Chapter 21: Asymmetric Warfare

Alphonse knew he shouldn't feel happy. The entire country was sitting on top of a giant human transmutation circle, created by powerful nonhuman creatures whose evil goal was still unknown. He was on a journey to help create a massive counter-circle to negate its effects, but the task would take months, with no guarantee that it would work. He and his fellow alchemists were being forced to travel through the countryside in secret while the military hunted them. And he still had no idea where his brother was.

But they had made it to Liore, the first point on their counter-circle. It was the first actual town they'd seen in some time. The townspeople were friendly, offering hot food and beds for those in their party that could use them (which didn't include Alphonse and his steel body, but still). And the most important fact of all: one of those welcoming people was a man named Van Hohenheim, the father that he and Edward had not seen for ten years. And that made him very happy.

As they sat talking, Alphonse knew he should be furious at the man for abandoning their family—Edward certainly would have been—but after listening to his incredible story, the boy was moved to forgive him. There was so much the brothers had never known about their father. Far from being an ordinary man, he was more than 400 years old. He had born a slave in the ancient, now long-dead kingdom of Xerxes, where he had befriended a strange alchemical being—the one they now knew as Father. That creature had gone on to sacrifice the population of Xerxes to create the first Philosopher's Stone, giving himself an immortal human body, while forcing the same "gift" on an unwitting Hohenheim. Traumatized, Hohenheim had spent the centuries wandering, searching for a way to return his body to normal. He had finally found a measure of peace when he had fallen in love with Trisha Elric and become a father. But when his alchemical research had led him to stumble on Father's plans for Amestris, he had left his family behind to search for a way to stop it from happening.

It took some time for Alphonse to absorb and accept his father's tale. But after all, how many people would believe his own story, that he was a disembodied soul inhabiting an empty suit of armor? He felt in his heart (wherever it might physically be) that he could trust the man, and in turn he confided his own tale, from how he had lost his body to the reason he had come to Liore, and everything in between. The words tumbled out of him excitedly as he darted from subject to subject, and he could tell there were times Hohenheim was struggling to keep up with him, in that familiar way that adults always had trouble following young people's conversations.

"…and since Lust isn't a threat anymore, we let May take her home to Xing," he finished his account. "That happened somewhere between Asbec and Youswell. Then we came here, as fast as we could." He stopped to collect his thoughts, and put a hand behind his head sheepishly. "Oh, that reminds me! I haven't sent a message to Lieutenant Hawkeye yet, to tell her about Dr. Marcoh!" He had instructions to send any important news to one of Madam Christmas' dummy addresses, but this was the first place they'd reached that was big enough to have postal service.

"Wait a minute," Hohenheim broke in, still trying to catch up with Alphonse's rapid-fire storytelling. His forehead was creased in concern. "You told me a few minutes ago that you helped create one of the codes that the resistance is using, right? And it's based on a lullaby Trisha used to sing?" Alphonse nodded. "Which one?"

If Alphonse's face had been human, his cheeks probably would have blushed pink as he awkwardly sang a few lines.

"You need to stop using that code," Hohenheim told him seriously. "I taught that song to your mother. It's from ancient Xerxes. Father knows it, and the homunculi might know it too."

Alphonse gasped. "But, wait," he protested. "The lyrics have been translated into Amestrian! And that's just the key to the code. Even knowing the song, could they really figure out what a message says just by looking…?"

Hohenheim was shaking his head. "I know it sounds crazy, but don't ever underestimate these creatures, Alphonse. Remember that Father was born in a test tube—and within a few days, he was teaching me alchemy! He comes from beyond the Gate, and the homunculi were once part of him. They have abilities far beyond anything we can comprehend."

The boy hesitated, then nodded gravely. "OK, Dad. I'll tell Lieutenant Hawkeye that she should stop using that code."

By now they had talked for so long, and about such weighty matters, that they were both exhausted (mentally if not physically, since the father's immortal body was as immune to fatigue as the son's metal one). Hohenheim took his leave, giving Alphonse time alone to complete his task. But as the boy produced a pad of paper and a pen from the bag he wore at his waist and sat down to compose the letter, he found himself staring ruefully at the blank page in front of him.

If I'm supposed to be warning the Lieutenant not to use Code C, he thought, then what code am I supposed to write the message in?

Four days later, Hawkeye stared at the piece of paper in her hands, struggling to keep her eyes from filling with tears of happiness. "This is it, Havoc," she whispered, her voice betraying a slight quaver. "This is the news we've been waiting for. With this, we can save the Colonel." As they stood concealed in their usual spot behind dressing room #2, she read and reread the words of Alphonse's message, smiling fiercely. At last, they had real hope!

Havoc was also grinning. "God bless the Elric brats—they really came through!" he laughed, the relief evident in his voice. But after a few moments, his grin lessened just slightly as he added more softly, "Of course, we'll have to keep waiting for awhile longer."

