Roy shaded his eyes against the impossible, unforgiving glare of the sun. He coughed when, trying to take a deep, steadying breath, he inhaled a mouthful of dust. Already, when he closed his jaw, he bit down on grit. Already a headache was starting to beat behind and above his eyes, a reaction to the heat and light and din.
Already, he was starting to detest this land.
Ishvar City had long been the commercial and political capital of the land with which it shared a name. It had grown vast as the myriad tribes met to trade, to negotiate, to resolve or initiate wars. It was where those from Amestris, from Xing, Drachma, Aerugo, from every land – where they met to trade spices or silk, gold or gunpowder, weapons or art. It was a bustling city, prosperous, soaked in the swirling, mingling, heady waters of East and West and North and South and every notch on the compass rose between.
They said it had been a beautiful city, once. The architecture had been famed: Amestrian technology and Xingan wealth had allowed Drachman grandeur and Ishvaran aesthetics to mate in a glorious celebration of the beauty of sky, earth, and life. Tiled, curving archways had led the wanderer into hidden gardens of green, crimson, and running water. Cool drinks and rich foods had been available in the most fascinating places, and always there was music, or dancing, or theater, or even some fascinating conversation attempting to reconcile the different ideologies of different lands.
The revolt hadn't started here, but it had spread here. Among the last to rebel and certainly the the first invaded, Ishvar city had been adopted as the headquarters of the Amestrian military, though not before those famed walls had been torn down, those gardens trampled, those voices silenced in the brutal and bloody fighting that had torn through the land like brushfire.
Even now it was every bit as populous as before, and it was every bit as busy as before; it was just the people and the business that were different. The city didn't glimmer with every color known to man, as Roy pictured it having done once in his mind's eye. Now it was just dusty brown with wide swathes of dark blue. And instead of the constant murmur of conversation, there were shouts, far-off reports of riflers training, the shriek and clatter of trains. Instead of glittering tiled gateways, there were just the foundations of buildings torn down to make way for railways, rail stations, warehouses.
Where once had been the Jewel of the East, now there was a military camp. Sad.
Roy stooped to pick up his bag. The barracks was straight up the main road a ways, on the right side, he'd been told. Once he found Marcoh, perhaps he could manage a bath.
4:27 P.M.
The Doctor looked profoundly uncomfortable in his uniform, tugging absentmindedly at the lapels and adjusting the pins as he walked. It was actually quite well-fitted (a perk, Roy supposed, of actually ranking above piss and pond scum), but the Doctor couldn't stop fiddling with it every few steps.
"There's a common mess hall for everyone," he was saying as he walked. He paused a moment to flip his cuff up, then back down again. "That'll be the one time you'll have an opportunity to mingle with non-alchemists so long as you're in Ishvar City." He gave a final sharp jerk to his cuff, then passed the folder of papers over to his right hand to free his left. "Don't look for me there."
What, the good Doctor, not a people person? That was shocking. "And outside Ishvar City?"
"Outside Ishvar City, you're going to be on free time, or you're gonna be fighting. And it's none of our business who you're talking to on leave – " He actually stopped walking a moment to extricate his shirt sleeve from beneath his uniform sleeve, and Roy almost bumped into him. At the last minute, Marcoh began walking again. "And in the Trap, you're not going to have nice quarters like you do here." He hesitated a moment, slowed his pace so that Roy drew level with him rather than trailing him. "I'm sorry. I'm operating under the assumption that you know the vernacular here. Do you – ?"
"Ishvarana, Akarana, Kempyr, and Harish," Roy responded. "The Trap. The four cities that outline the area where the true rebellion is taking place. Named because they form a rough trapezoid." He allowed a beat. "I didn't come into this completely ignorant, regardless of what you might think." Then Roy took a moment to reflect on how perfectly that had come out. Scathing without any disrespect, intelligent without any snot, not a single inflection off. Nothing was more satisfying than a well-nuanced retort.
But evidently Marcoh didn't see fit to be impressed with his intelligence. "Did I offend you yesterday?"
"Some of your implications were a touch broad," Roy said.
Marcoh nodded shortly. "I'm sorry," he said, and continued on. "The City is well-appointed, though. Running water just about everywhere – you won't go thirsty so long as you're in the city."
"Baths...?" Evidently, all his hope had come through in his voice; Marcoh shot him an amused glance.
