Without Flinching

Trepidation.

This was only the first of many "horrors" the mysterious Odi Sanguis promised.

And yet, it nearly broke them.

It began with something simple. Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye entered the Colonel's office, carrying the morning's mail and more papers that he would have to read over, sign, and if necessary, make amendments to.

Everything was perfectly ordinary, down to the request for coffee, the polite talk of the weather, and the subtle flirting that always made the Lieutenant's mouth twitch even as her hand flittered toward her holster semi-threateningly.

She wouldn't shoot the Colonel, she told herself. Not really.

It was just like every other morning.

Then the Colonel, while in the midst of opening a small parcel that had been part of his mail today, froze—and when he didn't answer her inquisitive call of, "Sir?" She was highly tempted to simply fire a warning shot above his head to get his attention.

Instead, she resorted to sighing, straightening up, and stomping with her foot to jerk him from his stupor. "Sir, is there a problem?"

Mustang blinked back to awareness and frowned, but still refrained from looking at his most loyal subordinate. He pressed his lips into an uncertain line and muttered a very quiet, "Maybe…" before reaching the small box to pull out the cargo.

It was a walkie-talkie. Much like the older, military model that was outdated now by radios that could expand across long distances and even the entire country. There was also a small note, taped to the front of it, with a tiny print etched onto the postcard surface, looking harmless, despite the message it boded.

You have 24 hours.

Hawkeye didn't resist the urge this time. She drew her gun and held it in her hand, a semblance of comfort when her nerves suddenly jumped and alarm spread through her system. A threat, her subconscious recognized the instant her body did. "Sir, step away from that desk, and head towards the other side of the room. Let me examine it."

Mustang—stupid, headstrong, intelligent—Colonel Mustang ignored her and tore off the note from the walkie-talkie. "At ease," he dismissed. "It's not poisonous."

"How do you know? The surface of it could be—"

"—Hawkeye." There was Mustang's ever-calm smirk, ever-placating sense of 'I know what I'm doing, and although I appreciate your fervor, at this moment, it's pointless.' As if to remind her, he waved his gloved hands at her. "My hands are protected. Or did you forget I make a habit of wearing these?"

Hawkeye pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, although that didn't make her holster her gun any faster. Slowly, and cautiously, she kept her hand on its handle, watching her commanding officer as he turned the walkie-talkie on and listened.

Nothing.

At least, nothing yet.

Mustang gave one look at his Lieutenant, who watched him carefully and blankly, giving a small nod, before he leaned forward and spoke into the walkie-talkie, holding down the "Talk" button as he did so.

"Hello?"

He waited.

There was nothing but crackling on the other end—something typical of older, outdated walkie-talkie models; honestly, who even had these anymore?—but then he heard it, a voice that he expected least of all to hear on the other end.

"Colonel…?"

Fear froze the blood in his veins, although he couldn't confirm why. He yelled the first thing he could think of into the walkie— somehow hoping he was wrong about the entire predicament, "Fullmetal? What are you doing? Is this some kind of sick joke? This better not be another one of your pranks, I have lots of work to do—"

"—Wait, you think this is a prank? Are you serious?"

There was another voice, with Fullmetal, in the background, that Roy instantly recognized. Yet, it sounded so odd… so heavy and echoing—so much louder and enveloping than before.

"He probably doesn't know, Brother! Quick—hold down the button! Colonel! You've got to help us—"

"—Are you kidding, Al? I'm not asking that loser for anything—"

"—Brother, even you have to admit, we can't get out of this ny our selves. We only have so much time before—"

Their voices cut out, most likely because Ed, the one who was holding the other walkie-talkie, simply didn't want the Colonel to hear their arguing.

He decided to intervene before his patience ran out.

"Look, Fullmetal. I haven't a clue what's going on, and at the moment, neither do I care. All I received this morning was a package with this old walkie in it, and a note claiming there's only twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours until what, care to explain?"

A stony silence.

Finally, the brat responded,"Um… that's…probably how long I have left."

Dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion, frustration beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach. "What do you mean how long you have left?"

There was a sigh on the other end—perhaps Fullmetal's— before Alphonse's voice came through, still much more loud and echoing than Mustang remembered. "It's bad, Colonel. Brother doesn't remember how it happened because he was knocked unconscious, but…" something like a scared sob broke through, running right through the Roy's chest like it a spear. "But I saw everything! I let them do it…"

He was on his feet before he even knew what he was doing. Hawkeye was already out the door, asking Feury if he could trace the signals of an old walkie-talkie system to the other set, "How bad is it? Is Fullmetal injured? Are you all right?"

"Eh, besides a nasty bump on my head, I'm fine." Edward's voice was all calm and laidback—at least, it would have sounded that way to a stranger.

Colonel Mustang, even though only having known the boy for a little over a year (if you began from the moment he met the kid as a twice-amputee slumped in a wheelchair with fire in his eyes), still knew the traces of uncertainty and fear in the twelve year old's voice. He knew enough that if Edward was shaken, something must have been terribly wrong.

"Edward, hand Alphonse the walkie. I need to know everything."

There was an awkward silence as Mustang strode through the doorway to the outer office, where all the rest of his team gazed at him with confusion and alarm.

"Colonel, what's going on?" Havoc voiced the question for them all, but Roy held up his hand for silence, ear craned to hear the response.

But it was Edward who answered, his voice unusually small and uncertain as it drifted through the speakers of the handheld device.

"Um… I would love to, but I can't. I'm… kind of stuck inside him right now."

"Stuck? How the hell—"

"—We're underground. Six feet, Colonel."

Six feet, Colonel.

The walkie-talkie dropped from Roy's fingers, slipping innocently down to the floor, where it hit and bounced off the carpet, before falling and turning in its bounce to resume the pattern until it rested, still and harmless, the speakers facing the ceiling.

Edward didn't say it, but the fear and the message were as blatant as day.

We're buried alive.
And Alphonse was his coffin.

Oh, God save the man who would have to face the six faces, varying between a pasty-white shock and a red-hot brittle anger that were staring at the walkie-talkie then, so ready and vengeful to rescue the two of them.