Chapter 12: Regrouping

The dress shop was due to close in fifteen minutes when the last customer came in. Vanessa looked up from the mannequin she was dressing to see a young woman of maybe twenty, wearing a military uniform, her brown hair in an unkempt bob, and eyes framed by a spectacularly ugly pair of glasses. This was unusual; her customers were usually much more fashion-forward. "Good evening. Can I help you find something?" she asked politely.

"Um," the girl said, eyes darting nervously, "I have a coupon." She had been fingering a postcard-sized piece of paper, and now held it out. It read:

COMPLIMENTARY STYLE CONSULTATION
We fix fashion emergencies!

Vanessa nodded, understanding. This would be Sheska, the girl with the photographic memory who had been recruited to help pass messages. In need of help. She stole a look out the window; there were no black cars, no agents, no one at all in sight. "Did anyone follow you?"

Sheska shook her head. "I don't think so. I was really careful."

"OK." Vanessa sized the girl up for a moment, then rooted through a clothesrack, pulling out the first dress she found in the appropriate size. "Just in case anyone's looking, try this on in the dressing room. Come out with it on, like you're asking my opinion. We'll keep talking in the meantime."

Sheska eyed the garment, a strapless red satin party dress, with alarm. "I really have to…?"

"It'll look suspicious if you don't. Go on." Vanessa pressed the dress into her hands, then turned back to her mannequin. Once the girl was settled inside the dressing room, she continued talking to her through the curtain. "What's your emergency? Are you safe?"

"I—think so," Sheska responded. "I don't think anyone knows about me. But, um, everyone else is gone. The people who recruited me, they've all been transferred to other parts of the country." She paused to take a breath. "And this morning, there was another memo from the Fuhrer President's office. I didn't know where to take it. They told me in the beginning that if anything like this happened, I should come here."

The girl was clearly frightened, but she had stuck to her mission. "You did the right thing," Vanessa reassured her. "I'll make sure the message gets where it needs to go."

Sheska emerged from the dressing room holding a folded envelope, which she handed to Vanessa with visible relief. She was wearing the dress as instructed; but her shoulders were hunched with embarrassment, her cheeks flushed almost as red as the satin, looking as if she'd been forcibly gift-wrapped. The hostess felt a twinge of sympathy; the girl clearly lacked self-confidence.

"You're doing great," Vanessa encouraged, turning back to the clothesrack. Perhaps something more subdued. She pulled out a sleeveless black cocktail dress and handed it to the girl. She looked pained, but took it and went back into the dressing room.

"Now let's talk about what to do next," Vanessa said. "We'll need a new drop-off point for the memos. It'll look odd if you suddenly start coming here regularly." Alas, no one would believe that this girl was a regular customer of a high-end fashion boutique.

"Um," Sheska countered gingerly from behind the curtain, "they told me in the beginning that if it wasn't safe, they would get my mother and me out of the country. Is it time for that? I mean, if the people who were getting the messages are gone now, do you even still…need me?"

She was getting cold feet, Vanessa realized. The girl was still a vital part of their operation, but she was a volunteer, not a professional operative. It would have to be her choice to continue. "We still need you, Sheska," she replied seriously. "Right now, Lieutenant Hawkeye has only two ways of contacting us, and the other way is limited to once a week. If there's an emergency in the meantime, you're the only way she has to reach us." She paused. "But it's your decision. If you're too scared to continue, we have two train tickets waiting, and we'll get you and your mother out of here like we promised. Tonight, if you want. You tell me."

There was a long pause. "OK," Sheska finally responded. "If it's important, then I'll stay, and keep helping." She still sounded frightened, but there was determination in her voice. Good girl, thought Vanessa, genuinely impressed. She wasn't hostess material, but she had talent and guts, and if they managed to live through the Promised Day, Madam would probably try to recruit her as a permanent operative. "Thank you," Vanessa told her sincerely.

Sheska emerged again. It was almost impossible to go wrong with a little black dress, but somehow the girl was managing, her hunched demeanor making the outfit look more suitable for a funeral. Vanessa sighed. All right, perhaps something not quite that subdued. She made a last try; this time it was burgundy velvet with short sleeves, which Sheska accepted in defeat and trudged back to the dressing room. While she tried it on, Vanessa had her review her schedule, to think of a place she went regularly where she could discreetly connect with one of Madam's agents. They settled on a laundromat that she habitually used.

