Content Warnings: smoking, PTSD, mentioned violence

North City, Amestris – November 25th, 1921

Jean Havoc stretched his legs for the umpteenth time to alleviate the pins and needles prickling his nerves from his lower back down to his toes. He shifted against the hard seat, trying in vain to find just one spot that hadn't grown sore and where his clothes didn't pinch or squeeze him so uncomfortably.

What should have been a four hour ride had dragged out to double that length. Jean tried to sleep early on, but found it impossible. The train stopped at every station to pick up new enlisted men. Then they took forever to board, find their seats, and stash their rucksacks, chattering nonstop with that giddy excitement only the young and well-rested could possess. By the third stop, Jean yearned for cotton balls to shove in his ears.

Halfway to their destination, the plummeting temperature started cracking the rails. The train would screech to a grinding halt as the crew disembarked to hammer the metal back into place. Eventually, the engineers recruited Brigadier General Mustang to simply light the tracks on fire, removing the accumulated ice.

The recruits plastered their faces to the windows, eyes wide with wonder. Most had never seen a transmutation before and even Jean had to admit it was a spectacular display. Good thing Mustang was outside and unable to hear his new admirers. His ego was big enough already.

Jean scoffed and reached for his cigarettes, sighing when he saw only one left. Not counting on the extended trip, he'd kept just a lone pack on his person and stashed the rest in his rucksack. He smiled as he thought about his elderly parents back at the Havoc General Store. Though his mother disapproved of 'those nasty death sticks', news of his sudden deployment had led to an expedited delivery sitting on his doorstep this morning.

According to the Ishval and Aerugo veterans, cigarettes were a valuable currency in war camps. If Jean kept the smoking to a minimum, he could come out of this mess a very rich man. But who was he kidding? It took every ounce of willpower just to stop himself from smoking that one lonely cigarette. Glumly, he poked it back into the box and buttoned the pocket closed. If he reached for it subconsciously, he'd still have to fumble with the stubborn button.

Instead, he stuck a pencil in his mouth. It probably wasn't healthy to chew the eraser or warp the metal ring with his teeth, but there was something comforting about the familiar weight resting on his lip. Leaning his head against the glass, Jean stared out the window.

The last stretch was a lonely one. Paved streets and brick houses gave way to sprawling fields of wheat, their shorn stalks now tilled into the soil. Morning frost coated the dark leaves of beetroot and kale. Old farmhouses nestled among the pine groves, their peeling paint exposing the wood to the elements as their chimneys puffed soot into the thin winter air.

At long last, the train pulled into North City Station. Even from the window, the building seemed dead. Brightly painted locomotives sat parked at the end of each line as uniformed crews drained their water tanks, preparing for a long hibernation. With the tracks in such poor condition, running the civilian trains would be near impossible. The inhabitants of North City and its surrounding towns would be stranded, effectively cut off from the rest of the country.

With Fort Briggs now under occupation, the Drachman troops would soon push south across towns and cities alike. Armies descended like swarms of locusts, raiding homes and robbing fields until no shred of sustenance remained. Then again, Amestris had annexed the north only a century ago. Was that really enough time for the old Drachman loyalties to fade? How many families would greet the invaders not with fear and aversion, but with hot meals and comfortable beds? Grimly, Jean made a mental note to watch his back on rest and leave days.

When the doors opened, freezing air seeped into the cabin. Old locomotives like this warmed their cabins with body heat, and the soldiers packed like sardines within had put forth a valiant effort. Jean stood, enjoying the rush of blood to his tingling legs. The cool draft left him un-keen to face the full force of North City winter. Not yet anyway.

He stretched his arms and cracked his neck, shaking the stiffness from his shoulders. With a yawn, he fumbled for his rucksack in the overhead compartment. He found Fuery's first, earning thanks and a goofy grin as he passed it over. Morose as he felt, Jean couldn't help but smile back. While the aisles cleared, he scanned the crowd for Mustang, but found no sign. He considered doing the man a favor, but decided against it. Mustang might come back later and wonder where his pack went.

