It was the time of harvest, and yet there was not a single person to be seen on the cotton fields.

,,They could have waited with the elections," he said, absentmindedly putting sugar into his coffee. The only answer to his comment was screeching of pens, rustling of heavy papers and feeling that Lieutenant Hawkeye will in the very near future throw all of them on his head for not doing his paperwork.

,,Well," he continued, disappointed from the lack of proper response, „at least we can finally finish all the preparations for the Xing railway."

,,As far as I can see, the only one doing some work here is me, Colonel," replied Riza, but it lacked the usual sharpness. He was sure as hell it had nothing to do with the harvest, nor with the mourn-band on her arm. After all, Grumann was nothing more for her then Fuhrer and was mourned by her as such.

,,The elections are just a masquerade anyways," he took a wild guess about what was bothering his favourite subordinate. ,,Everything will go..."

,,That's exactly it," Riza did not even look up from the papers. Once again, he was deeply fascinated by her concentration. His mind seemed to wander off every time paperwork was even mentioned, which is the reason why he is just drinking fourth cofee even if it is barely noon. It certainly does not help that there is wonderful autumn raging outside, complete with golden leaves, soft breeze and tiny spiderwebs floating in the wind. What did help even less was the fact that there was no one left in the whole building of Commisariat for the Restoration and the Development of Ishval. Not one person but him and Lieutenant.

The elections do not matter after all. The winner has been decided and Roy Mustang is the winner.

He left the mug on the table and looked at her. The wrinkle between her eyes was unusually deep, but maybe it was just a sharp ray of September sun irritating her eyes. Curtains did not belong to Ishvalian customs and they tried to accustom everything here back to their culture. He was sure there was nothing alarming in the documents from Capital – he had read them in the morning before Lieutenant came to the Office, not bothering signing them. The cotton will be picked tomorrow, the preparation works for laying rails are planned to start in April and by then, he will be Fuhrer and she will be the first lady of Amestris. Perhaps she had read the old news – news coming to this province are still two weeks late – about the riots before the Parliament building? He made a few calls to assure himself that they had been just unorganized group with no real influence whatsoever. Things like this have been happening every two or three months, political groups or religious groups or self-proclaimed working unions. Now back to the first lady part.

His attempts to hug Riza would be probably much more successful if she had not been having her back always turned to wall, he remembered bitterly as he was trying to find some gap for him to break her defense. He was pretty sure she would smack him afterwards though; she did not approve of any of displays of his affection at work. Or outside the work. Or actually anywhere at all, not until he will become a proper leader of Amestris. Which will be tomorrow, no worry, but they are alone in his office right now.

,,Sign this, Colonel," she handed him a thick pile of very repulsively looking documents. From the dangerous glitter in her eyes he deduced that she had seen through his intentions. The location of his head about three centimeters from her right shoulder might have helped her with reaching this conclusion.

He has seen angry Riza Hawkeye too many times in his life to know that the best thing to do next is to sigh and look for the nearest pen. And yet, browsing through the boring, so insanely boring contracts about the renting of the cotton and wheat fields and directives from Central -which could never be implemented because Central officers were incompetent diletants- he caught himself looking at her face. It did not seem to bear any signs of previous annoyance. Her expression was serious, but it has always been that way, when work matters were involved. He knew, of course he knew it was because of him. Just wait, he smiled and continued to scribble his name.

,,Sir, this…," she turned to him suddenly. There was a wrinkle on her forehead, the wrinkle that always promised unpleasant, unavoidable news. The kind that Roy hated the most – like the death of his best friend. No, he had only one, it cannot be…

There was a loud sound of the doorbell on the front door.

,,The elections probably ended earlier," he interrupted her, thankful for the disturbance that allowed to delay the moment of information.

There is something wrong, came to Roy's mind, as he was descending the stairs. The elections are public, have always been that way, every citizen of Amestris (because that is what Ishvalans are now, finally, after all those years – whether they want to be or not) proclaims that he or she agrees with Roy Mustang as new leader of their state, and they end with a pledge to the descended Fuhrer, the military and the republic. They were supposed to return together, every inhabitant of this town, and then get back to their work on fields, in clay pits or in the office here. Yet there is no one out there but some mysterious visitor.

In the Commisariat for the Restoration and the Development of Ishval, they are not used to greet unannounced visitors.

,,Good afternoon."

The man had grouchy voice, sweaty forehead and shiny black coat over military uniform, even though Ishval autumns could not be considered cold even by Drachmans.

,,I am looking for Colonel Mustang," claimed the man. Since his picture has been included in nationwide newspapers like every other week since he was twenty, Roy did not deem his proclamation exceptionally wise. Maybe the moustache was not that great idea after all.

,,That would be me, sir," he answered impatiently. If military officer decided to bless forgotten Ishval province with his presence, it certainly did not signify anything pleasant. That would be the second unpleasant thing today, pondered Roy and tried to enchant the stranger with his best Fuhrer smile. Maybe we did not fulfill the quotas for the export of wheat? Were there some complains? Was Olivier Armstrong actually chosen as future Fuhrer instead of him, as in his dream from two weeks ago?

,,Sir Mustang," the man said, carefully giving emphasize on the word sir, so that it would not accidentally escape Roy's attention.

,,Sir Mustang, I am entitled to inform you that the Highest Court of the Republic of Amestris decided to raise an indictment against your person for the reason of war crimes and crimes against humanity, as had been executed during the War of Ishval. Until the trial according to the Penal Law of Amestris, you are to be held prisoner in the facility of Central Prison."

The man looked on Roy, as if he was some especially disgusting kind of an ant, his eyes stalling on the gun on his belt.

,,If I may add, every attempt or intention to attempt escape will result in you and your complices being treated as a criminal highly dangerous for his surroundings. And treated as such," he added and made a barely noticeable gesture pointing to his pistol, as well as even more subtle head tilt towards the stairs.

I guess I will not get to finish that coffee today, told Roy to himself as he was handing his gun to the officer. And I still did not sign all the documents.

Riza will be mad when I will return.