A/N: Okay, okay, so I know I have other fics that I said I'd finish but haven't and now I'm starting a whole new fic, but... I owe Antigone Rex a giftfic and she wanted me to publish and continue this fic, which I stated ages ago but sort of accidentally abandoned, story of my life, I know. But we'll see how it goes. Also I just realised how many times I said the word 'fic' in that first sentence. Oh well.

Massive thanks to Antigone Rex, my beta, and to mebh for all her support when I was first started writing this. They're both amazing writers and if you haven't already checked out their work you definitely should. Also I don't own FMA.

Pain... pain like nothing he had ever known ran through his body, coursing through his nerves, dancing over his sweat-soaked skin. It vibrated in his bones, a deep primal agony resonating across every fibre of his being. His skeleton twisted again as it shrank and reformed, his organs moulding themselves around the new shape of his body. For a moment the world disappeared; nothing existed except the pain, white hot and searing through his mind, destroying all other thought. His screams echoed off the damp stone walls, ceasing only for each sobbing breath before sounding once more. He writhed against his bonds but, as always, they held fast. The sharp sting of the blood-slick manacles cutting into his wrists was barely noticeable against the violent waves that racked his broken form.

After a long time - or what seemed like a long time, he no longer had any way of telling - the pain died down, reduced to a constant, quiet hum and he found himself becoming aware of his surroundings once more. There was a hand gripping his chin, a man's hand, callused and strong. Another grabbed his hair in a tight fist, forcing his head to turn. He opened his eyes but he could see nothing, only brief bursts of colour dancing in the shadowy blackness. He couldn't bring himself to care. Exhaustion and the memory of the agony he had just endured erased all concern except the avoidance of further pain.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel Mustang," a voice rumbled, dark intent disguised behind a pleasant tone. That voice... he knew that voice. Strong, powerful... that voice had commanded his deepest respect, once. But now... he shrank away, unable to hold back a whimper. Now that voice inspired only fear.

"Now, now, Colonel," the voice chastised, a thread of amusement woven through its rich tones. "I'd have thought you'd have learnt the value of a little courtesy by now. Won't you wish me a good morning back?"

The voice wanted something of him, he knew that much, but his head was filled with static and the words made no sense. He opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to beg for the voice's understanding, to explain to it that he wanted to obey, but it was no use. He flinched as a hand struck his cheek, the slap ringing in his ears and bringing tears to his eyes.

"Please, your Excellency," another voice cut in, this one stuttering and obsequious. "The subject has just undergone quite a severe round of skeletal restructuring; it'll be quite a while before he's coherent enough to respond to questions. This time is quite crucial, I'm afraid; if he gets unduly distressed between treatments the impact on his health could be quite severe."

"Is that so? Well, I suppose we wouldn't want that to happen." His hair was released but the hand on his cheek remained. A single finger stroked up and down his skin, chasing the remnants of tears from below his sightless eyes. A thumb traced the edges of his open mouth, wiping away the blood from where he had bitten his lip in his agony. He gasped at the touch, so much gentler than any he had felt in far too long, but he did not allow himself to lean into it. No matter its sudden kindness, he knew whoever lay behind the voice and its hands did not wish him well. He could not let himself trust them, however tempting it may be.

"My, my, how low the mighty have fallen, Mustang." The voice chuckled. "Look at how pathetic you are now. I bet you don't even remember your own name, let alone mine." The voice turned away to speak to the other person. "You've done a good job cutting down his body mass so far; I hardly recognised him at first."

"He's still not thin enough," the second voice replied, sounding irritated. "He's out by about two stone, that's why we're putting him through skeletal restructuring now. At this point, further caloric restriction just isn't an option."

The voice leaned in closer, one hand running over the jutting angles of his bones beneath his skin, tracing the concave curve of his stomach. A hint of something that might have been regret ran through the voice' lowered tones. "And you used to be such a handsome young man, Colonel...such a shame. Still... they say you have to break something down in order to rebuild it. You should understand that, you're an alchemist. Or you were, I suppose I should say."

The shadows over his eyes were beginning to fade away, vague shapes making themselves known from out of the darkness. He saw the face hovering above his, a single dark eye gleaming in the flickering light. Recognition flooded into him at last, the merciful oblivion shattered as he stared into the eye of his tormentor. Fuhrer Bradley, ruler of the state of Amestris and commander of the military. He remembered it all. His name was Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist and decorated veteran of the Ishvalan Rebellion. Or at least, he had been. Now he was nothing, a hideous, misshapen experiment; an abomination born of the mind of the man who stood laughing down at his pain. A pathetic creature smeared in blood and filth, unable even to control his own body.

Mustang tried to pull away as the Fuhrer reached out to touch him again. His breath came in short, shallow gasps and tears of terror pricked the edges of his eyes. He hated himself for his weakness but he could no more control his reactions than he could break free from the iron chains encircling his limbs. He had no idea how many weeks or months he had been held captive but it had been enough to make him forget all memory of strength.

Bradley laughed again, one hand ruffling Roy's sweat-soaked and tangled hair in a twisted parody of affection. "I see you recognise me at last, Mustang. I must admit, I'm impressed. These so-called experts here insisted it would take far longer than this before you were even vaguely cognizant. But then, you have always impressed me; that's one of the reasons I chose you for this project." His expression darkened and Mustang whimpered, the sound shivering and involuntary, some finely sharpened, instinctive part of his mind anticipating pain. "Your underhand scheming and regrettable lack of loyalty to myself and the military you served being the other reason, of course." Bradley's voice was like the sharp edge of a sword's blade and it took everything he had not to scream as it cut through him.