As Jean stepped outside, the cold shot straight through his clothes, permeating his skin and freezing his very bones. Why would anyone choose to live in this miserable climate, let alone fight over it? And was the military really in too big of a hurry to issue northern-grade uniforms for the newly deployed? With a shivering frown, he crossed his arms and tucked his gloved hands under his armpits.

Jean and his comrades followed the mob to the station lobby, where the smell of burning coal filled the air and overhead ductwork kept the room just warmer than an icebox. Folding tables lined the back wall, each marked with different letters of the alphabet. Officers in heavy coats herded new recruits – many still in civilian garb – into their respective lines. Jean wasn't sure whether to join the 'H' queue, but Hawkeye read his uncertainty.

"Officers over here," she said, tugging his sleeve. Breda and Fuery followed her lead, so Jean too fell in behind.

None of them had been to North City in years. Back in their days at East City HQ, they'd partnered with the Fort Briggs soldiers for war games, alternating between the two locales. The teams had developed something of a rivalry and Jean could only hope those tough old buzzards were still alive and kicking. They wouldn't go down without one hell of a fight.

At least the train station hadn't changed. Gilded columns embossed with leaves and flowers still rose to meet elaborately molded ceilings. Between the dusty chandeliers, hints of lavish murals peeped out from beneath chipped paint. Under Drachman rule, this building had served as a gubernatorial office. Jean wondered what those stuffy bureaucrats would think of the Amestrian commoners now tracking mud across their mosaic floors day in and day out.

A whistled tune echoed down the hallway, catching his attention. A young boy, no older than ten, pushed a paint roller back and forth across a shallow tray. Droplets dribbled at his bare dirty feet as he slathered the sticky goo over the rose marble walls. He untied a bundle of papers still hot from the press, pasting them onto the glue. The posters went up at haphazard angles, but the boy paid no mind. If one refused to stick, he simply rolled another layer and pressed a new poster on top.

One in particular caught Jean's eye. In it, a dashing soldier stood before a looming grizzly bear with red eyes. With bayonet drawn, the soldier shielded a tragically beautiful woman, her arms thrown around two terrified blond children with fat ruddy cheeks. 'On us their lives depend!' read the bottom banner.

Suddenly, the paint roller stopped and Jean realized that he'd been spotted. The boy tilted his cap, revealing a thin face with cracked lips. Quietly, he pulled a poster from the stack, holding it at arm's length. Jean carefully accepted the offering, noting the dark fingerprint smudges. Then he met the boy's gaze, and what he saw in those wide-set eyes…was it desperation or hate?

A lump rose in his throat. Jean shoved the poster into his jacket and tore his eyes away from the filthy child. As he ran to catch up with his comrades, the strange whistled tune resumed.

When the officers reached the ticketing room, a bubbly young woman ran up to meet them. "Hello, hello!" she chirped. "Mustang unit, right? The brigadier general's already in briefing, so you're with me, OK? Private Bethany Burns, at your service!"

Jean felt a wave of relief. He could see why Private Burns was chosen as the welcome wagon. A cute happy face would set most soldiers at ease. She looked like a little stuffed doll, bundled up in winter clothes with only her face and curly hair poking out.

"Okie dokie, let's start with Captain Hawkeye," she said, flipping through her folders. "Looks like you're with Brigadier General Mustang, ma'am. Private Kinzer will escort you. He's the tall skinny one over there."

She gestured to the exit where a young man – still in his late teens, judging from the acne and twiggy build – stood embarrassingly rigid. Hawkeye gave the group a final look and marched over to Private Kinzer. Jean snorted when the kid's face flushed. He was either terrified, smitten, or possibly both.

"Let's see," Burns continued. "Second Lieutenant Breda, you're on fortification planning. Please join the combat engineering unit at North City HQ. If you exit through the double doors this way," she waved to the left, "you'll find the transport trucks waiting just outside."

