Some minor characters show up here- Neil is the automail mechanic from Briggs. Unfortunately the nurse at Briggs is never named, so I've dubbed her Milla.

Chapter 3: War

Olivier stormed down the hallway, Miles on her heels. The delegation to Drachma had been out of contact for nearly two days and the scouts had finally spotted someone headed towards Briggs.

"Who is it?" she asked, turning a corner. It wasn't a Drachman, or the soldiers would have shot him instead of bringing him inside.

"He identified himself as Marcus Hossler," Miles replied, managing to keep pace with her. "We already called Central and they confirmed he was one of the assistants."

Olivier scowled and thrust open a door. "You called Central, so I take it Mustang will come blazing up here like he owns the place." That was just what she needed- a irrational Mustang on top of a volatile border situation.

"I didn't talk to the President, sir, so I can't confirm-"

The doors to the medical rooms opened as they neared. "About time, this boy's about to drop dead," snapped Neil, who looked too angry to bother with saluting. "Milla wanted to hold off on giving him anything till you got here, though. Figured you'd want him lucid."

Milla barely looked up when they neared, instead focusing on tossing out a handful of bloody cloths. Hossler was perched on an exam table, looking for all the world like he'd just walked out of hell. He was shaking, coughing, and his clothes were ripped in bloodied. "He's getting feverish. Probably has an infection. And frostbite," she said, tying off the stitches she'd applied to the cut on his forehead.

Neil crossed the room and picked up a satchel. "He had this on him, said the Drachmans ordered him to deliver it." He held it out, a grim look on his face. "You'll want to look in there. We had to check it for explosives and it's not much better."

Olivier eyed it with distaste but took it and opened it, Miles leaning over her shoulder. They were rewarded with the sight of several locks of hair, some bloody wallets, and even a wedding ring on a severed finger. Miles made a sound of disgust and pulled out a thin envelope tucked inside.

She slammed the bag down on a nearby table and crossed over to Hossler. "Boy, where are the others? Hostages?" she demanded, grabbing his shoulder to make him look at her. He shivered violently again, struggling to focus on the general's face. "And why did they let you go?" Drachma was playing with them, she could tell. Mustang's push for peace was all well and good, but their northern neighbors really didn't care anymore. And she, for one, was not about to be jerked around anymore.

Hossler shook his head, hands gripping the edge of the table. "No, they're all-all dead," he whispered. "They got us in the talks, it was a trap!"

The general tensed. "They attacked you during negotiations?" She couldn't believe this. She'd assumed this was some sort of attack by an angry rebel group, not a sanctioned ambush by the government. "Mustang won't be able to keep us out of a war now." War was ugly, but Drachma had been poking and teasing them for months. Unless Amestris wanted to look like an easy target to the rest of the continent, they were going to have to strike back.

"I don't think he'll want to, sir."

Olivier looked over to see Miles holding out a photograph. Milla and Neil had photos in their hands, and they all looked grim. The automail mechanic even looked a little green.

For a moment, Olivier eyed the offered photograph. Briggs soldiers were strong, the best in the country, and if they were thrown even this much, the photographs weren't anything good.

She took it, looked, and handed it back. No, it was not good. "Are they all like that?" she asked, voice low. Hossler was started to make sniffling noises.

Miles nodded without a word, sliding the photograph back in the envelope.

"Get him cleaned up," she said, gesturing at Hossler, who had buried his head in his hands. "We'll send him down to Central when he's ready."

Neil hefted Hossler up by his elbow, intending to get him to one of the beds. But the boy stopped suddenly, turning to face Armstrong. "But you can't!" he said, looking desperately between the soldiers. When nobody said anything, he continued, his voice becoming more urgent. "He said we couldn't go to war, it wasn't worth it!"

Nobody needed to ask who "he" was. Olivier shook her head. "He doesn't have much say in the matter anymore," she replied, tone final. Those intentions were well and good, but they weren't going to get them out of the situation.

The general turned to Miles. "Double the watches. And send an escort to guard whoever Central sends up here. We need to inventory our ammunition and supplies. We're not going to get caught off guard. Drachma only gets one lucky shot." Her voice was firm, level. She knew how to handle Drachma, knew how to fight.

But if Drachma thought they could get the upper hand by slaughtering a national icon, they were going to be sorely disappointed.