Notes: FMA is obviously not mine. Is it still shellshock in a silent war?
Snow pelts her hair, ice water raking down her spine. Gun oil burns her nose, powder and recoil searing her uniform. Her own blood is thick and hot on her tongue.
Olivia blinks. The walls go grey, shutting her in, the ground bare and dry under her boots, the room stifling and close.
They crank the heat in Central. Pussies.
The snow is still there, outside, waiting. Her brother won't look at her, won't do her even that courtesy, but he knows. Of course he does.
It runs in families, that's what they say, that's what they murmur at her back, smiling, always smiling, to her face.
Alex hasn't smiled at her in years.
If only she had gone instead.