AN: Here we are, after some mental blocks and personal issues leading to quite a delay. But hey, I guess those things will never go away, so I might as well learn to keep writing despite their presence! Let's go!
Disclaimer: Youjo Senki is the property of Being X. FMA is the property of Hiromu Arakawa. I don't own either of these!
XII. IL CENONE
AQUROYA EXPO, 17 MAY, 1918
The sun hung low in the sky, the picturesque image of warm hues mixed with the greys of clouds making a perfect backdrop for the city skyline. If only I could just stop for a moment to admire this view for a little while more than a scant few minutes.
Heh. Maybe I can set aside just some of that discretionary income to have a summer house built here. What are the property rates in Aquroya anyway? Perhaps a few years ago, they were dirt cheap. Because who would want to buy property in a city that was literally sinking? With the foundations now shored up and tourism investment redoubled, however, it would probably be like buying prime real estate in Central.
Which is to say, I might have to save up for a few months.
That's fine. It's not like I'm in a rush to move here or anything. And I'm sure Alphonse and May appreciate my contribution to the rent.
A prudent mind is one that's able to set aside personal gratification for until after the goals are met.
"The view here sure is something," Winry held her hand above her eyes like a cap visor to keep out the blinding sunlight.
We stood along the waterside edge of the exhibition grounds, stopping to enjoy the view before finally making our way to the dinner at the event hall. Behind us, the booths were starting to switch on their lights as they transitioned for night time activities.
"The sunsets in Resembool are great too, but out here with it setting over the water is a new experience! I should drag Ed down here sometime!" Said with a grin that could be interpreted as either unbridled enthusiasm or mischievousness.
So this is the spouse of the legendary Fullmetal Alchemist. A spunky, hardworking young woman with a burning passion for all things mechanical… and for life in general. Perhaps just the sort of person Edward should end up with, childhood friendship aside.
I'd spent the afternoon trying to learn more about Edward from her perspective, but she got very distracted every time she saw a new contraption out on display.
Especially the Rush Valley glider automail.
Oh don't get me wrong. We'd already finished touring the booths, but as it turned out, most kept special hands-on exhibits in reserve for until after lunch hour. We ended up repeating the morning's whole tour just to make sure we didn't miss anything.
Now my notebook had even more pages of notes, while her hands had gotten greasy from prying open every single flying machine that she was allowed to touch. That wasn't to say that Winry couldn't put them back together. Far from it.
I don't think that was what they meant by 'hands-on'. Other tourists were given live demonstrations from inside rudimentary cockpits or strapped underneath beautiful glider wings. People were supposed to try flying out, not poking around their engines!
But doing so also provides a lot of learning. While I was busy taking down notes, drawings, diagrams, and learning with my eyes, she was busy taking aircraft apart and learning with her hands. Reassembling them - especially with the help of their builders - looked almost natural to her.
No doubt thanks to what she learned right on the spot.
I was honestly surprised how many exhibitioners were kind enough to actually let a stranger dismantle what could very well be their life's work, rather than jealously protecting it. Perhaps it was a combination of Winry's childlike wonderment and her professional-level knowledge that gave them the courage to open up their secrets to her bag of wrenches.
I could probably take a lesson from that somehow.
"You know, you're really lucky to be working under Al," she put her hands behind her back and pivoted around to stoop over me.
"Well, he is a rather responsible individual." And perhaps a little too kind. Offering a stranger a stay over at his place just because she knew a bit more about alchemy than her physical age would imply.
"Completely reliable too!" Winry smiled and turned back to the sun. While she seemed to be looking out at the scenery, her eyes felt more like she was looking back into memory. "Between him and Ed, he's got the cooler head. They've got the same guts, though. Sticking together through thick and thin like that... No wonder they got what they were looking for."
"I'd only ever heard about their adventures in the news," I admitted. And given the lack of advanced communication systems like the internet, that meant all I had was the national radio, and local papers whenever the brothers were near East City.
Before I'd gotten my hands on Edward's notes, he was just a living legend, wrapped up in the hearsay of his exploits and achievements. The youngest State Alchemist in history travelling the nation and helping the common folk wherever the wind took him. Never staying for too long as he always had the next train to catch. Then he finally settled down with his childhood sweetheart after helping foil a nefarious conspiracy that went all the way to the top of the State.
He was almost like that most interesting Dos Equis spokesman. But young instead of old.
"I didn't realise they were actually after something." Now since Winry obviously still keeps in touch with Alphonse, I can't keep that in the past tense. "Come to think of it, though, I did hear about Alphonse having been… sick, somehow. Is that what they were doing? Looking for a cure?"
Winry's eyes softened. As if someone cranked up the amount of wistfulness they were intended to display. She didn't answer at once, instead staring at a passing gondola, where some friends laughed with each other in witty banter.
"They were both very sick," the Engineer finally said. "Ed lost an arm and a leg. Al..." her voice trailed off. I can understand if this was a dark time she had to recollect. But surely, a few years would make it at least somewhat easier to talk about? "Lost everything. Taste… touch…"
She held up a hand and watched herself open and close a fist several times, turning it slowly as she did, as if to study the movements of her own muscles. Like she was imagining how Alphonse might have experienced the disconnect between seeing his arm move and twist, his hand ball up and open… and yet completely lacking the sensation of touch that made such an experience real.
When she looked back at me, she was clearly holding back from outright crying. "I could at least help Edward out with his automail. That was the part I played in all that. Kept his parts running in peak form. Still do. Al, though… you couldn't imagine what Al went through."
"I'd like to know myself, rather than have to imagine. He hasn't really told me anything about it. At least, nothing I didn't already know of."
"I see…" the Engineer turned her attention back to the view. "Sun's getting real low."
What an odd thing to say. Implying we don't have long?
"We have a bit more time," I checked my watch. It was only 1836. "At least another twenty minutes. So maybe you could tell me more about Alphonse's sickness?"
"If Al didn't give you the details, then it's not my place to." Winry kept herself facing the sun. Perhaps hoping the sunset glare would keep me from seeing the wet streaks coming down from her eyes. "I'm sure he has a good reason."
