"A penny for them, Lieutenant?"

She glanced up at the back of his head; she thought she caught a glimpse of a few stray gray hairs, but it could just as well have been the dim lighting on the viaduct walkway. In any case, she suspected Roy would not thank her for pointing them out. "Sir?"

"You've gone very quiet since we left Port Neptune. Well," he considered, pretending to think very hard about it, "quieter, at any rate."

Riza did not rise to the bait. "I have nothing to say, Colonel."

"I think we both know that's not quite true." He paused midstride and turned to face her. Riza was forced to stop herself or risk bumping into him. "I value your council, Hawkeye."

Her brows knitted critically, a crease erupting between her eyes. "You may not like what I have to say, sir."

He smiled, a wry curve of the corner of his mouth. "It wouldn't be the first time. But if I surrounded myself solely with sycophants and lickspittles, I wouldn't be any better than Andrew Ryan."

Riza's eyes widened, her gaze darting around the corridor. "Watch what you say aloud, sir," she urged him, not for the first time. "Carelessness like that could land you in Persephone." She sighed. "You can't run Rapture from one of Augustus Sinclair's cells."

"True." Roy's dark eyes turned hooded and thoughtful as he looked down at her. "I'm sensing a consistent pattern, Lieutenant. You didn't seem entirely pleased with me back on Pier Four."

"Making contact with Breda was reckless."

"It was a calculated decision."

"Then I would suggest checking your sums," she paused, then added, "sir," purely as an afterthought.

He shot her a quick, open-mouthed stare, his lips parted. "I don't seem to recall you having these anxieties when I recruited the others."

"There is a difference between anxiety and warranted caution, Colonel," she shot back, irritated. "The Elric boys work under Bill McDonagh, and Fuery is a tech for Rapture Radio. They elected to ally themselves with you of their own volition but like us, they side with Ryan and his constituents. Our making contact with them does not constitute an exceptional risk."

"And Vato?" he asked with mock innocence, feigning confusion and uncertainty in a way that made Riza's teeth grind together. There was nothing candid or sincere in the slight cock of his head and his arched eyebrows, smirking in his little parody of resigned reasonableness. His attempts to air his curiosity without significance may have been enough to fool Ryan and his followers, but he couldn't fool Riza.

Her eyes closed for a moment as she tried to muster the reserves of her patience. Roy had a habit of testing it to its limit. Sometimes, Riza was tempted to throw temperance and composure to the metaphorical wind and allow their conversations to erupt into unholy bickering, where they charged from opposite ends of an open field, determined not to meet in the middle but to rip pieces out of each other on the drive by. Such a confrontational approach was more in line with Rapture philosophy, anyway.

But Riza cared about Roy Mustang too much to follow the thought to its inevitable conclusion. Protecting him was a craft, painstaking and precise. Experience had taught her not to try to impose Roy's goals for order and control over the indelible chaos of Rapture, but to resurrect those goals from the very same chaos. While her exertions generally found no enduring physical correlatives –– she was content with her place in Roy's shadow, unseen in the corners of the room, a silent guardian in the peripheries –– the very fact of his living constituted a stable repository of her skills and an accurate record of her efforts. Therefore, Riza Hawkeye felt satisfied, secure, in Roy's company. His presence assured her own sense of duty and purpose, where before Riza had been strung out across dreams and fantasies which had long ago evaporated into things she could no longer hold or see.

Thus collected, she intoned: "Falman's position in the Mendel Memorial Library is not liable to turn any heads. The facility is located within Fontaine's facilities at Port Prometheus, true, but the building is neutral ground, with scientists of all stripes making use of its resources.

"Conversely," she added, sternly, "Heymans Breda is one of Fontaine's top brokers. This move is brazen, even for you."

The look Roy gave her was almost imploring, a desperate earnestness in the tight line of his mouth; she knew no one else had ever seen — or likely ever would see — him look so vulnerable. "I need someone close to Fontaine," he said, firmly.