With a nod, Breda hoisted his rucksack and headed for the doors. Without looking back, he raised a hand in farewell and elbowed his way through the crowd.

"Master Sergeant Fuery, you're with me! We'll be in the radio room, so give me just a minute, OK?"

Before he could respond, Burns dug out the last folder. "Alrighty, First Lieutenant Havoc. You're a weapons guy, right? They've got you on offensive prep. Says here someone will come to pick you up."

Great. So he was slated for large-scale weapons assembly. Outside. In the cold. Jean wasn't sure how he'd recognize this 'someone', but presumably they would recognize him. With a long-suffering sigh, he resolved to enjoy the warmth of the station for as long as he could.

Handing over the folder, Burns dragged Fuery off to the radio room, her lips never ceasing to move. Funny girl. Jean hoped they kept her on desk duty.

Once alone, he found a semi-quiet corner to indulge in that last cigarette. The comforting earthy scent filled his sinuses and warmed his throat. The room still felt chilly, but Jean supposed he'd get used to it. Winter was just getting started and there was no telling how long this siege would last, especially with Drachman reinforcements almost certainly en route.

He wondered if his girlfriend would write, sending him letters of encouragement and promising to stay faithful. Hopefully, Pepper wouldn't fall for some fancy graduate school schmuck while he was gone. At least Jean had a picture to stick under his pillow and two very big (and squishy) reasons to show her off to the other men. A guy could hope, right?

Lost in his thoughts, he almost swallowed his cigarette when a soft weight landed on his shoulders.

"Geez, Havoc! I never took you for the jumpy type," a smug voice chuckled.

He turned to see a curvy woman with wavy hair slicked into a ponytail. Jean patted his shoulders, relieved to find a winter coat as the sudden source of weight. Passing his cigarette to the newcomer, he slipped his arms into the sleeves. She took a drag, handed it back, and blew smoke in his face.

He coughed. "Good to see you too, Catalina."

"Make that First Lieutenant Catalina," she grinned triumphantly. "You're not the only one who got a promotion, hotshot. Now c'mon and check out the new toys."

From the passenger seat of the utility truck, Jean watched the lights of North City fade into the distance. Although nearly noon, the sun just now began to peek over the horizon. He took a bite of egg salad sandwich and glumly munched. He'd always thought eggs were hard to mess up, but the military cooks seemed to take all such notions as personal challenges.

As Catalina cranked the heat up to maximum, a faint burning smell radiated through the cabin. She popped open the glove compartment, fishing out two pairs of goggles. With one hand on the steering wheel, she pulled one pair over her eyes and tossed the other onto Jean's lap.

"Go ahead and put those on. You're gonna want them once the sun's up."

Jean slipped on the goggles, gaping at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Between the bulky clothes, earmuffs, and darkened eyewear, he thought he resembled some strange kind of beetle.

"So this is the attack plan, huh? We scare the enemy back to Drachma with our ugly mugs?"

Catalina didn't miss a beat. "Sure, Havoc. Why else would we put you on offense?" She stuck out her tongue and took a big bite of her sandwich, leering with chubby food-filled cheeks.

"Oh yeah?" he said, rising to the challenge. "You're right here with me, sunshine. What happened to finding a rich husband and retiring from the military once and for all? I doubt you're hiding a ring under that glove."

She slammed the brakes, and Jean involuntarily lurched as the truck squealed to an abrupt stop. When he turned to yell, Catalina's hands gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles had to be white. Even her hair seemed to bristle, and Jean struggled not to laugh at her exaggerated pout and wrinkled nose.

"We're over an hour from camp, it's twenty degrees below freezing, and there's a snowstorm coming in. Make that joke one more time and they won't find your body 'til spring."

Suddenly, Jean felt glad that he couldn't see her eyes.

They rode the remaining hour in silence until tents and supply trucks came into view atop a snowy summit. At the slope's base, Catalina shifted gears and relaxed her foot on the gas pedal. With a sputter, the truck climbed its way up the curve, following a path of tire tracks lined with rock salt.