It's important to be able to tell the difference between a professional setting and a casual one. Whether you're in a modern company, or the State Military. Components of body language like non-verbal cues are crucial to reading the person sitting across from you.
If he's subtly shaking, he could be holding back fear or anger, depending on why the higherups sent him down to HR. Of course sometimes, you don't need to look out for telegraphic tells, because they'll openly express their objections.
In Winry's case, this was quite clearly a sore spot that she would rather not discuss. Now that I think about it, that might have been what she meant to convey when she spoke of the sun. Not so much being in a hurry to get to the dinner, but, well…
For the most part, I just quietly stared as she let the subtle tears flow.
We have twenty-odd minutes.
I didn't count the seconds going by. Merely observed her face, perhaps waiting for the tears to stop streaking. In an office, there wouldn't have been any room for such allowances. But this was more like spending some time with a coworker at the oden cart, where we were free to drink and eat until the longer hours after dark.
Finally, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, put on her best smile, and faced me again. "Though if you really want to know, you can ask him again."
Alphonse and May had always been rather evasive concerning his sickness. I can't say I've actually pushed him on the issue. Maybe to be a bit pushier about it would indeed cause him to cave. Well… worth a shot, if anything.
I nodded.
"I think I'll do just that." I checked my watch again. 1849. Time sure flies when you're deeply focused. "Well, we've got a little over ten minutes. Shall we?"
Winry drew a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and wiped her face clean. As she worked in too dirty an industry to concern herself with cosmetics, it only made sense she wouldn't have any makeup on.
If one were to ask me, it was more convenient to just use basic hygiene practices anyway.
"Alright." This particular smile she now wore as she prepared to get off the seawall was more at ease than the last one, less struggling to maintain a facade, more honest. I think she's gotten over the worst of those bad memories for now. "We can't keep those nice people waiting."
"I'm sure they'll be excited to see us." I never considered myself a gentleman. But I was, after all, raised with ideas of common courtesy. And while bushido was not precisely the same as chivalry, such western concepts as helping a lady down the stairs were not alien to me.
I stepped aside and held out my hand, which the Engineer took for support as she hopped off the seawall and back down to the ground. "Looks like your family raised you right," she beamed.
"You could say that," Unnecessary drama will never do you any good. Winry had just finished having to look back on the Elric brothers' horrible sickness. I didn't need to let her know that I never knew my parents and that I was raised in a social welfare orphanage full of annoying brats.
Well… a lifetime ago, I was properly raised in a suburban Japanese home, with some knowledge of western courtesies to boot. So in a way, she wasn't wrong.
We made our way to the event hall, discussing our favourite exhibits from this afternoon. While special mention no doubt went to the Rush Valley automail glider wings, it was brought down by her knowledge of the industry, which allowed her to point out the problems of mounting them on the shoulders.
To which, as someone who purely delved into aerodynamics, could only nod in total concession to her far superior anatomical knowledge. No surprise here, given her claim of having also read her parents' medical textbooks ever since she was little. I suppose that's part and parcel of learning automail.
"It'd have to be the ornithopter from Riviere," she said as we entered the Event Hall.
"What makes it superior to the ornithopter from Wellesley?"
The opening remarks and announcements were made inside this voluminous glass and steel building every morning, as well as the announcement to close things down at night. The main hall was otherwise used by the booths who could afford the extra fees. "A more streamlined design. Less drag for the main body."
Fuselage. Apparently that word didn't even exist yet here. I nodded. "An astute observation." Same observation as myself. It seems like she did some homework before coming here. Which only made sense. How better to set a foundation for the concepts behind machines you'd be seeing for the first time, than reading books about them in advance?
"Wow, you mean I was right?" Winry's eyes lit up.
I nodded again.
"That's pretty big, coming from the State's top aviation expert!" She beamed, the earlier sorrow now most certainly forgotten.
The booths in here, all with bigger funding, each had small crowds around them, which made it somewhat challenging to navigate the hall to find our meeting room. We'd already passed them previously today, but as this was a highly anticipated event, and the second to the last night of the expo, it was only natural so many would be around.
Aircraft that had functioned quite well despite their experimental status hung from the glass ceiling like a modern air museum.
I'd read on some sign nearby that those flying machines were left there all year round, as no other major event needed to use that space up there anyway. Good for them. Less expense from having to take them down and put them back up every year.
In contrast to the expo centre's main hall, the meeting rooms were a bit cozier. Relatively smaller rooms enclosed in wood panels rather than great glass walls, their size varied from "able to fit a couple hundred seats for a lecture" to "good for a few tables and some dozens of seats for more personal occasions".
Meeting Room C was the latter, hidden behind an innocuous door with the name hung up on a neat sign to its right. A guard stood by, weapon slung over his shoulder in relaxed preparedness.
We walked up to him, myself with the confidence of someone who knew where he was going. Winry probably had trouble containing her excitement, because she was trying her best to look like she was distracted by these exhibits, which we'd already gone through twice.
"Good evening, uh... Major..." he said, squint still visible even when he tried to be subtle about it. "Are you here for the special dinner?"
"That's right," I flashed my pocketwatch. "I'm Major Degurechaff, the overseer for tomorrow's race. This is my guest, Mrs. Winry Elric."
"One moment please, ma'am," the guard nodded and pulled out a notebook. There was probably a copy of the guest list there. As he went over it, I held back smirking at how, once I showed him my watch, his demeanour shifted from bored to serious and even slightly nervous.
Never gets old.
Folks react differently to this symbol of power and authority. But most of them, particularly the ones I outrank, tend to treat it with a certain awe and veneration. After all, it didn't merely tell them I held the State's sanction - that was the job of my uniform and the stars on my shoulders. No, it told them much more than that. This watch announced that I was someone with a unique capacity for force, otherwise known as violence, the supreme authority from which all others derive.
I don't condone unnecessary violence, of course. The Ishvalan war, for example, from what I'd read, arose out of some idiot grunt accidentally killing an Ishvalan child with a stray bullet. The results were disastrous. Destruction of life, property, and economy, not just of Ishval, but the entire East Sector as well. That doesn't even take into account the repercussions resulting from the hate stoked by that conflict...
