears rang. He didn't realise he'd been shouting until he had to force a stubborn, rasping breath into his lungs. The man's one hand was still gripping his ponytail, and his other grabbed a fistful of blond bangs, tightened until golden strands snapped under the strain.

The asshole he'd kicked in the knee came forward, curled calloused fingers around his jaw. Edward snarled at him, twisted his head, tried to lunge forward and sink his teeth into the thick muscle by the man's thumb. He had to stop them. Had to get out of this. Had to find a way to break these bindings and take out these bastards.

But the man holding his jaw in place just sneered. A few useless words were tossed above his head. Then the Aerugonian with the medic's offering scrambled forward, unwrapped the syrette's fine needle, and dug the thing into Edward's neck.

"Let me the fuck go, you bastard!" Shitshitshit. He couldn't move at all—couldn't even move a finger to swipe at the blood dripping from his frayed, bleeding wrist or jerk away from the needle pressed into his vein. Couldn't…

Then the adrenaline scorching his body started to cool. His muscles weakened. His mind stopped racing, stopping scrabbling desperately to find a way to escape, slowed to something only slightly more than a muddy crawl. He tried to shake his head, to clear the cobwebs draping themselves over his thoughts and wipe that haze from his mind, but he couldn't move and…

"Bastards…" But his tongue was so heavy, he wasn't even sure if the word made sense. "You won't… I won't tell you…"

The world blurred and wavered. The voices of the Aerugonians drifted over his head, slow, garbled, as though they were coming to him through a thick fog. His eyes closed on their own volition.

Consciousness came to him slowly, seeping into his mind just as water bubbles up through a slick of oil, and slipping free from a mess of greasy, misshapen dreams. His head felt heavy—far too heavy for his aching neck to support—so he let it bow, limp, against his chest. The world around him dipped and swayed, and a thick wave of nausea broke over him in response. He squeezed his still-closed lids, breathed heavily, and swallowed around his clumsy tongue.

Weakly, his mind pushed its way out of the black, oily spill of unconsciousness, slipping and falling and limping all the while, tossing out questions with increasing urgency. What… what was going on? Why did he feel so sick?

His memories were a patchwork of burned photos, discoloured and blackened around their edges, missing corners and halves and sometimes whole frames. Pain and fear and the gut-wrenching sickness of desperation caught in his mind, followed by the sense of things happening too quickly, the razor-fine jolt of adrenaline, Amestrian soldiers shouting out orders, Mustang's voice rising above it all—

A feeble moan clawed its way from between his chapped lips, and his mismatched hands curled into fists. His swollen right eye throbbed in time to his quickening heartbeat. His left thigh sent deep, aching pains into his hip. Why the hell did he hurt so much…?

Well, he knew one thing—whimpering like a little kid wasn't going to do jack shit to get him the answers he needed. He pushed the discomforts aside as best he could, and swallowed the beginnings of icy fear as it tried to crawl up his throat. Tentatively, he eased open his good eye.

And wondered for a heartbeat if he was still dreaming.

The chair he'd been slumped against was dull, featureless; thick metal legs kept him steady, as did a straight, sturdy metal back. Heavy manacles stretched between his wrists and two of the chair's legs, short enough to keep him from touching his fingers together. Tight rope around his ribs and biceps kept him firmly seated. More manacles around his ankles, and more rope around his calves.

Thick leather bags around both his hands meant he wouldn't be able to draw an array. A leather strap wrapped around his scabbed left wrist meant that he wouldn't be able to draw blood from the wounds even if he could somehow free his hands.

He stared down at the bindings, breathed heavily as something sharp and cold dropped into his stomach. Adrenaline seeped into his veins, and his muscles itched to move, but at least his mind was clearing up now, too. The patchwork of memories rearranged themselves, stitched up tattered edges, and smeared themselves before his eyes—Mustang, looking tired, his right hand in a sling as he shouted out orders; nameless civilians, tears dripping down their cheeks and heavy rucksacks dragging from their shoulders; Aerugonians, too many of them; the sick, heavy swell of understanding, pressing against his lungs even as he offered the General a razor-sharp grin and a useless promise.

That's right.