The camp was already buzzing with activity. Soldiers shoveled the packed snow aside, uncovering just enough earth to pitch tents. Others boiled the slush in enormous pots, ladling the contents into canteens. Jean met Catalina at the tailgate, where the wind viciously whipped the canvas tarp.

"Untie the other side, will ya?" she yelled, her voice barely audible through his earmuffs.

With numb clumsy fingers, Jean untied the rope on his side, gritting his teeth as a strong gust blew the tarp over his head. Another soldier just managed to catch it before it flew away. Tucking the tarp under his arm, he hoisted himself into the truck bed.

Catalina smiled and gave him a thumbs up. "Nice catch, Skoda!"

Together they unloaded a massive iron tube. More soldiers rushed to help, and Jean pulled himself up to assist.

"What is this, anyway? Some kind of piping?" he asked between labored breaths. Whatever it was weighed a ton.

Skoda's eyes crinkled, both proud and amused as he stroked his fluffy beard. "Not exactly, friend. This bad girl is Big Betty. She's the biggest, nastiest siege howitzer the world has ever seen. We have to move her in parts. Five truckloads to be exact."

Jean's jaw dropped, cigarette nearly slipping out. "So this is just the barrel?!"

"You got it," Skoda grunted as he wedged himself into position, preparing to lift once the others were ready. "Betty can launch a forty-two centimeter shell over ten kilometers and tear right through steel or concrete."

Well, hot damn.

"Relax, Havoc!" Catalina laughed. "We're not setting her up just yet. We still have a couple more trips to HQ to pick up the carriage components. She's a last resort anyway, so don't get your panties in a wad."

Once the soldiers were ready, she continued. "All right, everyone. On the count of three: one, two, three!"

With a synchronized grunt, they carried the howitzer barrel to a supply tent, their treaded boots struggling for traction in the packed snow. Even in the winter air, Jean felt flushed and hot. Had his couple years in physical therapy really been enough? If not, it was too late now. After a satisfying backbend, he opened the tent flap. Though his watch read just past 1500 hours, the sun already hung low in the sky.

A hand patted his shoulder, and he turned to find Catalina with goggles perched atop her head and his rucksack in tow. Someone must have grabbed it from the truck.

"C'mon," she grinned, tossing it his way. "Let's get you geared up."

Riza Hawkeye concluded that Private Kinzer's mother had raised an impeccably polite young man. When their car pulled up to North City HQ, he quickly excused himself, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. He then held her coat while she slipped into the blessedly warm sleeves, offering his arm and insisting the ice was quite slippery. Riza objected to his fussing until her boot hit a slick patch. Then she found herself reluctantly glad for the supporting arm.

Sensing her embarrassment, Kinzer awkwardly smiled and pointed to his own boots. "It's all right, ma'am. Took me some getting used to as well. We'll get you set up with some snow grips for your shoes. Then you can just about dance across this ice."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not much of a dancer, Private."

"Oh!" he sputtered, guiding her carefully up the steps. "I didn't…I mean, I wasn't…I mean…"

She couldn't hold it any longer. Riza let out the laugh she so desperately needed. Kinzer's face drooped, a look oddly reminiscent of Black Hayate when she left him with Gracia Hughes the day before. She really shouldn't tease the poor boy.

"How about you show me a good place when we're both on leave? I've always wanted to learn."

Kinzer's ears flushed bright red as he failed to fight down a humongous grin. "S-sure thing, ma'am! I mean…I-I-I'd be honored."

Riza patted his arm, allowing herself to be guided through the front gate of North City HQ. A bristled mat lay just inside and she eagerly rubbed the packed ice from her boots. Kinzer offered his arm again, but she turned it down. Safely indoors, Riza doubted more slippery spots would catch her off guard.

He led her up a couple flights of stairs and down a corridor tiled in hideous green, eventually stopping before a simple pine door.

