A/N: Sorry I didn't update sooner. Wish I did. I didn't edit either. Oops.

Chapter 37

When Can We Leave For The Leave, Chief

V-Day Minus 3; 1349; Central HQ

"He's kidding, right?" Ed said when he retrieved his mail form his mail slot. There was a small six by nine inch envelope in his mailbox. It was addressed not only to him, but to Al as well.

"What does it say?" Al asked, peeking over his brother's shoulder.

"Two letters. I only read the first one. It says..."

You know who you are,

You're probably going to hate me, depending who you are, for sending this to you this late, but deal with it, Combat. All of my entourage and whoever's coming with me to 'escort' (so to speak) has to do a list of things and if you're part of that escort, it explains this white envelope:

1. Check in with the MPs at MPHQ (FullMetal, make sure that you wear your boots. The counters there are pretty tall), authorizing that you are on my list of escorts. There's a card ( a small card) in the envelope and you have to show it to the MPs to pass. The MPs will give you another 6x9 envelope with instructions inside.

2. Return to your house/apartment/barracks etc. and pack your bags (Ed, just pack one bag. You're clothes are small enough anyways). Pack as much as you need so long as it'll last three weeks. Don't pack 21 sets of clothes because it'll last three weeks. There are washing machines and dryers. Don't be an idiot (Ed). Yeah, and while you're at it, if you're dumb enough, you can go swimming in the piranah infested lake, so if you are dumb enough (Ed), then bring some swimming gear if you want (Ed, the piranahs will swallow you whole...).

3. In the envelope the MPs gave you is an address. Meet there directly at 2200 on V-Day Minus 1.(That means 10PM, 2 hours before the official leave starts... Ed)

4. You will be given extra instructions after that.

Now, I probably sent you an extra letter in the 6x9 envelope, depending who you are. So... if you didn't read that already, then... Read it.

Ed cleared his throat. "See, he wants us to play his stupid mindgames. There's a card in the envelope, report to the MPs, do what the next envelope says, and follow further instructions. What a load of crap. And he clearly wrote in parentheses my name, saying that I am an idiot, dumb, and... sh-sh-sh... the S-word. Which I clearly am not. I am average sized and State Alchemists cannot be idiots or dumbasses because... they just can't! And he tells us this now. So we gotta pack and head to the addressed place in two days by... twenty-two minus twelve... ten PM tomorrow. Sheesh."

Al snatched the envelope from his brother's hands and drew out the other slip of paper.

Hey Al,

If you read the first one with your brother, then he's probably too infuriated to get the second one, so that's why I'm addressing this to you. And if you didn't, then he's probably going through the envelope now, wanting to know what I said about him. Oh well.

Well, as soon as he gets over his fit of rage, give him the letter from his authority (the thing you're holding). So, I know you guys aren't exactly alone. If I'm not mistaken, Winry Rockbell is probably at your place, right? Right. Feel free to have her come along.

Al, listen carefully at my instructions. Turn the page over. There is a very very very very very very small transmutation circle on the back of this page on the bottom right hand corner. I want you to tap the circle and on the back some of my writing will appear. When you've finished reading it, tap the tranmutation circle and it will erase my inscriptions andthis paragraph You know why and what I mean. Then erase the transmutation circle, just in case.

Al glanced over at his brother who was ranting mindlessly about how State Alchemists can't be dumb idiots and how height is irrelevant to one's intelligence. He turned the page over, scanned for a small dot on the bottom right corner and tapped it. Al had his back to Ed so the light from the transmutation wouldn't catch his eye.

Al, you have to bring Winry. If she doesn't go, then I'm about to get all screwed up because I brought your still ranting brother on this trip with no purpose. I can't tell you what I'm risking by bringing FullMetal, but I'm convinced that it won't take a lot a gymnastics to get Winry in. The place we're going to is somewhere out east, peaceful, relaxing kind of place- unlike the rest of the east. Rhymes with tahiti... (I don't know what a 'Tahiti' is by the way). And... Hughes said it was the ideal place for some R&R.

Al, I don't have to do this, but I am. You don't know how much I'm risking by bringing you three along, but don't think of this as a burden. It's an apology for how I broke Ed's limbs and crushed his spine using only a wall and the joints in my knuckles to hold his collar in my hands. My bad again.

Message end. Erase it now.

Al tapped the TC and the scribbles of Mustang's handwriting disappeared quickly enough. Al conviently found a pencil on the floor and used the eraser to delete the scrambled shapes and scribbles just in time as Ed recovered from his cursing fit.

"Forget Mustang. What's the second page say?" He peered over his younger (but taller) brother.

"Says Winry can come."

"Oh... yeah. I was wondering if we could tag her along. It'd be a pain in the ass to disappear for three weeks without her knowing and then come back with her screaming and scolding all sorts of stuff." Ed twirled his attenna hair strand. "I guess we better get packing." I don't get to see the horse's arrogant mug until two more hours anyways.

Ed stormed upstairs and into his room. He found the old brown suitcase he rarely used and laid it open in on his bed. He jammed in a whole bunch of boxers, a whole bunch of socks (A/N: Does Ed wear socks?). Winry walked in on him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"You're coming, too. So just pack."

"Pack what?"