His hands tightened within their leather confines. There'd been a village under threat, a frantic meeting, the decision to evacuate the villagers and guide them to safety. A decision—his decision—that he would distract the oncoming enemy to buy Mustang and the others more time. A promise between himself and his stupid, selfless bastard of a superior officer.

You have three weeks to find me in Millondo, Mustang had told him. His dog tags, his worn little notebook, his own tarnished state alchemist watch—anything that could cry to the world that he was the Fullmetal Alchemist—was clutched between the older man's fingers.

Three weeks, and not an hour later.

His mouth twisted into a humourless smile. Well, if he had to break a promise, at least it was one he'd made to his asshole of a superior officer.

He tamped down the sharpness in his stomach, swallowed heavily until he could cage it and set it aside. First step, he reminded himself firmly, was to start getting answers.

His single good eye scanned the cramped room around him. A solitary, naked light bulb hung high above his head, throwing a too-bright light into the small room. The floor beneath his feet was dull grey stone, and it melded seamlessly into the walls and ceiling as though the room itself had somehow carved itself into the ground. If he squinted, though, he could make out the telltale ridges beneath his feet, and a single conclusion threw its onto the forefront of his mind.

This place—or at least parts of it—had been made by alchemists.

He twisted in his chair, searching for a door, an opening—hell, even a seam that would indicate they hadn't dropped him in here and just sealed the damned place shut—but something caught on his neck, pulling him up short.

A collar… No, the same collar they'd secured around his neck when they shackled him to the floor of that beaten up flatbed.

He spat out a particularly colourful curse before his thoughts could catch up with him. Instinct reared its head, growling deep in its throat, and he pushed that down, too.

He breathed deep, filling his lungs until his aching ribs protested and the ropes around his chest tightened uncomfortably. Slowly, steadily, blew it out from between chapped, bloodied lips. Screwed his eyes shut again, and tossed out a handful of questions against the underside of his lids.

He needed to get out, obviously, and find a way to scramble away from wherever the hell this was, back across the trenches until he found the Amestrian lines. But how? How would he get out of this place? How could he even get out of these chains? Where was he, anyway? And how far from the front lines? How long had he been uncon—

Cut himself short. Gathered paltry scraps of information, threw them against each one of the questions until they became the beginnings of answers.

Wherever they'd taken him was an important place—some regional headquarters, perhaps, or a detention centre for prisoners of war—and if the Aerugonian forces planned things out like the Amestrian army did, then he was well behind enemy lines. He couldn't let that deter him from getting away, though, because he would get away. The how didn't matter, really. He just would. He had to.

He eased his good eye open, glanced down at the ropes and chains wrapped around his body. If he wanted to get out of this country—hell, out of this damned building or compound or whatever—he'd have to start smaller.

All these restraints would have to go first.

Manacles were normally made of iron, his mind told him, almost too quickly as it shuddered under the sway of fading drugs and surging adrenaline. And ropes normally had a base of cotton or hemp, organic materials both, with carbon chains at their core, and leather would similarly have carbon chains, and nitrogen and sodium, too, so if he could just draw an array—

He cut across that train of thought and nearly scoffed out loud at its uselessness.

Really, he supposed, the question was if the tensile strength of the manacle around his right wrist was higher or lower than that of his automail.

Well, only one way to find out.

He fisted metal fingers, strained against the bindings with the inhuman strength of his automail arm. The manacle by his right hip shifted, shrieked as it dragged against the chair's sturdy leg, and he gritted his teeth against the noise as it reverberated about the room. More squeals, and the groan of distressed metal, and his mind mumbled a question about whether that had come from his wrist or his confines, but he brushed it aside.

Didn't matter. Didn't fucking matter. He'd gladly take a wrench upside the head from Winry if it meant that he'd managed to stumble out of this hell hole.

A sharp breath, and he redoubled his struggling. The muscles of his chest and shoulder wailed, and a white-hot flare of pain jumped from his collarbone as the bolts there bit into scarred flesh. His uniform, already tatted and smeared with filth, wicked the blood welling up. He steadfastly ignored it.

The chains around his left ankle were tested next. The wound on his thigh shrieked and begged, and his muscles trembled under the strain, and the abused nerve endings offered an angry, fiery protest.

