Sorry for the long wait! And sorry for how short this update is!

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Lowering her rifle, Sylph didn't fight against the grin that tugged at the corner of her lips. From her position in the rafters, she was easily hidden in the shadows. No one could see her, but she could see everything. A triumphant pride swelled up within her as she stared down at the fallen Riza Hawkeye, whose blood now pooled on the stage. The Fuhrer, ignoring his own wound, was still calling his subordinate's name and gripping her body. Sylph rolled her eyes. She was sure to get a lecture about the damage caused to the Flame Alchemist, but he had been in the way. Even if he lost the arm as a result, he'd live. Riza Hawkeye on the other hand… Sylph's grin widened. Even if the bullet managed not to hit an organ, there was far too much blood on the stage for her to survive much longer. She'd bleed to death before help even arrived.

The Amestrians below were still in a state of chaos, but Sylph knew that this was the first place officials would look. Swinging her rifle over her shoulder, she lithely climbed back to the catwalk that led to the stairway down, stepping over the corpse of the one man who had been unfortunate enough to discover her. It hardly mattered to her if she was discovered now - Riza Hawkeye was dead, shot like the dog she was. Still, there was more to be done. Footsteps echoed up the stairs as Sylph approached them, and she quickly tucked herself behind a metal beam as a group of five Amestrian soldiers marched out onto the catwalk.

"Search every nook and cranny," one of them ordered. "He's probably still here."

Their backs turned to her, Sylph slipped through the door and raced down the steps. Quickly turning the corner, she slammed into a wall she hadn't remembered being there. A swift glance up, and red eyes met red eyes. Instinct forced her back a step as the scarred man stared down at her, his stern expression indecipherable.

Sylph narrowed her eyes. Military reports had called him "Scar" back when he had routinely slaughtered State Alchemists. She remembered scanning the reports each day, giddy at his efforts and hoping to see that a certain Flame Alchemist had been dispatched. Ultimately, he had let her down. When Mustang was finally in his grasp, Scar had joined sides with him rather than finish the job. A complete disappointment. She squared her stance - she could never win against him, but she refused to be defeated by a traitor without a fight.

Suddenly, the path in front of her was clear. Scar had stepped aside, his eyes not leaving Sylph's. "There's a side exit if you follow that hallway and make a left," he said, pointing as he did so. "It leads to an alleyway off of a side street. No one will look there."

Sylph's eyes narrowed further as she paused. Why would he help her? The thunderous echo of boots coming down the stairs behind her convinced her, though - it was her best option. With a nod of wary thanks at the man, she raced off in the direction he had indicated. Perhaps he wasn't a traitor, after all.

"Fuhrer Mustang, you have to let go now."

Roy shook his head violently, tightly clenching Riza's hand as May finished her hasty sealing of Riza's wound.

"There are cars ready to take both of you to the hospital. The longer you delay here, the longer it will take to get professional care for both of you." The personnel, a Colonel Stevenson, sighed. "Delaying also opens up more opportunities for the assassin to strike again."

Large hands reached down and began to gently pry Roy's fingers away from Riza's. Roy lifted his head to meet eyes with Jean Havoc, tenderly coaxing him away from her. "C'mon, chief. You're the leader of this country now. You gotta take care of yourself." Havoc stole a quick glance at Riza. "She's tough. She'll make it through. But," his eyes were sad, forced with a realization that Roy continued to ignore, "your life is more important."

Roy jerked his hand away, the pain in his arm preventing him from punching one of his most loyal subordinates and best of friends in the face. "Don't you ever talk about her life as if it's something so easily disposed of!" He hissed. It wasn't the first time today that he had heard the words Havoc uttered, previously said by a different blonde.

Rather than argue back, Havoc solemnly nodded. "Yes, sir. Understood."

Everything was a confused whirlwind of activity as strangers came and strapped Riza to a stretcher, escorting Roy into the ambulance behind her. He took her hand again, loosely this time. Her breathing was still ragged, desperate. He couldn't understand how something like this could happen. How someone could target Riza rather than him. Was it an attempt to weaken him, by destroying those closest to him? He tried to imagine Riza's life in which he wasn't a significant factor, and failed. In his conception of their lives, they were too intertwined for Riza to have conflicts that he wasn't aware of. Riza wasn't one to keep secrets, and she wasn't one to inspire animosity in others. Could someone have been jealous of her proximity to him, and been seeking to take her place? Roy scoffed at the idea - no one was capable enough to take Riza Hawkeye's place.

Roy leaned forward and rested his forehead on Riza's, just for a moment. Her brow was sticky with sweat. The emergency responder working on his arm raised her eyebrow, but said nothing. He was sure that all of Amestris would be abuzz the next day about its Fuhrer's informal addressing of his Captain when he screamed her name on a stage in front of most of the city. He swallowed hard as he took in her pale face. That, or they'd be mourning the loss of his most loyal aide. He shook his head to clear the thought away, earning another knowing expression from the woman beside him. Riza would be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

Armed guards waited for them at the hospital. Roy waved off the wheelchair he was offered as he followed behind Riza's stretcher. When he tried to follow it into the room they had prepared for her, he found his path barred by members of his own security team.