She sighed. "There is close enough to watch a shark, sir, and then there is close enough to see back to the second row of its teeth. Overconfidence precedes disaster. You're not likely to escape scrutiny for long if you take an active interest in Fontaine's smuggling."

"I don't need long," he murmured. Then, he took a cue from her caution and peered over each shoulder. He marked the whirring security cameras and a single automated turret guarding the airlock, but aside from a few curious cods and the barnacles crusted on the windows, they were alone. Even so, Roy lowered his voice...

"I need until September. After that... well, I suspect Fontaine will have a much bigger problem on his hands."

Riza felt her abdomen tighten. "You think Ryan will make a move so soon?"

"He has to." Roy's demeanor turned ruminative, his gaze directed somewhere temporal rather than spatial. "While there was once a time when Andrew Ryan observed Fontaine's rise to power as proof of Rapture's opportunistic potential, he's come to realize that the criminal arm of Fontaine's enterprises runs the risk of exposing the city to surface-dwellers. That... and Fontaine Futuristics is close to pushing Ryan Industries out of a profit. Ryan needs dirt on Fontaine to shutter the bastard for good."

"And he always manages to be where the evidence isn't, Fontaine," said Riza quietly. "As Ryan always says, he's the most dangerous type of criminal… the kind with vision."

Frank Fontaine had taken full advantage of Rapture's virtually non-existant police force and Laissez-faire economic environment. And it didn't take someone within the man's inner circle to deduce that he was a ruthless, exploitative, and manipulative sociopath. Much of Rapture's criminal underworld was terrified of Fontaine, and he controlled his smugglers and gang members through fear and coercion. The mere thought of the bald, sneering son of a bitch made Riza's lip curl.

Rapture was built on foundations of promise and potential, but the city had deteriorated into labyrinths of deception and death. Every morally-questionable scientific breakthrough, every horrific act of creative invention, every shoot-out or splicer attack told Riza that in trying to reach some so-called exaltation of man, Rapture had only managed to descend further into the primeval abyss. Creation at the cost of destruction. The ouroboros, eating itself in order to survive. When God introduced the serpent to the Garden of Eden, Riza couldn't help but wondr if the snake already had half its tail down its throat.

"Will Ryan order a raid, sir?"

"On the Fisheries? I suspect he might."

A raid, thought Riza in astonishment, without a warrant, with only the thinnest of circumstantial evidence. It was almost fascist. How far Ryan had fallen...

"You suspect? Colonel, Ryan is proceeding according to your intel. If you advise him to arrest Fontaine tomorrow, he may very well take your counsel as gospel. Ryan trusts you."

"Bully for him." Roy shook his head, threatening to dislodge his glasses. "But it's too soon. The timing must be perfect, Lieutenant, in order for this to work to our advantage."

"Aside from taking the taint out of Fontaine, I don't see how strengthening Ryan's stranglehold over the city will in any way help you achieve your goals, sir."

In the green-tinged light, his sudden smile looked almost feral. The viaduct was quiet, but it has its own soft pulse, the hiss and sigh of the ventilation systems, as though the entire city was drawing a deep, dark breath. As she waited for Roy to give her his answer, she looked out the window of translucent aluminum, across the seafloor. Even in the evening, it wasn't all gloom. There were lights and colors, both from the distant districts of Rapture and the sea life that haloed the art deco buildings, shining in the dark, blazing beneath the sea. There were sinuous ribbons of luminscence coiling in bright patterns, and schools of tiny fish flashing by like sparks. If it hadn't been for the fronds of seaweed and pink corrals pushing against the portholes, Riza might have imagined herself up in the sky topside, with meteors and comets blazing past.

She looked past the edge of Arcadia and the Medical Pavilion into the chasm yawning beneath the Persephone Penal Colony. She thought she saw a tiny twinkling speck, like a star, shining in that immense, featureless void, with its faint hint of green. It would grow larger as she drew closer. It would turn into a radiant sun of purple or crimson or orange and come rushing at her, and swerve aside at the last moment. Down below, in the deeper abyss, the colors were darker, and she imagined an enormous shape blundering past down there, like the sea-bottom itself, the bedrock of the city, shifting itself from its slumber.