Hawkeye nodded, sobering a bit. "Until the Promised Day. A little over four months from now." She took a deep breath that came out slightly ragged. "I understand their reasoning. The nationwide transmutation circle needs to be dealt with first. Whatever it's designed to do, it's bound to be horrible, and on a scale we can't even imagine. It has to be stopped," she conceded. Her eyes met Havoc's with a rueful smile. "But damn it, to be this close…"

He returned an ironic smile of his own. It was how their luck always seemed to work: for every three steps they took forward, they were shoved back two. But once again, there was nothing they could do but wait. "Well anyway," he moved on, gesturing toward the letter, "did you make it to the second page? Alphonse thinks there might be a problem with Code C." Hawkeye flipped the page over and scanned the rest of the message. Havoc continued, "He used the code to write this letter, but he was worried enough that he also encoded the message backwards. Took me forever to translate it."

She sighed. "Terrific. Our best code may be compromised." Virtually every message they'd exchanged had been destroyed upon receipt, but a handful persisted, buried in the memos she had sent from the Führer's office. Hawkeye rubbed her forehead, evaluating the risk of Wrath finding them. The missives had been written months ago and delivered to far-flung locations around Central Command. While it wasn't impossible that Wrath could get ahold of them, it seemed highly unlikely. In any case, there was nothing they could do about it now.

"OK," she said. "To begin with, we need to stop using that code for anything sensitive. No more written messages at all, if we can help it." That was a surmountable problem: ironically, the fact that Wrath had shipped their teammates across the country had made communicating with them easier. The overstressed base commanders, busy fending off incursions from Amestris' combative neighbors, had neither the manpower nor the desire to babysit the Führer's pet projects. Fuery, Falman and Breda had quickly taken advantage of this lack of supervision, and set up secure phone and telegraph lines that were being used to coordinate planning among the team and their allies in the North and East.

Hawkeye continued, "If Wrath can crack this code, then maybe we can use it our advantage. He can't have discovered it yet—I'd have heard about it. So if he finds it now, after it's been well-hidden all this time, he'll believe that anything it says is genuine. That means we can use it to send whatever message we want him to hear." She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "Let me think a little further about how we can use this."

Havoc nodded. "OK. Guess there's still a lot to do between now and the Promised Day," he added with a sigh.

"There certainly is," she agreed with a sly grin. "And no way are we going to sit back and let the alchemists do all the hard work."

As Hawkeye returned to the office, it was a herculean task to get her newfound hopefulness under enough control to keep Wrath from noticing. Fortunately, he spent the afternoon preoccupied with a new system of supply logistics that was causing the military nothing but headaches. She managed to make it through the rest of the workday, get home, and sequester herself in her bedroom without attracting more than his glancing attention.

She knew better than allow herself too much optimism, but she could not help but smile as she settled on her bed, taking advantage of a few minutes' solitude before dinner. Salvation was within reach now. They just had to hold out until the Promised Day. The only real risk was the same one they had faced all along, that Wrath might complete the process of absorbing the Colonel's soul. But that process appeared to have plateaued for the time being, with no further signs that the two personas were blending. Whatever battle was raging inside his head, it seemed that the Colonel was managing to keep the homunculus at bay.

Hawkeye's own circumstances had improved notably in recent weeks. Ever since the night she had tried to kill Wrath, he had continued to stay out of her bedroom. Perhaps he still felt badly about what Pride had done to her grandfather; perhaps he was trying a new and more polite tack to win her affections; or perhaps his "visits" had simply become too much trouble with no discernible payoff. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for the small measure of peace. Last week she even had come home to find that the holes he had punched in her bedroom wall had been repaired.

And there had been one more stroke of good fortune. Despite the fact that Greed's attack had wrecked virtually every object in Wrath's study, somehow her microphone and transmitter had survived, intact and undetected, inside one of the few decorations that hadn't been smashed. (A ceramic poodle: bless Mrs. Bradley and her insane love of knickknacks.) Now as she lay on her bed, Hawkeye picked up the earphone and receiver and began to listen in on Wrath as he briefed Pride on the day's events.

The briefing was already in progress. "...received the latest report from Briggs. They've requested a postponement of the annual Joint Exercises due to the Drachma attack, but otherwise they're continuing to tow the line," Wrath was saying. "The request is reasonable under the circumstances. And there haven't been any attempts to contact Major General Armstrong, at least that we've been able to detect."

"Good," responded Pride in his usual tone of faint disapproval. "Remember that keeping the North in line continues to be your responsibility, Wrath. See that there are no further complications."

Wrath sighed indulgently. "Just relax, Pride. Everything is going according to plan." Hawkeye froze—something was wrong. His voice had taken on the Colonel's self-satisfied lilt. She had never heard that happen in his conversations with Pride, where were familiar ground for Bradley, but not Mustang.

