A/N: Who's ready to get super-spookified?
I do not own FMA.
Chapter Four - Shaken
ROCKBELL AUTOMAIL, RESEMBOOL
DECEMBER 10, 10:41 A.M.
He ignored the ringing of the telephone from the main room of the house: ninety percent of the time, anyone calling was looking for Winry or Pinako anyway. Edward had other things to worry about, like finding the rest of his lightweight shirts for the trip to Ishval, and wondering how he was going to keep his automail leg cool enough to function normally.
"Hey, Ed!" Winry hollered from the next room. "Telephone!"
So it was a ten percent call. "Coming!" he shouted back. That was how things worked around here: lots of yelling, lots of noise. Pinako had merely shaken her head with a smile when she first noticed it. He and Winry were natural-born yellers, she'd said, had been that way since they were kids. He suspected she didn't mind, that having a now-boisterous household made up for all the years it had been far too quiet.
Leaving his suitcase open on the bed, Edward moved out into the kitchen, crossing to where Winry waited with one hand over the receiver. "Colonel Bastard calling back?" he guessed. "I told him I'd get back to him once I talked to Al, what's he so impatient for?"
Winry didn't smile. "I don't think he's calling to get an answer," she said quietly. "He sounds pretty worked up, like something happened."
Blond eyebrows drew together in a frown; the only way Mustang would get noticeably worked up is if something had happened to his team . . . particularly Hawkeye. Taking the receiver, Ed brought it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Guess who." Sure enough, it was Mustang's voice, but what should have been banter didn't cary any trace of humour. "I know you're busy, so I'll keep this brief. The Ishval trip has been called off."
"Is that so." Leaning against the counter, Edward made sure to keep his voice casual. "On account of what? Are they expecting freak rainstorms in the middle of the desert, so you're deciding to stay at home?"
"We hit a snag with our own plans," was the calm answer, Mustang not rising to the bait. "There was some question as to whether personal security could be assured, so Command pulled the mission until we can get things back on track."
His frown deepened. "Personal security?" he repeated. "From who, Amestris or the Ishvalans?"
"Sorry, kid, you're not a State Alchemist anymore. I can't say anything more about it." Winry had been right; he sounded strange, as though he were worrying over several different things all at once. "Do you still want to come along, once we get everything sorted out?"
"Yeah, sure. Sounds like you can use all the help you get."
"Right. I'll be in touch." With that, there was a click from the other end of the line, and Mustang was gone. Lip twisting, Edward hung up.
"Well, you were right," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, mulling over the conversation. "There's definitely something bugging him. He said something about concerns over personal security . . . which can only mean someone's going after them."
Winry folded her arms. "Not exactly the smart thing to do, given what they're capable of. Though I suppose they have their share of enemies." She cocked her head, watching Edward closely. "You're thinking something; what is it?"
He looked up, expression apologetic. "Something you're probably not going to like . . . ."
EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL
DECEMBER 10, 1045 HOURS
Hanging up the phone, Roy headed back through the hospital hallways, hands in his pockets and brow furrowed in thought. While it was true that Edward didn't have a security clearance for sensitive information anymore, that hadn't been his only reason for keeping tight-lipped on his explanation. To discuss the problem over an unsecured line was to invite disaster.
Especially when someone was obviously already gunning for his team.
Fighting down the twist in his lip, he slipped through the door into the hospital room and closed it behind himself. "I think I managed to convince him that while there's a security issue to take care of, it's nothing serious," he said, folding his arms as he paced across to take up a spot beside Riza's chair. "With any luck, he'll let it go, but I wouldn't put it past him to try and get information on his own."
Havoc grimaced. "Ed's still got enough friends in the military to get pretty much any intel he wants, especially if he talks to someone like Major Armstrong. Anyone that ever had a soft spot for the Elrics."
"Which is why it's even more important that we keep the attack to ourselves as much as possible," Riza put in quietly. She still held the note they had found in the destroyed kitchen, her hands folded neatly on top of it. Roy's gaze lingered on her a moment, taking in her tense posture and the concerned frown that was furrowing her forehead. The attack from nowhere had certainly shaken her.