But when push comes to shove, the final word will come from the one who does the pushing and shoving. The only way you can absolutely protect yourself and your property, is either through possessing force - arms or martial arts, for example - or the threat of force - usually by being under the protection of a public or private service like police or bodyguards.
And the… amusement, if you would… comes from how this symbol is universally recognised as a special kind of force.
After all… it was the holders of these watches, the State Alchemists, who ended the war, using decisive force.
The guard shut his notebook and stepped aside to open the door for us. "Enjoy your dinner, Major, Mrs. Elric."
He snapped to a salute as I passed him by, lowering his hand when I nodded in response. The superior officer doesn't always have to salute back. Depending on the situation, any visible acknowledgement will do.
"Wow, you already have the hang of this, don'tcha?" the Engineer whispered into my ear.
I chuckled. "Work at a military base for half a year and you'll get used to it too."
We stepped inside, and were greeted by the sound of a hearty band playing a tour de force of traditional Aerugonian music. The merrymaking was also audible from the moment the guard opened the door. That's some impressive soundproofing.
Signore Semovente's family was probably the only group of people here properly doing the folk dance. Everyone, from the patriarch himself, to his youngest child, executed their moves with synchronisation that tells me they all grew up with it.
Monsieur Auverland and his mobile harem weren't dancing incorrectly per se… they were just dancing something that fit a more… romantic song than a folk one.
Gospodin Ilyushin and Colonel Storch at least saved themselves the embarrassment and were just exchanging jokes, at least based on their expressions.
About a dozen other event officials minded their own business about the room, between them half a dozen waiters. One walked up to us and upon hearing our names, escorted us to our table.
As I sat down and began to browse the menu, the band finished one song and started another.
Winry started bobbing her head lightly at the rhythm. "Hey, this one's pretty good!"
My mouth hung slightly open as the familiarity hit me like a brick.
It was that song.
Sure, I could suspend my disbelief that a pseudo-Italian society could arise in such fashion. But the exact. Same. Song?
It didn't need much introduction. Surely anyone who's watched enough TV or seen enough YouTube videos has heard it before. It was that stereotypical upbeat Italian folk song that made you think of pasta, pizza, old Roman architecture, and Don Corleone's family parties.
You know the one.
What was it doing here? Aside from the fact that Aerugo is Italy and the band is Aerugonian, I mean. There is absolutely no reason for this exact same song to have been invented, even given that the people were just a fantasy caricature of Italians conjured up by Being X!
"I recommend the Pescatore, Signorina Major. It tastes just like the ones in my hometown."
Huh? When did Semovente get here? I looked up and he was carrying his littlest girl on his shoulders.
"Hey there, Mister Semovente!" Winry smiled and waved, taking the time to get the little girl's attention by giving her the same. "This is a great song!"
"Si, Signora Elric," the pilot puffed up his chest, clearly proud of something. His heritage maybe. "We call it the Tarantella Apulina. A very popular folk dance in my home province! It started as a ritual dance to save someone who had just been bitten by a tarantula!"
"Oh, my!" Fascinated, she covered her mouth at the superstitious origin story.
But never mind that! It's also called the Tarantella?! Now Being X isn't even trying to be creative!
"I'll have the Pescatore then," I set the menu card down. While it certainly pays off to be more adventurous in specific circumstances that give good opportunities, it is simply more time efficient to take the expert opinion. This isn't a life or death situation, or even a defining point of my career. Why should it require my utmost focus to figure out which is what on this esoteric list of pasta anyway?
"Your hometown must have quite the fishing industry."
"We host some of the best fishmongers in my province!" Semovente beamed with pride. "And Signora Elric?"
"I'd like to try something basic first," the Engineer answered, specific with her phrasing. "This is my first Aerugonian meal, so I want to see what the foundational tastes are like."
"For that, I recommend the Pomodoro," Semovente pointed down at the item. "Tomato, basil, and some spices are as simple as it gets!"
"Sure!" Winry nodded with enthusiasm. "That sounds great."
"Then I will inform Amadeo," with a bow, the Aerugonian pilot pranced off to the meeting room's attached kitchen.
Besides, taking someone's recommendation puts you in their good graces, or at least feeds their ego. You can't go wrong with a straightforward strategy.
We chatted some more during the waiting period, even as Auverland and his harem put on an allegedly impromptu dance number that looked suspiciously well-rehearsed. Perhaps it was impromptu in the sense that they just decided to break out into an entertaining dance for the dinner's attendees, while having the number as simply part of their repertoire. The most surprising aspect of this was the fact that it was so wholesome even Semovente's kids could watch.
The guests clapped as it ended. Well, most of them. Ilyushin made no attempt to hold back his appreciation of the entertainment and cheered loudly enough to somewhat shake the walls. Auverland and his troupe took a bow, his hair once again hogging the spotlight as it… somehow… glistened in the lamp light.
Finally, a large round man with a chef's hat emerged from the kitchen, holding up a tray with two… bowls…? Each dish was paired with a drink, possibly the chef's choice. Next to Winry's stood a bottle of some sort of red wine, the label being of little help as even in my previous life, I never really did get into heavy drinking. Even if I did, I probably would have known little more than the most basic beers and sake.
That isn't to say I didn't go out to the ramen or oden cart after hours. I just took the lightest drinks they had on hand. Water if possible. But if I had to take something alcoholic, I'd be very moderate about it. And I can certainly appreciate the flavours of a good drink. I just don't like the part where you get drunk.
Drunkenness can lead to hangovers, and that reduces your productivity. Alcoholic addiction is even worse for one's effectiveness as an employee. It was all really a practical choice.
In a way, I'm glad I haven't come of age yet here. This meant that in times like these, I'd be automatically exempt - well, more like "prohibited" - from alcohol. As much as the finer wines might be tempting, I'd rather wait until I could afford to sit back and enjoy such luxuries.
I really wish all these expo officials could be properly informed of the carcinogenic properties of smoking though. The secondhand smoke is starting to get rather thick…
Semovente waved him over to our table. "Signorina Major, Signora Elric, this is Amadeo," the chef nodded with a grunt, twirling his moustache with his free hand as he served our food. "He is one of the top Aerugonian caterers in town."