Again, the manacles moaned and screamed, and the noise of it fell flat in the room's still air, and he hoped like hell that there weren't any guards beyond this glorified closet to hear all the noise. The metal, though, didn't buckle.

A handful of curses added to the noise. He took a few steadying breaths, gathered himself. Really, he told himself, wearing down the metal would work just as well as straight up shearing it. And even if he caused his own ankle or wrist to snap instead, the most important thing was really to get himself out of all these bindings; he could always slap together a hasty repair job when he finally got free.

Again, he fought against the manacles around his arm, then his leg. Then again. Then again, until the rusty stain across his collarbone started to smear and the collar around his neck refused him enough air. His chest heaved, his nostrils flared, and his limbs whimpered from a thousand throbbing pains. A quick glance took in the new state of the manacles and chains; the logical part of his mind dragged itself forward to inform him that the metal had hardly shifted at all.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

He was going to wear himself out before he wore out that damned metal. Was going to fight and howl and struggle and make a huge mess of himself, and those Aerugonian fuckers would hardly have to blink when they finally showed up—

There had to be a way out, he told himself firmly, trying to ignore the sick swell in his stomach and the cold fingers tightening around his ribs. There had to be some rabbit hole or rusted screw or overlooked weakness that he could dig his fingers into, tear open, sneak through until he made it to safety. He just had to find it.

He inhaled deeply again, held his breath, focused on brushing away those freezing fingers and forcing out that heavy sickness. He knew this game—had played it himself. Let a captive soldier stew, let their minds conjure up nightmares and horrors best left to the deepest pits of hell, and then show them the best and the worst that that their captors could offer. Then it was just a matter of pressing in all the right places and letting them sing like off-key sopranos.

With the shit he knew…

He was far too shitty a singer, though, to give in that easily. And he definitely wasn't a soprano.

He forced a grin onto his lips, tried desperately to cling to the warmth offered by such a pathetic joke. The ice around his ribs snuffed it out nonetheless.

He didn't know how long he sat there, timing his breaths, forcing his body, with each inhale and each exhale, into submission, batting away the nightmare-thoughts that splashed themselves across the forefront of his mind, blotting out the harsh whispers in his ears.

Behind him, the unmistakable sound of metal sliding out of place, and his heart jumped up, beating against his larynx so madly that he couldn't swallow it back down even if he wanted to. All the thoughts and whispers he'd spent so long beating down surged up as one, an angry, boiling wave of all the horror he'd already seen and all the terrors he thought he'd never be subjected to. The groan of a heavy door filled the tiny room, and oh shit, they're going to—to drug him and break his fingers and blind him—

He swallowed a gulp of air, held it until his lungs felt like they would burst, blew it out. He couldn't lose his shit. Couldn't let them get into his head.

The clamour of heavy boots cut through the still air, and the two idiots from the flatbed filed into his field of vision. His wary eyes caught sight of one of them, limping slightly and definitely favouring his left leg, and a flicker of vicious pride ignited in his chest. With any luck, he'd broken something.

A reedy man with thinning hair and a heavy canvas sack came in next, blinking rapidly from behind thick glasses and picking at the cuff of his beige uniform. His eyes kept darting over the plain walls, the two idiots, the naked lightbulb—anything other than the Amestrian officer trussed up at the centre of the room. He was a weak point, Edward decided, and filed that information away for later.

For the span of two heart beats, there was absolutely nothing—he stared them down, and they stared right back at him. Then his hammering heart beat out a rhythm against his larynx, and he realized too late that it was Morse code, and the words broke free from his mouth before he even had the chance to try to swallow them back.

"Hello." His voice sounded hoarse and flat, but at least it was steady.

They ignored him.

"This is gonna get really fucking boring if we all just sit here and stare at each other."

Nothing. With a start, he realized that the door at his back was still open, and the indistinct sounds of goings on were filtering in—sharp orders and hurried footfalls and heavy things being dragged about. If he could piss one of them off enough, make them lose their temper and take a few passes at him, maybe he could hide his own efforts to get free of his bindings and make a break for it…

He looked to the idiot favouring his leg. "It broken? Or just bruised? If you want, I can kick you in the other knee and even things out."

Not even a blink. Did they even speak Amestrian? Surely, if they were going to question him, one of them had to understand what he was saying. Wouldn't make any damned sense otherwise.

