Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. Yeo.
Thanks to Southpaw and artFULLYoutuvit for beta - muchly appreciated.
Thanks also to the folk who have reviewed, faved and added to their alert list. Smashing!
Massive thanks to the fantastically talented fudfoodle who took the time to do an amazing illustration from this chapter. So please - check it out! It can be found here (without spaces):- . com/art/Moonlight-Sonata-161373781
Tally ho!
"Because each seeks only his own good, in this city Justice is subject to Tyranny; nobody passes along this road without Fear."
Ahu Kamaka lumbered out of the single bedroom to see her former pupil stretched out on the threadbare couch, a small smile playing on his lips. A shadow crossed her face as she spotted one hand was secreted under the dull pink of the thick cotton blanket.
"What the blazes are you smirking at, Mot?" She said, limping heavily under her weight as she moved towards the armchair.
Mot stretched, pulling both hands far behind his head and thus disproving Kamaka's lewd theory for the faraway smile on the man's face.
"I'm just thinking how Colonel Mustang will receive another little gift from me today. Perhaps I'll even try calling him again. Though last time..." He sat up, rubbing his mousy hair with unsure fingers. The Colonel was so alluringly cruel the last time he called it sent jolts through his belly.
Kamaka stared hard at the alchemist before her. His fawning and affections were despicable. How easily she could end his pathetic existence at the briefest of touches. The intention was almost always there but her logic and requirement deigned that Mot had a little longer to live. As soon as he took her ambition as far as he could, she would make a bloodless statue of him.
"A gift?" She asked, sounding as though she couldn't be less interested.
"To shake him to his foundations. I stole it from Christmas' place. Another token from his putrid mother." He smiled back at her.
"We need to weaken his resolve in order for your ultimate array to work." She stated, steepling her chubby fingers as her doughy elbows sunk farther into the rough fabric of the chair.
"I do." Mot answered, trying to keep his tone even despite his compulsion to scream and pull at his hair. For Kamaka to refer to 'we' doing anything to Mustang was enough to make his blood boil. "When I activated the array yesterday, I'm sure there was a moment of pivot, when the two souls balanced on the fulcrum of his body but..." His pale face pinched at the effort of putting words to the unspeakable. "...he held fast with the most ferocious.. dark determination. There's a desperation to survive in him and it isn't just instinct."
"You ramble, worm." Kamaka said, taking no pains to hide her utter disdain for the man.
"I'm talking about intent." He wagged a finger at the woman. "If I had to put money on it, I would warrant that he's thought about his own death in a very real way, perhaps even suicide-"
Kamaka flared. "Well the wretch wants to die then! Surely his resolve can't be that robust if he-"
"But it is! Which makes me think that he's been convinced otherwise, by himself or someone else." The blonde haired aide stabbed into Mot's mind before he wrenched it out with a visible grimace. "It was like a – a covenant written on every inch of him that said 'cling to this life.' There's something he needs to accomplish. He's looking past his death. Far, far past it."
Kamaka pondered this, her eyes hooded by purpled lids. "He and Wei Po-Yang both: two peas in a pod."
Mot smiled at her comment, albeit reluctantly. "Yes, indeed, but which pea is native?"
"Mot?" Kamaka sneered.
"When I spoke to my sources in Shaoshan they said that Mustang's mother miscarried just before he was born."
"Twins." Kamaka stated matter-of-factly.
"No." Mot drew out the single syllable in a long whine. "No, I don't think so."
A grunt and a glare was all Kamaka spared by way of further questioning.
"Kamaka-" Mot started, his smile widening. "Are you familiar with the habits of a cuckoo?"
The implications of Mot's assertion drove into Kamaka with force and her head began swimming with a hundred theories. For an alchemist to even entertain that Po-Yang could transport his soul through time was considered fringe alchemic theory, so surely Mot couldn't be talking about the transfer of mass. Moreover, Mot's radical supposition implied that Po-Yang transferred not just any mass but biological matter.
"You're losing your science in all your heated fervour, Mot." Kamaka said sourly with her mouth down-turned, utterly unprepared to believe something as monumental as his proposal.
"Perhaps, but it could be a considerable blow to our Colonel's pluck if he stumbled across the same theory. Let's remember, Roy Mustang was destined to die a blighted waif on the streets of Shaoshan until that whore-merchant, Christmas found him."
"What does his biography matter?"
"For him to exist by luck alone. Not to mention the chance that he's lived for thirty-odd years in a skin that isn't his." Mot leant forward, caught up by his own enthusiasm and forgetting for the moment his hatred for Kamaka. "He is known almost exclusively for two things: virtuoso alchemy and good looks, but neither of them may even be his! The real Zai Sheng might have slid out of his mother prematurely in some Xingese hovel."
"You're disgusting... and where is your sympathy, Mot? I thought you loved this boy-divine?" Kamaka jeered.
"I do. I am won by his tragedy, the very paradox of him-" He began with eyes alight.
"You have to convince him yet." Kamaka blurted out her realism, cutting him off.
