A/N: Hello! Hope you enjoy chapter 2! :)

chapter 2: a place that's out of this world

London, October 3, 1942

His eyes. There is something giddy about the glint in his green irises - pure excitement behind the rectangular glasses nestling atop the bridge of his nose. For someone who works among operatives, the man seems to carry not an ounce of prudence. He introduces himself as Maes Hughes, and whether or not that is his real name, Roy could care less. Maes oozes intelligence from the questions he poses. But he also parades recklessness from the buoyant expression he wears, portraying the kind of man who gets killed first in their line of work. Maes, however, is a trusted associate in this part of town - the man's reliability vouched by Roy's own briefing officer via the official summon he received.

As Roy studies him, he can see the man's elaborate plan to appear the part of an unassuming taxi driver. His flat cap covers a wild case of spiky black hair, and he wears a modest woolen coat that matches the earthy brown autumn weather with a worn out knapsack slung across his torso. His current assignment is to take Roy from point A to point B, so Maes represses his officer persona and sports a believable Cockney dialect the moment they exit the fenced gate and into the streets of London. Nevertheless, Maes maintains an assertive gait and employs a grin a little too wide to blend in with the few dreary cabmen hanging about.

While lugging Roy's leather suitcase into the back of the cab, Maes' sophisticated accent resurfaces, "There aren't too many young taxi drivers anymore. Most of them have been sent to serve in the war. As you can see, these men are older and don't know the London topography all too well. So instead of having you meet us at the agreed upon location, I received approval to take you directly to your hotel."

"There aren't many cabmen around here at all," Roy notes.

"Petrol's been rationed," Maes explains plainly. "Go ahead and get in the car first, it's cold. I'll just be a moment."

Roy breathes in his surroundings. Traces of history linger in every corner of the old city, even with the newly erected aerodrome. He found these characteristics charming the last time he was here, before the war began. This time, however, everything seems gloomier than he remembers. The rousing light of dawn bleeds a glaring orange rather than the pink-rose hue he was so fond of. The street is barren and lifeless with no pedestrian, only the exhausted shuffling of the one-two cabmen. There are puddles of rainwater everywhere, painting a constellation of black holes on the grey, wet asphalt. Fog settles in, unwilling to leave, depriving him of a healthy vision of what's beyond the horizon.

With that, Roy pulls the latch of the cab door, seeking warmth in the confinement, wordlessly. The cool leather of the back seat seeps past his black peacoat and into his skin. But the inside of the car remains a degree more agreeable than the unforgiving temperature outside. Once Maes joins him at the wheel, Roy expects the man to rush out of the bleak airfield and into their destination at the speed of light. When the man merely sits idle, Roy's gloveless fingers tap the brim of his hat sitting across his lap. He inquires in a curious tone, "Are we waiting for something?"

Rubbing his leather gloves around the steering wheel, Maes says reassuringly, "Give it another minute or two."

As if on cue, the cab door opens. The chilling wind slams into Roy like a hard punch on the face. A young woman dressed in tailored herringbone coat enters, her bare ankles bracing the cold weather like a fighter. A cream-colored beret perches fashionably atop a pile of neatly rolled flaxen hair, framing a naturally pretty face. Her powder-free skin is fair and flawless, a refreshing sight from the women he often encounters at his aunt's bar in San Francisco. She looks a few years younger than himself, but the elegance she exudes unveil maturity beyond her age.

Unlike her lithe frame, her cadence is sharp and strong when she speaks, each word uttered providing a hint of her stringent personality, "Sorry I'm late. I've no excuse for my tardiness this morning."

"Come on, you're too harsh on yourself. It's only forty five seconds later than the promised time. It hasn't even been a full minute," Maes replies with a frivolous lilt as he sets the car in motion.

"That's forty five seconds lost, Hughes. Enough time for targets to leave the scope view." Solemnly, she turns to face Roy. She removes one glove in reflex, extending a naked hand. Her British accent (which has a slight twang to it and differs from Maes') is only now noticeable to his ears behind all the harsh words, "Riza Hawkeye. Pleasure to meet you, Mister...?"

The rest of his features is full of intrigue. Taking her hand, Roy answers with an earnest smile, "Roy. Roy Mustang. The pleasure's mine as well, Miss Hawkeye."

Her lips return a small, hollow smile as she lets go of his hand. "Riza, please. Hawkeye is my father's name."

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind Roy recognizes her family name as she speaks it the second time. Furrowing his brows, Roy asks with curiosity, "Hawkeye... Where have I heard that name before?"

Putting the suede glove back on, she replies nonchalantly, "It isn't common knowledge, but considering your field of study, you must have remembered an article written about a mad scientist blowing up his own house and killing his wife. Berthold Hawkeye is his name, and I'm his daughter."

The outline of Roy's shoulders tenses from remorse. His mouth curves sympathetically when he responds, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

Smiling impassively, Riza chooses to end the conversation with a sardonic disposition, "That's alright. It was all in the past. My father is paying for his sins by enjoying the first-class mental institution that's costing me an arm and a leg."

At a loss for words, Roy simply hums in acknowledgement.