"It's going to be hard to do that once people find out we're in the hospital," Fuery said, from his place in one of the room's two beds; Breda occupied the other. Fuery's arm was held in a sling, Breda ordered to keep off his feet for a few days until the bruised tendons healed. "My shoulder's just dislocated. I don't get why they're keeping me overnight when —"
"Because that's what I requested they do," Roy said firmly. "There's someone out there that's clearly trying to toy with us for some reason, and aside from a safehouse, there's not many other places that would be just as secure."
"Barring anyone slipping inside while the nurses' backs are turned," Falman murmured.
Arms folded behind his head, Breda shrugged. "So one of you stays here as a guard. We've all done it before."
Riza got abruptly to her feet, stalking toward the door. "Colonel, could I speak to you for a moment?" Her words were clipped, thanks to her clenched jaw, the hand not clamped around the mysterious note curled into a fist at her side. "In private, if possible."
She was halfway out the door before Roy shook himself out of a state of blank surprise, starting after her. Havoc lifted one eyebrow as he passed. "What's gotten into her, Chief?"
"You guess is as good as mine," he murmured back. "Just . . . wait here until I get back."
Riza moved ahead of him down the hallway toward the stairwell; Roy didn't try to catch up, using the brief walk to study her. Her shoulders were high and tense, as they had been in the room, and she moved with a stiffness that wasn't entirely businesslike. He had thought that it was the attack that had her worked up, though was beginning to second-guess that conclusion; perhaps seeing Breda and Fuery injured was causing it? Fuery in particular was like a younger brother to her, so it stood to reason —
The stairwell door closed behind them, and Riza let out a deep breath. "This is my fault, sir."
Roy stared. ". . . Come again?"
"The explosion at the meeting point: it's my fault, I'm sure of it." She looked up to meet his gaze, faltered for a moment, then pressed on. "I know it sounds unlikely, but I can't shake the feeling that —"
"Unlikely?" he repeated, growing irritated. "It's downright crazy. Riza Hawkeye doesn't plant bombs to blow up her own people! How can you even think something like that?"
She shook her head sharply. "I didn't mean it that way, sir. I just —" She bit her lip, obviously searching for the right words.
Sighing quietly, Roy took a step forward, lowering his voice. "What's gotten into you?" he murmured, dark eyes searching her face for any possible clue. "You've been jumpy as hell ever since the explosion, and now you try to tell me it's your fault? You're starting to get me worried."
He reached out a hand to pull her close, but she avoided him, stepping out of reach. Brown eyes came back to his, bright with annoyance. "I'm telling you it's my fault because it is," she said firmly, before her expression turned guilty. "I haven't . . . . I haven't been entirely forthcoming with . . . certain information."
Dread tried to form a cold knot in his chest; Roy pushed it aside. "Okay . . . . Information like what?"
Riza held up the note. "This wasn't meant for the team in general; it was meant for one specific person. Me." She looked away, beginning to unfold it. "I should have told you earlier, when it started, but you had other things to worry about and I didn't think it would get this serious —"
"Think what would get this serious?" This time, his hands made contact, grasping her shoulders. "Riza, what are you talking about?"
She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Two days ago, I received a letter with the regular mail at the office. I don't know who sent it, or why; it just . . . rambled, mostly. About how I'm good at my job and how I've caught this person's interest. I brushed it off as harmless, some kind of prank. Until I found the note after the bomb went off."
Roy's already present frown deepened. "I thought you seemed preoccupied with that letter," he muttered. "How does the note tie in?"
"There's the part that everyone was meant to see, about being ready to play." Riza looked down at the paper in her hands. "When I unfolded it, however, there was another letter written inside. I only read the first few lines, but it's from the same person that sent the first."
His hands dropped away from her shoulders, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Read it."
Riza glanced up briefly in hesitation, before visibly bracing herself. "'I'm incredibly disappointed in you, Lieutenant. I thought you were a woman of integrity when it came to keeping your unit well-informed, and here you are keeping secrets. I shouldn't have to tell you that communication is everything in your business.
"'I'm giving you another chance to right that particular wrong. I'm sure that your Colonel would be highly intrigued to hear about these letters. Just as intrigued as I was to learn about —'" She broke off, staring at the words.