Mot's pride did not sting for long however; he felt his success as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet.
"I know." He smiled, toying with a lock of hair. "I am quite aware of that."
"Yí hàn." A dark voice in the space behind her...
"Yí hàn." The strong fingers on her belly flexed and soft, damp hair drifted across her back.
Hawkeye cracked an eye open to the blue gloom of early morning.
"Mŭ, yí hàn." A breath rattled against her scapula.
"Roy." She whispered, the name sounding alien to her despite their coiled legs and crowding of flesh. Hayate raised his head from his place on the floor, ears alert.
"Yí hàn." He repeated with more urgency and she could feel the cold sweat from his chest press against her nakedness.
"Colonel." No response. "Roy-"
Mustang grumbled at her beckoning, the sound sending tremors down her spine. Turning herself to face him, she saw the same distressed and yearning visage as the night before. Bringing a hand to his face, she wiped away a faint wetness at his eye.
"Roy." She said again, soft but with a little more volume behind it. "Roy, wake up."
He groaned loudly and forced his face against her shoulder, nudging it hungrily before kissing her neck with the same vigour. She pushed him back to regard him in the aftermath of his dreaming. Jet black eyes shot mischief at her. Mustang was truly a soldier, his mind alert within milliseconds of waking.
"What a terrific way to greet the morning." He purred. "I should throw out my alarm clock."
She spoke into his hair. "Judging by your timekeeping lately, I thought you had."
There was a 'hmph' of amusement from him as he raised his head to settle his gaze on her, the light of the window framing white squares in his inky pupils.
"There you are." He said.
"Here I am." She ran her hand from the dip below his stomach to the fringe of his bandaged shoulder, toying with the slight fray of the gauze.
"You haven't run away like the girls in the ten-cenz operas." He said, his attempt at distraction quite obvious.
"I tried my best but the bolted door made it tricky." Hawkeye returned quickly, despite her preoccupation with checking his wound. "How does it feel?" She asked, studying the glisten and scarlet of his ruined flesh.
He bowed his head to look at his injured shoulder, giving himself an incongruous double-chin.
"Just fabulous." He said, an ugly snarl shaping his mouth as he scrutinised it further.
She raised her amber eyes to chide his flippancy with no room for interpretation. Evidently there was no chance she would be usurped as the 'trouser-wearer.'
Mustang huffed. "It's sore, Riza, and itchy as hell. It's just... what it is. Better this mess than risk any more activations of the array. Ed wouldn't let me live it down if I turned into an incoherent, fainting one-man show." He rubbed at her back when he saw a touch of guilt in her unenthusiastic smile. "You did great."
"Hm." Hawkeye looked unconvinced until she remembered why she had woken him in the first place. "What does 'yee-han' mean?" She asked, thumbing the adhesive tape of the bandage to refasten the gauze.
Mustang cast a frown of cynicism at her, baffled by the sudden change of topic. "Not a clue. Xingese?"
"I presume so. You kept saying it in your sleep. I thought you might remember." She said, disappointed. He had sounded so distraught.
"Sorry, apparently I have no control over my second language." He said before devilment played in his eyes once more. "Or this..."
She spoke as plainly as though she were questioning his choice of necktie. "Your hand on my ass, Sir?"
"My hand on your – yes." He gave it a tentative squeeze and shrunk back with a mock flinch, one cheeky eye closing in anticipation of a powerful, if playful, slap.
Hawkeye sighed and looked away shyly from him, having misread his amour as frustration. "I'm sorry that I couldn't... you know... last night."
"I'm not. I'm glad – imagine me waiting all these years to find out you were only after me for my body." His words broke off into a snigger as he approached the end of his ridiculous statement.
She shuffled towards him on the bed, giving lie to her next comment. "You're insufferable."
"Further proof of your tenacity."
"Or my masochism." She scoffed, pushing his fringe back.
"A masochist? Well then, I'm just the man for the job." He threw back his head and scooted further down the bed, placing a kiss in the misty recess of her throat as he went.
"Oh?" Hawkeye queried demurely, keen toes tensing.
"Tortuous-" His lips brushed her collarbone. "Selfish-" A nip at the flesh above her right breast.
His head disappeared under the duvet and his voice emanated from the depths of cotton in a muffled, yawning growl. "Not to mention I've got an iron-maiden under the bed..."
"Ha – you've got almost all the criteria..." Hawkeye taunted, threading her fingers through his hair as he continued his descent.
"Except for?" The muscles in her tummy jumped as his breath swept across it.
"Perhaps I misheard: 'man for the job?'"
"Oh-ho!" His head shot out of the covers and two powerful hands hoisted her by the hips to lie her on top of him. He steadied her with his right hand while his left covered his eye. "I could wear an eye-patch and call myself Bradley if you think that would help spur on your imagination."
"What about the facial hair?" She kissed the gentle indent above his lips, as her fingers trailed circles across the struts of his ribs.
"That's a low blow, Hawkeye." He admonished playfully before adding, "Patchy at best."