Pride must have heard it too. "By the way," he asked, "have you finally finished absorbing your human host?"

"Not completely," Wrath acknowledged, "but I'm very close. The bonding is moving along much faster now. If nothing disturbs the process, it will only be a matter of days." Hawkeye's jaw dropped, her heart pounding in alarm. That wasn't possible! How could it have gotten that far without her seeing any signs? Could he be bluffing for Pride's benefit?

"And your new wife isn't interfering?" Pride continued, as if reading her thoughts. He spit out the words new wife as if they were an insult.

"The Lieutenant doesn't know how far it's progressed. I've been taking great pains to hide it from her." She could hear the smirk in Wrath's voice as the blood drained from her face. "I look forward to surprising her with the news—soon."

Pride snorted with derision. "Everything would have gone more smoothly if you hadn't insisted on marrying that woman," he grumbled, his voice beginning to drop in volume as he walked away from the microphone. "I sincerely hope your younger prettier wife was worth all this trouble…" The conversation faded from hearing range as the homunculi left the study.

Hawkeye let the earphone and receiver fall to the bed, as she clenched her fists and fought the rising edge of panic. They had run out of time. There was no way they could hold out until the Promised Day now. If she'd had any idea where to find Dr. Marcoh, she would have left immediately to go get him, dragging him bodily back to Central if necessary. But all she knew was that he was somewhere in the vast northeastern quadrant of the country, probably far from any populated area. She would never find him in time.

Focus, she ordered, holding her head in her hands. There must be some way to slow it down. Wrath had said as much to Pride; he'd been hiding the signs from her so she wouldn't interfere. She had the power to stop it—if she could figure out how.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, forcing herself to calm down, concentrating on the problem. What had been Wrath's exact words when he had told her about the bonding process? Every day, he gets a little weaker, and I absorb a little more of his soul. It won't be long before the process is complete, and permanent. He had first made that threat months ago, and since then, he had continually promised her that it would happen "soon." But it hadn't. It was clear that the Colonel had been putting up much more resistance than Wrath had expected. So why was that suddenly changing now?

Her mind moved next to Lust's cryptic advice: Keep doing what you're doing. After her attempt to stab Wrath had made matters worse, she had concluded that Lust, who had her own interest in keeping Wrath and the Colonel apart, was advising her to do nothing. To avoid spurring Wrath into violence, avoid creating a situation where the Colonel would have to fight him for control. So for weeks, Hawkeye had taken no action that might provoke him. There had been no altercations, and no appearances by the Colonel, since the night of the stabbing. But that obviously wasn't enough. She had missed something.

What had changed since Lust had given her that advice? The only thing that Hawkeye could point to was that Wrath had stopped invading her bedroom. The Colonel was no longer taking control to come to her defense. But she had already determined that fighting Wrath made the Colonel weaker. So how could—

Her eyes snapped open. That was it.

The only time she had actually seen the Colonel weaken after fighting, she realized, was when she had stabbed Wrath. At that moment the two entities had been locked in an all-out battle, with Wrath's very survival at stake. They had never fought harder, before or since. She remembered the sight of the ouroboros twitching as the Colonel repeatedly tried, and failed, to take control. It was the only time she had seen Wrath dominate him utterly.

Hawkeye might not comprehend alchemy, but she understood military theory. If a smaller, weaker force attacked a larger, stronger one in a full-on assault, the weaker force would lose—badly. But if the weaker force instead waged a series of smaller battles, designed merely to harass and delay the enemy without provoking a major counter-assault, it could hold out for much longer. She had watched it happen in Ishval. It was only near the end of the war, when the Ishvalan resistance had become organized and was inflicting serious casualties, that the Amestrian military had finally mobilized enough forces to crush it. Prior to that, small ragtag squads of Ishvalan farmers, villagers and priests had somehow managed to bedevil the Amestrian military superpower—disrupting supply lines, thwarting reconnaissance missions, hindering reinforcements—for seven years.

Now the same thing was happening inside Roy Mustang's head. A human versus a homunculus: it was a textbook case of asymmetric warfare. The one time that Wrath had felt truly threatened, the homunculus had instinctively lashed back with overwhelming strength. But when the Colonel fought back just a little, as he did every time he stopped Wrath from attacking Hawkeye, it was Wrath who suffered, and the bonding process was disrupted. And now Wrath had figured that out. The homunculus wasn't staying out of her bedroom out of courtesy or pity, she realized with agitation. He was merely biding his time, shortening the wait until he could move in permanently!

And that, in turn, meant that to save the Colonel, and protect herself, Hawkeye needed to do the last thing on earth she wanted to do. She needed to lure Wrath back in.

