A/N: I own nothing. I have seen some excellent fan works from the Risembool Rangers, but I've got to hand it to the MiniSkirt Army for their uniforms. Still, how is General Armstrong recruiting?

"So what do you think?" The general touched the pommel of her sword, watching the younger woman for any slip of emotion. Riza Hawkeye was good at controlling herself, but Armstrong was better. It wasn't that Olivia Armstrong could not appreciate Hawkeye's sense of loyalty, but the Northern Cliff of Briggs had always thought that loyalty was misplaced.

Hawkeye stroked her chin, her other hand resting lightly upon the pistol at her side. "Hmm… There are possibilities with the improved workout program, and the tailoring wouldn't be that big of a change," she allowed, meeting the major general's ice-blue eyes.

"I could hardly hold all of them to my brother's standard, you understand, and the north is too cold for me to consider anything too impractical where clothing is concerned." Armstrong crossed her legs behind her desk.

"But Miles and Buccaneer are your standards," Hawkeye said, glancing towards the door. There was an evil red gleam in the lieutenant's deep brown eyes, although the younger woman held her lips still. Armstrong nodded, her expression set firmly as frozen stone. "I can't say I disapprove of your policies, ma'am. However… there is the matter of Colonel Mustang."

"Perhaps the southern uniform might offer a few variations…" Armstrong allowed.

Hawkeye shook her head, although a hint of a smile remained in her eyes. "He doesn't wish to become Fuhrer purely out of selfish ambition, but without someone powerful to look out for him… well, one country's hero is another land's murderer." The lieutenant dropped eye contact. Armstrong knew the statement probably referred as much to the two of them as it did to the Flame Alchemist. Only Alex had resisted when they were called to serve.

"I never understood quite why he took to Falman," Olivia Armstrong said casually, tugging at the pommel of the sword at her side. "The man is utterly useless to me, because he doesn't trust me. You and Second Lieutenant Havoc may not follow me, but you at least were willing to listen. Why you continue to turn away I don't quite understand, either, but I can at least respect the loyalty the man engenders. It would take some extraordinary circumstances to make me consider promoting Colonel Mustang to my command team, but I think he may have one of my top officers protecting his back."

Hawkeye's spine sunk a few inches. "I'm honored, ma'am, but I'm not sure I could deal with the colonel. He wouldn't be."

The general forced her hand away from the pommel. She was so close. There was one last option left, though. "Perhaps a diplomatic position would suit him?"

That earned her a genuine laugh. "Roy Mustang? Diplomatic?"

"He seems to get on well enough with this would-be Golden Emperor of Xing." And Ishval was nicely situated between the empire and Central, assuring that visits would be rare. If only Hawkeye wouldn't follow the arrogant git everywhere as if she were his dog…

"As long as Ling can keep the upper hand on the homunculus, they do. Homunculi… rather bother us." Hawkeye glanced toward the corners of the room, as if expecting that Armstrong would let something live in the shadows of her office.

"I'll be sure to equip you with a few tanks. Those usually do the trick when it comes to containing them." The general waved away her concerns, reaching for the wine bottle under her desk. Perhaps it was not too early to count this little victory. Confidence was half the battle, after all. "But as the alchemical advisor to the Amestrian emissary, he could be kept busy with foreign intrigue, Rentan-jitsu, and lots and lots of paperwork." Major General Armstrong could practically hear the man's groan of annoyance already.

"That could work," Hawkeye said, allowing a smile to overtake her lips.

"Shall we drink to the future of Amestris, then?" Armstrong asked, passing her co-conspirator a glass.

"To Fuhrer Armstrong," Riza Hawkeye toasted.

Olivia Armstrong raised her own glass to the heavens. "To men in tight pants."