Disclaimer: I don't own it.

For Disastergirl (and because I should be working but don't want to!)

Also trying to gear up before embarking on Here Dead We Lie again.

It gets very dark, so tread carefully.

He wanted to be there. Had requested it.

Why else would a freshly decorated Brigadier General – a national hero – and one time 'poster boy' be in this barren, broken place?

After the Promised Day, when he had been tasked – happily – with the restoration of Ishbal, it was paramount that he was there at the very beginning, however low. His heart was full at that time, that this fragile seed of hope for the region could live and flourish in his care. It was his job, his duty and his penance.

Mustang shifted his weight to allow a small Ishbalan woman pass him unhindered, dragging her crude pick behind her in the blinding sand. He followed the crazed trail it left, tired eyes straining, until his vision was blotted by a stinging drop of sweat.

He blinked it out, rocked by the bright after-light dancing behind his closed eyes. His breath caught as he remembered another time: he slowly blinking and the Ishballan rebel seizing their moment to strike. There had been frantic calls: names, ranks; panicked comrades rushing as the knife slid hot and sure into the fleshy nook west of his hip. It would have been his gullet but for the steady aim of a young sergeant. It brought the man low and so rather than losing his life that day, Mustang lost the opportunity to create it – so he was told by a string of doctors. The blade missed his organ but damaged him beyond repair nonetheless. There was poetry in that somewhere, he recalled thinking at the time. Almost exactly 12 months after the event, he burnt the secret skin from his lieutenant's back, her own way – not the universe's – of ensuring there wouldn't be another Flame Alchemist.

His hand ghosted above the old wound and he turned his eyes towards the group of women (because it was always women) who were busying themselves a short way off. Arms clothed in coarse white robes rose and fell like small waves, and the clinking sound of busy picks, shovels, and a hundred other sorts of tools filled the air.

They worked without complaint because they were digging for their dead.

"Sir," Breda said, lumbering up with red face gleaming.

"Mm?" Mustang waved a gnat from his ear and stepped towards his man.

"The quartermaster radioed in; she expects to have 3 tanks of water to us by 1300 hours," said Breda. Both men looked back at the crooked bodies of the women. "They're tough."

"You're telling me..."

The redhead scrubbed a hand down his face, speaking through his palms. "You sure we can't help them?"

"We're here to monitor and assist as appropriate. We're lucky – all of us – that the elders were open to my proposition in the first place. They've made it quite clear that they don't want us anywhere near them when they discover The Disappeared." He smiled. It was a bitter thing. "You can interpret that as 'me.'"

Breda nodded. He turned to Mustang, regarding his superior as he shaded his eyes with a broad hand. "You oka-"

"Sir!" Havoc trotted up to them, only the smallest irregularity showing itself in his gait. It was a miracle of alchemical and spiritual power. "Another message from Eastern Command."

Mustang's eyes shot over his lieutenant's shoulder to spot his second-in-command tearing someone a new asshole across the line. As he held the radio pack, Fuery rested his mouth on his shoulder, eyes distant.

"Good news, then," the general dead-panned.

Havoc took both he and Breda by the crook of the arm and led them a few steps towards the open desert.

"Sir..." he sighed heavily. "Eastern Command apologises. They issued the wrong coordinates for the dig. The records for Alpha Site have been corrupted and the nearest they can point us is within a 1 mile radius of here." The lieutenant sighed once more, handsome face contorting with hurt.

As Havoc spoke, Mustang felt the world constrict around him. The bright sound of tools working struck in concert with his heart and that familiar pain, the pain of a thousand hands clawing at his chest, was enough to make him breathless. One of the women – far off and too perceptive for her own good – was watching them with owl-like intensity, red eyes burning.

Mustang offered her a small bow which went ignored and studied first Havoc's face then Breda's. He bit the quick of his thumb and cast his gaze to Hawkeye who seemed to be offering words of support to Fuery, who surely felt guilty for having first conveyed the erroneous coordinates.

This is when they needed him; Falman and his unmatchable talent for detail. For a moment, Mustang resented giving the man his lengthy furlough to be with his new family.

"Sir?" It was Breda, cunning and watchful as ever for his leader's dark, irrelevant musings.

"We cannot tell these women until we at least try for a solution." He stood as still and as silent as a pillar, thinking. An unseen bird rattled out its ugly song.

He inhaled sharply.

"They've been working for four hours now, have Kelvin distribute the food packs and send them to the tent for a two hour recess. Mandatory. We don't want anyone collapsing in this heat... he'll think of something to say, anyway. Between the rest of us, we can at least try to scour the square mile." He gestured for one of Havoc's cigarettes and lit it with a gloveless snap of his fingers. Though his weapons were always on him still, secreted in his jacket – close to his guilty heart. He sucked hard on the cigarette and blew the smoke into the sky, watching it drift into the cloudless blue. "Feeling optimistic, boys?"

"I've never seen you smoke before," Breda said simply.

Thanks for reading!

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