We exchanged pleasantries, Winry's being more excited than mine being cordial.
"For the Signora, Spaghetti alla Pomodoro," his voice was gruff, but you could tell he was proud of his work, "In the style of Lucignano."
Winry looked down at the large bowl of pasta sitting in front of her, off-white al dente strands slathered generously in chunky crimson tomato sauce. Sprinkled with shreds of basil and pepper.
Perhaps subconsciously, she licked her lips as she stared starry-eyed. Said starry eyes were not static, however, as they darted around as if scrutinising every detail of the dish.
This was a basic meal. And this Engineer was now on a quest to dissect its secrets. Which makes me wonder, really… to what end? Simply because she loves taking things apart? That's what makes the most sense… An engineer's instinct to find out what makes things tick…
"For the Signorina, Spaghetti alla Pescatore," Down came the large bowl as he set it in front of me. "In the style of Bibbona."
The mixture of tomato, Italian-smelling herbs, and the ocean, assailed my senses. There was no question that the sauce and toppings were expertly crafted. I could see why the event organisers selected him to cater for this dinner.
And yet…
Why is this bowl so big!?
You could feed three full-grown adults with the amount of pasta in this dish!
Sure, the same could be said of Winry's bowl, but it never really dawned on me until one was right in my face.
That wasn't to say the sauce-to-noodle ratio was anything but appropriate. There was just the right amount of sauce to cover every last square inch of pasta here. But the issue remained that there were simply way too many carbohydrates here to honestly call this a balanced meal.
I'm not exactly the type to be counting calories or anything, but even compared to the concept of a Japanese meal's side dishes revolving around a bowl of rice and miso soup, this is excessive. Not even a saucer of pickles to cleanse the palate…
Sure… I'll eat this.
Gratefully, even! This is clearly the Aerugonian idea of generosity, and when in Rome you make like the Romans! But I'll have to make note to be more specific about portion sizes in the future.
Winry slurped her spaghetti with focus plastered on her face as she enthusiastically analysed the taste and texture. "Understanding these components and breaking them down aside, I'll just start with saying this tastes amazing!"
Ah yes… an alchemy joke. Of course. When you're married to an alchemist, these things probably come naturally to you.
She went on to describe her experience in terms that surprisingly sounded layman, rather than technical. Good for her! At least the chef would get what she was saying!
I, on the other hand, slowly stabbed a shrimp with my fork, pushing it down into the sauce and pasta base before twirling it around into a little ball.
Small enough for my mouth.
I put the ball in and started to chew.
The tenderness of the shrimp clashed with the firm al dente spaghetti against my teeth and tongue. With little tidbits of chopped herbs providing some pockets of sharp vegetable notes. The sour and mild heat of the spiced tomato sauce, and that characteristic oceanic umami spread throughout…
It could almost make me forget that I was going to be bloated after having to finish all this pasta.
Almost.
Now I don't claim to be an expert on Italian food, but usually they sprinkle that powdery parmesan cheese over everything, right? Yeah of course there are other different types of cheese, but that's what I usually see.
And not to be picky, I understand that it's not always going to be parmesan, but I've had my share of Italian food back in Japan, and this feels just kinda lacking without it. In fact, I don't taste a hint of cheese on this dish at all...
"This is great," I nodded after swallowing. "But could I have some cheese to go with this too?" I made sure to leave out 'Parmesan'. Being X knows if that region even exists in this world, or if it's even known for cheese if it does. So I'm sure that whatever cheese the chef thinks is best for this dish, he'll take care of it!
The blood suddenly drained from Semovente's face.
Odd…
The chef spoke, his voice still professional, but a bit gruffer than earlier. "Signorina. You want cheese… on your Pescatore?"
I dabbed a nearby napkin along my mouth as I collected my thoughts. All cues here, verbal and otherwise, indicate that there must be something wrong with my request for cheese on Pescatore. Was I not specific enough after all?
Were they offended by my ignorance of the many different Aerugonian cheeses? I mean surely they can't expect that much from me! I'm an aeronautics specialist, not a culinary expert.
I cleared my throat, finishing the mouth wiping. "Yes, I do. Please excuse my ignorance, Chef Amadeo. I wish I could tell you exactly which cheese I wanted, but I'm afraid I don't have the expertise to choose which one goes best with this dish."
"No, no, Signorina," the chef waved his hands in an almost-panicked fashion. "No cheese!"
What? I mean sure, as the chef, he has the right to his opinion on what should and shouldn't go on his dishes. But surely, as the customer, I have my rights, yes? It's not like he'll be the one eating it after all. "Well I mean how bad can it be?"
"Catastrophic! If I gave Pescatore with cheese, any cheese, to my dog, he would throw it back at me, like this!" He made a gesture reminiscent of a baseball pitch, complete with a sound from his mouth meant to resemble that of a ball whooshing by.
Okay, I guess he really doesn't want to put cheese on this dish. I glanced around. It looked like this was starting to become a scene, with a number of officials at other tables starting to stare my way. At least Winry was too absorbed in analysing her pomodoro that she didn't seem too bothered…
But as with corporate life, office politics exists, and appearances are everything. It's probably better to keep this molehill from growing into a mountain.
I silently nodded in concession. "I understand. My apologies then, Chef. In that case, perhaps now would be a good time to introduce the Signora and myself to our drinks?"
The tension evaporated almost immediately. Semovente breathed a sigh of relief, while the big round chef went back to his earlier dignified stance, albeit with a renewed sense of pride. Perhaps in the way that he'd "saved" me from the "catastrophic" fate of eating Pescatore with cheese. "Si, Signorina."
He started with Winry's wine bottle.
"For the Signora, a 1912 Sansonina Merlot," with professional acumen, he popped the cork and poured her a glass.
The Engineer picked it up by the stem and gave the rich crimson liquid a quick sniff. "Smells familiar… like… blackberries?"
"Si, that is one of the early harvest Merlot's more prominent flavours. Enjoy."