Behind the usual insincere smiles over dinner, Hawkeye no longer needed to worry about hiding the hope that Alphonse's message had given her. Now it was panic that she needed to suppress. But if Wrath perceived the roiling emotions beneath her calm surface, he made no comment.

She needed to plan her next move carefully. It was clear that the Colonel could not simply emerge whenever he chose; under normal circumstances, his soul was imprisoned within Wrath. There needed to be extreme emotional conflict between the two personalities, conflict strong enough to temporarily force them apart, for the Colonel to be able to separate himself and take back control of his body. She needed to create those conditions. Clever and determined evil creature Wrath might be, but he was still part human. It was just a matter of figuring out what buttons to push.

When the meal was over and they got up from the table, she allowed her gaze to linger on Wrath for a brief moment before taking her leave. "Goodnight," she told him sweetly, feeling his eyes follow her as she walked into the hallway and mounted the staircase leading to her room. When she reached the top, she paused and took a moment to look out the hall window, trusting that he was still watching. Then slowly and deliberately, without looking back at him, she reached up and unfastened her hairclip, and absently shook out her long blonde hair behind her back. After a few moments, still without looking in his direction, she moved on to her bedroom.

By the time she stepped through the door, he was already waiting for her.

"Hello, Riza," he purred, and now for the first time in this situation, she could see hints of the Colonel's charm in place of Bradley's usual arrogance. "I've been making a point of keeping my distance. Giving you your space, as you requested." His tone was amused, faintly mocking. "But just now—that looked awfully like an invitation."

If she rejected him too quickly, he might turn and leave without pushing the issue further. She needed to reel him in first. "An invitation?" she asked coyly, one eyebrow raised. "To what, exactly?"

He took the bait. "I think you know perfectly well," he smirked. He took her hand in his and drew closer. "Do we really need to play this little game? If you want me, I'm yours. You only need to say so. We are married, after all." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

It took a heroic effort not to recoil in horror. "We have been getting along better lately, haven't we?" Hawkeye replied pleasantly. Her eyes scanned his face, and she allowed her gaze to rest on his for just a moment, smiling. Then she deliberately yanked her hand from his and stepped backwards, glaring. "But I don't want you. Not even a little bit. Get out of my room—now."

His face contorted into a scowl, his expression confused. "You—" he snapped, then broke off and instead grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. He pulled her towards him again, just as the ouroboros in his right eye began to weave. Come on, Colonel, she thought…

But unexpectedly, he managed to keep control. The effort he was making to restrain his temper was playing out on his face, as the muscles in his jaw tightened and his breathing quickened. "I can see that you're still conflicted," he said evenly, with a bittersweet smile. "It's understandable. I am trying to be patient with you." She realized with a start that he was sincerely bewildered by her behavior.

"The only one of us who's conflicted is you, Wrath," she smirked back at him. Then she shoved him away from her with all her strength. "I don't. Want you. Get. Out!" she shouted.

He took a step toward her, snarling with real rage now. But the ouroboros weaving rapidly, and the next instant, the Colonel's eye snapped into place.

He stood frozen, as he always did when he took control, only his eyes reaching out to her. She wanted nothing more than to gather him into her arms. But it was too risky to touch him like this, when his hold on his own body was so tenuous. She could do nothing but gaze helplessly back at him, as they stood frustratingly just out of each other's reach.

"Hang in there, Colonel," she said softly. "We've got four more months. I'm counting on you."

"You too," he gasped with a faint smile. "Stay safe, Lieutenant." If he hadn't already told her he loved her, or if she hadn't believed him, the look in his eyes now would have told her all she needed to know. She nodded, a lump in her throat.

In the next moment he was gone, and Wrath was back, predictably furious. This time he didn't move any closer. "I know exactly what you're trying to do, my dear," he snarled, now speaking only with Bradley's voice "Do you think I'm a fool? The Promised Day is coming, and so is our wedding night! You can plan and scheme and try to tempt me all you want in the meantime. It's not going to work." But now all hints of the Colonel's personality were gone.

Hawkeye's face was fixed in a blank smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.

In response, he slammed his fist into the bedroom wall, shattering the smooth plaster once more, and stormed out. She locked the door behind him and braced it with a chair, then collapsed onto her bed, relieved and exhausted. She had disrupted the bonding process, she was certain now. It had worked.

And suddenly she knew that it would keep on working, and they would be all right. Manipulating Wrath like this for the next four months would be difficult, unpleasant, and dangerous, but she would be successful, and the Colonel would stay whole. Even though Wrath knew what she was doing. Even though he would try to resist her temptation. He would fail, time and again; because he was reckless and impulsive, because he wanted her badly. And because if there was one thing she had learned, after all the years she had known Roy Mustang, it was how to push that man's buttons.

Impulsively, Hawkeye grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. And for the first time in many months—since the night the Colonel had been taken from her—she actually laughed.