"The people are unhappy, Lieutenant," said Roy grimly, breaking her from her ruminations, "and Rapture is unstable. We seem bound for detonation."

"You sound like Kimblee."

He frowned, bridling at the comparison. "That was uncalled for, Hawkeye."

"Then perhaps you ought to tell me what you're really thinking, sir."

His breathing seemed measured by the stroke of the ventilation. He confessed, "It's becoming increasingly evident in the public debates between Ryan and that Lamb woman that the rank and file of Rapture are dissatisfied with their lot. Take Breda, for example. A man like him came to Rapture to make something of himself, but while the likes of Ryan are tossing back gin slings in Fort Frolic, Heymans is down in the belly of Port Neptune cutting guts out of fish. Even in utopia," Roy looked at her meaningfully, "someone has to clean to toilets. Coupled with the ever expanding wage gap and growing frequency of splicer attacks... as well as the..." he hesitated, swallowing thickly, his face turning the same color green as the sea-floor, "well... those girls... I suspect enough will soon be enough. The simmer will come to a boil." Roy adjusted his gloves, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together conspicuously. "I merely intend to turn up the temperature."

"By pressing Ryan into making a move against Fontaine."

"In time."

Riza inclined her head in consideration. "So while a raid on Fontaine Fisheries might jeopardize Fontaine's physical assets––"

"Infringing on the man's private business holdings will almost certainly jeopardize Ryan's doctrinal assets," he finished.

"A zero-sum game."

"We are fighting a war on two fronts, Lieutenant, both material and ideological. In order for me to take control of this city, we must break Andrew Ryan's Great Chain of Industry... the links themselves, and the philosophy those same links represent."

Riza understood the strategy well enough: one of the cornerstones of Rapture was the sanctity of private property. If Andrew Ryan confiscated Fontaine's capital or nationalized his shareholdings –– the fisheries as well as the juggernaut behind ADAM production, Fontaine Futuristics –– then Ryan would forfeit his credibility. The move would expose him for the hypocrite he was, a plaster saint who made a grand show of being above the collectivism and communism he preached against and yet partook in those same practices as soon as they became convenient to him.

It would destablize Andrew Ryan's power base. It might even turn the people of Rapture against him entirely.

And Riza suspected her boss would be right there amongst the masses, leading the charge.

She straightened her shoulders; ochre-colored eyes found charcoal black, and she held his gaze like an owl, body still, lit from beneath by the lights running along the floor, the shadow of the viaduct walkway immense behind her.

"What will you do, sir?"

Roy adjusted his glasses, releasing his breath in a chest-deep sigh. "We have some preparations to make. According to Kain, Sander Cohen," Roy's lip twisted in repugnance, as though the name itself left a bad taste in his mouth, "is hosting a gala to commemorate some new musical release or another. The reasons hardly matter. What does matter is that the party is being held in the Manta Ray Lounge."

Riza's eyes widened. "Right below Frank Fontaine's department store office..."

"A perfect opportunity to get Andrew his evidence, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, sir... except Cohen is none-too-fond of you, and even if he was, the man gives out precious few invitations. We're not likely to get in."

"I have some ideas about that," he said; the tightening of the muscles in his jaw gave Riza an uneasy sense of foreboding. "But not tonight. It's late, and I'd rather not run into any splicers on my way home."

She nodded dutifully. "I agree, sir. Would you like me to escort you to Olympus Heights?"

The corners of Roy's lips fought a smirk, his eyebrows slightly raised. "Why, Lieutenant Hawkeye, people are liable to talk."

Riza wanted to be annoyed with him. Her customary frown wasn't quite a smile, but it turned upward to one cheek. "People already talk, sir."

"Oh? What do they say?"

"Use your imagination, Colonel."

"Ah, I don't know about that, Lieutenant. I have a very vivid imagination."

"Are you flirting with me, sir?"