"Fuhrer Mustang, we have a room ready for you just down the hall, if you would please follow me," a nurse waved him in her direction.

"I wish to be in the same room as Ri- Captain Hawkeye." He craned his neck, trying to glimpse her around the two large men blocking him.

"With all due respect, sir, we have a special, secured room for you. Please come with me; you will be allowed to visit the Captain later, under escort."

Roy stared at her. Had she not heard him? Why wouldn't they let him stay with Riza? It hadn't been a problem last time, after the Promised Day, when he had pulled a few strings. Why were they so obstinate now?

"I am the Fuhrer and I want -"

"And because of that, you are being placed in a room that can be easily guarded." The nurse's patience was wearing thin, her words becoming more crisp.

"Then Captain Hawkeye should be placed in that room as well. She was the target, not me!"

The nurse pursed her lips and squinted her eyes as she seemed to be searching for the proper words to reply.

"Let Fuhrer Mustang have his way this time, Cathy." Dr. Knox, the son of Roy's old friend, rushed down the hallway toward them.

Roy grinned, triumphant. "Thank you!"

The nurse, lips still pursed, slipped behind the two men blocking the door to Riza's room to alert those inside of the room change.

Dr. Knox started guiding Roy down the hallway by lightly grasping his uninjured arm. "Please understand for the future, Fuhrer Mustang, that you are now the leader of this entire country - your personal safety will always be a priority."

"And what of the safety of my aide? She's the personal assistant of me, the Fuhrer, after all." Roy was suspicious of what the doctor was trying to communicate.

Dr. Knox looked solemnly at Roy. "She's your assistant, yes, but in the end, she's just an assistant. When both of you are wounded, your life is the priority… not hers."

Roy shook the doctor off of his arm, continuing to march ahead down the hallway. He couldn't argue that Dr. Knox had a point, but it wasn't a point of which Roy was particularly fond.

Black ink spiraled the drain of Sylph's shower, dripping from hair that was now as white as the tiles surrounding her. She hummed an old celebration hymn, one she remembered her grandmother singing to her and her brother. When she reached the chorus, filled with praise of Ishvala, she turned off the water and halted her humming. She reached to grab her well-travelled towel, frayed at the edges, which she wrapped tightly around herself. She didn't bother glancing in the mirror as she stepped out of her bathroom and into her one-room apartment; years spent in the Amestrian Military made even her wary at the red eyes she knew her reflection held.

"You told me you were the best sniper in your class at the Academy."

Had the towel been any less tightly wrapped, it would have fallen at Sylph's jump. "Mr. Emmerich, sir." She took a deep breath, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. Once she no longer felt her pulse pounding in her throat, she gave him a grin. "It wasn't a lie. The death of the Hawk's Eye today should be proof enough."

The middle-aged man frowned, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in the wooden chair in which he was sitting. "I told you not to hurt Mustang."

"He was in the way." Sylph walked over to her set of drawers and rummaged around, finally finding an oversized coat to cover herself. "And you told me not to kill him. Even if he loses his arm, he'll be fine." She tied the coat's belt and let the towel fall to the floor from beneath it.

"You still failed."

Sylph paused, half stooped to pick up the towel. "What?" She straightened, staring at the man.

"She's alive."

The pulse began to pick back up in Sylph's chest, a quick pounding coming to her ears. "That's not possible."

"Rumor has it that Riza Hawkeye survived the trip to the hospital and is expected to make a full recovery."

"She should have bled to death!" Her voice was louder than she intended, almost a shout.

"A Xingese friend of her and the new Fuhrer was in town for the inauguration, and happens to know enough Alkahestry to close wounds in dire situations."

Sylph was pacing, muttering curses in her mother tongue.

Mr. Emmerich stood, placing the hat he had been holding in his lap onto his well-coiffured head. "I trust that, next time, you won't disappoint me." He turned to leave, but remembered something. "One last thing." He pulled an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. "I need you to sneak into the printing office tonight and copy a few hundred of these fliers. Then scatter them around Central City. I want everyone my car passes on the street tomorrow morning to be talking about them."

"Don't you have secretaries to do this kind of work?" Sylph's response was a bitter bite.

Mr. Emmerich smirked. "I don't want anyone to know these come from me." He started opening the door. "And unlike you, I don't pay them for their silence."

Once she was sure he was gone, Sylph picked up one of the glass bottles containing the ink she used to dye her hair. Glass and ink splattered everywhere when she threw it against the door with a frustrated scream, hitting it dead center. Holding back her own bitter tears, she watched as the ink dripped down the door. Next time she had Riza Hawkeye's head in her sight, she wouldn't miss.

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