The sparring was cut short as the alarm clock jumped to life with a terrible ringing. Hayate, shocked by the sudden intrusion of shrieking chimes, leapt onto the bed and forced his wet nose between the couple.
With great difficulty, the Colonel nudged the dog aside just enough to win a kiss from his Lieutenant.
"Good morning, Miss Hawkeye."
Hawkeye, shook her head at his unexpected greeting, a few strands of hair coming loose with the movement. She slapped his cheeks with both hands and brushed a soft kiss against his forehead.
"Good morning, Mr Mustang."
Brigadier General Lockheed grabbed his phone with the telling irritation of a man who loved his breakfast and did not want to be disturbed.
"Lockheed." He grumbled into the receiver.
The lethargic voice of the switchboard operator crackled through the earpiece. "Fuhrer Bradley for you, Sir."
Lockheed gritted his teeth and assumed his most deferential demeanour.
"Good morning, Fuhrer Sir. To what do I owe-"
"Lockheed – your request for a State Alchemist to augment Operation Abacus-" The Fuhrer stated in his unmistakably rich tone.
"-was declined. I know Sir." Lockheed interrupted, checking the small clock on the telephone table, it had just gone five thirty.
"It's your lucky day, Brigadier General..." The Fuhrer's pleasant tone did nothing to disguise the volcanic menace that lurked just beneath the surface. "In light of recent consideration the council has assigned a State Alchemist to your command."
There wasn't a single senior officer who was unaware of the Fuhrer's sense of the ironic. Lockheed was no exception and it didn't take long for him to guess just who his State Alchemist would be.
"Colonel Mustang, Sir." It was a statement rather than a question.
"Colonel Mustang." The Fuhrer repeated, his smile quite evident. Integrate his unit as best you can before we meet this morning. He will be at your full disposal."
The Fuhrer's last comment made Lockheed smile despite the recent revelation. "Yes Sir."
His affirmation was lost as the phone clicked to silence. Lockheed replaced the receiver on its cradle and straightened his jacket, humming the national anthem to himself. It was the perfect opportunity: a veteran alchemist at his beck and call. He had waited his whole military career to have one of those glorious weapons placed into his hands and it turned out all he had to do was have a row with one. He couldn't wait to see the smug look wiped off Colonel Mustang's face. Not only would the Flame Alchemist be under his command, but his clique also. He would show them all what a sycophantic worm the man really was, despite all his sputtering and venom in the debate. Lockheed knew the brat was desperate enough to climb the ranks to fulfil even the most unreasonable orders.
Imagining the vast power the Flame Alchemist had in his possession, Lockheed shaped his calloused fingers into a gun and fired off a mock shot with a 'pffing' of his lips. It really was his lucky day.
Hawkeye slid her hand across the banister, making her way downstairs. As she rounded the corner onto the landing, she heard the sound of light notes being picked out on the piano. She crept down the remainder of the stairs and spotted her Colonel nestled comfortably at the black piano, head bowed and fingers picking out a chord here and single notes there. His head was obscured by the lifted collar of his shirt and she smiled at the shifting of his back muscles as he dallied.
Her advance was arrested by the sight of his desk. Not a single grain of wood was visible under countless pages and upturned books, some of which looked older than her grandfather. She turned her head from side to side as she read the various titles but her examination was interrupted by the Colonel's voice.
"Enjoy your shower?" He asked, still facing the piano.
"Yes." She answered distractedly. "What is this? Not alchemy..." She said quietly, her eyes drifting back to his desk. Everywhere she saw his frantic scrawl and tell-tale doodles from when his concentration must have lapsed.
He swung his legs over the piano stool and sat back against the huge instrument, his elbows striking discord as they leant on the keys.
"Research. About seven years worth." He said and pointed at the two shelves stood tall beside the desk, an indication that the material in front of her was but a meagre portion of his study.
Hawkeye read out a few of the titles: "Utopia; Free Movement; Ethnocentric Cataclysm; The Republic..." She pushed another few aside. "The Principle of Fairness; Representative Democracy; A Study of Tyranny..." Her eyes rose to meet his. "Sir these are-"
"Incendiary." He said with a hint of cockiness.
Hawkeye looked at him incredulously. "At the very least."
He bowed his head shyly and pushed a hand through his hair. "I know. I shouldn't leave them lying out, but none of the brass have stopped by for tea yet. Besides, it could be for academic interest." He grinned at her, fully aware of his weak refutation.
Hawkeye's answer was to read out another title. "Off With His Head: After Tyranny by Roy Jenkins."
"Madame Christmas told me I was named after Jenkins." Mustang remarked lightly.
"Given that it was he who lost his head and not Fuhrer Socram, I hope that's where the parallel ends." She said solemnly.
Mustang sat back further and opened his legs to create a space on the stool in front of him. "Come here." He held out his hand.
Hawkeye hesitated for a moment before capitulating and making her way towards him suspiciously. She sat and leant back into his embrace as his hands clasped in front of her stomach. He looked closely at her profile from his position at her shoulder, the ghost of a smile on his face.