"Oh, I think I will!" Considering how apparently young she looks, I wonder if this is Winry's first time drinking. The way she handled that glass for the smell test, though, seems to indicate that she might know a thing or two about it. Well it's not really out of place to start drinking before hitting legal age. Especially out in a backwater sheep herding town like Resembool, and especially with peers and family that condone that sort of thing.
Soon she was consuming her drink with the same analytical intensity as she was eating her pasta.
The chef set down a large glass mug with a steaming foamy concoction inside.
My cowlick perked up and my eyes widened.
I know that smell anywhere.
It's coffee. With a hint of chocolate. And if the scents wafting up my nose are any indication, one unlike any I've had in living memory.
"And for the Signorina, a Dirhamino Entratico."
"What's in it?" It was hard to hold back the building excitement. I strained as I drummed my fingers on the table and tapped a rhythm with a foot. Any kind of distraction to keep myself from just jumping at it. That would be completely unprofessional.
"The drink itself is a mixture of espresso, foam, and hot chocolate. Amadeo uses only the finest Arcene beans, Signorina Major," Semovente pointed out. "Perhaps you've heard of them?"
I'd never really had the time to do my research on the coffee bean varieties in this world. And after that horrendous slop in Briggs, I was starting to think that coffee could only get as good as some decent roasts in cafes like the one from this morning. "I can't say I have. Perhaps you could enlighten me, Signore?"
Ah but no… don't give me hope… Surely Arcene beans can't possibly be the cure to this world's dearth of quality coffee? I haven't even tasted it yet so how can I even be this sure?
The pilot went on to detail the conditions of Arcene, an Aerugonian trade colony on the opposite shore of the Southern Sea. A tropical nation with fertile ground and weather conditions perfect for growing coffee beans - amongst a host of other crops that are purchased by the mother country.
The careful artisan processing. The stringent shipping security measures in place to ensure it crosses the sea unmolested by pests or other forces that could potentially damage its quality.
The painstaking efforts of baristas to produce the best possible serving each and every time…
Masterful storytelling, the kind you would find in an epic adventure story. Which seems wholly appropriate. This era appears to be near the beginnings of espresso history, creeping across the continent wherever Aerugonian culture dared to tread. Contrast that with any modern Earth nation and the presence of a Starbucks on every corner.
Semovente ended his story with a simple invitation for me to enjoy my drink.
I raised the mug in return and took a sip.
Decadent, creamy foam tickled my tongue, accompanied by just the right balance of chocolate notes.
And that… impeccable… dark… roasted... taste...
My head went numb and my senses dampened as my brain shut down.
I can't find the words for this cup.
After so many years of making do with nothing but garbage and mediocrity and then having this cup...
Yes…
There's something about this cup.
This cup.
Somewhere inside me, a dam burst.
Between my fingers drumming and foot tapping, I should have added another outlet for my excitement.
If I'd done that, I probably could have prevented my eyes from getting wet, but it's too late for that now.
A single tear streaked down my face.
"Major?" Winry's voice was muffled, but I definitely heard it. "Are you alright?"
"Signorina Major?" Semovente waved a hand in front of my face. "Was it not to your liking?"
I set the mug down. "No."
The chef took off his hat. "Then allow me to apologise for-"
"No." Again my mouth opened. Slowly the gears in my brain started turning again. "It's beyond merely liking. I would kill for more of this."
Another sip. Another brief brain jolt that feels like forever but probably lasts for a scant few seconds.
"My best compliments to you, Chef Amadeo," I wiped the tear from my face. "You won't believe how long I've been looking for good coffee… coffee that isn't even a third as good as this."
I raised the mug, holding it against the light of the ceiling lamp and slowly turning it as if to examine a priceless jewel.
"And now here it is, a most wonderful surprise. It's so unfortunate that I have to leave after the Expo concludes tomorrow. If I could, I would come down here every day just to have more of this cup..."
Semovente gave the chef a knowing look, and the latter smiled in response. "If you would like, Signorina, I can arrange to free up a few bags of beans for you to bring home. And if you would like more after, I'm sure someone of your standing can find a way to get ahold of more."
Ah, yes. He's talking, of course, about rail shipping. If there's one thing I love about this country, it's that the trains mostly run on time. And along with passenger transportation, cargo has been a matter since the beginning. From mail, to parcels, to freight. Now if only it were a bit less regulated by the government, then rail can really reach its apex.
"A sound proposal, Chef," I nodded before taking another buzzing sip of this cup. "I think I'll take you up on your offer."
We shook hands just as the door opened.
A family of four stepped in, all dressed to the nines.
One kid of each sex - a bit older than me, probably around the tail end of the tweens. You could tell by the boy's overly self-important high society grasp of his open coat's hems, and the girl's concern for her nail polish over the festivities around her. Kids kind of develop a certain ego around that time. The kind that says, "Look at me I'm almost a teen!"
The mother was dividing her attention between looking around at the scenery and making sure her kids were behaved.
And the father-
… what.
"General Halcrow," Storch stood up from his table with some Expo officials and walked up to welcome the group. The two men shook hands. "It's great that you made it this year without incident!"
"Yes, well, the bureaucrats say the Drachman border is unstable. I think they just want an excuse to not travel." They laughed.
Ah yes, General. If concern over the border makes one a bureaucrat, then allow me to present you with my HR department credentials. What brings you all the way down here, less than two months after a major attack on your Sector Command? Shouldn't you be staying up there until the tensions die down completely?
That being said, Storch's words and demeanour tell me that the General comes down here on a regular basis. Probably to specifically see the Expo, if they know each other that well. Perhaps they even know each other from back in Bradley's day.
"Ambassador, I see you're still in the game." Halcrow made his way to Ilyushin's table, where he was entertaining officials and guests with his flying squirrel's tricks. "Still out to prove that Drachman engineering is superior?"
"We will always have some edge over your squishy Southerner fingers, General," the mountain man held out his palm to the General, and that flying squirrel scrambled up into his hand. She turned around, shoved her tail up in Halcrow's direction, and wagged it at him.