"Clothes... stuff girls like you pack. Make it last three weeks. There'll be a washing machine."

"Where are we going?"

"Beats me. Having something to do with Mustang and his vacation. Not exactly sure where. I have to be part of his escort; so while he has all the fun, I get all protocol, rules, and no-nonsense. Joy. I don't even remember why I signed up for this. It's like punishment. But Mustang insisted you come along."

"Well, then I'll go pack!" Winry said cheerfully. "Oh, and Ed, I told you to sign up for it to apologize to Mustang."

"Yeah, yeah." Ed went into his closet and grabbed his (emo) clothes out. The majority of it being his blacks. Surprising enough, Edward only owned three pairs of those black pants and four of those black tank tops. One set of boots and one white lined black jacket (no clip, no zipper, no button- the one from season four). He packed some black cargo pants and some random shirts, some black, some blue, some red, and some in other various colors. He grabbed some sneakers from his closet he rarely wore.

Al walked into the room they both shared (since of course, one of the brothers had to give theirs up because of Winry) and said, "Brother, I'm going to go into town. Need to buy me some luggage."

Ed looked up after clipping his luggage closed. "Oh, yeah. I sort of forgot that we only used one suitcase back then. Huh... Don't worry, Al. I'll go into town and do it for you when I get to HQ."

"Um, okay."

1529; Central HQ; Command

Mustang signed the last piece. It was finally complete. All the paperwork, all the events, everything that could have possibly prevented him from going on the leave was finished. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, basking in his laxity. He turned his toward the windows and saw that the soldiers outside were still putting up with the heat with one hundred ten percent of their effort and one hundred ten percent in doing their job. He turned back after watching one particular runner dash into the maintenance building.

Mustang pressed on his phone. "Jimmy, get me a runner."

"Yes, sir. You want a specific rank relation?"

"No. Send one of them up here, a fast one who can drive; I'll deal with the kid."

"A little unorthodox, sir, for an enlisted guy to meet you, but if you give the say so-"

"I say so."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes."

Several rooms away, Corsair hung his phone up and exited his office. "Runner! Runnnerrrr! I need a runner and he'd better be fast and he'd better be a faster driver!"

For one reason or another, there was already a runner in Command. A corporal who went by the name of Kenneth- "call me, Kenny" Orion, Jr. A low ranked kid, fire team leader, at the age of eighteen, inexperienced, but truly dedicated with a long line of military family ancestry. He was a substitute runner for the higher ranking runner of sergeant major (the runners were based for low ranks, except for the sarge major... who was like a general in the enlisted ranks) who mainly ran and conducted runner schedules and positions and was the chief to run for command. As low as he was, considering he was enlisted, it was the closest that any enlisted man ever got and received the most intimidating higher ups.

Very soon, Orion had his boots polished, his uniform looking neat and pressed, and was standing before a man known only as General Corsair. And of all places, in a busy hallway, surrounded by officers, needless to say, all higher ranking the the corporal. A corporal... like him... what a hell of a way to appear in front of some general!

"At ease... Orion, is it? Kenny Scott Orion, Jr., right?" Corsair said.

"Yes, sir. How did you know?"

"I knew your father, but I'll save that for another time. Let's cut to the chase here, son. I don't need a runner." Orion swallowed. "Your presider needs a runner. Marshal-General, Commander-in-Chief Roy Mustang needs a runner." Orion swallowed. "Normally, Zero would run, but even on rare occassions... almost never, does he run for the Chief. You make this a good one, son."

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted."

"If I may ask, what does he want, sir?"

"You're about to find out. In person."

"Sir?"

"Go on."

"But, sir-"

"The Chief needs a runner. And you're it. No offense, but I'd prefer Zero, but he's out and you're in. Comments? Questions? Concerns?" Zero was the lieutenant colonel in charge of the courier regiment.

"No, sir."

"Turn right at the next corner. There's going to be a huge set of double oak doors in front of you. It's the only set of doors on the wall and in case you still can't be sure, there's a gold plaque over the door stating his name and rank. You nervous, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't worry about it. Mustang's a nice guy."

"If you say so."

Corsair twisted his head towards Mustang's office. "Get to it, Junior."

"Yes, sir."

1534; Central; Central HQ; Command

Corporal Kenneth Scott Orion, Jr., felt meek and intimidated as he stood before Commander-in-Chief General Roy Mustang. Hands tucks behind his back and legs spread at shoulder width; his face begged to hold his emotions of fear inside and it was nothing but his imagination. It was nothing but imagination. In fact, Mustang, he saw, was a nice, understanding fella. He spoke calmly with a few hints of authority here and there as Kenny listened for his instructions. Mustang at this moment was pressing a firm, gloved hand on a large manila folder.

"And this is who you are escorting," Mustang said, tapping on the folder. "Pretend that these papers are me and you are my driver. You are supposed to drive me, in this case, these papers, to the House. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. You drive 'me'," Mustang gestured at the paperwork, "to the House . You do not get these papers mixed up. You do not take them anywhere but the car and to the House. You absolutely do not peek inside the folder or read the material. You do not give them to anyone else except for this man." Mustang held up a card with a man's name, his number, his section in the House, and what he represented. There was a photo of him on the top left corner. "You ask for this man. If they say he's busy, you wait there until he is not busy. He is not out of town and you do not abandon the folder. If you need to take a piss, you take the folder with you- if that's the case, bring your messenger bag to store them. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is your objective?"