"You're right to worry. I'll move them to a safer place tonight." His deep voice held no lie.
Hawkeye nodded and played with his right hand as she relaxed in the last few minutes before they had to leave.
"I can't believe what these managed to do at your party. I never knew..." She tugged at his fingers to indicate his musicianship. "Never heard anything like it."
He rested his chin on her shoulder, his jaw working it as he spoke. "If only that were all they did." He answered her curious look with a loud snap of his fingers.
"You don't mean that." She said, defensiveness biting at her words. It was her father's alchemy after all.
"I know." He sucked in a deep breath and mocked playing a tune on her upper thigh, the pressure leaving neat little imprints on the blue fabric of her uniform. "When I was a child I wanted to be a great concert pianist." He said quietly, the recollection showing plainly in his eyes. "I practised for hours and hours, almost every night..."
"So why alchemy?" Hawkeye asked through an intake of breath as his fingers skirted higher on her leg.
Mustang stopped in his mime, hand paused in deliberation. "It just ... hm." He had never really asked himself that before and found the memories difficult to decant into words. "It always felt as though a hand was guiding me... I don't know, I can't remember when the two paths switched places. Alchemy flooded me though, it was like finding my own shadow."
"And when did you discover digression?" Hawkeye mocked and winced when Mustang's teeth nipped at her neck in reprimand. "Sorry." She laughed.
They stayed in their companionable silence until Mustang slapped a hand down on her knee.
"Time to go?" He asked, hoping she would answer in the negative as his hands found purchase on her hips.
"How much time for a song?" Hawkeye asked, twisting her neck to look at him with bright eyes.
"Five minutes?" Mustang offered curiously.
"Then we have five minutes."
The man quirked an eyebrow at her, then without warning, kicked one foot under her legs to lift them as he spun them both back to face the piano. She yelped with the motion and steadied herself noisily on the ivory keys.
"You'll never make it." Mustang quipped at the cacophony of her momentary clumsiness.
With his arms stretched either side of her, he adjusted himself until he was better able to play. His hands found the keys.
"Something gentle!" Hawkeye blurted out with uncharacteristic volume, remembering how devastating the piece from the party had been.
His response was a tightening of his legs around her waist and the first chiming chords. His body pushed against her back as he picked out the notes of the piece. Even in its first moments, the sound was so pure and light and sublime that Hawkeye could scarcely believe it was the same instrument that shook the whole party only days before.
"Moonlight." He said quietly as his fingers brushed the keys before her. "The composer was twenty-eight and fell in love with a poem of that name."
He closed his eyes as the theme built to a near crescendo before dropping away with a few scattered notes. Then he began in earnest, his fingers pouring over the keys as the rolling melody brought the clearest of sounds to life in the air around them. Hawkeye shuddered against him as his leg slid past hers to reach for the pedals. Then almost as suddenly as the deluge began, it quieted to a tender misting of sound.
Mustang spoke again, his hushed voice hardly distinguishable from the music.
"...almost sad beneath their fanciful disguises..." He quoted the moonstruck poet as the theme carried on delicately. "...They do not seem to believe in their happiness..."
The notes were becoming ever quieter as the piece drew to a close.
"...sad and beautiful..." he said as he ran his right hand over the final notes and let them drift off into the brightness of the new day.
Hawkeye let her head drop back onto his shoulder and they sat in their silence for a length, each revelling in their new found togetherness.
"We should go." Hawkeye said after a time and waited for him to stand.
Mustang clambered off the stool and pressed his lips to her temple, holding them there for a beat before drawing himself to full height.
"You didn't want breakfast did you?" He asked, fetching their coats from the wrack. He held hers out for her and she obliged him with a smile.
"No. Thank you."
"Good because all I could offer was out of date corned beef and a stale loaf of bread." He admitted while he searched for his keys.
"Hayate may not be so forgiving. I'm surprised he hasn't eaten your couch at this point." She said, reaching down to scratch the dog behind his ear. She glanced nervously at the door. "What if someone spots us?"
Mustang reached over his desk and shifted his works in search of something, providing Hawkeye the opportunity to regard his compact physique. She winked down at her dog and recovered her poise just in time as he marched towards her with a stack of old account forms. He dropped them into her hands and spoke to her in the even coolness expected from a superior officer.
"Thank you, Lieutenant for attending to these so early. It was good of you to give up your morning before my meeting with the Fuhrer." He showed absolutely no sign of jesting, his mouth set in a thin line.
"You're too good at this." She said, turning her head to look at the outdated documents.
"Aren't we both?" On saying that, his stoic veneer shattered and he delivered playful kiss to her cheek.
Hawkeye decided to fall into character herself and walked past him with a roll of her eyes, Hayate trotting proudly at her heel. "Whatever you say, Sir."
As Mustang made his way out, he felt some vague compulsion to look back over his shoulder and make sure everything was in place. Seeing nothing awry, he closed the door and followed his Lieutenant to the car making no attempt to tear his eyes from the boundless captivation of her.