"If that's done, can I stop trying on clothes now?" Sheska asked timidly as she emerged once more, this time in the burgundy dress. Actually, this one wasn't bad—the color and style suited her, and she looked less mortified at wearing it. Yes, this dress could definitely work. But they would have to do something with the rest of her.

"All right," declared Vanessa. "We're almost done. We found you a dress, but now it's time for your makeover."

Now Sheska was truly alarmed. "W-What? Do we really have to…?"

Vanessa was determined to reward the girl for her efforts however she could. "No arguments. We promised you a style consultation, and you've earned it. In fact, I've never met anyone so deserving." She flashed the girl a charming smile as she took her by the wrist and all but dragged her over to the makeup counter. "We'll have to work on getting you some better-looking glasses. But for now, let's start with the hair."


Later that night, Hawkeye's latest memo made its way into the hands of its intended recipient, who read it with an ironic smile. Madam Christmas was ensconced in her office behind the bar, puffing on a cigarette, the muffled clink of bottles and the laughter of hostesses and clients faintly audible outside her door. The message read simply: MADAM, WRATH KNOWS YOU'RE INVOLVED.

The older woman appreciated the warning, but she hadn't needed it. Since the night of Hawkeye's visit, Wrath had dramatically upped his surveillance of her establishment. Now, in addition to the black car that perpetually hovered outside her window and the wiretaps on her phone lines—at least the ones he knew about—he had begun sending agents directly into the bar at night. They were large thuggish-looking men in black suits and sunglasses, who sat in dark corners, ignored the hostesses' flirtations, and glared threateningly at employees and patrons alike. ("Drachman business tycoons," Madam lied to her customers in a confidential tone, keeping her voice cheerful. "They're a little weird, but harmless. Just ignore them.") Last night there had been a woman loitering with them, a buxom brunette dressed in a black evening gown, long black gloves, and tall high-heeled boots, with a garish red tattoo on her chest. A pair of customers had mistaken her for a hostess before Madam had a chance to warn them off; the woman had responded with bizarre and insulting comments, and both men had left in a huff. Business was already down by forty percent.

It could have been much worse. Wrath obviously suspected that she and her people were up to something, but he didn't seem to know exactly what. No agents had investigated Vanessa's dress shop or Madeline's sandwich cart. And thus far none of her girls, or her customers, or herself had been harmed, or even explicitly threatened. The bar was merely a front for her organization, and brought in only a fraction of its operating funds; if lost income were the only casualty, she could certainly afford it. Still, Madam had cultivated her brand identity carefully and was angry at seeing it tarnished. There was also a very real threat behind the harassment, and being under extra scrutiny made things more difficult—especially given the sensitive cargo she had just moved in from East City.

Well, she had only herself to blame, she reminded herself, stubbing out her spent cigarette and lighting a fresh one. She should never have indulged that Hawkeye girl in the nonsense with the dog. She had known it was a bad idea at the time, but she had a soft spot for the kid, and had gone against her own better judgment. There could be no more of that.

She used her lighter to burn the memo, throwing it into the ashtray on her desk and watching it flame into cinders. In her line of work, soft spots were dangerous. It was why she couldn't allow herself to think about Roy. Or of the creature that had latched itself, not only to his body but to his soul, twisting him into something evil that she no longer recognized as her son. If she let herself think about that, even for a moment, she would be so overwhelmed with grief that she wouldn't be able to do her job.

She sighed gruffly and stood up to leave. It was time for her to get back on the floor and banter with her clients; and after they were gone, she would see to that cargo. She didn't have time for sentimentality. Because right now, Madam doing her job might just be the only thing standing between all of them and oblivion.