"Get the papers, the folder, and all its contents into the House and to that man on the business card."

"Good. Run along and grab your M-Bag and report back here so I can give you the works."

"Yes, sir."

"You done good, kid."

"Thank you, sir."

1549; Central City; Central City Detention Center

Maven was a focused man. He was determined, skilled, and often underestimated. Piercing, ice blue eyes, a strong build, just an inch or two above six feet, and a sneer which reminded certain people of the homunculus Greed. He was younger than Mustang, older than Riza, and had more combat experience than both of them combined. Maven was in combat ever since the age of four. He had a rough childhood, living in the slums of the city, eating on crumbs that he'd fight with over birds, and overall having to kick ass. Spilled blood causes more blood to be spilled. Bones being revealed from their skin after fractures, combination locks thrown into socks used for hitting in the temple often causing death. And that was just in the beginning of his lifetime.

Maven was what he would call himself 'the prince of crime' in the ghetto areas of Central City by the age of nineteen. The other mobsters, gangsters, and felons would often loathe him because of his youth and, without verbally admitting it, that he was better than them all- and only a very young adult with a rookie background. And Maven felt that he was better than the slums of the city, so why not put it to the test? The ghetto had nothing; now, the real Central City was all the more different. Rich, old folks to mooch off of; better security standards; less competition because of that security- any real criminal would go for the best prize of all.

Maven was a high class criminal- in the world of criminals anyways. The low class ones were the one who did vile, senseless stuff (compared to the desperados) like abuse and rape- specifically to the opposite sex and young age. Maven didn't support that- he'd rather break into a rich man's house, kill him quick and clean, and take whatever valuables he had in there. Needless to say, that, too, was grotesque.

That was Maven's first Central City subdivision bust, actually. Killed a man in his sleep and grabbed his valuables. The rest after that were easy enough. One, he could remember, was a big heist, so big that he needed a wingman to pull it off- and in broad daylight, too. A bank robbery. Four months worth of surveillance and then it went off wild.

But it didn't go as it planned. Maven was twenty-one, his sidekick was ten years older than him, meaning he had more experience in the crime business; however, he grew up in a sub-division town of wealthy folks. Both were wanted felons for several unrelated murders, robberies, and etc., except the coppers had no idea what either of them looked like. All they had was a guess of height, age, weight, and that these people always wore black.

The society Maven belonged to was off that description, except for one thing- whenever they got together, like for a mobster meeting, they wore plainclothesed outfits and smiled in public as if they were friends to throw away the suspicion. Their meetings were random at random places with different people attending each time because of the population of the gang. The only definite rule was that if you got arrested, don't think of coming back.

Maven and his wingman checked their watches as they sat in their car the day of the heist, years ago. They synchronized watches, knowing through their months of recon that it would take about seven minutes for the police to arrive at the bank. Both were wearing black and bulletproof clothing, with metal plating over vital areas. They both urged on their ski masks and exited the vehicle, holding automatic rifles. It was evident what they were doing.

They entered the bank and didn't say a word. They just pointed their automatics to the ceiling and started shooting their high-caliber rifles. Everyone in the bank got down and covered their heads as the sidekick shot at a few visible cameras, blanking them out. Maven grabbed the securities, a slim guy and an athletic man who actually took a round to the forearm, and kicked them behind the tellers' counters. The wingman pointed his gun at the civilians as Maven found the assistant manager and grunted for all the money in the vaults. When the AM refused, trying to be noble at first, Maven whacked the manager with the buttstock of his auto.

Meanwhile two reserve officers from the training corps were coming back from from a bakery a city block and a half from the bank, having just had lunch. They both sipped on their strawberry banana smoothies, when something caught the female of the two training officers by the ear.

"Do you hear that?" she asked, stopping her battle buddy.

"Hear what?"

The woman's eyes scanned left and right as if trying to detect something, but it wouldn't pick up. The noise didn't return.

"Probably nothing, Riza," the male said, continuing his walk.

"Right, Havoc."

"I have a first name, you know."

"I'm sure you do, Jean, but as officers in training-" Riza stopped, midsentence, having heard the noise again. Both stared up at forty-five degrees, trying to determine where it came from. And what significance it might have.

"The bank!" Hawkeye announced, both dropping their smoothies. They started dashing off in the direction of one of Central City's banks. It wasn't Fort Knox, but it was worthy of robbing if anyone in the right mind (right mind? What idiot in their right mind would rob a bank?) did a little thinking. As officers in training, both were practially in the best shape of their young lives. They passed a payphone.

"Riza!" Havoc called. "Payphone payphone payphone! We have to call the cops!"

"Do that later!" she said still running.

"But, Riza! We're not cops! We're officers... in boot camp!"

"Officers are better than enlisted and cops are enlisted!"

"Don't act so noble!"

"Havoc!"

"Swallow your pride, woman!"

"Havoc!"