… did his pet just moon a Lieutenant General? I don't even… Like I said before. They probably got a brute of a mountain man as their ambassador to Amestris for the sake of sabre rattling. But this is something else entirely!
"Mother Drachma has outlasted the war with Clan Shang of Xing. She will no doubt make your flying machines look like clumsy blind hens!" He laughed.
"Yes, well after last year, you'll have to do better than last place," Halcrow shot back. The two locked eyes in a literal diplomatic staring contest.
Before anyone could blink, however, it was interrupted when Auverland's outrageous hair broke the line of sight between the two. "Monsieur General, I see you are back for more!"
"You know how it goes. The kids loved the race last year and begged me to bring everyone down here again. Sheila also thinks we could use a change of climate, if only for a week or two."
Auverland opened his mouth, but the General cut him off.
"And no, Penny won't be going out with you any time soon. Not in ten years, if I can help it."
The Cretan pilot could only laugh embarrassedly. "What can I say? I just wanted to make sure!" He went back to his harem to start singing along with the band's next folk piece.
The General huffed and made his way over to Semovente's table, where his wife and kids joined the large Aerugonian family in their merriment. After a brief exchange, probably asking for their patriarch, he came this way.
"I see you brought the whole family this year, Signore," the two men shook hands with congenial smiles. Ah yes. The common ground of being the family man. "That must mean you're liking your odds."
"What kind of father would bring his family just so they see him lose, yes?"
"Indeed. I'm looking forward to seeing you all fly tomorrow. The kids loved it even with the late start last year, and hopefully, third time's the charm." The General looked over at their shared table.
"We're all prepared, Signore General." Semovente's eyes burned with determination.
"I'm sure. The Organisers tell me there's a big purse on the line. Comparable to a State Alchemist's grant. That's a hell of a grand prize."
That was when his eyes locked on to me. For less than a second, his smile shrank, and would've probably turned into a frown in a more private situation. But as a General, he knew the importance of appearances in public. And so he exerted control over his face to bring that cordial smile back. Albeit less genuine than before he noticed me.
"My eyes turned to saucers when I first saw this year's numbers," the pilot laughed, "The others' did too!"
"I'm sure they did."
Semovente then redirected the attention to me… ugh. "Signore General, this is Major Degurechaff from Central. She will be overseeing the race tomorrow."
"What a coincidence seeing you here, Major!" His words were of feigned surprise, as he reached out with a hand.
As a standard courtesy, I was of course obliged to shake it. Said shake was… tighter than usual, though I'm not surprised. If he was petty enough to send me to a battle zone just because I worked for the new administration, he'd be petty enough to keep bad blood after I took his "punishment" and used it to boost my heroic reputation.
"We're actually already acquainted, but don't let us hold you up. Why don't you head back to the family, and I'll follow after catching up with the Major?"
Finally, he let go of my hand, so I could properly wave goodbye.
"Grazie, Signore General!" Semovente gave me a casual two-fingered salute before waving back and doing as had been suggested.
"Edward really doesn't know what he's missing down here! Wooooo~!"
Out of the corner of my eye, the shape that was Winry Elric wobbled tipsily even as she shouted her appreciation of the food and drink here. At least she won't remember this confrontation I'm having, if she notices at all…
I'd take another sip of that cup, but I was too busy massaging my aching hand...
"Overseer for tomorrow, huh?" Halcrow nodded to himself, putting on a thoughtful expression. "You know, I read your report on Briggs' Air Defence Grid. It mostly praised their performance during the attack."
"The ADG performed admirably to spec. Führer Bradley would have been proud." Sure, they failed to shoot down the airship. But they were great at clearing the skies of those pesky helipack grunts that Serebryakova had been saddled with. Thanks to them, we managed to get on that airship and blow it up.
Halcrow seemed more concerned about how they were used, rather than the fact that they accomplished the mission. "That they did." A fake smile. You could tell by his eyes. A genuine smile would have the eyes ever so slightly narrowed, enough to produce so-called "laughter lines" at the corners. "I expect great things tomorrow, Major. I hope that everything goes well on your watch!"
Now the smile turned genuine… if smug.
"Especially since I'll be watching. Enjoy your meal."
With that, Northern Commanding General and King Bradley fanboy Halcrow left us to our devices.
Sounds like he really is still pissed. I wish I could just say "too bad" and shrug him off. But things just got real.
He might not be my commanding officer, so I don't report to him. But Halcrow is still a Lieutenant General - two ranks below the Führer. If anything goes wrong tomorrow on my watch, he'll be there to see it. No doubt, as a witness of high standing, he would be more than eager to volunteer an eyewitness report.
Of course it would be compared to other reports. But even if he were to be completely factual about what happened, you have to understand. Facts don't speak for themselves, contrary to a certain popular forensic TV show. They speak only within the context of how they are interpreted.
We can both be looking at the exact same thing. But the spin we put on it is what really matters.
The door opened again, and a pair of MPs in their black uniform stepped in. What, did Halcrow's bodyguards just catch up with him?
I ate more of my pasta, then took another sip of that cup… that cup so divine I might mistake it for a trap by Being X.
This evening isn't perfect, but I'm not going to let that veiled threat stress me out. Not when I've got such a wonderful drink.
"Major Degurechaff?"
Huh? When did those guys get all the way here? "Yeah…?"
They introduced themselves as part of the security detail assigned to the Expo.
"Please come with us, Ma'am. It's urgent."
Great… Now what? "Give me a sec."
I stood up and approached my hosts, who had gathered around the middle of the room. "Gentlemen, I've got to say, this has been an amazing evening. But it seems that duty calls, and so I must be on my way."
"That's understandable, Major," Colonel Storch gave me a smile. "And it's quite fine. We were just about to head over to the billiard room, actually. I'd invite you to join us too, but..."
He held out a hand to gesture at the MPs.
I sighed. "Yeah. Maybe next time, then?"
"Next time it is."
It seemed it was only the gentlemen who were going to play. The ladies and kids were still going to stick around, and most certainly make the most of that band and food.
Semovente reassured me that the kitchen fridge would take care of my meal, so I could always come back for it later. The night was young, a little over two hours into the dinner. So finishing that meal was within the realm of possibility.
