Rated M for explicit sex scenes in future chapters and strong language.

I don't own FMA, but Hiromu Arakawa does.

Review if desired. Please be constructive in your criticism. (All pop culture references are purely for humour.)

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The men were awkwardly trying not to stare.

Sh…h…IT couldn't have been more than five foot four at the most, swathed in a great green sweatshirt, which conveniently concealed any potential curves or lack thereof he/she/it may have had. It wore a pair of blue jeans, white with age and ripped at the knees, and a massive pair of buffed black Doc Martens. A baseball cap was pulled low over its face, dark blue with the text "STUPID FOREIGNER" arched over the brim. Shocks of dark brown hair poked out from underneath it.

Colonel Mustang cleared his throat. "Men, this is Hima L'eaublanc."

"Just Hima will do, thanks," muttered Hima.

They breathed a sigh of relief. That voice was clearly female.

"Hima-chan, then," said Mustang.

"Please, don't call me -chan, Mr. Mustang. I don't believe I know you well enough, to be frank."

Roy Mustang's brow furrowed slightly. He didn't usually induce this kind of reaction in women, with his exotic Asian looks. "Very well, then. Miss L'eaublanc will be on the premises for the next year or so, running a series of weekly articles on our base and its goings-on. Hopefully, this will drum up some more potential recruits!"

Hima looked monstrously bored with all of this, her eyes flicking from face to face of the soldiers lined up in front of her, her chin cupped in her hand.

"So! I expect impeccable conduct from you all! Do not do anything you wouldn't want your mother to hear about, in other words."

"Don't listen to a word he says," drawled Hima, tapping her pen against her open notepad. "The public eats drama up. That's why shit like CSI: Miami and EastEnders are still on the air, despite being trite and boring intellectual drain holes."

Mustang frowned. "You can't honestly say that about CSI! It's the best show on since they cancelled Arrested Development!"

"Look, David Caruso is, straight-up, the worst actor on the planet, and any half-witted moron can imitate his acting mannerisms to a T." She scribbled something down rapidly.

One of the soldiers cut in. "Worse than Charlton Heston or William Shatner?"

"Shatner knows he's a joke, but good call on Heston, I'll give you that. What's your name?"

Clearing six feet with ease, a shock of ruffled blonde hair falling into his eyes, the soldier saluted. "Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, ma'am."

She smiled dryly as she wrote a few more notes. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Havoc."

Mustang interjected, feeling his grip on his troops beginning to slip. "Who will incidentally be your roommate for the next year, Miss L'eaublanc."

Havoc's eyes widened slightly. "What?! Sir, I wasn't told about this!"

One of the other soldiers cut in. "Yeah, but think about it - you're the only guy on the patch without a roomie." This one, a heavy-set redheaded man with the beginnings of a beard (and a beer belly), scratched his chin for a moment before speaking again. "Or a girlfriend."

Mustang snorted. Snickers followed, and Havoc's face fell. His gaze dropped down to his feet, his face reddening.

"Wait, hold on a minute here." Hima pointed her pen at Havoc. "YOU'RE single."

He nodded, without looking up.

She pointed at the redhead. "And YOU'RE taken. Also, name?"

The redhead frowned, crossing his arms. "Heymans Breda, and what is THAT supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing, just curious."

Mustang massaged his temples. "Basically, just answer any questions Miss L'eaublanc has for you and stay out of trouble. Dismissed."

Hima watched as the troops dispersed, chewing on the end of her pen, mulling over in her mind who to interview first. There was the scrawny, nerdy-looking one with the huge coke bottle glasses; a sallow, gaunt, grey-haired man with a terribly serious expression; Heymans Breda, the tubby redhead; a tallish ice-blonde woman with a severe look to her, and the Colonel himself. Hima pinned him as being a smug bastard who thought of himself as God's gift to women. Something about his self-confident smirk was irking her.

"If they won't GIVE me drama, I'll make my own," she muttered under her breath, shoving her pen behind her ear and pocketing her notebook.

She scraped her chair back, her face deadpan, strode over and tapped Mustang on the shoulder. He turned, one of his eyebrows raised.

"I bet you a hundred and fifty bucks that I can get Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc laid in the next week."

You could hear a pin drop. The scrawny geek's mouth was open in shock.

Mustang's expression was hard to read. He pondered the question for a solid minute, while in the corner, the Second Lieutenant's face grew steadily redder, his face a mask of horror.

The Colonel smirked.

"You're going to need more than a week, missy."

"Two weeks, then." She crossed her arms.

"No, no, longer than that." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Tell you what. I'll give you the entire year, and let's up it to seven hundred and fifty."

"Sold. If I can do it in less than a month, I'm inviting the whole platoon out for drinks, and you're paying."

Mustang held out his hand. "Deal."

She shook it, still totally deadpan. This was perfect.