Following the Hayate incident, Hawkeye also found herself under increased surveillance, as Wrath now assigned two bodyguards to shadow her whenever she left his presence. The new security arrangements were necessary, he explained in an official announcement, because he had uncovered a plot by Anti-Establishment terrorists to kidnap the First Lady and hold her for ransom. This preposterous lie apparently went unquestioned by either Wrath's men or the docile Amestrian press corps. But in a testament to his arrogance, rather than assign trained agents who would have known to look for signs of covert contact, he had simply pulled two soldiers from the honor guard to follow her around, probably assuming that she would be intimidated into compliance. It was a lucky break for her that the homunculi were so dismissive of humans. The Colonel had occasionally let overconfidence make him careless, but for Wrath, it seemed to be a permanent condition.

Today was her first time running her Wednesday errands under the new security regime. She made her way into the dress shop slowly, stopping to browse outside the front window first, giving Vanessa the opportunity to see that there were guards with her. But she realized quickly that she needn't have worried; preparations had already been made. "Welcome back, Mrs. Mustang," Vanessa greeted her effusively as she entered. For the first time, there was music playing from a hidden phonograph. "I was hoping you'd come in today. I have your alterations ready from last week." She handed Hawkeye a huge armload of dresses. "Why don't you try them on? Dressing room #1 is occupied, but #2 is open."

Something was clearly going on. As Hawkeye headed into the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, she heard Vanessa begin spinning a flirtatious sales pitch to the bodyguards, suggesting presents they could buy for their wives or girlfriends. In case that wasn't enough to distract them, the customer in dressing room #1 chose that moment to emerge and continue her shopping. An attractive, shapely blonde in a skimpy white dress, she gave Hawkeye a conspiratorial wink as she passed by. Oh, Madam and her people were good.

There was nothing obviously out of place in dressing room #2, but Vanessa had directed her here for a reason. Keep your eyes open, Madam had said. Hawkeye carefully examined the wall in front of her. Sure enough, all the way around the full-length mirror, there was a barely-visible seam. She gave the mirror an experimental push, and the wall clicked and swung open: a secret door.

Behind the door was a small room, and it was occupied. The tall, redheaded soldier inside was grinning at her. "Surprise!" he whispered. "Havoc!" Hawkeye whispered back in astonishment, now grinning herself as she shut the door. She was so glad to see her teammate that she gave him a quick hug, her usual reserved professionalism be damned. "How in the world…? You were being watched. How did you get away from Ishval?"

"I never reported there in the first place. Madam Christmas arranged it," he explained. "I got as far as East City before her people intercepted me. She convinced General Grumman to send someone to impersonate me. The post is so isolated that nobody who knows what I look like will probably ever go there." He grinned. "The new guy isn't quite as handsome, of course—"

"Or as modest, I'm sure. What about the others?"

Havoc shook his head. "The other posts are too populated for that trick to work. So I'm afraid you're stuck with just me." Hawkeye smiled nonetheless. If she could only have one member of the team with her, and it couldn't be the Colonel, she was glad it was Havoc. The two of them had been on many missions in the field, and fought well together.

"We've managed to stay in contact," Havoc continued. "Everybody's OK, for now. But South City's a war zone, and the North and West are starting to heat up too. The guys are going to have their hands full." He paused, then continued with a worried frown. "And what about you, Hawkeye? Are you OK in that house—really?"

She nodded, and gave him a reassuring smile that was mostly genuine. "I'm OK, Havoc. Really. The Colonel's keeping Wrath in line." She hesitated, not sure how much personal detail she wanted to share. "I have my own bedroom," she added finally. "You don't need to worry."

"OK," he replied, looking somewhat relieved. "Well, I'm here to help with the fight. Whatever you need me to do."

"Good. I'll think of some way to put you to work," she declared. "For now, what we could use most is intel from up north. The Elrics have headed up that way, plus a couple of other State Alchemists, and possibly Scar." She filled Havoc in on what she had overheard about Dr. Marcoh from Wrath and Pride.

He nodded. "I'll see what Falman can find out."

"And now I should get back out there, before my chaperones decide I've been kidnapped," she sighed.

Havoc gave her a quick, mostly humorous salute. Then he added seriously, "Good luck, Boss. Keep your head down."

Hawkeye smiled to herself as she left the secret room. He had never called her "Boss" before. It was what he used to call the Colonel. I guess I really am the commanding officer now, she thought. Whether I like it or not.