Havoc clenched his fist and dialed 911 after inserting a coin. There wasn't even a dial tone and Jean saw that the wire from the phone had been cut. "Bitch!" he yelled, slamming the phone onto the receiver. He sprinted to keep up with Riza, despite the crowd on the always overpopulated sidewalks. The loudness of the crowd caused those innocent civilians to overlook the sounds of gunfire.

"You didn't just call me a 'bitch', did you?"

"I'd never call you that, Sniper."

Hawkeye slowed, but Havoc just kept on going. "Sniper!" he yelled. "Out of breath, already?"

"Havoc, get back over here." Havoc stopped and did a double take, then back to Riza. She was walking over to a parked car. She kicked the window.

"Riza! What the hell!" She grabbed something from the backseat and tossed one to Havoc. Both were now holding a rifle with high velocity caliber. "You're not-"

"Let's go," she said.

"You got a strategy, Sniper?" Havoc asked, as they jogged with their rifles. After they crossed that street, they would be right in the enemy's land- the bank.

"You should always know that I do."

"Do you even know how many are in there?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "I'm going on the east entrance, so stay put. I'll give the order and we'll go in."

"Vague plan, Riza."

"We're still in rotsie, remember?" The female stood from her crouching position. "Don't shoot until I give the order."

"Got that. You're gonna make one hell of an officer-"

"Go."

They went in. Riza toggled around a corner and saw one guy, a man in the center of the room, walking around with his rifle. Havoc was opposite of Riza, but he saw her through the corner of his eye. He saw her point, aim, and shoot, but Riza caught Havoc's eye in time, and the look on her face said, "Don't shoot yet."

The bullet just grazed the man's arm and he went down. Another man came out of nowhere, his rifle slung behind him, cursing and dropping his bag of cash- only containing a couple hundred thousand. Hawkeye and Havoc emerged from their positions and yelled to drop the gun.

"Drop it-" -"Put it down-"-"Drop it"- "Fuck!"-"Drop!"-"Down!" The three of them yelled at one another. "Drop it!" "Put it down!" "Drop it!"

The man, Maven, wasn't about to fail this mission. Since he didn't believe in the power of abusing or hurting women, he pointed his weapon at Havoc. Neither of the officers in training believed he was going to actually shoot either one of them because of the well-acted playface Maven had. It was a mock of 'I'm lost and confused' and 'Oh, no, I'm about to get shot!'. Because of that look, both to-be officers believed that Maven wouldn't dare pull the trigger and he was more likely to surrender.

Meanwhile, a courageous civilian on the ground behind Maven and close to the tied up security guards pulled a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket. He undid the ropes the securitymen's wrists and removed the duct tape.

Maven pulled the trigger on Havoc and he was down in an instant. But the bullet missed Havoc by a fraction of an inch- he had a pretty bad shot- and fired a round off at Maven. Havoc, since he had lost his balance in trying to shoot Maven, had missed. But one of the security man took the knife from the civilian and stabbed him where the liver would be.

The liver was protected by the metal plate that covered his vital areas. Maven felt it, spun around at the guard, but Riza fired a shot. It went clear through Maven's arm and he went down.

As of right now in present times in his detainment cell, Maven fingered the scar where he had been hit those long years ago. He smirked at it, which only a masochist would probably do. He was sentenced eight in prison after that, but he was released early due to good behavior. What a cinch, he thought. But there would be no justification now; no parole; nothing. He was awaiting for his trial, although he already knew it was probably going to be a life sentence for attempting to murder Commander-in-Chief, General Roy Mustang, age 30, renowned Flame Alchemist.

Maven requested to see the warden during his 'free time' in the Yard. Three prison guards escourted him there with barely a word exchanged. One led, while the other two were in the back. He was cuffed on ankles and wrists. Once in the Warden's Office, Maven asked one question.

"When is my trial?"

Maven was the only man in the detention center who was doing time without having first faced a trial by a jury of his peers. All the others here already had their sentences and were doing time, and if they were on parole, they were doing it through good behavior. The Warden shook his head at Maven, who was clearly pissed for not getting a straight answer.

"About a month."

"A month? Why that long?"

"You think I would really answer that question?"

"No, sir."

The Warden signalled for the guards to come and take him away. Free time was almost over by now and Maven was escorted back to his cell. Maven rested on his cot- it smelled of spoiled milk- and stared at the ceiling.

Of course, he thought. The Central HQ leave is in just a couple of days.

V-Day Minus 2; 2024; Central City

At thirty-four, he was one of the country's well-known writers of the famous magazine Prime Weekly. He grabbed scoops, did stories, met with famous people; however, he wasn't the best. And he wanted to be the best. The best were close to him- they were in his unit of journalists and editors. They either stole scoops or they were assigned to them. Hell, just about a month ago, a twenty-six year old kid had picked up something going on in the military along Central HQ. Romance of all things. Of course, the claim had been denied but it buzzed wildly around the offices before a military general walked in, threatening to shut down Prime Weekly if the story was ever published.

His name was Nicholas Nimitz. And he had recently and secretively been working on an article about Central Headquarters, per se, Commander-In-Chief General Roy Mustang, 30, Flame Alchemist. To single that out, his persona, including his alias as a 'playboy'. And the HQ leave that Mustang had been confirmed to take place. Now, what did all those things have to do with Nimitz's story? Doing his digging properly, Nick had discovered that Mustang's Chief of Entourage was a low first lieutenant female... who was perceived to be the woman romancing Mustang.

