Notes: You'll notice that Roy is a Captain, when logic dictates that he would be a Major, as all State Alchemists are Majors. I'm aware of this fact. I'm trying something. Bear with me. I've decided to go largely according to English dub. The only point of difference is on "Ishvar," because - well, "Ishvar" has significance, dammit. And, uh, I'm sticking with Kimbley. Thanks go out to Mandy138 and ponderosa121 on the Royai livejournal community for help with some of the details.

January 17, 1907

Roy awoke shivering from a dream. For a moment, he hovered in uncertainty – his dream had been cold, and to come now into a cold reality seemed impossible. But slowly he came to himself and found himself curled in the corner formed by his seat and the wall, huddled to conserve warmth.

Slowly he raised his head, wincing at the stiffness of his neck. Outside the window, left open from the previous day, the vast expanse of sand dotted infrequently with scrub shone a dull copper-gray, and the sky was black shading into purple. He couldn't hear a sound over the clatter of rails beneath him, but the air held that peculiar shadowless twilight stillness – things looked silent. As to which twilight it was – well. His hand drifted down toward his pocket, and he wished, not for the first time, that he had a watch.

Instead, he shifted to the opposite bench and peered out toward the front cars. They were headed as they had been for days inexorably east: if the light lay behind them, it was evening; if it lay before them, it was dawn. That consideration would have been helpful, of course, if he could actually tell whether it was lighter ahead or behind, but the sky was a uniform purple, so the entire line of thought was useless.

He considered the window. It opened only slightly wider than the breadth of his head, but it slid down, rather than up, to open, so there was no danger there. And there was a broad sill, of sorts, upon which he could place his arm to support himself. And Roy was a curious sort, thoughtful, and it would be advantageous to train into himself the habit of learning all he could about his situation.

The first gust of wind against his face brought tears to his eyes; the second dried them. He blinked furiously against the chill just to be able to peer at the landscape ahead and saw nothing. But just as he worked up the nerve to lean out further the train veered slightly off, and he was rewarded for his perseverance with the image (or mirage?) of a red sun stretching just the very tip of its head above the horizon.

And, perhaps it was merely an illusion, but even through the wind he seemed to feel the first traces of heat upon the air. Slight thing, really, but it hinted fearsome at the power of the day to come.

So. Dawn, then. Roy pulled his head back inside with a bit of difficulty, but managed to avoid the loss of any skin. He settled back, wondered what to do with this newfound bit of knowledge, and jumped when he realized the gas-lamp had been lit, and that there was someone sitting across from him.

"I'm sorry," the oldish man said quickly, before Roy could shout or say anything at all. "I knocked."

A deep, steadying breath, and then Roy responded, "I didn't hear you."

The man smiled, and it made his wrinkled face kindly and paternal. Upon second glance, he leaned more toward middle-aged than old – it was simply that he had reached that middle age without any sort of grace; and he dressed like Roy's own grandfather to boot, all tweed and frump. "I figured that out," the rough-voiced man said with just a trace of gentle mockery. "I'd imagine it's a bit noisy out there, considering the wind."

"I was trying to figure out what time it was," Roy replied, more defensive than he had intended.

"And the best way to do that is to stick your entire head out of a moving train." Now the man out-and-out laughed. "And people say we're eccentric."

"We?" Roy asked. The man didn't look much like a soldier, so that couldn't be what he meant. So –

"We alchemists," the man said, raising both eyebrows slightly.

"Ah," Roy said. "Of course." And although he wanted to point the conversation in a direction that would result in the man introducing himself, he couldn't help but be a touch curious: "People call us eccentric?"

The man paused a moment, tilted his face away from Roy and looked at him from the corner of his eye. "Depends on the people," he said. "There are some that call us eccentric, sure. And, uh – " The man laughed again, but it was a different laugh, and he lifted his chin pointedly toward the front of the train. "And there are some that call us devils. It's just a matter of cultural perspective."

Roy knew all that. He didn't want to know it, but he'd heard stories, and he'd have to be a damn sight more naïve than he was not to know why the army was in Ishvar. So, long-suffering, he said, "Be nice to have someone appreciate us."

"Sure. It'd be nice to have all the hazelnuts you could care to eat, too, and springtime all year, but some things are beyond our control."

"That's true," Roy said, and then hesitated. Probably best not to mention that he was allergic both to hazelnuts and pollen. "I, uh..." He cleared his throat, then held out his hand. "I'm, uh, Captain Roy Mustang."

The man looked down at the outstretched hand, then back at Roy, and he looked genuinely confused. Then he shook himself and grasped his hand. "Oh, God – I'm so sorry," he said. "I thought for sure that I had...I'm Tim Marcoh," he said apologetically, and released his hand.

It took, thankfully, barely a moment for the name to sink in. Then Roy was on his feet, throwing a salute to the Lieutenant Colonel, who was staring up at him, as baffled as he'd been before. "Sir!" Roy greeted even as Marcoh was saying, "No, really, please – "

"Sit down," the Lieutenant Colonel said, then, again, added a "Please." "I'm not used to this," he explained as Roy sat. "I've never actually been in command of anyone before, and I've...I've never been called Major, or – uh, or Lieutenant Colonel in my life. Please."

Roy rubbed nervously at his wrist. "I'm, uh – studying under you, aren't I?" he asked.

"You are. I've heard you're a terribly talented student," Marcoh said kindly.