When reticence hangs in between, both choose to settle in their seats. Nevertheless, Roy can feel her sly observation of him through the occasional sidelong glances. She isn't the only one keen on learning about their partner, however. Roy is just as desperate as she is, if not even more so.

He notes grace in her demeanor - from the smooth motion in which she rests the purse on her lap to the way her chin props with pride. Her feet are anchored firmly to the ground without being overbearing. Riza stares ahead with confidence, as if every single item on her agenda will simply fall into place. Most importantly, she wears her poker face like a badge of honor; if she had felt a tinge of sadness from the brief recollection, Roy honestly couldn't tell.

Riza catches him in the act, inquiring into the watchful silence, "You've been briefed about me, yes?"

With a slight reluctance, Roy meets her scrutinizing stare before answering, "I'm aware that I will be working with you for the duration of the assignment. Unfortunately, my superior officer has only provided me with a half-assed file on you. It says you will play the role of my wife."

Lifting her left hand in front of her face, Riza points to her ringless finger. She rectifies, "Not quite a wife. Just an associate. A close associate."

Unintentionally, a hint of disappointment trickles out of Roy's voice, "Oh, is that so? That's rather unfortunate."

She merely smiles, the crescent moon on her face not fully reaching her gaze.

His stomach twists below racing heart. Silently, he prays she would take his words with a grain of salt. Sensing the urge to clear the discomfort, Roy quickly interrupts, "So Riza, how long have you been in the field?"

Fatigue crosses her features for a split second, but she responds without hesitation, "Seven years in the field. I was recruited halfway through finishing my degree. And before I forget-" Her hand rummages inside her small purse, producing a thin, red booklet. Handing it over to him, she says, "Here is your passeport de la république française, complete with your new name."

"Thanks," Roy mutters, taking the travel document from her hand. "You've been working for seven years? You don't look a day over twenty five."

With a mirthless laugh, Riza corrects him, "I'm twenty six actually, but I will take that as a compliment." She adds, "I waited until I graduated the following year before becoming a full-fledged agent. I joined SOE just this year. What about you? I don't recall reading much intelligence gathering under your experience."

"Well, I've four months for intelligence gathering with the OSS, but roughly eight years on an unofficial capacity. I was a chemistry professor at Berkeley, specializing in nuclear power, which you probably know about. The Bureau had approached me a few times in the past for similar jobs, but more often than not it was the military," says Roy. Pausing for a moment, he examines his new profile on the French passport. A flustered expression floods him. Bluntly, he questions with incredulity, "Roy Hayakawa? That's my new name? I read some articles on anti-Japanese sentiment in London. While it isn't as terrible as they have it in America, need I remind you that I don't speak a lick of Japanese? I'm actually of Chinese descent from my mother's side."

Riza elicits a lighthearted laugh, the first sincere sound she emits since meeting him. Employing an amused expression, she explains, "You're Roy Hayakawa and I'm Teresa Hammersmark - Riza for short. I'm playing a German and I'm not one." Seeing an unwavering stare, she yields a persuasive answer, "Alright look, I don't mean to discriminate, but most people can barely distinguish the difference. To them, you can be Chinese or Japanese. In this case, it is important that you take on the role of a Japanese scientist because the Germans in attendance will be more willing to trust their ally."

Half-heartedly, Roy acquiesces, "Fine, you're right. But if we parade around town with our new names, I'm not sure we'll be in one piece to complete the mission."

Riza lingers a teasing gaze, judging him, and affirms with a chuckle, "If you get a Heimatschuß, I'll make sure to inform your mother."

"What?" The lines on Roy's forehead wrinkle in confusion.

Crossing one leg over the other, her arms follow suit in a tangle. Her gaze is affixed to the window as if she has had enough of his grievance to last the day. "It means 'blighty wound'. If you ever get shot, I'll send you home to your mother."

But Riza's mockery eludes him. Instead, Roy lingers an astonished look about him, surmising, "You know, you've been throwing all these foreign words at me today. Were you a Linguistics major at Oxford? Balliol college? I know they earned a distinction in that field."

Riza curls a disarming smile, pausing, before replying with an uncharacteristically amicable tone, "Oh, so you know that I studied at Oxford? I was a Classics and English major at Christ Church college, but yours is not a far off guess. I suppose I have a knack for foreign languages, so I ended up learning a few along the way."

Turning his body towards her with fascination, Roy chuckles, "What's a few?"

She angles herself towards him, leaning against the hard perpendicular line where metal meets leather. Holding his inquisitive eyes, she states, "French, German, Spanish. A little bit of Italian and Polish. I'm learning Japanese and Chinese. They're a work in progress."

Roy's eyes flash with admiration. Inadvertently, his voice is coated with flattery, betraying his own resolve to appear genuine in front of her, "That's very impressive. I would have recruited you as well if I were them. Say, what other impressive skills do you have? You seem like a good cook. I always admire beautiful women who can cook a hearty meal."

Riza scoffs with incredulity, a touch offended, "You do realize my life is in your hands as much as yours is in mine. Why would you care if I'm a good cook?" Taking out a cigarette case from her purse, she plucks one out and tilts her head forward so Roy can light the butt.