"Here we are, Captain! Generals Vogel, Gartner, and Mustang are inside. The ladies' room is just across the hall, and if you're feeling peckish the cafeteria is – "

"Thank you, Private Kinzer. I'm sure I can manage from here. You've been a gracious host."

The teenager grinned from ear to ear, enthusiastically saluting as he dashed down the hall.

So many young faces, she sadly noted. As the echo of his footsteps faded, Riza took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

"Come in," said a gruff voice from within.

Riza turned the knob and entered. The room was plainly furnished, with only a wooden table, six chairs, and beige walls scarred with many decades' worth of nail and tack holes. The generals clustered at the table's far end, the fruits of their discussion scattered in chaotic disarray. Near the door, a slim first lieutenant pinned the discarded papers to the wall.

Riza recognized the newest as a map of the military property surrounding Fort Briggs. One solid line zigzagged up to the fort while dotted lines curved around it, indicating major roads versus mountain trails. Most, including the main path, were marked off with a fat black 'X'. Toppled trees or landslides must have rendered them impassable.

A headache brewed as Riza traced the maze of trails. Eventually, she found one left unmarked. Thank God. For now, at least, there was a way out.

"I'm telling you the easiest way in is through the damn tunnel!" Gartner snarled, crossing his arms and propping his boots on the table. His chair balanced on the back two legs, tempting fate to throw in a loose screw. "That's the only way in or out and I guarantee you that's how the Drachmans did it!"

Mustang's eye twitched, but his voice remained cool and level. "So isn't that the first spot they'll defend? Fort Briggs is wedged between two mountains. Why don't we bring in some geo-alchemists and transmute our way in from the side?"

"And just how big of a tunnel would we need?" Vogel humphed, scratching at his mutton chops. "Even if the transmutation went unnoticed – a miracle unto itself, mind you – marching an army through the heart of Mount Briggs is a surefire recipe for an avalanche. We'd take out our own men!"

"Well, what's your master plan then, Major General?!" Gartner's boots dropped to the floor with a thud. "At least Mustang's got a mind to rescue the poor bastards, but you? You refuse to approve any plan that – "

"You won't finish that sentence if you know what's good for you."

Gartner's nostrils flared, but whatever scathing retort he'd prepared to unleash died in his throat. Rage simmered just beneath the surface; but with nowhere to go, he had no choice but to let the pressure build. With fists clenched, he sank deeper into the cheap metal chair.

Riza glanced to her own superior officer. Mustang remained silent, his face betraying no emotion. Years of close association had left her attuned to his subtle tics: the tilt of his chin, the stiffened jawline, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. Now those dark eyes flickered with intelligence, but nothing more. No fire, no passion, no dreams for a better future. The ambition of his youth had given way to something else: something colder and more calculating. Riza knew that look and it made her back itch.

"Ahem."

The forgotten lieutenant straightened a stack of papers, his olive eyes narrowed to disapproving slits. Catching the hint, Riza silently pitched in to help. She tuned out the generals' argument, relieved for the tedium of mindless work. Soon she came across a map of the entire northern district, where green check marks covered North City along with Monmort and Yectora to the west.

Best Riza could remember, the southwestern side of the district was more densely populated. After annexing Letomgrad Oblast in 1827, Amestrian investment had poured into mining the coal and rich iron ore, drawing migrants from all corners of the country. Thanks to the population boom, towns in that region were mostly industrial and well-connected to the railway system. They would need heightened protection to keep both the citizens and supply lines safe.

The northeast was another story. Near the Great Desert, the land was cold, dry, and flat – home to only a handful of towns separated by vast plains of nothingness. There were no natural resources and very few rivers or trees. Most residents lived in villages of a hundred or so people. They focused on wheat production, coaxing what sustenance they could from the semi-arid climate, just as their ancestors had done for generations.

On the map, red question marks noted each tiny village. Riza understood how indefensible such wide open plains must be, but she still mourned the necessity of reducing human lives to cold calculation. Her eyes closed as painful memories began to surface.

