Of all of Mustang's team to inherit, they'd gotten the most useless. No combat experience, no technical skills, no medical skills, not a mechanic, not an alchemist, not an engineer. The Fuhrer had sent them a bloody, good-for-nothing-else-but paper-pusher. Well, he'd make himself useful, just like everyone else here. Knocking down icicles.
"If he's one of Mustang's, there's more to him than that file shows," Major General Armstrong told him. "Keep an eye on him, Buccaneer."
Falman was at the indoor range practicing for the fifth day in a row and he wasn't even rated for combat.
"Falman," Buccaneer called, when he was finished.
He went over to the huge man with the automail right arm. "Yes sir?"
"Non-combat ratings are only authorized two days a week here and you're already at five."
"I'm sorry, sir. How can I get authorization for daily practice?" He imagined some set of forms to fill out.
"You need my permission and 10,000 centz for each extra session to cover the ammo."
"Very well sir," Falman responded. "May I have your permission then?"
Buccaneer was surprised. If Falman really did plan to practice daily, fifty thousand centz would be a nice chunk out of his Second Lieutenant's salary. "You got it. Tell the purser to deduct the money from your pay," he said.
The next time Buccaneer saw Falman, he was running with the new recruits. He wasn't surprised that he'd put a foot wrong and been put under discipline. He had to admit, though, that despite being in his forties, the Second Lieutenant was keeping up well, staying in the middle of the pack instead of with the stragglers.
"Falman!" Buccaneer called, as he approached his position.
Falman peeled off. "Yes sir?"
"What was your infraction?"
"No infraction, sir."
Buccaneer scowled. He was sure Falman was splitting hairs and he was tempted to double whatever his punishment was just for being a smart ass.
"I am not aware of being in violation of any rules," Falman added, seeing the scowl. "The doctor told me it is not permitted to run alone outside, so I'm running with the recruits. Is that contrary to the regs here, sir?"
"No, Falman, it isn't," Buccaneer answered and he began to feel a glimmer of respect for the man. "Carry on."
Falman rejoined the pack with the stragglers.
Buccaneer wasn't surprised the next time he saw Falman. Most of the combat ratings sparred once a week. Falman was in a group that was taking turns in hand-to-hand combat. He had chosen, or been selected into, a group that matched his skill level well. His sparring, like his shooting and running, was exactly average for a combat soldier at Briggs.
Buccaneer approached Falman's group. "Who wants to spar with me?" he asked.
Sometimes, men from the most advanced group would actually volunteer, despite the surety of painful defeat, to improve their fighting skills or for bragging rights. But no one in this middling group did. Buccaneer had wondered if Falman would and approved when he didn't, although he was also faintly disappointed. He'd been starting to peg Falman as a wannabe hero.
"Falman," Buccaneer ordered. "You!"
Falman stepped forward, sweating. "Er, yes sir."
Buccaneer circled the man and Falman turned with him, keeping him in sight. The captain rushed in and knocked Falman off his feet. The other man rolled and came up to a crouch immediately. He was too slow to counter Buccaneer's next move as well, which flattened him again, but once more he managed to roll and return to a crouch.
The last blow, however, Falman didn't even see. When he regained consciousness, Buccaneer said, "Get yourself checked out by the doctor." Anything that resulted in broken bones, excessive bleeding or loss of consciousness required a pass from the doctor before returning to duty.
Vato waited for the doctor to have time for him. He was bruised, but otherwise none the worse for wear.
"Next," the doctor said, and Vato went into the examination room.
She remembered him from her standard briefing to new transfers about the cold, but was mildly impressed that she had not seen him since. Most newbies ended up in her exam room for cold-related injuries within the first month. Falman hadn't. And it wasn't because he'd avoided the cold - he'd just understood and taken the necessary precautions.
"What are you here for?" the doctor asked, seeing nothing obvious.
"I lost consiousness during a sparring match with Captain Buccaneer."
"You didn't stay down the first time he decked you," she said. It was a statement, not a question. She shone a light in first one eye, then the next.
"No, ma'am," Falman answered. He saw no sign of rank, so he assumed she was a civilian. "Is that the recommended course of action?"
"It is for Buccaneer. He doesn't stop until you're down and you stay down. Some guys like to see how long they can stay standing. I didn't figure you for that type."
"Surely, in a combat situation you don't want your soldiers to play dead," Vato objected.
"Don't ask me. I don't pretend to understand it. I'm a doctor, not a combat soldier."
She finished the examination. "Check back with me in a week. I want to make sure there are no long term effects." She entered a note in his file.
Falman was at the door when she called him back. "Falman?"
"Yes doctor?"
"You're not a combat soldier either. What were you doing sparring with Buccaneer?"
"I was in one of the sparring groups and he singled me out."
"But why were you in one of the sparring groups in the first place?"
"I want to maintain my fitness for combat."
"How many times did he hit you before he knocked you out?"
"Three times. He knocked me out on the third."
"Respectable," she said, smiling. "Next week. Check back."
The next time Buccaneer saw Falman, he shot down an icicle to stun a monster so they could push him outside. He wasn't surprised. The man had been expecting to be thrown into combat since he got there.