Nick arrived at the restaurant several minutes early. His interview with Commander-in-Chief, General Roy Mustang was precisely at 8:30, but feeling self-conscious, he arrived moments early. He said to the waitress that he had a reservation with someone named Roy Mustang and she gladly showed him into the back, more private, tables of the restuarant.

Nick dropped his bag in the seat next to him and pulled out his notebook, reviewing questions that should be asked, could be asked, and would be asked. He presented his tape recorder, intended to record up to forty-five minutes of conversation.

Nimitz saw Mustang and someone else approaching and he immediately leapt out of his chair. "Nicholas Nimitz, sir," he said, exchanging handshakes. "Prime Weekly. Feel free to call me Nick or Navy, whichever you like most. It's a real honor to meet you, sir."

"Likewise," said Mustang.

"Who is your assosciate?" Navy pointed to the blonde woman standing with her back to both of them in the at ease position.

"This," Mustang grabbed Hawkeye's shoulders and spun her around, who blinked, having been surprised by Mustang's actions, "is my personal assistant, bodyguard, and driver, First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. And no, I don't think I pay her enough to do all of that."

So this is her, huh? Nick thought. I don't blame him. She's pretty fine. Both men shared a chuckle, while Hawkeye just gave a smug smirk. Nick shook hands with Hawkeye as well and said, "Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant."

Riza nodded.

"Don't worry, she's not always this stoic," said Mustang.

"I'll take your word for it, sir," said Navy as Mustang gesticulated toward the table, where they both sat. Nick's thoughts ran wild. The Chief and the first lieutenanr who was by his side. Have mercy on me as I ask these questions...

Hawkeye seemed to motion to someone who was outside of the room. Roy noticed the writer watching her movements. "I have another bodyguard outside the room, aside from Hawkeye, I mean," explained Mustang.

"Right, right. I understand. I don't need to be strip searched or nothing?"

"No, no. Do us the favor of keeping your pants on."

The men chuckled again. "If you don't mind me saying, sir, you surprise me. You're very... light. Not at all strict or all about protocol like I imagined, you being the, what's the term?- CINC and at such a young age, nevertheless."

"I get that a lot." The waitress delivered their menus, but both have already eaten in the resturant and ordered right on the spot. The waitress asked if that was all and Mustang was about to answer, when he halted the waitress and tilted his head back towards the lieutenant. "Riza, you want anything to eat?" he asked.

"No sir."

"You sure? You didn't have dinner yet."

"Lieutenant Havoc says he'll steal something before we leave."

Mustang sighed. "Your choice, Riza." He waved the waitress away, apologizing for taking away some of her time.

"All right, so let's get this interview over with."

"You're the writer."

Nick clicked on his tape recorder. He looked at his legal pad. Way to go, Navy. You just had to put this question first. Better to get it over with. "I've heard rumors about some sort of romance going between you and one of your military officers." Mustang raised an eyebrow and Hawkeye bit her lip as she tensed. Neither were sure if the writer had noticed either's physical movements. "Can you elaborate on that?"

Mustang shrugged his shoulders. "A good friend of mine told me this: 'So long as the world has conclusion jumping maniacs out there, conclusions will be jumped.' Conclusions are jumped to when observations are made and those in turn become inferences." Navy nodded. "The officer I alledgedly had an affair with is someone very dear and precious to me, to say the least. We've known each other for a long time and we are often in one another's company. When we're off duty, we get together- maybe with a few others- take a night out and discuss some military strategy. Sometimes when we're off duty and we decide to have a cup of coffee, or some lunch, or dinner as friends- just the two of us and no one else- and talk about whatever comes to mind, and of course someone will either think something of it or not. Usually, the former, since we're almost always together." Roy couldn't hold back a laugh. "Actually, I think it's pretty... cute... the way people think that. Most feds in my position would gripe and say it's childish, but I find it cute..." I can't believe I just said 'cute'.

"Do you have anything else to add?"

"Other than both me and her are embarrased, you mean, by this sort of misunderstanding?"

"Yessuh. Like, if there's some truth to it. Do you have feelings for her?"

"Yes, I do have feelings for her. And there are plenty of different kinds of feelings. I said she was dear, and precious to me. She's saved my neck more times that I could care to count, needless to say if she hadn't done that, I wouldn't be here. If anything were to happen to her..." Roy paused, sighing. Dissimilating was becoming banal. Riza's eyes softened. Navy looked away. He had just practically pried the truth from Mustang. And it really looked like Mustang had those kind of feelings for this dear, precious, savior of an aid-de-camp.

"If I say any more, she'd practically kill me herself," Mustang said.

"There's an assuring thought," Havoc muttered through the earpiece. He was outside of the private room. The first line of defense if any outsider wanted in. Riza lowered the volume on that and muttered, "CANCER, keep your thoughts to yourself."

"I guess we're moving on," said Navy. "Uh, what are your thoughts on Ishbal? What do you think about the Ishbal Movement? As a State Alchemist who took part in the Ishbal War, you must surely have opinions. If I'm not mistaken, you are the one who came up with the Ishbalan Movement, correct?"

