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Mustang was an idiot for taking his gloves off. Ever. At all. Didn’t he know they were at war? Relaxing, even briefly, would inevitably lead to disaster.
And it did. In a supposedly safe area, within sight of the sniper tower, he had settled on the ground, slumped against a wall and torn into his rations. He’d removed his gloves so he could eat more easily and to let his fingers to breathe. He badly needed a break, a few seconds to shut off his brain and just rest.
Stupid, stupid man.
He was caught completely unawares when something slammed into his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled over to face his attacker as his hands scrabbled for his discarded gloves. Obviously, Mustang’s opponent was an Ishvalen. A muscular young man with a look of burning rage on his face. Thankfully, he was armed with nothing more than a metal pipe but the fact that he hadn’t already been dropped by a sniper meant Mustang was on his own.
He barely had time to take all that in before the pipe came down again, knocking the air out of his lungs. Mustang gasped for breath as the man hit him again and again, making stars of agony dance in front of his eyes. He curled on his side to protect his organs as he scrambled to get the sweaty fabric of his glove over his hand. The pain made his fingers clumsy, costing him valuable seconds and more blows until finally, finally, his glove was in place.
A rush of flames wiped the Ishvalen from the face of the earth .
Mustang let himself fall onto his back, panting. His head was swimming and the world spam around him. Blackness crept into his vision as his battered chest fought for air. In his last few seconds of consciousness, he wondered whether Hawkeye was okay.
When he came around he was lying on a cot in a hot, crowded room. A nurse leant over his chest, dabbing his injuries with a stinging liquid. He instinctively hissed in pain, before he was fully awake.
“It’s antiseptic. Suck it up.” The nurse snapped, giving the impression that she didn’t want to be here. Frankly, she could join the club.
“Yes, ma’am” Mustang obediently gritted his teeth. He was still dizzy and foggy from the blow to his head. All he really cared about was the pain stopping as quickly as possible so he could go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, his medic didn’t seem to want that to happen. Her movements were aggressive as she bandaged his chest “You have a concussion and several cracked ribs. Your internal organs are undamaged, though, so you’ll be back on the front lines soon. I’m sure you’re pleased to hear that, Major” The last word was laced with poison. Apparently, it was him personally that she was angry at, or perhaps State Alchemists in general.
He grunted a response, not knowing or caring whether the noise would be read as agreement or disagreement and closed his eyes. He longed for even a sip of cool water. No chance of that. Even if he asked the unfriendly nurse to get him a drink it would be warm and faintly dusty, like all the water here.
“What happened to you, anyway? I thought alchemists were meant to be smarter than this” The woman moved to the wound on his head, once again dabbing it with stinging antiseptic.
He didn’t flinch “You’re right. I guess I got too used to the idea that there was someone watching over me” He blinked his eyes open again, but didn’t look at the woman leaning over him. Instead he searched the room for a familiar figure. He must have been unconscious for some time. Perhaps...
“God?” The woman sneered. She was right to. Someone had just tried to beat him to death with a metal pipe and he couldn’t even pretend to claim that that had been unprompted or an over reaction.
“No, God gave up on me a long time ago” He’d been right. A woman stood in the doorway, talking worriedly to one of the medics. When she turned towards him her face lit up with relief and her eyes glowed “But she hasn’t”