Second Lieutenant Breda plodded into the office with a hand held over his eyes to protect them from the oblique brightness of the winter sun. Tossing his coat over the wrack with disinterest, he continued his effortful trudge towards his desk.
Excluding Mustang, Hawkeye and the Elrics, the remaining members of the unit were as present as they could be following the previous day's events. A low hum from the lights provided some antidote to the weary silence.
Havoc glanced up from his game of solitaire, faithful cigarette in place. "What's eating you, Braidykins?" He asked, his concentration returning to his lonely game.
Breda flopped down opposite Havoc and spoke to him through a mess of cheek and lips as he leant his face on his right hand.
"I barely slept a wink last night." He muttered before howling in a yawn.
Fuery raised a bleary head from his desk like a wounded puppy who heard his name called. "Me neither. I couldn't get the Colonel out of my head."
Havoc swapped his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. "What's new Fuery?" The Lieutenant teased then pouted at the young man when he saw how crestfallen he was. "Just kidding, Fuery."
Fuery ignored his senior and instead looked towards his more sympathetic comrade, Falman who was currently engaged in shining his boots. "What about you?"
The grey-haired officer looked up and pondered the young Sergeant's question in great depth before committing an answer. "I try not to dwell on things. I slept mostly soundly." He answered and returned to the task at hand.
There was a collective rolling of eyes.
Breda looked back at Havoc and stopped the man mid play by placing a thick hand on top of the cards and mussing them. He leant in conspiratorially.
"You think she stayed?" He asked, eyes narrowed to the side to check for any eavesdropping.
"I have fifty cenz in my pocket that says she did." Havoc mumbled without looking up from his ruined card game.
Breda considered this before leaning back in his chair, defeated. "No point if we're both backing the same horse..."
Havoc only scoffed before both men were distracted by Fuery's quiet voice.
"I wonder how the Colonel's meeting with the Fuhrer is going..."
Havoc lifted Breda's hand and dropped it to the side before gathering up his cards, irked by the useless conjecture of Fuery's question. Regardless of how the meeting was proceeding, he was confident they would all know soon enough. Either the Colonel would thunder into the office and get cosy with his own scowling or he would waltz in full of wry smiles and less than covert comments about how well he thought the debate went.
"Can't be any worse than his meeting with that fat woman..." The Lieutenant jested and achieved a reluctant snort of amusement from Breda.
The banter was suspended by the clunk of the brass handle of the office door as a wrought looking Hawkeye stepped into the room, arms full of bound documents. She snapped off a 'good morning' as she circled the office, giving a booklet to each member of the unit. That done, she sat at her desk and wiped a hand across her brow.
"You okay, Hawkeye?" Havoc asked, his first genuine remark of the day.
Hawkeye cast hollow eyes at him, her face a picture of disbelief. "I'll let the Colonel explain. You could start by getting familiar with those thirty-two pages though."
Breda let his eyes linger on his comrade for a moment before he looked at the first page. "Operation Abacus?"
Havoc whistled. "The ARG plot? I thought we had intelligence that put a stop to that."
Hawkeye shook her head. "The Fuhrer decided to disregard the information volunteered by the ARG's Deputy Chief-of-Staff after his surrender. He wants to make an example of them and considers the group a canker that must be cut out. No preemptive measures have been taken."
Fuery was leafing through the document in barely concealed horror. He was privy to the communications from Hughes that recommended the preventative arrests of senior ARG members. The Lieutenant Colonel vouched for the integrity of the detained Deputy Chief-of-Staff, advising that the man considered the ARG unfit for their ambitious insurrection. The man had surrendered in a last minute bid to save the lives of his comrades, even if it meant their detention. The whole affair could have been ended days earlier with a few raids on the ringleaders' houses.
"It doesn't make sense." The Sergeant whispered as he saw his name heading up the communications section of the document.
"It doesn't have to, Fuery, this is Bradley we're talking about." Breda said, grimacing when he saw 'Flame Alchemist' dotted throughout the pages and 'Colonel Mustang' written nowhere.
Hawkeye turned her eyes towards Fuery, her manner sympathetic but hidden somewhat by her practicality. "Yours isn't the place to question orders, Sergeant, no matter how unreasonable they may seem."
With characteristic timing, the door swung open to reveal Ed and the metal leviathan of his brother.
"I need to speak with the Colonel – I've got a message for him from Dublith." The young alchemist announced as he sauntered in, his brother following close behind. "I suppose he's catching some 'downtime' in his office." Fullmetal's show of bravado convinced no one, the whole unit having witnessed just how shaken the teenager had been following the Colonel's collapse. His petulance did little else than thicken the already tense mood.
"Morning everyone." Al said, trying his best to sound cheery despite the atmosphere.
The tight unit mumbled a half-hearted response before Hawkeye pushed her chair back and delivered a dossier to Ed with a touch to his shoulder.
"The Colonel is currently engaged with the Fuhrer, Edward." She gestured to Operation Abacus. "He's trying his best to get you dropped from the mission as we speak. He should be with us shortly." She said sadly and turned to the suit of armour. "Alphonse, for obvious reasons I'm afraid you can't accompany us."
