"What we've got here is failure to communicate.

Some men you just can't reach...

So, you get what we had here last week,

which is the way he wants it!

Well, he gets it!

N' I don't like it any more than you men."

Look at your young men fighting

Look at your women crying

Look at your young men dying

The way they've always done before

Look at the hate we're breeding

Look at the fear we're feeding

Look at the lives we're leading

The way we've always done before

My hands are tied

The billions shift from side to side

And the wars go on with brainwashed pride

For the love of God and our human rights

And all these things are swept aside

By bloody hands time can't deny

And are washed away by your genocide

And history hides the lies of our civil wars

D'you wear a black armband

When they shot the man

Who said "Peace could last forever"

And in my first memories

They shot Kennedy

I went numb when I learned to see

So I never fell for Vietnam

We got the wall of D.C. to remind us all

That you can't trust freedom

When it's not in your hands

When everybody's fightin'

For their promised land


I don't need your civil war

It feeds the rich while it buries the poor

Your power hungry sellin' soldiers

In a human grocery store

Ain't that fresh

I don't need your civil war

Look at the shoes your filling

Look at the blood we're spilling

Look at the world we're killing

The way we've always done before

Look in the doubt we've wallowed

Look at the leaders we've followed

Look at the lies we've swallowed

And I don't want to hear no more

My hands are tied

For all I've seen has changed my mind

But still the wars go on as the years go by

With no love of God or human rights

'Cause all these dreams are swept aside

By bloody hands of the hypnotized

Who carry the cross of homicide

And history bears the scars of our civil wars

"We practice selective annihilation of mayors

And government officials

For example to create a vacuum

Then we fill that vacuum

As popular war advances

Peace is closer"

I don't need your civil war

It feeds the rich while it buries the poor

Your power hungry sellin' soldiers

In a human grocery store

Ain't that fresh

And I don't need your civil war

I don't need your civil war

I don't need your civil war

Your power hungry sellin' soldiers

In a human grocery store

Ain't that fresh

I don't need your civil war

I don't need one more war

I don't need one more war

Whaz so civil 'bout war anyway

A fine rain drizzles steadily down on the small group concealed in their damp dugout, but the dark clouds that hang so heavily overhead are nothing at all compared to those that loom on their horizon. The three are silent, preoccupied and distant, each lost in their own thoughts.

One sits by the exit, just under the edge of the tarpaulin that shields them from the inclement weather and the prying eyes of enemy scouts. He gazes out as if on watch, but his tired eyes are glazed over and hazy. The war-torn land outside is a harsh and barren sight, but the foreign landscape is more comforting than the haunted, familiar faces to be found behind him.

Someone wordlessly approaches him and passes him a warm mug filled with some sort of thick, heated sludge. He sighs deeply as he takes it, the heat transferring into his freezing hands. He's not entirely sure what's in it, merely grateful that it's hot enough to steam up his glasses - it blocks his view of the sick and twisted world that lies crumbling around him.

Out of the corner of his vision he can see the figure that is crouched beside him, the mop of blood-drenched black hair indicating who had drawn near. He murmurs his thanks, voice gravelly and hoarse from overuse on the battlefield, but he stays turned away. He can't bear to see the mess that's been made of his friend; especially since he knows that it is his fault.

The smoke as black as thunderclouds, the deafening explosions of bursting shells, the roar of the war machine as it marches inexorably forward, the suffocating feeling,almost like his throat is full of white ash… it all surrounds him, evolves and shatters him. That too familiar, sickly smell of gunpowder and death envelops him; he can barely see his own pale, blood-streaked hands, let alone the violent salvo of the enemy's bullets around him. He hears somebody cry out behind him, and he spins to see a tall, cutlass-wielding Ishbalan fall to the ground beside him through the haze. There's a surprised expression on his face as they both stare down at the blood pooling from his chest. The Ishbalan croaks something out, but he doesn't catch it; there are too many explosions, too much noise. He leans forward, sick to the stomach as he struggles to hear his last words. It's the least he can do – after all, Amestris pulled the trigger first in this war. As he crouches over the dying man, something screamspast his head, missing his ear by a hairs' breadth. It slams into the ground beside the two enemies, and it takes him only a skipped heartbeat to recognize the thing as it ticks away his last few seconds.

He starts as a surprisingly warm hand touches his arm, mercifully jolting him away from the recollection of his nightmarish reality. The voice that speaks to him is quiet and scratchy, almost like he too had been screaming for hours on end. He had, though in agony more than anger.

"It's not your fault, you know."

He snorts bitterly at that, his gaze fixed on the morbid scenery.

"If I hadn't-"

"It doesn't matter what you should or shouldn't have done. You can't change the past." He glances uneasily back at the last member of their small unit, who is staring unblinkingly, coldly ahead at the burnt and blackened timbers of their shoddy shelter. He hesitated before standing back up to walk back towards their third friend. "You have to learn to live with it and move on." He said over his shoulder.

The heat from the fires seems to drain away from him and his blood runs cold as he stares at the instrument of his death for what seems an eternity. His entire life does not flash before his eyes; it's more an assortment of faces that he sees, people he's killed, people who've tried to kill him, and friends and comrades who have died on the field before him. There's so much he could have done differently, so many of them he could have saved. He finds it ironic that the man who devoted his entire life to helping other people will die regretting that he didn't actually do any good for the world.