"Fuhrer Bradley, I'm afraid I must ask you to step away now. The subject is becoming too distressed by your presence." The second voice spoke out of the shadows, startling Mustang. He had almost forgotten it was there. He could give form to this voice now, too. Not a face, no, that changed every time, but the sharp cut of a white coat and the air of unfeeling, clinical cruelty; that remained constant. This particular voice sounded younger than those he heard before, but he knew that would make no difference. They were all the same. "This level of agitation could disrupt his treatment, which would set the project back considerably. I think it's best if he's sedated now, before any permanent damage is done."

Mustang barely felt the needle as it slid into his arm although he shivered at the touch of the cold hands on his skin, sheathed in surgical gloves and apathy; so different from the Fuhrer's warm, possessive touches. He gasped as the drug rushed through his blood. Tears spilled out from under his eyelids and his eyes rolled back into his head as he surrendered to the drug. The last thing he felt before all sensation left him was the gentle touch of callused fingers brushing his tears away.

Bradley let his hand linger on Mustang's face, watching as the young former lieutenant colonel fell into unconsciousness. He could not help but smile at the way Mustang's cheek turned to press itself closer to his fingers, some primal part of his mind desperate for the comfort he denied himself while awake. It would not take long before the alchemist was broken completely, before he truly became the loyal dog he had once pretended to be. Well... not quite a dog, Bradley thought, allowing himself another smile at the pun. But whatever his form, Mustang would be loyal to him, and him only. The day would come when the once proud Flame Alchemist would kneel willingly at Bradley's feet, begging for his approval and affection, begging to be allowed to serve. Yes, that day would come and, in the haunted corners of Mustang's eyes, Bradley could see that he understood that only too well. It was just a matter of time.

"I hope the progress we have made is satisfactory, your Excellency," the doctor said, pulling Bradley away from that pleasant train of thought. The man was unfamiliar, one of the newer members of the team and still clearly awed by his nation's ruler. He stood slightly to the side, watching Bradley's interactions with Mustang with obvious distaste, however well he might have thought he was hiding it. Bradley didn't care what the doctor thought. So few mortals understood the thrill that came with defeating one's enemies, of crushing them completely, turning their strengths against them until they lost all shreds of resistance. With no one had that victory been sweeter than with Mustang: the military's golden child, the beautiful young poster boy of the Ishvallan war who could bring such breathtaking destruction with so much grace. He had dared believe that he could betray his masters; that he could look into Bradley's eyes and speak words of loyalty, all the while plotting to overthrow him. Bradley soon taught him the folly of that naive belief. Breaking such a defiant spirit was proving to be a truly wonderful experience.

"Quite satisfactory," the fuhrer replied, running a proprietorial eye over Mustang once more. He didn't think he would ever get tired of the sight before him. The thought of what that broken body would soon become... it was intoxicating. He turned his eye back to the doctor, hitting him with the full power of his gaze. "Although I must admit that I had hoped we would have moved past these preliminary stages, by now. While the quality of the work is indisputable, the timing is... less commendable."

The doctor seemed to shrink into himself, like a small animal faced with fiercer competition, his face growing pale as a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead. "Fuhrer Bradley, sir, I can assure you that every effort is being made to meet the targeted deadlines for the project. Unfortunately, the issues associated with mass reduction and skeletal restructuring have been more challenging than we first anticipated. I...I'm afraid that if you wish the project to proceed at a faster pace then we will have to abandon any further reduction in body mass. After all..." The doctor faltered but then continued speaking; a brave decision, Bradley thought. "Certain prehistoric species have been thought to weigh up to one hundred and seventy pounds..."

Bradley smiled, struggling to hold back his amusement at the look of terror it elicited in the doctor. He did so enjoy intimidating weak humans and this one was such an easy target. "That may well be the case, doctor," he began, watching the man bristle at the condescending tone. Humans were really most amusing. "And that would be all very well and good- if we were living in prehistoric times. But the simple fact is that this is the modern day and there are no surviving species of bird larger than about thirty three pounds. While obviously that weight is an unrealistic target, it is vital that you attempt to reach a weight as close to that as possible. I specified that the subject was to become an eagle chimera, both to compliment his... particular alchemical abilities... and because he would be invaluable as a tool for surveillance and espionage. Now, if our chimera here were to be about five times larger than any flying species alive, don't you think that would be a little suspicious?

"O-of course, your Excellency," the doctor replied, wringing his hands together. "Forgive me for questioning your decision. I can assure you that I and the entire team are dedicated to the success of this project and we look forward to its completion as eagerly as yourself, my Fuhrer."

Bradley doubted the truth of that statement. The alchemists he had chosen for this particular project were all loyal, that was true, and eager to please him, but they would not be the ones to command the beautiful creature they had created. And Mustang would be beautiful by the time they were finished with him. Not only that, he would be exceptional. Unique. He would rise from the ashes of the shattered, suffering body before him and emerge as a true alchemical masterpiece, an undeniable symbol of Amestris' strength. Pride had always been the domain of his elder brother but imagining his chimera, resplendent in all its glory and more loyal than even the bravest soldier, Bradley could not help but feel its warm glow. He could hardly wait for the day the work on Mustang was finished. He needed to see the completion of the chimera he had given so much to create, to watch as his phoenix was born from the fire.

Thanks for reading! x