His stomach dropped out when the order came down. Executive Order 3066. Miles felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold of Briggs.

"By order of the Fuhrer, any soldier of Ishvalan heritage within the Amestrian Military shall be stripped of rank and benefits and held to await trial on charge of treason against the state."

There were other words. Miles didn't read them. He couldn't get past the first sentence. He sat frozen on the edge of his bunk, the paper crumpling in his hand. He thought ' this isn't fair. ' He thought ' I'm not a traitor. ' He thought ' fuck you, I'm Amestrian. ' He thought (although he'd never admit it), ' I'm scared. '

He knew there'd been fighting between Amestris and Ishval for years, but he'd been shielded from all but scattershot news of the conflict, up here in the North. His grandfather's Ishvalan, speaks the language, says the prayers, but Miles? Miles went through most of school without making eye contact with anyone because the other kids looked at him and saw a freak.

His grandfather smacked the back of his head and called him jaban, told him to hold his head high and give thanks to Ishvala for his life, not to waste it worrying about what these godless Amestrians thought. Miles glared and stomped off to do his homework, and he never believed in Ishvala and he was at least as much Amestrian as he was Ishvalan. More so.

Part of him remembers his father arguing with his grandfather: "Ishvalan is Amestrian. We shouldn't have to choose." It was technically true, but practically false.

By the time Miles enlisted, the war in Ishval was in full swing, and his roommate said "you have to pick a side" and Miles said "I'm Amestrian. Look. I'm wearing the same uniform you are." He was good at his job, he followed orders, gathered intelligence, learned battlefield medicine, fired a gun. He rose through the ranks while his people were dying (Which people, though?)

Miles didn't want to lose everything, condemned for a crime he didn't commit. Miles had never fully appreciated his Ishvalan blood, but now it felt like it was burning through his veins, and he clung to it, desperately. He wore the Amestrian uniform, but his hair was too light, white rather than blond, and his skin was subtly dark (especially noticeable up here in the North, even if it wouldn't have been out of place in the Eastern District). And his eyes burned red.

And his heart hammered in his chest, and he thought: ' Fuck. I'm Ishvalan. ' Because even though he was more than that, he knew it was all anyone else would see.

"stripped of rank and benefits and held to await trial "

"I'm Ishvalan." He said the words aloud, testing them on his tongue. He closed his eyes and listened to his grandfather's prayers.

He knew he couldn't pass for being anything else, but he also knew, in that moment, that he wouldn't want to.

"on charge of treason against the state "

"you have to pick a side"

"I'm not a traitor," Miles whispered, to no one. But the Amestrian Military he swore his allegiance to has just declared that they have no allegiance to him, not anymore.

And his eyes roamed over the crumpled paper and caught the word "Alchemist" and he shivered again. He hasn't seen a ton of alchemy at work, but he's seen enough to understand what it will mean in Ishval. And he's scared. He's scared .

He doesn't want to make this choice. ("We shouldn't have to choose.")

He's an Amestrian. He fucking follows orders. "Any soldier of Ishvalan heritage..."

"Where are you going?" Major General Armstrong asks, when he's about to turn himself in to the MPs.

Miles frowns. He just holds out the order. Executive Order 3066.

Major General Armstrong shakes her head and says "you're under my command, soldier."

"But… I'm Ishvalan?"

"And that's why I need you here."

Miles lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He doesn't have to choose.