Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi. Although, if you wanted me to, I could still sign an autograph for you.

Revised: April 8th, 2008

Stiff winds, cold and dry like it had been every night in this godforsaken desert after the sun set, whistled through the dirty, dusty, and rough and tumble camp. Canvas tents lined up in clusters, forming lanes of beaten, cracked earth, with large marquees set up in the center of the establishment. Occasionally, a tuft of brown grass would force its way through the burnt earth, but they were sparse and rare, not unlike the blackened trees that lined the horizon, nothing more than pathetic sticks in the dead landscape. The only thing even remotely green in the area was the olive drab tents themselves.

Amidst the boulders and ruins of what was once a lively Aerugan town, soldiers in blue uniforms – many of them still not used to the bitter cold of the southern desert after sundown – huddled around the numerous fire pits that littered the area, all which were roaring and crackling in the darkening twilight, searching for a partial refuge from the stiff wind.

The soldiers were miserable – it was not difficult to understand this, nor was it difficult to fathom why this was so. After all, war had broken out two long, miserable years ago, and there was still no end in sight.

A single drop of rain fell from the sky – one of the rare times it had done so in the last month that these weary, battle-hardened veterans had spent on the front lines. Another drop landed in one of the lit fire pits, sizzling against the black, dead logs that fueled the fire. Within minutes, a torrent of rain was falling from the sky, and soldiers scrambling to their feet, with hopes of being able to cover equipment and nail down tarps before their various provisions were ruined by the rain. All were soaked in the short span of time it took to do this before being able to dash for the marginal cover offered by the tents.

The wind tore open the fabric door of a tent at the back of the camp, inviting the viciously cold rains to soak the few items left closest to the entrance. The tent's sole occupant, though, made no attempt to keep his possessions from being subjected to this; he made not indication that he was even aware of what was happening. He remained seated on the cot that served as a bed, shoulders hunched, thick hair falling in his face, completely still and silent. Something was grasped tightly in his mismatched hands.

Barely audible above the angry splatter of raindrops against the tent's roof, the angry flapping of unsecured tarps and tents, and the shouts of other soldiers, a pitiful sniffle wavered through the damp, cold, miserable atmosphere. The proud, headstrong soldier known as the Fullmetal Alchemist bit his lip and gripped his military-issued handgun tighter.

How many people had he killed with this weapon? How many sons and husbands; or fathers and brothers? How many mothers, or unwilling country folk, drafted into the Aerugan army much like the many soldiers drafted into Amestris' own? He could still remember the promise he had made to himself when he first became an alchemist to the State – a pledge not to murder. A bitter laugh bubbled up from his tight throat, sounding almost hysterical.

He could still remember the promise he had made to himself and those who cared for him. He had sounded so sure when he had first stated it; that he would never take a human life, not for any reason at all. He could not have seriously thought that he could really pull that off. After all, when it came down to it, he was still nothing more than a Dog of the Military, another alchemist who had sold his soul to the state, a fucking 'Human Weapon'...

And now? Now, he did not even know if he was still human.

A single splash of water fell near his boots. It could not have been a hole in the tent's roof, for it was marked with mud and iron – iron from the blood that he had spilt with the gun in his left hand and the cold metal that was his right. He bit his lip harder, trying to stop himself in this moment of weakness, but a choked noise still hissed through his gritted teeth and another tear slipped down his face. It landed silently on his right hand, glimmering red from the rusty blood that stained and blemished a once gleaming metal limb.

He could not bring himself to clean the limb that had caused so much damage and destruction, even in one day's time. He could still hear the explosions and gun fire and screaming of the battle that had taken place earlier in the day; could still fell the quaking earth beneath his feet; could almost taste the agony and fear and pain, it was so thick…

Most of all, though, he remembered the shocked and terrified faces of the beige-clad soldiers as he came after them, cutting them down with an automail blade before they even knew what had happened…

Bombshells exploded around him, kicking up dust, splattering blood on his face as those around him flew or fell, never to rise again; involuntary screams pierced the air, belonging to both machine and man; the smell of blood and smoke and gun powder was everywhere, staining everything. He did his best to stay focused, though, even as he watched the many Amestrian men and woman fall to the raped, pitted ground – if nothing else, he knew that there was little to nothing he could do for his fellow soldiers; they were dead or would be soon.