Roy watched her closely. "What? Learn about what?"
One hand covering her mouth, eyes wide as they stared at the paper, Riza dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "'—to learn about the nature of the relationship you and he share.'" She looked up, found his eyes just as wide as hers, and went back to the letter. "'Believe me when I say that I'll know whether or not you share this information with him, and that if you don't, it will spell an end not just to your career, but his as well.
"'I've waited long enough for you, Lieutenant. It's either play or watch everything around you crumble.'"
Roy was silent for a long moment, thinking hard, processing everything the letter had said. "Well, there's no uncertain terms about what he wants, is there," he murmured when it was clear she was finished. He moved to lean back against the wall. "He's got us in a sticky situation."
There was mild surprise in Riza's expression when she looked at him. ". . . Did you say 'us,' sir?"
"Yes, I said 'us,'" he answered firmly. "The letter says he only wants you, but unfortunately for him, he gets me as well." Dark eyes narrowed. "And I won't have you disputing that, understood?"
"Understood." Riza's expression became grave. "Though in the interest of exchanging information, there's one more thing you should know. The letter is signed."
". . . I thought you said you didn't know who sent it."
"I don't. The name doesn't make any sense, unless someone out there has been toying with human transmutation again." Her gaze met his, and for the first time, Roy could see exactly how skittish this entire business was making her. The knot of dread in his chest expanded as she turned the paper toward him, indicating the signature.
"To all appearances, the letters are being sent by my father."
SOUTH SIDE OF EAST CITY
DECEMBER 10, 11:00 A.M.
He hated wearing this uniform.
It was itchy, made of stiff fabric that somehow trapped heat while letting cold wind through, and the annoying waist-skirt insisted on getting tangled around his legs. Above all that, however, was the fact that it was of the Amestrian military, an organization he had come to thoroughly despise.
If the uniform had one redeeming quality, it was that it allowed him to pass unhindered into the back room of a public bar. No one questioned a soldier on business, at least not for very long.
The person ahead of him in line moved away from the table, a voice calling "Next!" and the man stepped forward.
Seated behind the table was a short, rotund little man wearing a high-end suit. His over-shined shoes glinted where they rested on the tabletop, a fedora dangling from the toe of one. Examining his fingernails in a bored fashion, the round man didn't even bother to look up. "Welcome to Boardstaff Loans," he said with dry humour. "What can I do for you, sport?"
The man didn't smile. "If I've come to see you, Lyle Boardstaff, I would think it's fairly obvious what I want."
Boardstaff looked up, eyes running once over the uniform before returning to its wearer's face. He smirked. "Business must be picking up, if word has reached the ears of the boys in blue," he said, unconcerned. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms behind his head. "What brings you to my cozy little corner of commerce, soldier? In need of a little pre-payday cash?"
"I'm not here for your money," the man answered, voice flat. "I'm not even here to arrest you. I just want a conversation."
Snorting quietly, Boardstaff dropped his feet to the floor, leaving his hat on the table. "Thanks, Officer, but I'm not in a chatty mood. Show yourself out, why don't you."
"I don't think you understand." Taking a gun from its holster at his side, the man hefted it in one hand. "I want a conversation, and I'm going to get one."
Boardstaff held very still, lip twisted in distaste at the sight of the gun. "Demanding, aren't you," he muttered. Lifting one hand, he waved it in dismissal at the others in line, and the two burly bodyguards watching closely from the side of the room. "Sorry, everybody, we're closed until further notice. The officer and I need a private discussion."
The room emptied except for the two of them, and Boardstaff folded his hands on the tabletop. "All right, you wanted to talk. So talk."
"You don't recognize me, do you."
"Should I?" Propping his chin in one hand, the loan shark looked on patiently. "Do I owe you money?" No answer. "Do you owe me money?" When still no answer came, he sighed and sat back in his chair. "Sorry, pal. I meet a lot of people on a day-to-day basis. You must have blended into the crowd. Besides." His eyes took on a hard edge. "I make it a policy never to deal with military types."
The man's grip on the gun didn't waver. "Then it's a good thing I'm not military, Mr. Boardstaff. Tell me: have you ever heard the name Eric Nickelson?"