Both boys looked at each other in utter confusion before they started leafing through the thin booklet held between them.
"The ARG?" Alphonse asked, heavy fingers busied in keeping Ed from continuing his speed-read through the document.
"The Antifacist Resistance Group." Hawkeye advised.
"Don't be surprised if you haven't heard of them, Boss. They're a bunch of skinny idealists – virtually nobodies. They make their uniforms from the scraps of at least three other armies." Havoc chimed in but was quieted by an indignant glare from his colleagues.
"They're somebody enough to warrant this, Havoc." Breda argued, slapping his copy of the dossier on the desk.
Ed's eyes narrowed at Hawkeye. "If they're such nobodies why is the Colonel trying to drop me off the mission? Doesn't he trust me?"
"He-" Hawkeye started but was interrupted by Havoc as the scruffy haired Lieutenant leant across the desk at Ed.
"Because Lockheed has a hard-on for alchemists." He said and sat back with arms folded.
Breda groaned, embarrassed by the inappropriateness of Havoc's comment in front of the boys while Fuery looked horrified.
"That clown's in charge of this circus?" Ed asked, his high pitch and volume chipping the words as they left him.
"Havoc!" Hawkeye rounded on her colleague. "We will use an appropriate tone when discussing matters pertaining to the security of the-"
"Shit, Hawkeye, I'm just saying." The Second Lieutenant rejoined. Evidently, the lack of sleep had worn on everyone.
"Well don't." The bass tone struck the racket of the room like a gunshot.
All eyes rose to see their Colonel standing as straight as a pillar in the cavity of the doorway, his face devoid of any humour. Dark eyes swept across them, landing on each member of the team long enough to make them squirm.
The unit took a moment to gather themselves before they stood as one and saluted smartly.
"At ease." Mustang clipped, closing the door as silently as he had opened it and stalking his way to the front of the room.
Concerned eyes flitted and signalled behind his back. Only Hawkeye stood with shoulders squared, every ounce of her attention on him.
Mustang wasted no time in laying out the consequences of his meeting with the Fuhrer.
Operation Abacus was a mission engineered to respond to the ARG's plans to commandeer the Central Sewage Works, effectively holding a gun to one of the city's most vital services. If they blew up the plant, as intelligence indicated they would if their terms were not met, the whole city would grind to a halt. The mass disruption would stir unrest and lose the State hundreds of thousands of cenz. In any other municipal building, the mission would be a straightforward 'in and out' affair. The people of Central could cope without electricity and a post office, they could not cope without sanitation. The sewers would be backed up in hours and that's when disease would start to take its fetid hold.
Fuhrer Bradley insisted that for the insurgents to threaten such a base attack was to mock the pride of Amestris and its military. He wanted the small group wiped off the face of the planet.
Following his spirited show at the debate, Colonel Mustang was to support Brigadier General Lockheed on Operation Abacus as a show of good will and internal cohesion.
Mustang explained to his staff that Operation Abacus was the best outcome they could have hoped for . Despite the harsh appearance of the Fuhrer's decision, the man had actually enjoyed the Colonel's contribution to the debate and appreciated the positive response it seemed to have garnered from otherwise antimilitary sections of the media and public.
Lockheed's performance was met with less grace. His transfer to the south was undergoing its final checks and he had been issued fourteen days' notice before his move was due to take place. The Fuhrer, of course, explained that he was merely expanding the ageing man's portfolio. They were placing an embargo on the post as there were no viable candidates for his replacement. That particular clause had stung Mustang more than he cared to admit.
As he wrapped up the outline of the mission ahead of them, he saw a question flash across Breda's face. Respecting the man's intuition, he allowed him the interruption.
"Yes Breda?" He asked curtly.
The Second Lieutenant shouldn't have been surprised by the Colonel having noticed, but he was.
"What's our ramp up to this, Colonel?" The red head asked.
Mustang fought to keep all strain from his face as he answered. "Five hours."
He was met with quiet but unhappy acceptance and forced his voice through their solemnity and shuffling of feet. "Our troop will move out two hours before nightfall." He caught an unsure turn of Sergeant Fuery's mouth and held up a hand to galvanise their attention. "This is not the waiting room of the Central Infirmary. You're soldiers, so lift your chins when you're being spoken to."
"But Sir, our time is so-" Fuery moused with eyes averted.
Mustang cut him off with surgical precision. "The Brigadier General has been planning this for weeks and we can only augment his strategy. The time limit is not our enemy." His implication was not lost on the more senior members of his team: if time was not the enemy, then other parties were, most likely Lockheed himself.
Havoc was restlessly fiddling with his cigarette and the Colonel realised with a sigh that any attempt to wrap up matters tidily was futile. "Lieutenant?"
Havoc jumped a little and had to gather his thoughts before speaking.
"We haven't got all day, Lieutenant..." Mustang urged him with dubious calm.
"Well..." The man dropped his cigarette to the desktop. "Two squadrons, a Brigadier General and a State Alchemist – things are a little shit-serious for a group of petty insurgents, aren't they Sir?"