"Baths, running cold and hot both," Marcoh replied. "In the other cities, you won't be so lucky. Ishvarana generally is pretty well-supplied, though since the infrastructure is down you'd have to draw your own water from the Messha. Anywhere east of the Hub is going to have water in late spring, after the snow melts, and mid-fall, when the rains – you don't need to know this." Marcoh cleared his throat. "You'll be receiving regular pay, so on time off you'll be able to invest in this fine city and this fine land by shopping and dining. Most of the things you'll find in the stores are worthless," Marcoh confided, "but the food can be good."
"Yeah?"
"If you like spice. You'll have Sundays off. Monday through Saturday, you'll assist me in my lab from eight in the morning until five in the evening." He paused a moment, and his lips quirked up – perhaps at the vaguely pulp-horror overtones of the phrase "assist me in my lab." "Then you'll have free time."
"That seems generous," Roy said carefully.
"I expect your schedule will be like this only temporarily," Marcoh responded. "And it wouldn't be frowned upon if you stayed longer than you're required to." He nodded toward a large doorway. "That's the cafeteria." Then he went through a smaller set of doors, into a narrow hallway lined on either side with numbered doors.
"Is there anyone else working for you?"
"No," Marcoh said. "You're the only researcher, at the moment, at least." Again Marcoh stopped and turned to face Roy, who this time managed to keep from making a fool of himself. "Do you know of Colonel Basque Gran?"
"Yeah."
"He's in a similar set-up. He has an apprentice, too, who I – I had the option of taking him on. I refused, and got you, while the Colonel took this boy." Marcoh leaned in and murmured, "Do not, do not tell anyone I warned you, but – at all costs, Captain, avoid the Colonel, and avoid that boy." Then the Doctor pulled away again, and walked forward a few steps. "Here. 214." He handed Roy a key and stepped back. "Be nice to your roommate. The roommate's always your key to avoiding awkwardness for the first while."
"I'll see you at eight tomorrow, Doctor?" Roy asked.
The Doctor nodded. "Don't stay up all night," he chided, then hiked his file folder up under his arm and continued down the hall.
The room was small; the bunk bed filled most of it, and almost all the rest of the room was taken up by two miniscule desks and a pair of dressers. It was empty when Roy walked in, but obviously lived-in; the top bed was unmade, a few stray socks and shirts clung to nooks, and the room smelled of life. Roy dropped his suitcase on the lower bunk and examined the room more closely.
One of the dressers stood partially open, and judging by the state of it when Roy peeked in, dirty clothes heaped up on any flat surface, it wasn't his. The hangars were dominated by the military uniform; there was only one set of casual clothes hanging up, almost lost in the pressing sea of blue. Roy quickly backed away and turned toward the other dresser.
He had his own extensive set of uniforms – just as many, he guessed, as were in his roommate's dresser. Below that were a set of drawers – holding socks, underwear, the high-necked black shirts that were standard beneath the uniform jacket, and, to his slight alarm, a belt with an attached holster. Below that was an open shelf with a few sets of boots.
The less-messy of the desks had pens, paper, envelopes, and was topped off by a bookshelf that held a few very dry-looking textbooks. A lower drawer, to his relief, held a towel and basic toiletries. He went back to the textbooks, and puzzled a moment over a few of the titles – some he could understand, treatises on air alchemy, several of which he had actually brought with him, to his regret, but – physics? Heavy physics, he noted as he flipped through the book in question, calculus-based.
A plan for us, indeed. Certainly beyond my comprehension.
"Well, well," came a high mocking voice. "Aren't you dapper."
Roy looked over his shoulder to see a lean man, hungry, wolfish, standing there, a smile on his broad lips. "Excuse me?" he asked, putting down the textbook and turning to face him.
"Dapper," the hungry man repeated. He paused pointedly, then tilted his head to the side and ran his hand down the side of his face in a pointedly sensual gesture. "Fancy," he explained. "I'd have to imagine you're quite popular with the ladies." He paused again. "Or men?"
Roy collected himself enough to speak. "That's – "
"None of my business?" the hungry man asked.
"A fine way to greet someone," Roy finished.
"Pardon me," the hungry man said. He bowed, and Roy took the opportunity to look him over. From the towel over his arm, the key in his hand, and his uniform pants, Roy got the sinking feeling that the man was none other than the occupant of the room. "My name is Zolf Jork Kimbley, born on June 21st and christened on the 24th, or so they say." He straightened, jasper eyes deeply amused. "They also say that no good comes of a solstice baby. You're supposed to hang 'em with iron and circle 'em with salt, and even then the imps'll switch 'em out half the time with a changeling. The imps are stronger on the solstice," he said with all mock-seriousness. "Of course, given how awful I was even when just a fetus, I recon my parents wanted to try their chances with a changeling."