He hummed in a low dulcet. "Is it working?"

Courting was to Roy Mustang second nature. But he had honed it into an important mechanism of research, a means of gathering information. By making the process important and serious, he deprived it of its lightness. He disturbed the balance between promise and lack of guarantee. He made assurances to his potential conquests too ardently, intentionally failing to make it clear that their bond involved no guarantee of reciprocity on his part. He gave the impression of being there for the taking. But when women –– and a few men –– responded by asking for what they felt they were owed, they were met with strong resistance. Their only explanation for it was that Roy Mustang was a sworn bachelor, decetiful in his propositions and cruel in his rejections.

Riza knew the real reason. Though she elected, for the time being, to keep it to herself.

She opened her mouth to respond, when, without preamble, a blur of gray uniform and dark hair crashed between them, nearly knocking Riza off-balance.

"Roy! Hawkeye! There you are!"

The man was tall, broad, a mite softer than he had been when they fought together during the Battle of the Falaise Pocket. Like Roy, he wore spectacles. Unlike Roy, he had square frames, not circular tortoiseshells. His dark hair stuck up in clumps, as though crusted with salt. His pleasant green eyes were alert to everything that was going on around him, their keenness making up for whatever polish was lacking in the rest of his general appearance. He had a rather large and definite nose which drew close to Roy's face as he enthused: "Fancy meeting you during my rounds! I thought the pair of you would be halfway to Mercury Suites by now!"

"I don't live in Mercury Suites, Detective Inspector Hughes," countered Riza with a practiced ease.

Maes Hughes was one of a rare breed in Rapture... namely, an officer of the law. He served directly under Ryan's Chief, King Bradley, and his primary duties involved investigating alegations of truly notable rule-breaking. Which, as the current circumstances would have it, meant Hughes was more often than not sniffing around in Fontaine's affairs. Riza didn't envy Maes.

"You could always bunk with someone, Hawkeye," mused Hughes, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Riza scowled at him, not entirely impressed with what he was implying.

The flirtatious grin Roy had worn for Riza's sake twisted into a moue of annoyance. "Hughes," he managed, irritated, "aren't you supposed to be patrolling the area around Fontaine Futuristics?"

"You know, I was," he said –– too loudly, Riza thought. "But I heard from Tasha Denu over at the Silverwing Apiary who caught it from Professor Langford who chatted with Jean Havoc who told her that the two of you were milling around the Fighting McDonagh's this evening. My crusitority was piqued. After all..." In an instant, Hughes's green eyes turned flinty, as sharp as cut jade, "it's not like you to hang around Port Neptune, is it, Roy?"

"I had to see a man about returning a chess piece," said Roy smoothly. The code flowed from his tongue like honey. Riza said nothing.

Maes crossed his arms, creasing his gray Rapture security uniform. "Oh? What piece?"

"A rook."

A nod. "A good, stolid piece."

"I agree."

Seemingly satisfied with the answer –– and, Riza knew, provided with ample information to deduce the true nature of their errand –– Hughes switched tact. "Well, perhaps this is serendipity at work. We've had a lot of trouble with those Saturnine splicers up by the Rolling Hills in Arcadia, and I'd be more than happy to walk you both home."

"We live in two different parts of the city, Detective Inspector," Riza reminded him patiently. He had a tendency to forget that small detail...

"Oh!" Maes looked slightly put-out. "Well then––"

"Escort Hawkeye home, Hughes," said Roy. "I can take the bathysphere from Medical."

Riza's eyebrows furrowed, thoroughly nettled. "I don't require a minder, sir," she said, irritated.

Hughes waved a hand. "Phooey, Hawkeye. I could do with the company! 'Sides, there's always something interesting going on in Pauper's Drop."

Hughes was being delicate. The Drop was originally the maintenance junction of the Atlantic Express railroad, and became ad hoc housing for workers and their families after the construction of the train network ended. When the workers learned the hard way that they could not afford to live anywhere else, they found themselves stuck in the ramshackle neighborhood. Riza could afford the Sinclair Deluxe, which by Drop standards, was positively luxurious. It was a dangerous area; needles littered the streets, splicers maundered nonsense from the shadows, and a disproportionately large number of young girls had gone missing in recent months...