His gaze found the reedy, nervous man. "You look like you might have two brain cells to rub together. Are you the one who's supposed to know how to speak Amestrian?"

Those bespectacled eyes darted away again, and fixed themselves firmly on the canvas bag hanging from his fingers.

Damnit. This had to be a part of their sick, twisted game, though, right? Well, he wasn't playing. He took two steadying breaths and pushed on. "What?" He asked the nervous man. "Don't tell me that you've decided that you're going all chicken shit. It's fine to beat the shit out of prisoners, just not when they're half your age?"

Nothing. Just the sounds from beyond the room. Not one of them shifted, or blinked, or made any damned indication that they heard him. Surely, though, surely one of them knew what he was saying. He stared down third and final Aerugonian. "You know you look like your mom fucked a pig, right?"

At his back, a set of footfalls paused. The idiots in front of him snapped off sharp salutes, and the nervous man fumbled while he brought his own fingers to his brow. A greasy, rich voice said a few words to them, and the hands dropped away.

"I am quite relieved," the same voice added, Amestrian heavily accented but clear, "that I make certain none of my aids speak your language. Conversing with you while you have a broken jaw would make my work much more difficult."

The footfalls sounded out again, and Edward tried to wrench his head around, face this new threat head-on, but the thick collar bit into his neck, held him still. He swallowed a handful of vicious curses, bit his cheek to keep a scowl from twisting itself across his lips.

"You have no words now?" The words dripped into his ears like oil. The footfalls paced back and forth, back and forth, and their sharp beat played with the fine hairs at the back of his neck. "You spoke so very much before I entered."

His fists tightened in their leather bags, and he swallowed once, twice, before speaking up. "Didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"Ah, yes?" The footfalls paused, and two heavy hands clapped down onto his shoulders. His heart stopped beating, then picked itself up, and threw itself against the underside of his ribs as though it thought it could hammer its way out of his chest. His muscles twitched, his lungs hitched, but the man kept on like he hadn't noticed. "You, my young Amestrian friend, are… how do you say? Bold and rude. Cocky. It is highly entertaining."

A collection of bold and rude comments hurled themselves toward the forefront of his mind. He tightened his jaw to keep them from tumbling into the air.

The Aerugonian sighed, squeezed both his shoulders before finally letting his hands slide away. "Even in Aerugo, we hear about your alchemists and their philosophies. Equivalent changes, yes? Surely, you must know of this."

Edward shrugged a single shoulder, slouched down as much as he could in the hard metal chair. Anything he could to act as though the words weren't stirring up his thoughts and tossing them about like leaves in an autumn storm.

This was it, wasn't it? The moment of truth. The single chance they would offer him: spill his guts, share everything he knew about the Amestrian forces and movements, about his own research into their impossibly powerful alchemist-monsters, about the other State Alchemists—or bleed and bruise and—

No. Fucking stop it.

"You do not know?"

"Your lapdogs over there slammed my head into the metal floor of a truck not too long ago. Guess everything's still a bit fuzzy."

Laughter, and the steady tempo of pacing feet resumed. A few strange, lilting words passed over his head. The nervous man moved forward, his fingers jerking open the heavy canvas bag, and Edward's mind began screaming, wailing, and the howl of instinct was so damned loud that he could barely hear the sharp, quick bursts of air forcing their way in and out of his half-frozen lungs—

He lurched back, and the shriek of metal on metal pierced the air as the manacles dragged against the chair legs. The collar bit into his neck, but it's not like it mattered because he couldn't fucking breathe anyway, and oh shit shit shit—

Fingers dipped into the bag, and those heavy, rough hands appeared on his shoulders again, as though they were really needed to keep him still.

A thin rag wrapped around the nervous man's fingers, and he fumbled a bit, pulled out a bottle of something sloshing and clear. Its contents were upended, darkening the undyed cloth, and then he pressed it against the cut above Edward's right brow, wiping away crusted blood and peering at it critically from over his thick glasses. He directed a few words over Edward's head, then moved on, peeling his lids back, cutting away the right shoulder of his uniform to inspect the blood still weeping from around the bolts on Edward's collarbone, slicing away the knee of his tattered trousers to get a better view of the bullet wound.