"Right," Roy muttered. There was something deeply terrifying in the way this man feigned madness. "Zolf, then?"
"Kimbley," the hungry man corrected. "Use my first or middle name, and I'll cut your nuts off." For some reason, Kimbley found this quite deeply amusing.
"Right," Roy said again once the hungry man had stopped laughing. "Kimbley." He cleared his throat, wiped his hand on his pants, and extended it to greet his roommate. "I'm Captain Roy Mustang." When Kimbley didn't take his hand, but turned away to climb up onto the top bunk of the bed, Roy cleared his throat and slipped the scorned hand into his pocket.
"So, Captain Roy Mustang," Kimbley said, pulling his long wet hair over his shoulder to towel it off. "What are you doing in my room?"
"I'm – " He gestured to his suitcase. "I'm going to – room with you."
"Ah hah," Kimbley said. "And why's that?"
Was this some sort of game? "Because I need somewhere to sleep?"
"Touché," Kimbley said. Roy stared at him a moment, shrugged, and went to his suitcase. Wouldn't be a bad idea to be unpacked before dinner, and he wasn't going to delude himself into thinking that he might be able to switch rooms. – Still, couldn't hurt to leave some of the heavier items in the bag, just on the off-chance.
"Didn't they tell you that they were going to provide clothing?" Kimbley asked suddenly. The fact that he was watching Roy unpack was deeply unsettling, even though it shouldn't have been.
"These are casual clothes," Roy responded.
"You only get one day off a week."
"I know."
"Awful lot of clothes."
Roy turned to Kimbley irritably. "I don't like to smell."
Kimbley smiled innocently over the open book on the bed before him, his now-bound hair falling forward over his shoulder. "I see," he said, his tone mocking and condescending.
Roy paused, tapped a knuckle against the wood of the dresser, turned to Kimbley. "What."
"What do you mean, 'What,' Captain Roy Mustang?" He brushed a thumb along his lower lip. "I'm afraid I can't follow the complex and unpredictable thoughts running through your esoteric mind."
"Have I been impolite? Did I say something nasty? Did I drown your cat?" Roy paused to draw breath as Kimbley smiled at the heat in his voice. "Because you've been – "
"You should see me on a bad day," Kimbley said. "Or with someone I haven't taken an immediate shine to. Where were you born, Roy-Roy?" Kimbley continued before Roy could react.
"Central," Roy responded, caught off-guard.
"Lived there all your life?" Roy nodded. "Rich?"
"Middle-class, I guess," Roy responded cautiously.
"Your father a clerk, your mother a housewife. And your name – Mustang? Somewhere along the line, your ancestors raised horses. Urban-middle-class from farmer stock."
"What are you going on about?"
"I'm just speculating on the origins of my new best friend," Kimbley said mockingly. Then: "Dinner!" he announced jubilantly and hopped off the bed, acting for all the world like an exuberant child.
"What?"
"Mess hall just opened," Kimbley said, pulling a blue uniform jacket over his white sleeveless shirt and leaving it hanging open. "I'm gonna go get me some meat."
"I, uh – " Roy cleared his throat. "Enjoy your...meat."
Kimbley grinned broadly, wickedly at that. "Plan to," he said, dropped his key into his pocket, and walked off.
The last of Roy's shirts and pants went into the drawers, the last of the books onto his bookshelf; then he picked up his key and locked the door behind him. A bit of exploration would not, perhaps, be amiss.
It didn't take long before Roy regretted not having changed into a uniform before going out. He got numerous stares and was actually stopped once, by a shortish man with the stripes of a Major, who, by all odds, had better things to do than stop those who might possibly be unauthorized. Roy explained who he was, and the Major accepted his explanation, but admonished him to wear his uniform at all times.
"This is a soldier's base, Captain Mustang," the Major growled as he walked off.
Roy almost turned around, then, to postpone his mission for another day, when he was better prepared, but a burst of cool breeze coming through a door as someone walked outside was too much of a temptation.
So he followed whoever it was through the door, into a dusty courtyard open to the sky, hung at the opposite end with much-abused, hole-riddled paper targets. Not the simple bulls-eye, he noted, but human-shaped. Charming. The sky had turned reddish – it seemed early for that, but he wasn't going to question it. With the twilight, as always, had come chill winds, a welcome relief from the stifling heat inside the building.
There was a dull scratch behind Roy, and he turned around to see the tall man whom he had followed leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip, striking at his lighter, looking rather guiltily up.
"Not gonna tell anyone about this, right?" the blond man said.
"Are we not supposed to be outside?" Roy asked.