"I wouldn't want to keep you from Gracia and your little one, Chief Inspector," insisted Riza.

"You won't be keeping me from them, Riza." Grinning like Lewis Carrol's cheshire cat, Hughes procured a ream of photographs from his pocket. "Because I brought them with me!"

Roy turned to leave, walking a tad too quickly in the opposite direction. "I'm sure Hawkeye would love to see them, Hughes."

If Fontaine or Ryan didn't strangle Roy Mustang one of those bright days, Riza Hawkeye almost certainly would.

The last she saw of her boss was his deeply apologetic face, mouthing a hasty sorry before Hughes threw his arm across her shoulders, half a dozen snapshots in his fist, directing her towards the near-defunct Atlantic Express train station. Maes continued to gush about his wife and child for a while longer, until he was sure Roy was well out of earshot, and then he lowered his voice, his demeanor sobering.

"The Drop, Hawkeye?"

"I can't afford anything better, Chief Inspector. Not in Andrew Ryan's Rapture."

"I'm sure Roy could work something out with the old man. With all the deaths lately, there are few places in Artemis Suites––"

"And what would people say to that, Maes?" she demanded, her voice strained. "I know what the Council whispers about me. And I know how this city treats working women in positions of power. While the arrangement may work for Ms. Jolene, as is her prerogative, I have no intention of becoming Roy Mustang's lady of the evening."

Hughes looked pained. "You know he doesn't see you that way."

"He doesn't see me in any way, Detective Inspector. I'm his subordinate, his bodyguard, not his friend, and certainly not his lover."

The creases on Hughes's high forehead had grown deeper and deeper with Riza's every word. He was a bit forward, Hughes, a little intrusive, but it was clear even to complete strangers that his mannerisms were due to concern and compassion and not to any intent to be objectionable. Although Riza knew he meant well, sometimes his stubborn consideration for her and Roy's well-being exasperated her almost as much as Roy's disingenuous little smirks. Such altruism put Hughes at risk in a place like Rapture; moreover, Riza didn't believe she was worth the effort.

She had done very little to warrant Hughes's kindness.

"You haven't told him yet, have you?" queried Maes quietly, as they approached the station. His green eyes seemed enormous in the gloom, amplified by his spectacles. Like the globes of a deep-sea fish.

Riza looked in her friend's face and sighed, so deep and resigned it must have been terrible to hear. She wondered if, perhaps, Maes Hughes was too intuitive for his own good.

"No, I haven't."

"Riza––"

"He can't know, Maes."

The Detective Inspector's words turned icy; Riza imagined she felt the chill, and she shivered. "He deserves to know. The Incinerate plasmid, it's..."

"Dangerous. Destructive. Indescribably powerful," finished Riza wearily. "And secret."

"Not for long, if Frank Fontaine gets his way."

Riza knew the truth of it. Plasmids were special serums made from processed ADAM that introduced modified stem cells into the body, allowing for genetic modification and mutation, giving the user what some might call super powers. There were plasmids that electrocuted, froze, and even mind-controlled. All had been invented by Frank Fontaine and his team of scientists at Fontaine Futuristics.

All... except one.

Incinerate was an active plasmid that instantly ignited a target, engulfing them in flames.

Only one man in Rapture possessed the Incinerate plasmid. And he had not obtained it from Frank Fontaine.

"Roy's ability is an incredibly valuable commodity," murmured Hughes. "Fontaine wants that plasmid. Roy must know that."

"He does."

"So why not tell him the truth––?!"

"Because he would panic!" snapped Riza. "Restrict my movements. Order a guard to watch me around the clock. How can I be expected to do my job protecting him when he insists on protecting me?"

"But Riza..." Maes's expression fell in anguish. "Fontaine's target isn't Roy Mustang.

"Fontaine's target is you."