The man's ministrations trailed fire over his skin. He struggled, jerking against the ropes and chains, trying to trip the medic up even if he couldn't stop him, trying to prove to all of them that he's not going down without a fight—

But the medic ignored him, and the Aerugonian kept talking as though his captive was docile as a sheep. "Our dear doctor tells me that you have no signs of concussion. He does not believe your memory would be somewhat, ah… fuzzy, did you say? Fuzzy. What a strange term."

Dimly, Edward heard the words, and some part of his mind tried to conjure some snapping retort or acerbic remark, but both the medic's hands were pressed onto his thigh now, running over the knot of scars around his port and prodding abused muscles and working their way too close to the smarting wound.

Then pain. The sharp note of it running up his thigh, burrowing in his hip and tearing him apart like carrion on a corpse. Sickness swelled his stomach, forced the air out of his lungs. White-blue flashes winked before his eyes and the world folded in on itself, became nothing more than a thousand pinpricks; thunderous bells peeled in his ears, ringing so loudly that he couldn't even think—

He ground his teeth, bit down on the grunt that threw itself against the back of his teeth, forced his mind away from the hands and the agony and onto his ribs.

Just breathe. Just fucking breathe.

The medic muttered a few more useless words.

"There is filth in your injury." The Aerugonian's words were weak and tinny, and Edward barely heard them above the clarion noise still reverberating through his skull. He was too busy reminding his lungs how to function to grind out the you don't fucking say that wanted so desperately to heat the air around him.

The man went on. "The doctor has suggested that it be flushed and sewn shut."

No. No no no no. No fucking way was he going to let them mess around with his leg. Not a chance in hell. Even as the frantic thoughts beat themselves against his brain, though, the Aerugonian shot out some quick order to the man whose hands were still resting against Edward's thigh, and the medic quickly dove for his bag.

"M'not worried," Edward told them, throat dry and voice like gravel. "I've got a strong immune system."

"But you see, my friend, I am concerned." Footfalls from behind his back again, and then the man finally came into view. He blinked, staring numbly at the thin lips, the high cheek bones, the face like cut granite. Deep-set black eyes bored into his, dissecting him, stripping him bare beneath the naked lightbulb and the cold gazes of the medic and the two others.

Edward's throat bobbed.

"Yes," the Aerugonian went on, slid his gaze away and dipped long fingers into the medic's bag. "I am very concerned. If I am truthful—and I do prefer truthfulness—I think I am concerned for two reasons."

Light reflected off of metal as he withdrew his fingers. A pair of heavy shears dangled from them.

"One, I am concerned because it will cause problems if you die of infection before you are able to share what you know with me."

The man's free hand lashed out and tangled in the fraying ponytail that hung limply against Edward's shoulder blades. It was instinct that made Edward jerk away, but the collar caught him, cut off his breath, and the firm grip didn't slip.

"Second," the Aerugonian continued, as though his prey hadn't reacted at all. "I am concerned that you think you do not have to share this information with me."

The sing of metal rang out between his shoulder blades, and the pressure on the back of his head disappeared. The Aerugonian dangled the thick collection of blond hairs in front of his good eye. Let them slip from his fingers, one by one.

"Now," he said, and any remaining warmth in his voice collected ice crystals, showered the floor to decorate the torn hem of Edward's cavalry skirt, the cuffs of his tattered blue trousers, the worn-down toes of his military-issued boots. "Shall we begin?"

Random tid-bits of information:

1. The dug that renders Edward unconscious—It's morphine. According to the University of Wikipedia, dangerously high levels of morphine can cause unconsciousness for about 20 to 30 minutes.

Author's Note: Welcome back, all! (Or welcome to those who I have to say, I'm super excited and not-at-all-even-a-little anxious to get this fic on the road. So, let me know what you think so far at all that. My fragile writer's ego will love you for it.

Also, this last month, which was supposed to be dedicated to getting the first bit of Feral ready for all of you, has turned into my own personal shitstorm, leaving me equal parts freaked out about college, how to pay for my summer semester, and how to pay for the several-thousand-dollar vet bill my thankless little shit of a golden retriever has racked up these past few weeks.

If these first few chapters see a delay, blame him.