The tall man shrugged. "Nah, being outside is okay. About my postprandial cigarette." The man struck a flame and lit the cigarette. "No real rule against it, but it's frowned upon. Smells, bad for you, all that. So."
Roy wasn't particularly fond of the habit, but he did have a certain measure of respect for anyone who would use the word "postprandial," even ironically, so he shook his head. "It's your own health."
"And I went outside." The man smiled, took a long drag. He looked to be perhaps two, maybe three years older than Roy. "Want one?"
Roy leaned against the wall next to the tall man. "No. Thanks," he said. "I just came out to enjoy the sunset." He looked up at the sky, now a deep scarlet. "It seems early to be getting dark."
"Bear in mind that it's the middle of winter," the tall man reminded him. "Doesn't feel like it, but it is. So, hey! You can look forward to it getting hotter." He took a moment to take a puff off his cigarette. "When'd you get in?"
Well, Roy wasn't exactly making a secret of being new, so he supposed it was a relatively obvious question. "Around two today," he said.
"Ohh," the tall man said, leaning forward, clearly interested. "You're an alchemist?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, you don't look like a technician, and it was alchemists and technicians on the train today...Word is you're gonna end the war," the tall man said cheerily.
"Me?" Roy asked, confused.
"Sure," he said. "You, and all the rest of 'em. Haven't seen very many of your sort, even though the mess hall is in your building. You guys are only just starting to get here, I hear."
"No, I, uh – I'm a scientist. I'm just here to do research. I didn't come to – " He searched for words. "To end the war." For some reason, he felt compelled to add, "Sorry."
"That the case? Huh."
"You sound skeptical."
"Just seems weird that they'd send you out here in the seventh year of a war that's turned pretty fucking bloody to do research, is all." He paused. "Mind if I say fuck?" Roy shook his head. "I ask with everybody," the tall man said. "I'm not treating you differently because you're an alchemist."
"I wouldn't want you to."
"I tried my hand at alchemy when I was little," he said. "I was decent at it. I turned out better at shooting people. My loss. So I don't think you're different from people like me."
"And I was so hoping for some bowing and scraping," Roy joked.
"Well, you're a major. I expect you'll get your share."
Roy shook his head. "Not yet. I'm not a State Alchemist yet."
The tall man looked at him. "Don't tell me this is your testing ground."
"It's just custom that a would-be State Alchemist studies under someone who's passed the test. I'm just here to study under Doctor Marcoh."
"Marcoh? Really?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You are in the military, though. They wouldn't let you use the barracks otherwise." It was half a question.
"Yeah. I'm Captain Roy Mustang." Telling the tall man seemed a lot more natural than telling Kimbley, or even Marcoh.
He saluted lazily, ironically, in response. "I'm Corporal Jan Havoc, sir," he said, then laughed quietly and shook his head. "Sorry. Don't court-martial me or anything. I'm just never gonna be able to respect someone younger than I am. Especially not someone who came in on the train at two o'clock this afternoon. Worst part about working with you alchemists – you're always so damn young."
"Yet wise beyond our years," Roy said. "How long have you been out here?"
"I'd say about five minutes," Havoc said, then continued, "or three years, three months, with perhaps a total of eight months' leave – depends on what you mean by 'here.' And yes, Captain, you do get used to the heat, somewhat. Always seems so much colder when you go home."
"Three years," Roy repeated. "Can't even imagine it."
"Well, I've had a relatively easy run," Havoc said casually. "I've stayed mainly in the City. Went into Ishvarana once," he continued, "got shot. They almost amputated my left arm 'cause of that, but your Doctor Marcoh fixed me pretty damn well. Never got back perfect use of the arm, so even though my performance isn't really affected, I'm not supposed to be sent into a firefight, so I get to stay here in the lap of luxury. Great deal for me, really."
Roy watched the sky a moment longer, then couldn't help but ask, "What's it like? In Ishvarana?"
"Fucking terrifying," Havoc said. "You have no idea when you're gonna be attacked, but you're pretty sure that if you are, you're gonna die, because you won't ever see it coming. Only real way to defend yourself is to kill everyone." Then, reluctantly: "Which – I don't think it's worth it, even for our security."
"Well, that's why we're in here, right? To avoid unnecessary deaths?"
"Technically," Havoc said, then flung his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "I'm afraid His Excellency the Sergeant Sherman is going to be wanting me soon. Pissant thinks I need to study up on my geography. Been out here a good year longer than the asshole, and just because he's first-class at kissing ass..." Havoc snorted a laugh. "Sorry. And they say I have issues respecting authority."