"Everyone on the fringe has heard of Eric Nickelson, though only just in the last day or so." Boardstaff tsked under his breath. "Poor guy went and got himself whacked by somebody; we hear a bit about that sort of thing."
"Have you heard anything about who the killer might be?"
"You think I'd be sitting in a backwater like this if I did?!" Spreading his hands wide, Boardstaff leaned forward. "That intel's worth a lot to the MPs; they'll take any lead they can get, from what I heard."
"I'm sure they would." The man stood straight, bringing the gun to a more level bearing. "Thank you for the talk, Mr. Boardstaff. That's all the information I needed." There was a click as he released the safety.
Boardstaff drew back, eyes widening. "Whoa, take it easy, pal! I just gave you intel free of charge, didn't even ask for a fee! Least you can do is let me walk out of here!"
The man shrugged. "I'm afraid I told a half-truth. I came here for two reasons: a talk, and a chance to meet with you face-to-face. But that meeting ends very poorly for you." Pale blue eyes glinted in the harsh overhead lighting. "I asked if you remembered me: think back, about five years."
Frowning, the con man stared hard at the gunman's face. "You mean you're —
"Very good, Mr. Boardstaff. And now, goodbye."
The bang of the gun firing echoed around the room. Even before the last echo had faded, before Boardstaff's body could fall limply to the floor, the man was moving for the rear exit. Behind him, the door to the hallway opened, the pair of burly bodyguards stepping inside.
"You! Hold it!"
"I don't think so, boys." Waving his gun in warning, sending light gleaming from its dull silver body, the man smiled tightly. "I've got places to be . . . and you've got a mess to clean up."
EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL
DECEMBER 10, 1103 HOURS
"No offense, Lieutenant, but I think your dad's messed up."
Giving Havoc a look of strained patience, Riza kept her tone calm and even. "You haven't been listening," she countered. "There's no possible way that this could be my father. This is somebody's idea of getting my attention."
"And that somebody sounds like a classic stalker," Breda put in. He was frowning hard, staring blankly at the bedsheets. "Just for the sake of argument, though . . . are you absolutely sure — don't get pissed — are you absolutely sure this isn't your dad?"
Roy spoke up quietly from behind Riza's chair. "With me as a witness, she's sure. There's no way that Master Hawkeye is sending those letters."
He had been almost silent since they had returned from their private conference in the stairwell. Riza's heart had ached, watching the expression of pure shock and disbelief cross his face before he shut it down. His arms had stayed folded tight across his chest, and beyond having to order her to share the developments with everyone, he hadn't said a word.
There was no doubt in her mind that he was furious. Whether with her or whomever was sending these letters, she wasn't sure. Perhaps both.
"What we know for certain," she continued, bringing herself back on track, "is that someone out there is very interested in me, for some reason. The problem is that I can't think of anyone that might do this. If you have any suggestions, it could provide us with a lead to start investigating."
Falman cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, perhaps it's not someone you've met face-to-face. There was a lot of media coverage of the Colonel's coup d'état; you were mentioned in at least three articles over two different newspapers in association with him."
"That was almost a year and a half ago," Fuery put in. "Why did this guy wait until now to start contacting her?"
"Building up his courage," Breda put in. "People that do this sort of thing aren't generally all that confident around women. Especially women in powerful positions like Hawkeye."
"He could've been in prison," Havoc suggested. "All the outgoing mail gets screened: if it were anything stalker-ish, the guards would just toss the letter out. The inmate receives a warning, but the problem never really goes away. And they still get newspapers in jail."
"At the risk of this becoming too personal . . . ." Falman shifted in hesitation. "On the topic of people who might be responsible for this . . . . Lieutenant, do you have any former . . . well, any past relationships that might —"
"There's no old boyfriends," Roy cut in, a little too sharply.
Riza's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "I can answer questions myself, sir."
Eyebrows lifting, Havoc leaned back against the wall. "No offense, Boss, but how exactly do you know whether or not Hawkeye's new best friend isn't an old more-than-a-friend?"
That earned him a deadpan look. "Because I've known her longer than you have."