While flicking the lighter, he answers, "I've always enjoyed domesticity when I can help it."

When she offers him a smoke, Roy declines with regret, "No, thank you. I'm two years smoke-free."

She makes two puffs, perfectly circular rings, with one arm folded below her chest and the other propping up the tobacco in her hand. Brusquely, Riza responds with a sarcastic tone, "Then why do you carry a lighter around? Are you in cahoots with your lighter to impress women? I will tell you now cheap tricks like that won't work on me."

Roy blames his increasing irritation on the lack of rest and coffee. Shrugging off a ridicule (especially one from a beautiful woman) should be effortless. But when he couldn't stifle the jab to his pride, Roy scoffs smugly, retorting, "Oh, that's ridiculous! In America, it's the gentlemanly thing to do. I know you Brits don't care much about being a gentleman. You're all born a walking and talking aristocrat in this great country!"

Her thin eyebrows twitch in displeasure. But in a cool manner and with one too many triumphant smirk, she counters smoothly, "You're right. We're all aristocrats led by our great Queen, who, I remind you, is capable of walking without help, unlike your President."

Feeling an imminent quarrel at bay, Maes clears his throat obnoxiously. Both agents flinch from their seats, swiftly directing their attention to the driver. There is vexation in Maes' inflection, but he musters the strength to keep a collected demeanor, "I see you two have already started getting to know one another. Can I advise you that civility is of utmost importance? Keep in mind you will be sharing the same space in the next few months."

Roy confesses that he has forgotten all about Maes. The path to their destination has been surprisingly smooth and even, without a bump in the road or many twists and turns along the way. Besides, the woman next to him has kept him plenty occupied. Either that, or Maes is extremely gifted with his driving skills.

Taking a furtive glance at Riza, Roy recognizes that the anger about her face has been replaced with embarrassment, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red wine. The word "control" is written in big bold letters in the bible of every intelligence officer; it is religiously practiced before the start of each mission. With Riza, Roy realizes that controlling his emotions is a daunting task. One minute, she is the most charming woman on the planet. Another minute, she becomes the trickiest woman to read. Peculiarly, he finds her aggressive tendencies and witty remarks to be strangely attractive. Contemplatively, he wonders if she shares the same sentiment.

When Maes finally pulls over at a dingy intersection, a trace of uneasiness replaces the irritation about him. The street on which he parks is narrow and dark and quiet, contracting the hard muscles in Roy's limbs into flight or fight stimulus. Surrounding them are rows of red-bricked buildings seven to eight stories high, looming over them in a derisive mock. A construction effort is underway on the other side of the curb, with walls of scaffolding crowing an eerie atmosphere. As Roy begins each mission, his body always reacts the same, spreading nervous tension like a virus.

Maes whispers into the taut silence with a grave tone, his back leaning like a board against the leather cushion, "Operation Grouse will take place at Vemork in Norway with a focus on destroying German heavy water." Raising a gold sealed envelope and a manila folder in hand, Maes resumes, "A couple other operations in concert are being led in different parts of the country as we speak. This is one of them."

Both agents stare at his back with suspense, each preparing mentally for what lies ahead.

"You have a few days to live and breathe your new identities." Handing the two items towards the back of the car allows Riza to pluck them from Maes' hand. From the driver's seat, Maes continues, eyes fixated forward, "Everything in the folder will explain the details of Operation Atlas. Make sure you read every single word carefully."

Roy fidgets in his seat, gulping, his throat thick with agitation. "Understood."

Hearing Roy's restless shuffle from behind, Maes looks back with assurance. "You two will be fine. Riza here is our best sharpshooter." Pointing to a dimly lit Victorian architecture to his right, he adds, "St. Ermin's is where you two will be staying for the duration. It's booked under your new name, Roy."

Blatantly, Roy gauges Riza's reaction. He sees a blank canvas. She seems to take Maes' instruction with ease, fear barely lining her features. The cigarette in between her fingers is sitting pretty. Her perusing gaze calmly scans over the documents, the attention to detail displayed in her focused rich, brown eyes. She occasionally bites her bottom lip as she reads on but remains composed throughout. Like a spell, the tension in his limbs slackens the longer he observes her.

Once Riza finishes processing the information on hand, a clever smirk curls on her lips. Seven years of experience has molded her into a veteran agent, including playing the part of a convincing close associate. Without warning, Riza inches towards Roy, languid and persistent, ripe with an alluring smile. When their faces reach a scant distance, she stubs her cigarette on the fogged glass window behind him, tossing the butt in between the sliver. She dawdles a captivating gaze, immobilizing him.

The stretch of time feels eternal to Roy. He can only hear the pounding in his chest and worship the wonderful floral scent on her neck. Momentarily, Riza blankets a gloved hand over his with feigned affection. Her hot breath hits the right side of his cheek, raising the hairs on his arms. Then, in a playful and fleeting timbre that is polarizing to her own, Teresa Hammersmark's faultless German accent commences Operation Atlas, "Mr Hayakawa, shall we check into our hotel?"

*SOE: Special Operations Executive (British WWII organization specializing in espionage)

**OSS: Office of Strategic Services (American WWII intelligence agency)