"How did you get this information?" asked a skeptic Mustang.

"It was released to the public quite a few days ago, sir."

"No one told me that." Mustang bent his neck over. He went to answering the question regardless. "I was an instrument of war and I hated it. Ishbal especially. I personally do not like talking about Ishbal, but Cafferty agreeing on my suggestions and putting in some positive action towards Ishbal made me feel a hell of a lot better."

"What were your reactions when you found out about the real reason the Ishbal War started?"

"Goddamn, I was pissed. I do have a major role in the Reconstruction of Ishbal and I just feel... I don't know the correct word, but I feel a sense of relief. I massacred those people without a decent reason and I just feel relieved that I'm doing more than saying sorry- sorry won't bring their deceased loved ones back to life, but the least I can do is at least help their people come back with a population increase and a home which was where it used to be."

"There's a treaty going on, isn't there?"

"Yes. Ishbal is in the process of becoming an Ally."

"Weren't you just in Ishbal about a week ago?"

Mustang felt like killing the snitch who knows all of this. "Yes, I was."

"Someone tried to... assasinate you, right?" Riza squinted. Assasinate...? "The story isn't exactly clear to anyone right now. Is it possible for you to... explain?"

Roy sighed and stabbed his T-Bone steak. "Sorry. Can't get into that. But he is locked up in a detention center as we speak."

"My boss told me to pry that information out of you about the train incident, if it was possible, I mean."

Mustang took a sip from his glass of water. "Lieutenant," he started.

"Sir."

"You sure you're not hungry?"

"I'm fine, sir."

"Your say so, Riza. Continue, Navy. If you have anything else to add, that is."

"Yes, one more general question with a few specific ones included."

"Shoot."

"The Central Headquarters Division leave is in two days. What exactly do you make of that? Any plans, per se, for yourself? Or how you plan to hold down the fort?" Mustang raised an eyebrow.

"What's the title of this segment supposed to be, Navy?"

"It's supposed to be in the 'Inside The Mind Of...' segment of the magazine."

"Right. Right. When's the issue supposed to be released?"

"Next week, sir." Prime WEEKLY- duh, WEEKLY.

"Well, I can't exactly go into 'where' I'm going. But when I come back, the city's going to be in for a surprise."

"There's supposed to be some greater truth to that, I'm taking, sir?"

"You an alchemist?"

"Aspiring, sir. How did you know?"

" 'Greater truth'. It rings a bell. But yes, there probably is going to be some 'greater truth' to it."

"A few more questions, sir."

"Can I ask you one?"

"All right, sir. Go right ahead."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four, sir."

Mustang blinked. "Do me a favor- don't call me 'sir'."

"Sir?... I mean, why?"

"You're older than me."

"Then... what do I call you...?"

"Chief, General, Marshal... whatever. Sir is within authority, don't get me wrong, but I always find it awkward when I'm at HQ and geysers in their sixties are calling me 'sir'. I wasn't raised to call older gents by their last names."

"All right... Chief."

"That's what I mean. So shoot the question."

"Coincidentally, this just past us by, but how do the more senior aged officers act toward you because you are a 'rookie' and your 'youth enthusiasm'? You've already answered this, but how do you feel when the older, more wise generals tend to chew you out because of a wrong move or your biased intentions as a young, but high ranking officer?"

"I did answer that, but, yes there are plenty of times where the more older generals express their hate and jealousy against me. I have been overruled by Council several times, but I'm a good sport... usually. I don't like to talk down to the other generals, all of them are over 35. There's one general who I often side with and he's a pretty old guy. He can reason with the envied generals normally, but sometimes I can't exactly win them over. But they can push too far. I can give them an official reprimand, have them transferred, demote them, and ultimately have them discharged. I haven't had to do that, but I did have one general transfer himself and his division to East City- trading a division from there, here." He was talking of Hakuro. "Personally, I didn't like him much. Back when I was a lieutenant colonel and, or, colonel, he talked smack to me. He was a guy who kissed ass, not that I'm saying it's a totally bad thing, but hell, once I got this promotion, well, look who's the real dog now." Both men laughed. "Normally, I just deal with it, but no sane man in my Command unit deserves to be in my Command unit if he despises me that much."

"How far does someone actually have to go to get discharged?"

"Actually, I'd never really discharge anyone. I could send them to prison for insubordination to a superior officer, but I usually leave it to Court Martial Investigations and Personnel Affairs to get everything done. If they feel a certain soldier needs to be discharged, all right then, I'll agree. But I have to keep a level head. There's a State Alchemist who always, always, always, always has something to say to me. And it's almost never a good thing. But it's who he is. He's a kid; he doesn't now any better. I should've let him go by now, but... well, he's a good kid if you go past the stubborn skin and his impulse."

Riza listened to the conversation without actually meaning to listen to the conversation. She followed everything Mustang said and input it into her brain, until she lost track when Havoc had keyed in. And when Jean keyed in... it was a yelp. A loud, ear-piercing yelp.

Hawkeye's eardrum nearly burst from the loud interference. She grit her teeth and writhed in pain. She yanked the earpiece out of her ear and cursed under her breath. There was a loud ringing going on in her ear...s. The ringing was in both her ears now.