There was the briefest moment of shadow when the Colonel looked primed for losing his temper but his composure crushed it until it was nothing more than a glint in his eyes. He turned his attention to the suit of armour.
"Alphonse, how do we get biogas?" He asked in a tone that could have him mistaken for a primary school teacher.
"Um – the fermentation of biodegradable materials, sir?" The boy answered politely.
"Correct. Like what?" Mustang's eyes flitted to Havoc to check if the Lieutenant was paying attention.
"Sewage sir." Alphonse answered again with natural speed of thought.
The Colonel turned to Ed.
"Fullmetal, give me the primary components of fermented biogas?"
The diminutive alchemist looked befuddled with the Colonel's drift before answering with uncertainty. "Uh – carbon dioxide and methane?"
"Methane. Very good, Ed." Mustang congratulated sourly and returned his stern gaze to Havoc. "This is so shit-serious, Lieutenant, because if there is even as little as five per cent methane in the atmosphere then any ignition source can trigger an explosion. Now do me a favour and get the picture before I embarrass you by having to explain what happens when I snap my fingers."
Hawkeye cast him a weighted stare: 'reign it in' she appealed silently. He rolled his eyes and leant back against a desk with arms folded. Knowing that his Lieutenants would be fine, he focussed almost entirely on the more junior members of his team and the quiet mannered Falman.
"Look," Mustang said sharply before relaxing against the desk with one foot crossed in front of the other, aware that he needed to look in control despite his reservations about Lockheed's leadership. "This isn't ideal by any means. We're working under a commander with... questionable aptitude and we've been charged with the difficult task of crushing a disorganised, nervous and trigger-happy outfit."
Mustang was distracted from his impromptu speech by the keen stare of Edward Elric. He supposed the boy had never before seen him inhabit the role of commander per se. The Colonel hoped the young alchemist would be as receptive as the others. The importance of keeping Ed away from the influence of the Brigadier General could not be overstated. He collected himself with a seemingly nonchalant glance at his pocket watch and continued.
"Latest intel tells us that the ARG moved in this morning and took at least seven staff members hostage. They've dug themselves into the monitor room where they have almost total control of the plant's facilities. Despite the group's combative naivety, in fact because of it, this situation is a tinderbox. It's our job to neutralise the risk, all the while remembering that the ARG have guns to the heads of seven average workers who deserve to see the end of this day."
He folded his arms and allowed himself a distant smile at Ed then Fuery before continuing with seriousness.
"I've worked with you all for some time now and I know that in the course of this evening you will act with the same professionalism and poise I've grown to expect from you. We are going in to secure that plant and liberate those workers. I want you to hold on to one thought: none of those workers dressed for death today. As far as I'm concerned, neither did any of you. I want every single one of you back in your beds tonight, even if I have to tuck you in myself.
"Do not make yourself available to Lockheed. If you have to lie to him, lie – throw your ammo in the trash if it'll stop you from taking a shot under his duress. Be as absent as you possibly can be."
The Colonel changed masks again, slipping from concerned commander into a stone faced vision of self-possession.
"Second Lieutenant Breda." He barked.
"Yes Sir!" The red haired Lieutenant answered just as sharply.
"You will cover us remotely from behind both squads. Make sure you have your back against a wall. I don't put a lot of credence in Lockheed's rear guard."
"Yes Sir!" Breda repeated.
"Falman, I want you to stay close to Lieutenant Kells – he's Lockheed's right hand man. Alert me of any behaviour from the Brigadier General that presents as high risk or of any mention of Fullmetal."
"Sir!" Falman answered.
Ed looked ready to query the Colonel's reference to him but thought better of it judging by how seriously the rest of the command were behaving. It would be better to corner Mustang in private anyway, he always showed off less without an audience and might actually listen to Izumi Curtis' warning.
"Fuery, I want clean access to back-up if things 'go South'. Also, keep in touch with Lieutenant Colonel Hughes – I want regular updates on civilian activity in the area, especially if people start amassing with any sign of protest. Have the military police push them back. Clear?"
Fuery stood and received his orders with a quiet pride. "Sir."
"Fullmetal, you'll be running for me." Mustang said, his hackles rising in anticipation of an argument.
"What?" Ed asked, half laughing. The Colonel had to be kidding. A runner?
"No arguments, Major. I need to be in touch with my people and you're my fastest man." He said brusquely. "I don't want to hear a clap from you unless it's by my request. Havoc – you're covering Fullmetal."
The blonde Lieutenant confirmed his orders and shot Ed a look that left no illusions that he would be keeping the boy in check.
"Hawkeye, you're with me. The situation with myself and Lockheed may become contentious. If it looks like my alchemy is becoming a liability we need to be creative in making sure I'm put out of commission – even if it means you shooting my hands off."
"Sir!" The Lieutenant answered with a sharp connection of her booted heels.
The Colonel smiled solemnly before he pushed himself away from the desk with a grunt. "Well, what are you all waiting for? Get busy – full briefing with Lockheed's men in three hours." He moved off towards his office.