That, and considering Winry's current state, it was my duty as the one who invited her here, to take her back to her room after the event. Which is to say, I'd definitely be back.
As she called for a second bottle from Chef Amadeo, I just shook my head and followed the MPs.
We met up with one of the organising officials along the way. He, in turn, explained that we were heading to the hangar.
Combined with the MPs saying it was urgent, I felt the pit of my stomach sinking.
The hangar was, for the time of the Expo, reserved for the race. Hence why I was called.
Which could only mean something was wrong with the planes…
The MPs opened a door aside the main hangar gate and switched the lights on.
The only word I could think of for what lay before me was an ugly one, but oh so terribly appropriate.
Carnage.
Pure, engineering carnage. My brain had to recall pictures of them from the dossiers just so I could figure out which belonged to who.
Parts were strewn everywhere. Several cans of various chemicals lay spilled over.
The dashboard on Semovente's plane was lying haphazardly on the floor like someone had just ripped it out.
Storch's plane's fuselage had been hammered through in several places.
Auverland's 'aerodyne' was literally in pieces.
Only Ilyushin's 'flying squirrel-inspired' gliding aircraft remained intact. Conspicuously, one might even say…
Whoever the saboteur was - and if this isn't sabotage, I will eat my hat - they wanted to leave a statement. Now, an amateur would be quick to point out that the Drachman representative is just fine, and then connect this fact to the recent attack on Briggs.
But is it really that simple? Ilyushin has Investigations on his tail all the time, for sure. That they haven't deported him yet means they have no sound reason to. And as much as they would love to do so, considering his job isn't so much "actual ambassador" as it is "sabre rattler", he gets by on the technicalities of diplomatic immunity. They would need to find something concrete to get rid of the rugged mountain man.
No, the Drachman connection is too obvious. Like they want us to suspect him.
But now the question is who's behind this… and why.
Great. Just great. Looks like I won't be getting back to dinner after all. That is, unless I want Halcrow to kill my career by writing about how I callously enjoyed myself even as the race fell apart. Which I definitely don't want…
This night just keeps getting better.
Thanks for ruining my dinner, Being X. Thanks a lot.
~0~0~0~
FIELD HQ, 313TH MOTORISED INFANTRY BATTALION, OSWELL, CRETAN FRONT, MAY 17, 1918
Jean Havoc flicked the spent filter of his latest cigarette, the butt falling to a mat of dried oil-stained grass that had seen better days. He ground it into the dirt to ensure the grass didn't catch fire. As he reached for the pack in his pocket to slip out the next stick, he surveyed the busy State Military camp, a sight he hadn't seen in quite a while.
Soldiers hurried back and forth. Fresher troops hopped up onto trucks that drove them to the front lines, even as the tired and injured returned as shipments of casualties. Mechanics tended to any vehicles in need of repair, and an automail engineer by the infirmary tent took care of any grunts who either needed their units fixed… or had just been amputated after the surgeon decided a replacement limb was the better option.
Just behind him, Rebecca barked out orders to their guys as they unloaded the crates of Xingese materiel they had convoyed in as per their new contract with the State. Acquired in a recent deal from Clan Yao, the stun bombs, or "flashbangs", as the men started to call them, had proven their effectiveness during Mustang's uprising against Bradley, and a number of brass familiar with its performance had tapped Havoc General Store for more.
Havoc shook his head to hide the odd smile on his face. War was as brutal as ever, and yet he couldn't help but feel a certain nostalgia for the world he mostly left behind after his worst ever breakup led to a broken spine.
His attention shifted to the tall, sculpted man who just stepped out of the CO's tent. Havoc's distanced semi-interest transitioned to familiarity, and finally, terror, as the living mountain in uniform approached with the speed of a charging bull. The unlit cigarette fell to the ground as the beast lifted him up in an impassioned bear hug… and began to cry aloud.
"Oh! It's so wonderful to see you again after such a long time, Mister Havoc! When I heard you were coming with a shipment of new armaments, I could barely contain myself!" Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong's tears gushed in flying streams of saltwater, sparkles twinkling over his head as he continued to hug his erstwhile comrade in arms.
"Good… to see ya… too… Colonel!" The smaller man struggled to catch a breath for a few moments before the living mountain finally set him down. Havoc breathed deeply and sighed in relief. "Congratulations on the promotion, by the way."
Armstrong clasped his hands together and flexed. "It was only dedication to my duty that brought me this far!" The next moment, his coat and shirt were gone, and his glorious musculature was visible for the camp to see. Not that they hadn't seen it a million times by this point. He leaned in and whispered. "Though I must confess it was more a matter of logistical convenience. The Cretans assassinated Colonel Vickers last year, and as his XO, I was pushed up to care for his campaign until its completion."
"From what I hear, you've been doing a pretty good job too." Armstrong was always a big softie, preferring to minimise casualties if he couldn't resolve something peacefully. But when the chips were down, you couldn't deny how dependable he was in a fight. "Becky says casualty counts have dropped fifty percent since you took over the 313th."
Which was as it should have been. This border war with Creta wasn't anything official anymore, just continuing skirmishes carrying over from Bradley's day. In particular, by belligerent tribes who didn't care that there was a new Führer in town with an eye for peace. They bypassed the Cretan Federal Army forces stationed along the Amestrian border, typically in the dead of the night, to get their licks in. You couldn't justify losing so many men over something that wasn't even an official war. And yet here it was. Armstrong was doing good work here, and Havoc was proud to now be a part of it, even in his civilian capacity.
"We all do our part, Mister Havoc," Armstrong said as he made his biceps ripple. Finally, the Lieutenant Colonel calmed down, and just as swiftly as he had torn it off, put on a new set of uniform pulled from some inexplicable space. "I can only do my best to keep my men safe. Especially-"
"Colonel Armstrong, Sir!"
Havoc's head alertly snapped in the direction of the camp entrance. That voice was not the kind you would be expecting to say such words. The kind you hoped would never have to. And yet, the image that met his eyes perfectly matched the sound in his ears.