Mustang noticed. "Riza, are you all right?" She didn't give a response until Roy tugged on her sleeve. He repeated, but still Riza couldn't get through. But, she was also quite the linguist. What other talents does she have?

"Can't hear you, sir," she said in what seemed to be a normal tone.

Roy grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket and Navy offered him his legal pad. Mustang jotted down: What happened?

"CANCER screamed in my ear."

"I'm going to give him a good kick in the jaw later," Mustang growled. He didn't need Riza going deaf of all disabilities.

"Someone call me?" Havoc said, sneaking his head through the door.

"Out the door!" Riza ordered. "You're supposed to keep watch out there, Havoc!"

"Aye, aye, li'l sister." Havoc gave his two finger derogatory salute and was about to reattach his head to his neck when he saw someone else. "Navy!"

"Jean Havoc," said Nick. "I thought it was a coincidence at first, but I guess it wasn't. Never thought I'd see your cancer-stick face once again."

"Well, here it is. You the man interviewing my Chief?"

"Sure looks it."

"Hey, you remember Jacoby Whitcomb? The one in high school- uh, you were a senior and me and him were both freshmen. He played wide receiver for the Varsity Team and scored the winning touchdown where we went to nationals."

"Yeah. You stayed in touch with him?"

"Ran into him, more like it. He's an MP now."

"Havoc, do you mind?" Mustang started, gesturing between both men- interviewer and second lieutenant.

"Sorry, Chief," said Havoc. "I'll catch up with you later, aye, Navy?"

"Sure thing, Jean."

Havoc saluted and exited the room.

"Now that that's over with, Navy, how many more questions till the end of this interview?"

"Last question, sir. Do you know of the rumors of a new president coming in?"

"I have heard those rumors, but I can't say if they're true. But I would think it best for an election to hurry up and get over with. Without an appointed leader, this country is very much in a vulnerable state. There isn't a leader to call the shots around here, but the feds have pretty much bunkered down with peace treaties, reconstructions, alliances... and things like that. Military Command and myself have been doing a lot with helping the the feds and the weak and the needy and the like."

"What if it was true?"

Mustang chuckled. "Then wouldn't I be a candidate?" Both men laughed again.

"You got my vote, sir. If we were a democracy..."

"Yeah. If I become president, this country'll become a democracy." Another laugh.

"I like you, General. And that's saying a lot, since I'm not big on the military business." Both men stood up and shook hands.

"I'm not a fascist, either, but thank you. I like you, too, Navy. What did you say your real name was?"

"Nicholas Nimitz, er, Chief."

"I'm Roy Mustang." Another laugh.

"I'm know, General."

Nick turned off his tape recorder and put it into his briefcase, after first titling it 'Mustang' in big, bold, black letters with a Sharpie marker and putting the tape into a case. He exited.

"Okay, Lieutenant, let's make out of here." Mustang glanced once more at his plate. He had about a cube of steak, half an inch in size. He stabbed it with his fork. Meanwhile, Hawkeye keyed into her headset. "The interrogation is adjourned. Do you have the package?"

"Aye, I have the package." Outside of the room, Havoc inhaled deeply at the takeout he had ordered.

"Affirm-" Mustang jammed the fork with the steak piece on end into Hawkeye's mouth.

"Hey, Lieutenant, what's up? Riza? Riza!" her earpiece blared.

"Good, isn't it?" Mustang said, putting a hand on his chin. "Come on, Riza. Admit it."

Riza swallowed. "I-" Roy pressed his lips against hers. When she didn't resist, he pulled her closer.

It's just a tradition for Havoc to walk in. "Hey, Riza, what happened with your earpie- Oh, shit, not again." Havoc crawled out when he saw Roy and Riza were... liplocking.

V-Day Minus 3 hours, 23 minutes; 2037; Central City; Central HQ; Command

"Lieutenant Colonel Peyton Orion, sir, reporting in from 3rd of the 148th, Fort Psierrias."- "Lieutenant Colonel Bernard Sanderson, sir, reporting in from 2nd of the 148th, Fort Psierrias."-"Where is the company first sergeant? First Sergeant Hammor, Charlie Company, 1st of the 148th!"-"Step to! Fohr-wahhhhhrd mahrch!"-"51st Mountain Division, meet up at the West Field!"

Mustang stood inside his office, watching the chaos unfold from his lengthy story window. He sighed. General Corsair stood behind him.

"How many are accounted for?" Mustang asked.

"The 3 battalions from Karg's regiment are accounted for. One is en route. The 51st Mountain Division is en route- we have only three batallions from that division."

"Get the commo to get them on radio. Tell them they have roughly over three hours."

"Gotcha, Mr. Chief."

2147; Central City; Central HQ

"Everything's good to go, Mr. Chief," said Corsair. "I've got a report from the senior officers over at tech, maintenance, mechanized, all infantry, all investigations, MPs, and 'em are all substituted from either Fort Psierrias or Fort Pragg."

"Excellent. Round up our troops at the Parade Grounds. I'm about to let them go."