Thank you, sir, but a compliment wasn't precisely what he'd been going for. "I'm, uh – I'm not certain what to call you, then."

"Oh – Tim will do fine."

No, it wouldn't. Roy cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't really feel comfortable..."

Marcoh stared at him. "Why?"

"Because – " Roy was resenting the hell out of this man for making him explain himself. "Because you're a Lieutenant Colonel, sir."

Marcoh's mouth formed a silent "Oh." "Doctor, then," Marcoh said. "I was – that's what they called me, in the research lab." He took a moment to smile and shrug. "I've always kind of seen myself as more of a scientist than a soldier." Then Marcoh cleared his throat awkwardly: "Anyway. I just came in here to introduce myself, and to tell you that we're getting close to the outskirts of Ishvar."

The words sounded strangely ominous, but Roy wasn't one for false omens, for belief in prescience. He wasn't going to let the ring of them ruin his mood. "We're arriving soon?" he asked.

"Noonish tomorrow, they say." Marcoh considered him with an old man's jaded eye. "You sound eager. Ready to fight for God and country?"

The Doctor seemed kindly enough and his last question ironic enough that Roy felt easy enough to confess. "Not to fight," he said, "not really. I have to confess, I – can't picture myself making much of a show of myself on the battlefield. But I'm eager to stop the war."

A small sigh, and Marcoh leaned back slightly in his seat. "And how will you do that?"

"However the Fuhrer wishes me to," Roy responded, honestly. He was no boy, and he wasn't naïve; he knew that he was going to be a tool of Amestris. It was simple wisdom not to fight against that, because the more he could do, the sooner the war would end.

Still, the Doctor sighed through his nose and looked out the window. Roy followed his gaze. The sun had risen as they spoke, and the land was washed with deep but yet weak red. Rocks and the rare scrub brush cast long shadows. The sky was still stained deep with color. "This is beautiful country," Marcoh said.

"I fell asleep last night staring out the window," Roy admitted. "I couldn't look away long enough to pull out my bed."

"The same thing happened to me, when I came out here for the first time," the Doctor said. Roy doubted that, but the Doctor was trying to establish solidarity; okay. "I was a lot like you, I'd imagine. Have you met the Fuhrer in person?"

"Once. It was me and maybe five of my classmates. 'Congratulations on your exemplary performance.' That sort of thing. No big deal." Roy shrugged, deliberately casual.

"But now you're willing to die for him."

Roy looked at Marcoh, at his gray weathered face, at the shadows deepened by the early-morning light, uncertain whether or not to take offense at that comment, uncertain what it even meant. It was the Doctor's eyes that decided him, sorrowful as they flickered back and forth against the horizon, against the rising light. "I'm willing to die for Amestris."

"I can't blame you. Fuhrer Bradley is quite charismatic." It was as though Marcoh hadn't even heard Roy's response. Roy forgave him, and tried to lighten the tension that was making both he and the Doctor uncomfortable.

"Besides, I don't particularly plan on dying," Roy said cheerily.

Doctor Marcoh, however, was dead-set against any sort of detente. "No? And how will you avoid it?"

"Well, I'll stay away from fatty foods, cigarettes, and – "

"Bullets?"

"I'll stay far away from bullets," he assured the Doctor.

"Why do you think they even sent you here, Captain?" Marcoh asked.

That was a terrible question to have been asked. A question like that never spelled good. "To learn from you, until I become a full alchemist in my own right," he replied, uncertain in spite of himself. Marcoh didn't respond, so he amended himself: "To assist you."

"And why do you think they sent me here?"

Uh. "To do research."

"I could do research in Central."

"You could," Roy agreed cautiously. "But there must be advantages – "

"They've sent me here to kill, Captain," Marcoh said, "as they've sent you here to kill."

Oh, that was a bad thing to hear. "Then they're pretty dumb," Roy responded. "From what I've heard, you don't practice practical alchemy, and I'm – I work with the air. What am I supposed to do, blow wind at the Ishvarites?"

"They have plans for you." Marcoh narrowed his eyes slightly. "They have plans for us."

Again, Roy attempted some bit of joke, though with considerably less humor than before: "I had no idea I was that important. I mean, you're famous, but..."

"Not you and me," Marcoh said. "Us. All of us. You, your classmates, the men I work with – all of us. Do you know how many State Alchemists have been shipped into Ishvar?"

Though the admission was shameful, Roy said, "I don't."

"This has never happened before, Captain. We've never been at war before." Marcoh continued to watch Roy – it seemed as though the man were judging him, measuring his reactions. But the Doctor broke off his gaze and stood, weary, old. "You should close the window before it gets too hot."

"Does it get very hot here?" Roy asked, even though that was a really, really stupid question.

"You're from Central, aren't you?" When Roy nodded, Marcoh smiled a tiny, infuriating, knowing smile. "Yes. It gets very hot here."

Roy was irritated enough by that last condescension that he stood and snapped a salute. "Thank you for your time, sir." He felt a little sorry when the Doctor looked awfully pained.

"When we get to the city, find my office," Marcoh said. "There's a special barracks for the alchemists. I have my office there. From there, I'll show you where to go." He stood there a moment, uncertain. "Goodbye," he said, and nodded, and left.

Roy waited until he was certain that Marcoh was gone before he closed the window. The Doctor had seemed to know what he was talking about.