She was small, couldn't have been a day over thirteen. Could have been mistaken for playing soldier with such a serious salute. She definitely wasn't playing though. What was once no doubt a lavishly long head of brown hair had been trimmed to army regulations, leaving only a pair of braids on either side of her face. She wore the unmistakable uniform of the State Military, albeit covered in a thick layer of soot. It was shot and torn in several places, and stained with caked blood in many parts. A telling silver chain hung tightly from her belt pocket, right next to the fixed-bayonet rifle she kept standing on the ground to her left by the end of the stock. She reeked of blood, bile, and gunpowder.
But to the discharged former Lieutenant, the worst part about this was the distant stare in her green eyes, darkened eye bags underneath. Who was this kid?
"Major Sioux," Armstrong returned the salute and motioned for her to go at ease, which she did, tilting the rifle in front of her and grabbing the barrel with both hands. "I see you have returned."
"Mission accomplished, Sir. Those Hasfalt Tribe bastards won't be charging our trenches again anytime soon." The words were reserved for the most part. But the ones referring to the enemy dripped with venom. "What are my next orders, Sir?"
The living mountain rubbed his perfectly chiseled chin and produced a map of the local region - from its quality, no doubt hand drawn with techniques passed down along his family line for generations. Pulling up a nearby crate, Armstrong spread out the map and fished a marker from his pocket, examining the present formations with a keen eye. He moved to encircle a number of red symbols sitting downriver from Oswell. "The next course of action should be to gather the able men and lead a counterattack against these fortifications."
"Already done, Sir." Sioux stated matter of factly. "I took the initiative. Rallied the platoon and chased the retreating attack force all the way back to their pillboxes. Cut them open with my alchemy."
"I see…" Armstrong's forehead wrinkled as his hairless eyebrows furrowed, the marker stopping just short of touching the map.
Havoc's eyes swept over to his friend. That was… bad. Not that taking initiative was bad, but she had informed him after the fact. Didn't even radio it in for support. That was dangerous. Not the very least because they weren't able to coordinate with the other surrounding units in the theatre. Had they just the least bit of bad luck or timing, or if that retreat was actually a feint by the Hasfalt, she and her men could easily have been cut off from the rest of the Battalion by an enemy encirclement.
Nearby, the truck she had presumably arrived in finished unloading its passengers. By his count, at least half a dozen bodies, with twice as many injured. Alchemy or not, these casualties could have been reduced with a more coordinated assault.
"Might I suggest advancing all the way, Sir?" Sioux spoke up again. "The path to the enemy camp is clear. God is watching. We could easily march in and take it if we go now!"
A tense silence enclosed the three from the hustle of the camp as Armstrong continued to think, Havoc watched, and Sioux waited.
After a minute or two that felt more like an hour, the Lieutenant Colonel finally spoke. "I will confer with Brigadier General Sharps at Pendleton. See if he can spare a few batteries from the 221st. You will have your orders within the hour. For now, return to the barracks and get some rest."
Sioux's jaw fell slightly, and she immediately lost her ease, standing her rifle up as she opened her right hand for emphasis. "Sir, we can do it without artillery! That's what a State Alchemist is for! I just need enough men to hold-"
"You will return to the barracks and rest, Torchblade Alchemist. That is a direct order." Armstrong wasn't loud. But he was firm.
The young girl sighed in frustration and snapped a salute. "Yes, Sir." One could almost imagine her rolling her eyes from the way she said this. Nevertheless, Maria Sioux - or just Mary to most people - faced about and marched toward the barracks.
Havoc lit himself another cigarette and took the first puff after the awkward conversation he'd just borne witness to. "I have never seen a kid so eager to jump back into a combat zone." There were a few adults, sure. They lived for the thrill of battle or whatever. But most people, and damn near almost every child he'd ever met, knew that war was terrible. And yet…
"She has her reasons, Mister Havoc," was all the response Armstrong could proffer. "She waited an entire year for this… chance. As soon as she completed her recertification, Major Sioux requested a transfer to this front specifically."
"That's not really a reason, Colonel. Why would she spend a whole year giddily waiting to jump headfirst into the Suck?" He looked back at the infirmary, where the dead were now draped with cloth, and the injured receiving treatment from the med team. "The last time I saw someone with eyes like that, he'd just come back from Ishval."
"It is a great tragedy indeed," a tear went down the living mountain's cheek. "She should be at home, enjoying her childhood with her family. Going to school. Playing with children her age. But she chooses this life of pain and hardship."
Havoc shook his head in disbelief. "At least the last thing on Edward's mind was going to war. Alphonse is in it to create peace through diplomacy. But now you've got this Sioux kid acting like you're grounding her after you give her a break from fighting. And then there's that ten-year-old from East City flying around over Briggs blasting a Drachman airship out of the sky." Why did these State Alchemists keep getting younger? And why were they a lot more vicious? Weren't parents teaching their kids anything? Did Father's plan to suck out everyone's souls end up tainting the next generation with his seven deadly sins?
"It is to numb an even greater heartache." Armstrong finally admitted. "I was told the Cretans had assassinated her father, an important official. And the poor girl has been hellbent on revenge ever since."
Havoc scoffed. For someone pious enough to say that God - which one again? There were a lot of them, last he checked - was watching, she sure took a lot of things into her own hands. Maybe she was a Kratian. That would at least explain why her first recourse was getting into the military. Clever one too. The minimum age of recruitment was 16. But the technicalities of the State Alchemist program meant that you could bypass that as long as you were talented enough. He could understand her motivations better, at least. That said... "Still doesn't make it right. But if this is what she really wants, then…" He looked over to the living mountain.
"I can only do my best to keep her safe. Just like all my other men..." For Alex Louis Armstrong, it was of special importance to protect this broken, hurting child. But as a witness to the terrors of war, how they destroyed you on the inside if not out, he knew that this mission could never be accomplished.
AN: So as it turns out, it recently occurred to me that some materials updated certain names, mainly Gen. Hakuro - Halcrow. I'll be editing that going forward. For those of you wondering, the song in question is the Neapolitan Tarantella. There are many tarantellas, so I have to specify which one it is, haha.