Suddenly, a blast landed entirely too close to him, sending him falling back, half burying him in the flying debris. A dozen tiny cuts marred his face and hand, and just as many pieces of shrapnel cut through the air. One piece screamed past his head before he could even notice it; another smashed against his automail leg, sending painful vibrations up part of his leg that was still flesh. The metal itself buckled slightly, but held.

He wiped away the blood that dripped into his eyes and pushed himself back up. The noise was deafening, but he tried to ignore it just as he tried to ignore the fear that was swelling in his stomach, or the blank gaze of the captain he had been working with – a kind man, with a wife and young son, who would now only see him in their dreams. He knew far too well that that could have just as easily been him laying there, another statistic in this increasingly bloody war. If he did not start moving soon, though, that is exactly what he would become.

Ducking away from another deafening, mind-numbing blast, he rounded on the small group on men operating one of the enemy howitzers. They fumbled with the heavy machinery, not noticing him until it was too late. A blue transmutation, and the deadly weapon itself was destroyed beyond recognition; a second clap of his hands, and his right limb was the blade he was so adept at wielding.

Eyes wide with surprise, one soldier – a young man perhaps only a few years older than Edward himself – quickly grabbed the rifle resting beside him, fumbling to bring it to rest on his shoulder and take aim. He was quick, but the young Amestian that was his target was much, much quicker.

Don't look your enemy in the eye; that was the first thing that new soldiers were told by the veterans. Never look the enemy soldiers in the eye.

Even as the Aerugan died, blood pouring from his throat, his eyes never lost their surprise and shock, not even when they went glassy, or when the colour in them began to fade. The dead man's partner scrambled away quickly, trying desperately to grab the pistol at his waist even as he worked to put some difference between himself and the golden eyed killer. Fear blossomed on his face and paled his skin, sending tremors into his limbs.

Without thinking, without realizing what he was doing, Edward went after the southern soldier. The explosions going on around him were nothing more than white noise as he bore down on the other man, bloodlust gripping his mind as blood pounded heavily in his heart.

The youth cried out as a bloody and wicked automail sword sprouted from his chest. Then, his eyes glazed over and his heart, which had been speared by the blade, stopped struggling fruitlessly to beat. Blood sprayed from his body where an artery had been lacerated, and he fell. His body and that of his killer's were covered in red.

The young alchemist did not even have the time to lower his blade before a searing pain suddenly flared across his left arm; he quickly spun around, searching for its cause. Before a slight ridge cause by an exploded bombshell, a squadron of men in the Aerugan army's beige paused for a moment as one of the men aimed a knife at the solitary Amestrian. A growl bubbled up form his throat without him even knowing it – that vicious cut on his upper arm fucking hurt.

This was his only thought before they reached him, all converging on him at once. His hands met without conscious effort and the rolling sand at their feet twisted violently. Blood sprayed from one man's mouth as a rocky spiral violently ripped through his abdomen; another did not even have the time to blink before the formation cut through his neck, partially decapitating him. Three more of the enemy were not quick enough to leap away from this sudden and unexpected attack. The ground was awash with crimson stains; the sky, thick with falling, bloody rain. His mind abandoned him briefly, in the midst of the brutal massacre – for, as unprepared as the men were, calling it a proper brawl would be laughable.

The next thing he knew, he was standing there, covered in blood, panting heavily and grasping his wounded left arm. Cautiously, he glanced around himself for more enemy soldiers, then down at the seventeen men he had single-handedly slaughtered. Blood and dirt covered them, laying over their bodies and weapons in a tangled heap.

Explosives were still flying, though, and he turned away from the mess he had caused, limbs trembling from more than just exhaustion. His throat was sore and voice hoarse, though he could not recall yelling. "Fuck this! Fuck this whole goddamned war…Shit…–"

A strange gurgling sound cut him off and he twisted around to face to pile of corpses again, searching for the source of the noise.