The ticking stops, and he swears he sees the bomb explode in slow motion, the shell disintegrating and blowing outwards as a tiny spark from inside ignites the violent explosion. He swallows thickly, and there's an electric feel in the air around him as the enormous fireball explodes towards him. He regrets that the flames will destroy his dog tags; he'd rather that they knew he was dead than being haunted by the possibility of his survival for the rest of their lives.

He closes his eyes as he feels the oxygen sucked out of the air by the hungry fire and a black shape appears before him. Is it death himself that approaches? The explosion blasts him across the sky, and there's a strange kind of peace that settles over him as his now weightless body flies through the air. He feels his glasses slip off his face,and his eyes snap reflexively open for a moment,something that he instantly regrets as the world spins wildly around him, dizzying him even further. Something dark and indistinct slams into him, abruptly halting his flight andslamming himface first into the ground before slumpingto the floor beside him. He groans, attempting to move, but he blacks out from shock and pain. The battle rages on, over and around the unconcious man lying still amongst the dead; unknowing, uncaring and hostile.

He comes to gradually, cracking open an eyelid, wondering if he already died but somehow didn't feel it. For an instant he cannot move, he cannot feel, he cannot think. It's like a mist is clouding over his mind, generating a wave of uncertainty, interrupting his most important senses. The mist slowly begins to fade and he finally is able to feel the pain. He can't hear anything except the ringing in his ears as he struggles to sit, the blurry world around him a mystery without his glasses. He blinks, forcing the debris out of his eyes, stinging painfully. He looks onward to where a black, charred shape rests on the ground before him. He's pretty sure he's not dead now; the heat and the smoky stench of burning bodies are far too real and alive for him to be anything but. Keeping this in mind he gathers up all of the will that he can muster and forces his body to move towards the shape.

A numb horror washes over him as he realizes that the dark shape is actually a body in a blue uniform. It's face down on the ground, and a sense of grim relief that knocks him sick passes over him as he doesn't instantly recognize who it is. There's a blurred white scrap on the ground beside him as he kneels; reaching for it, the sick feeling in his stomach returns as he identifies the item by touch. He reels back when he turns it over, a fragment of a red circle becoming visible.

Hands shaking, he rolls the body over. Black hair falls messily down across the muddied, blood spattered face, hiding his eyes, but there's no mistaking who it is.

"Roy!" He shouts the name, not caring who hears him.

There are shards of metal embedded all over him, and as he stares at the blood seeping slowly from several of his wounds, a tiny glimmer of hope sparks inside of him; quickly, he feels for a pulse, praying to whatever gods are out there, swearing he'd believe if only...

An eternity passes, and his last hope withers along with the man who saved his life, the man who'd saved the life of so many others, succeeding where everybody else had failed…the man who was a fine commander, brilliant strategist, brave comrade and a best friend.

He can't just leave him here. Not in the middle of a battlefield, not right after he saved his life. With arms screaming from exertion he tries the best he can to move him. Exhausted, he groans as he heaves, and finally manages to lift the man up and off the ground. He's only starting to stand up when he suddenly feels a jolt of pain - it freezes his mind and he stumbles forward. Catching himself in time before he falls, he pants and with shaking limbs looks past the limp form in his arms and down at his right leg. He feels himself sway as he sees the metal that has somehow managed to lodge itself in his calf, and he has to resist his feet from giving out from underneath him. Panting he tries to regain his composure, remembering just how close to death his friend is. He grits his teeth and takes one step forward, then another, then another. The world explodes around him, and he stumbles across the destroyed terrain, tripping over broken roads and unmoving corpses. But he does not stop, he does not feel the pain that is slowly draining his body of its life energy. Soon everything seemed to fade away, the dull vibrations of explosions, the warm feeling of blood trickling down his skin, the smell of burning flesh…everything but the sound of the man he's carrying, a man who iss barely breathing and half dead.

He has to keep moving, he cannot stop.

He will not let him die.

He crosses into a deserted street as tears that he can no longer hold back begin to sting his eyes.

"Stupid idiot…" He mumbles, not entirely sure who he was speaking to. "Why? Why did you do that? More people would benefit from your life than your death…" He speaks bitterly; if he'd known the price of his own life, he'd gladly have given it in exchange for that of the man who he was holding, himself barelyclinging to conciousness. "How the hell are you supposed to change the world like this?"

A cynical laugh comes from somewhere and he looks around, wondering if he's lost his mind. It wouldn't surprise him; plenty of the others have. The disturbing cackle sounds again, and he searches with confused eyes for another person, a sign of life in this dead world. It strikes him suddenly that his ears are still ringing from the explosion - he shouldn't be able to hear a thing.

He looks around again and catches sight of a blurry figure over his shoulder, and he spins around, squinting furiously to determine their identity. There's a brown jacket slung haphazardly across his shoulder, but the uniform is the unmistakeable Amestris blue. From the way the person walks... No, the way they positively swagger across the broken street he takes it to be a man, although he can't be sure. He blinks as they come into focus, the face oddly familiar though he has no idea why. His stomach twists unpleasantly as he stares, certain that there is something strange going on that he can't quite grasp.