"Hey Colonel!" Ed shouted over the din of activity amongst Mustang's unit.
The Colonel half turned towards the prodigal alchemist and regarded him with a hooded eye. "Fullmetal."
Ed bristled for a moment but continued nonetheless. "I need to speak to you – I have an important message from my old teacher-"
"Ed, it's going to have to wait until after Abacus." The Colonel interrupted and took another step towards his office.
"Don't brush me off Colonel I'm trying to help you out here! It's urgent-"
"Deal with this, Hawkeye." Mustang ordered as he disappeared into his room and closed the door behind him.
Ed was left flabbergasted with both hands out in an appeal for Mustang's attention – the man was impossible. He turned to Hawkeye who smiled kindly at him with more than a little apology on her leader's behalf.
"It's been a very long week for him, Edward." She said and gestured that he take a seat with her away from the others. "Can you speak with me?"
Ed looked around him awkwardly before settling into his seat with shoulders set in a secretive hunch. Al came and joined him at his side. He reasoned that it actually worked out for the best that he told Hawkeye instead of Mustang. The likelihood was that had he told the Colonel directly, the idiot would have just brushed it under the carpet and not given the information a second thought until it was much too late. At least with the Lieutenant he knew that she would take his message on board and act upon it.
Ed leant forward with Al mimicking his surreptitious stance. "Lieutenant -" he hesitated, all of a sudden totally nervous about the warning he bore. Hawkeye urged him with an understanding nod. "My teacher has reason to believe a serious attempt will be made on the Colonel's life."
Ed couldn't be sure of what emotion crossed Hawkeye's face at the delivery of his teacher's message but whatever it was, he knew he never wanted to feel that way about Al. She didn't lose her poise or wring her hands, but somewhere in the depths of her amber eyes Ed saw the haunting presage of her own personal catastrophe.
Colonel Mustang sat down at his desk and growled loudly at the messy stack of letters bundled together on its surface.
Leafing through the mail to pick out only the most urgent items, his hand stopped across an envelope marked with familiar hand writing. His eyes shot to the door in reflex of making sure no one was present to see his unbridled shock. Already his left hand started to shake. He wiped his mouth, his eyes pinning the small cream rectangle with the massive weight of his awful expectations.
A shaking thumb broke the seal with an unsteady swipe across the top of the envelope. His fingers felt the wrinkled gloss of a worn photograph.
Pulling it out of the envelope, his stomach plummeted as the image revealed itself.
There, marked in blacks and greys against the yellowed card of the old print was a simple photograph of an impossibly slight Xingese girl. Cradled in the nook of one thin arm, a tiny baby with a shock of black hair stared up at the girl with eyes full of delight as one chubby hand reached for her chin. The girl was laughing but the thrust of her collar bone against her skin told another story.
Mustang felt sick. There was no mistaking the black glint of the girl's eyes nor the delicate architecture of her face; it had to be his mother.
He dropped the photo to the desktop and pushed the heels of his hands to his eyes to crush away the emotion threatening to charge its way into them. Opening them again, he glanced down and saw a message marked on the back of the print in the same spidery scrawl as the last note.
'Who are you really?' It read.
A lump formed in his throat, thick and full of gall at the sheer surprise of the picture. His ears rang and the familiar tang of metal seeped into his gaping mouth.
A light knock at the door broke him from the whirring of his thoughts. Mustang had the picture in his breast pocket in an instant.
"Yes?" He called, trying to ignore the tremble in his voice. Jittery hands wiped sweat from his face and he recovered his stance just as the door opened to reveal an equally distressed looking Hawkeye.
"Sir?" She asked and was invited in with a wave. Closing the door lightly, she approached the Colonel's desk, her eyes not failing to see the envelope marked with familiar writing. "I'm sorry, Sir. We need to talk. Edward's teacher has been trying to get a message of vital importance to you."
She paused as she noticed the odd demeanour of the man with a raising of her eyebrows. He looked wrecked and it was difficult to believe they would be moving out on a mission in a matter of hours. There was a furtiveness to the way his eyes danced across the envelope on the desk between them. Something else was up, that much was clear but she had to take things one step at a time.
"Izumi Curtis is confident that your life is in serious jeopardy following Tuesday's broadcast. The line was bad but her concern for your safety was serious enough to warrant your removal from Central for the time being. Whoever it is, they sound like they mean business."
Mustang leant back in his chair, pushing his shaking left hand into his pocket. He flashed his Lieutenant a dangerous smile, the inconceivable unfairness of the week's happenings darting through his thoughts. "...And this morning had started off so well..."
A/N: I should say, for Roy's short speech I leant heavily on Col Tim Collins (look 'im up: very inspiring guy). Also the Xingese Roy speaks has been very loosely based on Chinese and so please forgive any discrepancies in translation. Any sentiment expressed by him in Xingese will be translated via another character in the course of the story. A thousand thanks to Starcatcher1858 for her great advice. ...And no prizes for guessing which piano piece he plays... :D yeo!