One man was still alive, his wound fatal but not immediately so. His remaining hand clutched at the stump that and once been his left arm and he glared at the young blond even as he drowned in his own blood, the wound across his chest deep enough to puncture his lungs. His dying words were filled with amazing contempt. "They were right… When they spoke of the golden demon, who kills without thought… You disgusting beast…"

Blood crawled from his mouth and he spoke no more.

Hours later, First Lieutenant Hawkeye would find him, after all the explosions had stopped and the Aerugan's had retreated. Her right shoulder and left elbow were bound in makeshift bandages, as was her head, and the linen itself was stained red. She seemed remarkable disoriented for such a sure-footed woman, but still somehow managed a weak, weary smile when she was him there, curled up with his knees to his chest and arms gripped tightly around his knees, shaking and shivering. His own uniform may not have been as tattered as hers, but was stained with so much that it was near impossible to tell it had once been blue; his hair was tacky with blood not his own, and his face decorated with the horrifying colour of rust that he could not help but associate with battle.

Her gun still in one hand, she gripped his flesh hand with the other and hauled him unwillingly to his feet. Painful, distant golden eyes refused to meet the woman's own. "I killed them all. I fucking murdered them without even thinking about it…"

His throat tightened and he shrugged off the comforting hand that was placed on his flesh shoulder. The lieutenant stilled for a moment, but then said nothing and simply began to lead the way back to the back of the lines, to where the rest of the men not searching for survivors must have already returned. The tents and barbed wire fences were invisible, hidden behind the craters and bodies, the remnants of battle, but Edward knew they were there.

In silence, the two scrambled around the various hollows and burnt out artillery weapons. Past the first set of barbed wire defenses, and through the three lines of trenches; it was eerily silent, for the two did not even see any other soldiers in the friendly Amestrian blue, although they were nearing the camp.

Without warning, Lieutenant Hawkeye collapsed on the blood stained sand.

He could recall so clearly – too clearly – as he dropped to his knees beside the blonde woman, shaking her shoulder, feeling the panic rise in his chest as he groped at her neck for a pulse, calling her name, screaming hysterically at her to get the fuck back up and keep walking – they were almost back, goddamnit! He remembered pulling her prone body up, wrapping his metal limb around her legs and somehow managing to lift a woman head and shoulders taller than he over his shoulders. He could still feel the tightness of his throat, the trembling of his limbs, as he made his way to the back of the front lines; could still the urgent shouts for a medic as he finally stumbled into the walled camp, falling again to his knees as his burden was relieved from him…

More vividly than anything else, though, he could recollect the look on Mustang's face when the elder alchemist found him, huddling into thick blankets as a medic stitched up the graze on his arm and trying to keep himself under control. As dazed as he was, he knew that he would not like what the man had to tell him; his tight lips and pale face, his rigid stance and tightly fisted hands testified to this…

He did not even try to hold back another sob as it came forth, surrounded by the cruel, poignant memories that refused him a moment of peace.

A part of him was not overly surprised when Mustang told him that the medics could not save the life of the woman who had saved both of them on numerous accounts, but the blow to his heart was terrible nonetheless. He barely even registered when the medic was asked to leave, soon after the wound was sealed, hardly noticed when Mustang seated himself at the foot of the infirmary cot. The words that the man uttered, though, rang in his ears: Havoc had died instantly in one of those fucking horrible, deathly, hellish explosions that the enemy was so fond of; Fuery and the squad to which he had been assigned were all dead – ambushed by an Aerugan 'scout team', as they called themselves. The squad to which Edward was often assigned to had also been caught in an ambush, and the proud men and women that he had befriended were now nothing more than nameless and faceless bodies…

His eyes stung, and his throat was tight. His fists trembled, as did the weapon he still held within them. Outside, the torrents of rain fell from the sky, battering the olive-drab tents as the wind slowly began to pick up, howling and screaming as the last fires were drowned. The entire camp was left cold and wet in midst of this sudden storm. In a twisted way, the world seemed to be crying with him, crying for the loss of all of the people around him, men and women, courageous soldiers he had come to care for as he would a family, weeping for the loss of a dozen things that even he could not fathom, but left him feeling cold and empty inside, nonetheless…

His grip on the gun tightened, and the knuckles of his flesh hand paled.

Just another fucking useless, broken weapon…

END

Because there is no true glory in war.