Roy smiled in return, then remembered. "Before you go, Havoc – do you know where I could make a phone call?"
"Oh, sure. Comm room." He closed one eye and pointed off to his side. "Go in this door, make a left turn and go for about three hallways, turn right, and it should be on the right. They're not too strict about who goes in, so don't worry about what you're wearing."
"Thanks."
"Sure thing. By the way – if you haven't got the whole pecking order of who you eat with worked out, feel free to sit with us. Be good to have an officer with us, raise our respectability."
"Thanks," Roy said again with a smile.
Havoc gave a little wave and stomped cheerfully back inside. It was a relief, Roy reflected, to have met him, even if he did tend to make Roy feel a bit younger than he was. For all that, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, and one who gave good directions: one left turn and one right later, Roy stood in front of the communications room, a large room, bristling with wires, with numerous telephone and telegram stations. There were only two people in there at the moment, one a soldier talking on the telephone in low tones, the other a technician who barely spared Roy a glance. Uncertain, Roy picked up the phone, which gave a low hum for a moment as he pressed it to his ear. Then, in his ear, a practiced whine:
"Operator, how can I help you?"
"Can you patch me through to Central?"
A pause, then another voice, still the same tone: "Central City, how can I help you?"
"Yes. Can you put me through to the home of Maes Hughes, please?"
"Please hold."
Then another wait, this one longer, then a ring, another, and then a woman's breathless voice: "Hello?"
Roy smiled in spite of himself. "Gracia?"
"Yes," Gracia responded. "Is it Roy?" she asked tentatively.
"Yeah," he said. It was a relief to hear her voice. "Is Maes there?"
"Sure," she said, then someone fumbled at the phone. There was a thump as, Roy guessed, it landed on the floor, and someone – Maes, probably – said, "Aw, crap." Then the sound of more fumbling and, finally, "Old man!"
"Old man?" Roy repeated. "Swear to god, I've gotten more comments about my age this one day than all the rest of the days of my life."
"That a fact? Which side of the curve do you fall on, anyway?"
"Generally the lower extremities, it seems."
"Hmm. So I'm guessing from this call that you're safely entrenched in the most dangerous region of the world?"
"That I am, with all the luxuries a man could want – a psychotic roommate, a cantankerous mentor, a room for two smaller than the average room for one, and more mercury in the thermometer than I know what to do with."
"Have you eaten?" Maes asked suddenly.
"No."
"'Cause you'll probably be inclined not to eat, because I know how the heat makes you nauseous, but you'll get your appetite back once you drink some water."
"Thanks, Ma. Besides, I think the mess hall's closed, anyway."
"Well, get something to drink before you go to bed, so that you get hungry. Then you'll say, 'Gee, how is my friend Maes so consistently right? Boy, I wish I were half so bright as he is.'"
"I think it's an advantage to be less than half so bright as you, Maes," Roy said, "since your intelligence falls in the negative numbers. How's Gracia?"
Maes snickered and leaned closer in to the phone. "Hot," he whispered lasciviously, then cried, "Ow! I was talking about the weather, Grace!"
"We've been having a cold spell, Maes Hughes," came the faint, severe voice.
"His weather! Cripes." Laughing, Maes asked, "You wanna talk to her?"
"That's okay." Conversations between them lasting more than thirty seconds tended to stretch into the awkward. "Any news on whether you're going to be shipped down here?"
"There are rumors of April," he said. "I'd be in Ishvar City, too, so there's a bright point in an otherwise dismal situation, right?"
"Honestly? I'd be glad to have you here," Roy said.
"Bad people, are they?"
"Not all of them," Roy replied, "but Kimbley – that's my roommate – he's more than halfway to psychotic, threatening to castrate me if I call him by his first name, and Marcoh..."
"I'd heard he's a good man."
"He is a good man. He's a very good man. But he's just chock full of paranoid ramblings. He's convinced they're gonna send me out to fight."
"Are they?"
Roy thought to what Havoc had said and frowned. "I'm...not sure."
"I wouldn't worry, Roy," Maes said, even though he himself sounded worried. "You're a valuable asset to the State. They wouldn't throw you away like that."
"Right..." Roy said, then sighed. "So, I'm here, and I need to bathe. I smell worse than usual."
"That's saying something."
"Thanks, Maes. I'll let you get back to your hot date."
"My date sure is hot. Ow!"
Roy laughed. "Bye."
"Take care."
The line clicked, then hummed out. Roy cleared his throat, then stood. The other two had left while he was talking, and the room was all but dark. It was time, he decided, for that bath. Then sleep.