The conversation stopped as the room's door opened; all eyes went to the nurse standing there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm looking for a —" She paused, looking down at a piece of paper in her hand. "—First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye?"
Riza got to her feet. "That's me."
"You have a phone call at the nurses' station, ma'am. If you'll follow me?"
Reaching out, Roy's hand curled around his adjutant's arm before she could move away. "Just a moment. Who is it that's calling?"
The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, he didn't say. All he said was that it was important he speak to the Lieutenant immediately." She hesitated, clearly confused. "Should I tell him that the Lieutenant is unavailable, sir?"
"No." Tugging her arm from Roy's grasp, giving him a sidelong warning glance, Riza moved toward the door. "It's all right."
"Yes, ma'am. Please, follow me."
She was aware of Roy following her to the nurses' station, lurking behind her with all the dark foreboding of a thunderhead. It was times like this, she was thankful for the ability to ignore him when she so chose. The nurse who had fetched her lifted a telephone onto the high counter and turned away again; Riza breathed deep to steady herself and brought the receiver to her ear.
"Hello, Lieutenant."
For a fraction of a second, she froze, before forcing her mind back into action. "You could at least give me the chance to acknowledge first," she said calmly. "That's the way these things generally work: I say hello, then you, and then you tell me who's calling."
A soft chuckle sounded from the other end. "How very witty, my dear. However, I'm afraid I prefer to break with tradition in this case."
Unimpressed, Riza folded her arms on the countertop. "Have it your way. Do I at least get to know what I owe the pleasure to?"
"Of course, of course." The smile was evident in the mysterious caller's voice. "I have information on the murder of Mr. Eric Nickelson. I believe you've concerned yourself with that, have you not?"
Instantly on alert, Riza stood straight. Reaching over, she tapped Roy's arm twice to get his attention, before pointing at a pencil and pad of paper sitting on the desk below. "I have. When you say information, you mean you witnessed the murder?"
"In a sense, yes."
Taking the pencil, Riza held it ready to write, trying to ignore the smug tone of her caller. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give your name?"
"Of course." A pause for a pair of heartbeats. "Berthold Hawkeye."
Riza twitched. The tip of the pencil, pressed against the paper and ready to write, snapped under sudden pressure from her surprised fingers. Delayed by a half-second, Roy gave a similar jolt at her reaction, eyes suddenly watching her with worried intensity.
Swallowing hard, she forced her voice to remain calm. "You'll have to try that again," she said, curling her fingers tightly around the pencil. "I'm having a hard time believing it."
"All the things you've seen and you don't believe me?" The man masquerading as her father tsked. "Friends with a boy's soul in a suit of armour, and another that survived human transmutation. You fought alongside chimeras and against Homonculi, and you still don't believe me?" Another brief pause. "Even the man you call your lover had his sight restored with the fabled Philosopher's Stone. How can you not believe, Riza?"
Her breath stopped for a moment; staring straight ahead, it was only the touch of Roy's hand on her arm that brought her back. ". . . My what?" she said, voice low.
"Oh yes, I know all about that," was the indifferent answer. "Do you want this information I have or not?"
Riza gritted her teeth. "I do, but I'd also like to know how and why you have all this personal intelligence on me. And while we're at it, perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining why you insist on using my father's name." In her peripheral, she was aware of Roy's eyes suddenly narrowing as it became all too clear who she was speaking to.
". . . We're not going to get very far today, I can see that now."A quiet sigh. "The man who killed Mr. Nickelson: it was me."
She set the pencil down: if her grip on it tightened any further, the entire thing was going to snap in half. "Was it, now. And how do I know that you're not simply faking a confession? From where I stand, you seem quite prone to lying."
"Oh, come now, Riza. In this entire conversation, I have told exactly one lie: no more, no less. Though if it will take another display of truth to convince you . . . ." The smirk in his voice reappeared.
Two long seconds after the next words left his mouth, Riza slammed the receiver back into its cradle, and yanked her hand away as though burned. She spun, turning to face the opposite direction so that she wouldn't have to look at the device. Roy's hand, slipping from her arm, went to her shoulder.
"Hawkeye, talk to me. What's going on?"
She gritted her teeth. ". . . He knows about my back, sir."
