The room is small and devoid of anything that might distract her. Just a concrete slab for a floor and chipped whitewash for the walls. The table is plain, the wood scratched and dented. The chair she's seated in has one leg shorter than the others, and it is ruining her usual rigid posture. This is to unnerve her, she suspects. She's to be kept on edge in hopes of getting more truthful and honest answers.
The door opens and a short man with a paunch and combover enters. His uniform is crisp and neat. He hasn't left Central in years, she realizes. This man wasn't there. She sits as calmly as she can as the man eases into the uncomfortable plastic chair across the table from her, setting down his notepad and a few file folders. He pulls a small recording device from his pocket and sets it down casually. The man hasn't even met her eyes once yet as he gets himself organized.
Hawkeye can only bite her tongue and wait for it to begin. "Major Denning," he says curtly, the only introduction she will receive. The entire squad would be enduring this for the next few days, she assumes. Mandatory psych evals. To ensure that their sanity had not been left behind in the sands of Ishbal. And to ensure their continued loyalty to the state.
She licks her dry lips. No water, nothing. Routine evals at the academy had allowed them a cup of water to help them calm down and gather their thoughts. The tape recorder button is pressed down with a sigh, as if Major Denning's entire day is being ruined by having to be here. He rifles through his papers, uncaps his pen and starts scribbling on his notepad. "Cadet Riza Hawkeye."
"Sir."
"I understand you may be promoted in the next few weeks."
She considers this, keeping her hands firmly clasped in her lap. She's not even an academy graduate yet. "That decision lies with my superiors."
He writes, and he still hasn't looked at her. She focuses on a water spot on the ceiling. If she's not thinking of something else, she'll remember the long ride back. They'd all arrived back at Central Headquarters that morning after dozens of cramped hours aboard the back of the truck. The desert behind them, the tan dunes splattered with red. It was like entering another world entirely when the deserts had turned to the green fields and agriculture of the Amestrian countryside, then the sprawl and coal smoke of Central. She'd have to double back to reach the academy in the east, but for now, they're keeping their entire squad in one place.
"Only female in your unit, sniper duty."
"Yes, sir."
"And how did that make you feel?"
She moves her gaze from the water spot to the tape recorder, the cassette inside whirring, committing everything she says and everything she doesn't say in prolonged silences to history. To lie in a box of similar tapes, housed with dozens of similar boxes in the military archives. Hidden away from the public. "Could you clarify the question, sir?"
He raises his head, but he stares somewhere past her shoulder. "What part of the question needs clarity, Cadet?"
She's only been back from the front for hours. Things were a bit more lax there. A whip-quick tongue was acceptable amongst comrades struggling to survive each day, but not back here. She should know better. Maybe she's just tired. She's barely slept in days.
"You asked how that made me feel. What specific feelings do you want me to discuss? Being the only female or being on sniper duty?" This is borderline insubordinate, but she knows men like Denning and how they look upon young women in the military.
He nods. "Sniper duty."
Riza exhales slowly. "It was my assignment, sir. Protect the men on the ground with cover fire in major engagements. Take out enemy combatants as assigned."
"And how did that make you feel?"
She isn't sure where this one is going. But even with her lack of sleep and the shaky chair, she knows the answer that will keep her in the military and the one that will spirit her away, just another casualty of Ishbal. "It was my duty to protect them. It is a source of...great pride." Pride? In seeing a skull explode at fifty yards? Taking away a father, a son, a brother without blinking?
More scribbles on the notepad. "Anyone to protect in particular?" he inquires casually, thumbing through the folder.
She can almost hear the white-gloved fingers snap, can almost feel the heat of the flames rising up to her sniper's nest.
"No. Every man in the unit...I was responsible for protecting them all."
"Mmm." He thinks he knows her life story just from reading her personnel file. "And the Flame Alchemist? The soon to be Lieutenant Colonel Mustang?"
"Is my superior officer," she replies, almost too quickly. But the tape turns in the device, recording her words and just how soon she uttered them at Denning's insinuation. Riza licks her lips. It's not as if these accusations haven't dogged her entire career, haven't followed her through the academy and even onto the train to Ishbal in the first place.
"He is a trusted friend, and we've been acquainted many years." Not that she'd seen him again until she'd gotten to the front. She tries to get Denning to look at her. There's nothing to hide – nothing he can accuse her of. She's trained herself not to be so transparent. "I know that's in my file."
"And how would you assess Major Mustang's prowess in the field? You had a unique vantage point."