It's not the same, she assured herself. Stop thinking about it.

This time, the generals knew what they were doing. These villagers could escape from enemy soldiers. They could hide among the crops and run through those sprawling fields as far as their legs would take them, where no one would ever find them or hurt them or kill them.

She wiped away a bead of sweat, pointedly ignoring the tremor in her fingers. Even now, snipers' calluses encased her joints and traces of gunpowder residue speckled her skin like stubborn dirt. After everything they'd done, her hands had no right to tremble.

Her fists tightened, nails digging into her palm as she studied the map. Four names just east of Fort Briggs were circled in black and crossed off with a single fat 'X'. These weren't tiny villages, but small towns with a combined population of roughly 15,000 people. Riza sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse quickening.

"Sirs, these four towns…have the Drachmans moved beyond Fort Briggs?"

Abruptly, the conversation stopped. Mustang started to answer, but Vogel silenced him with a raised hand and frigid glare.

"No, Captain Hawkeye. We may have the superior technology; but in this frozen wasteland, Drachma has the one advantage that really counts: numbers. They have over three times the men we do. If we try to defend every farmhouse and turnip field from here to the border, we'll lose the north before the year ends. Better to concentrate forces early and cut our losses now."

Cutting losses? These were people, not poker chips! They couldn't be written off with a big fat 'X' like so many tiny treacherous trails winding up into the desolate mountains! Too difficult, too troublesome, too insignificant to protect! Just a waste of perfectly good, perfectly obedient soldiers. Men and women who'd sworn their lives to Amestris, to defend not just their own friends and family, but everyone who called this great land home. Mothers and fathers, the young and the elderly. Thousands of them lived in those four little towns, all abandoned and all as good as dead should the Drachmans move east.

Shakily, Riza's fingers combed through her hair, un-plastering the strands from her clammy forehead. She knew this feeling. She'd struggled against it every night for the past four years; thrashing alone in her bed in the wee hours of morning until she woke up gasping for air and clenching fistfuls of her sweat-drenched sheets. It ambushed her in the darkness, but stalked even her waking thoughts, niggling at the corners of her consciousness.

She stared at the floor, forcing herself to focus on the scratches of furniture moved over the years. She'd count them slowly, just as she counted the books on her shelf and each turn of her ceiling fan in that suffocating apartment. Her hands clamped over her ears, nails digging into the tender skin and shooting pain through her nerves. God, how she needed the distraction! If her senses shut down, maybe the words wouldn't come, snuffed out beneath the weight of her unspoken shame.

Instead, they rose like bile in her throat. Her teeth caught the flesh of her cheek, but Riza didn't care. She bit until she tasted blood. The cheek throbbed, her mind flashing with splotches of blinding light in rhythm with the pain.

It's not the same, it's not the same, it's not the same.

"Sirs, we have to evacuate those poor people!" Immediately, Riza covered her mouth, but it was too late. The words had escaped. She turned to Mustang, her glare nearly burning holes through the back of his uniform. Why was he so still? And oh God, why was he so silent?

Say something! Please, just say something!

He never turned around. Instead, his grip on the floor plan tightened, his voice turning cold and detached. "Wait outside, Captain."

Riza stood rooted to the spot. To her eyes, Vogel and Gartner suddenly looked like sharks as they circled Mustang on either side. Soon, she couldn't see him at all through the sea of Amestrian blue. Excusing herself, she stepped out and palmed her chest, feeling her rapid heartbeat.

Why had she spoken out of turn? It wasn't professional. But what about those people? Was no one going to warn them?

Her stomach lurched. Where did Kinzer say that bathroom was? Riza spotted the sign across the hall and dashed inside. Locking the door, she fell to her knees, hugged the toilet, and threw up.

Author's Note: Thanks again for reading! I'm so excited to get Team Mustang on the warfront and ready for action. As always, huge props to my beta-reader, ProfessorPalmarosa!

If you're enjoying the story or have any feedback, I'd love to hear from you!