Roy sighed as Corsair exited. It was getting extremely dark, yet it was still sticky and humid amongst the soldier base. Maybe it was because of the sweat the men have paid off through all their work, Mustang hoped, but he already knew that it was the heatwave, still acting up.

Mustang grabbed his CINC cap and ruffled his hair back; he placed the cap over it and made any small adjustments he thought would suit him and hesitantly threw on his jacket. He tugged on it just for the sake of it and walked out. The four infantry divisions, the Investigations division, the mechanized division, administrative, maintenance, electronic repair, medical staff, and military police (excluding Command, who were in various places) that Central Headquarters was composed of were lined up in perfect formation. He turned to see every man (and woman) out there with impassive faces, staring straight ahead. Armstrong, who commanded an infantry regiment along with a regiment of State Alchemists was towering above most men. Still gazing at the crowd, he saw familiar faces, Havoc, Hawkeye, Fuery, Falman, Lansen, Zunis, Whitcomb, Al Elric, hell... even Edward Elric was present.

Mustang licked his lips and gave a short, quick, down to the point monologue. He explained how much they've all gotten done this year and how Mustang was proud of each and every one of them, especially since they all put in some hard work and contributed.

"You all deserved this. You all earned it. Every single one of you. Each one of you- soldiers, officers, medics, clerks, MPs, couriers, repairmen- each and every one of you have contributed to what this country is now. What was once a fascistic country is now a separation of powers. Who are we that we are changed a one way autocracy? Whether or not we were present at the times of the dictatorship, we have all used our strength and pushed forward, regardless if you graduated boot camp three days ago or if you were an officer for forty years. If you were here when the rebellion took place, great, you have the insight of what once was. If you weren't, then you are the reincarnation of our fellow friends, family members, and comrades who paid the ultimate sacrifice for the benefit of the state military and country.

"War came out of nowhere. One second you're on an Allied basis, talking hapilly to your native friend from Drachma. The next second, you get a call saying your reserved regiment just got put back into action, heading towards the said country.

"But that was then. That was the past. And this is now. The present. Let bygones be bygones, aye? That's exactly what I expect. But keep in mind what the past has morphed you into- who you are, what you do, where you go- all of that. It will depend on your past. Now let me ask you a question. You are allowed to answer. How many of you have enlisted or applied to rotsie after the civil insurrection?" A number of hands instantly went up. "How many of you enlisted or applied because of the insurrection." The hands stayed up.

"That's what I call courage. Loyalty. Optimism. Drive. Taking the initiative. Allegiance. I could go on and on with a list of adjectives to describe not just our newbies, but our veterans and the elite. We aren't all of it, but at the same time, we are those things.

"In alchemy text, there is a theory known as 'one is all, and all is one'. It means that we are the one. You are the one. You are a small portion of this world. And the world is the all. But without all of us little 'ones', there would be no all- no world. We each have to play our part, shape our futures into what we want to become. And through that, we shape the world. What we do effects yourself and possibly the world. Chemistry- let's use that for an example. The formula says to put three parts of this, one part of that, and heat it to this degree. But what happens when you put one part of this, three parts of that, and heat it to the same degree. You just created an atom bomb. Or you created a cure for the common cold. You will never know. And that's what ambitions are for."

"Some of us are too strong on our ambitions. We work too hard on this and not enough effort on that. And there's where I believe that leveling the playing field should come in. Some of us work eighty hours a week- forty hours more than the required amount. While the rest of us work less... If only we got paid by the hour, huh?" Several people laughed softly.

"And through that... we deserve a leave. Not a three day leave or a one weak leave. A three weak leave." Men cheered- 'hoo-ah'-ing and grunting in encouragement. Roy smiled then continued as soon as the cheers died down. "Yes, a three-weak leave. I would've gone for a month, but I was already pushing it." More laughter. Comedy club or something. "And this is your reward. More than tuition fees and the annual salary of 64, 000. Less than the pride you have of being here. And that is time. A time to relax and not have your COs judge you. Spend some time with the family or get roadtripping with your childhood friends. For some of you, your only friends are here with you- standing to your left and right.

"Forgive. Forget. Forge on- is one of my sayings," Mustang said. "I'm contemplating whether or not to add freedom to it. And now, you are all free to enjoy the next two hours and three weeks... on your own." Mustang nodded to the men, women, (and few teenagers) he presided over. In response, they saluted in perfect form- together as a team.

Edward raised an eyebrow to go with his automail salute. I gotta hand it to him. That was one heckuva disquisition. Ed looked around. Even Al was saluting all serious-like. Himself too, but the silence was almost scary. The FullMetal Alchemist took a deep breath, dropped the salute, and brought his fingers to his mouth. He blew.

A sharp wolfwhistle emitted from Edward's mouth. As if that was a cue, numerous men and women started cheering. Celebrating.

They were dismissed. All of them acting as if they killed the fatted calf or as if it were a summer vacation as a schoolkid. Roy caught Riza's eyes and smiled at her; she smiled back.

A/N: ... Hey... you wanna know something about this chapter?

Y'know, I'll leave it for the next chapter.

And there's something else. I got uh... 2 deleted scenes if anyone wants to read it. I can't believe I cut it, but it wasn't all that significant to the storyline... not like more than half this fic isn't, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. So, you want the deleted scenes, go on and say it.