The question startles her. This is not really an assessment of her, is it? It's an assessment of Roy. How many rooms in this building now housed the remnants of her unit, the men she was able to guard from her nest? How many were being blindsided like this, asked to judge Roy's character during what should have been a routine psych eval? To determine if he was worthy of promotion? He'd been in a separate truck on the way back, and she hadn't been able to speak with him since the child on the roadside. Since she'd asked him to destroy the array on her back. She had not seen him look so lost since the day her father died, leaving him to decipher the secrets of flame alchemy etched into her skin in the first place.
There'd been so much death in Ishbal. Plenty by her hand, but she'd seen every kill. Every round in the rifle chamber found a target, and she counted each one. Remembered each one, even at a distance. Roy's alchemy did not grant him that knowledge. How many buildings had he destroyed? How many lives within, buried under rubble? How many children? All that death with a snap of his fingers, and he'd never know. Numbers had been meaningless on the very front lines. And with the way she and the others had been whisked from the the trucks and into these stark rooms in the basement of headquarters, she knew there would never be an official count for Ishbal that would match what she had seen.
"Major Mustang is a consummate professional." She remembers his eyes, and the haunted look in them. "He is a loyal officer, respected by his men."
She remembers the way Roy had looked when she'd asked him to destroy the knowledge her father had given him. He'd argued with her, taking the gloves from his hands at the thought of fulfilling her request. But he hadn't given a definitive answer. He rode with the higher-ups, and Hughes had grabbed him by the arm to get him into the truck and away from her begging. Stumbling, exhausted soldiers had pushed her along before she could go to him, ask if he would burn and crush this knowledge or not.
"His conduct in Ishbal was admirable. He ensured the safety of the entire unit."
Denning's committing all this and more to the notepad. The next several minutes pass in silence save for the Major's pen scratching. As soon as this interrogation is over, they'll ship her back east with the other cadets. Mustang will be restationed, and she'll never get an opportunity to ask him again and-
"Hello!"
She can't help jolting in her chair as the door opens, and Maes Hughes stands in the doorway. Denning looks furious, and he pauses the recorder. "This is a closed session."
Hughes just smiles. "Just got word from upstairs. Cadet Hawkeye's needed elsewhere. I'm sure you've had enough time to get all you need."
Denning angrily packs up his materials and leaves. Hughes grins at the man's departure. "Come on, let's get you some rack time." She blinks once. Rack time? Hawkeye stands, giving her superior a salute. He waves her off. "Oh, don't do that."
He walks side by side with her through the halls, the overhead lights flickering in the bowels of the building. She expects him to lead her to some temporary barracks, wherever they're housing them until they can be shipped back to the academy. He doesn't. Instead, they're at some rear exit. Hughes produces a slip of paper and wiggles it in her face. "See you around, Hawkeye."
With that, Hughes closes the door and leaves her outside. She opens the note. It's from Roy, asking her to meet him at some address. Riza has nothing to her name, nothing more than her uniform. Everything else is back at the academy in her barracks. She has a guard at the front gate point her in the right direction and walks for what seems like an eternity.
It's some dingy hotel, far enough from Central Headquarters. It is a logical enough place for this business. She knows what it will look like when she enters, a lone woman asking for Major Mustang's room. Better the lie than the truth in this situation.
What will she do if he's called her all the way here to refuse her? There's no one else she can trust. But what if he's agreed? What fate will she have then? How will he do it? She imagines her uniform rubbing against pink, destroyed skin. She'll have to return to the academy as if nothing amiss has occurred. Hawkeye closes her eyes and pushes through the hotel door to the check-in counter. There was pain in the tattoo's creation, and she will endure the same agony and possibly worse in exchange for the surety of its destruction.
She knocks on the door, and he answers. He looks disheveled, exhausted. She's pretty sure the officers made it back to Central at least a day ahead of her own convoy. The officers and especially the state alchemists didn't have to switch shifts to get out and walk part of the way back. He's probably been in hushed meetings and closed sessions, debriefing and being debriefed in turn. But she has her answer as soon as she sees him lean a hand against the doorframe, seeing the crisp white glove with the dark red symbol. He will do this for her. He will do this to her.
"They ask you about me?" She nods. He knows he's getting that promotion. And he knows just what he did to earn it. "They talked to Hughes for four hours. I had him get you out of there."
"And he did." She inclines her head slightly. "Thank you."
Roy steps aside, and she shrugs off her jacket. "Come in."
There's no going back now. Somewhere at Headquarters, Major Denning is writing up a report, adding one more soldier's testimony that Roy Mustang is loyal, brave and willing to toe the line for the sake of Amestris. Roy Mustang is worthy of promotion. And as a shaking, gloved hand traces the shapes on her skin, looking for the best place to conceal her father's legacy, she can only have faith that one day his dream will be reality.