Judging by the responses I got from the last chapter, I probably won't use Victoria/Mary much more in the story…though her supposed presence is a bit necessary for Havoc's character here. To tell the truth I may not have written her at all if I hadn't gotten so many questions about Havoc's "date." It's not really a justification, but it'll do.

I can't really think of anything witty to say. It all got used up in this chapter…mostly in the Riza-teasing. It's so fun to write her character when she's being harassed—she has that pride thing going on that makes it all the more amusing. Anyway, enjoy.

Backlash

"Somebody was having fun," Falman muttered, staring at the brick ceiling of the tiny 4-person cell.

"What do you mean?" Breda asked, idly thumping the wall with his fist. Tiny dust particles drifted into Falman's face with every dull thud.

"'To sit in solemn silence on a dull dark dock, in a pestilential prison with a lifelong lock, awaiting the sensation of a short sharp shock, from a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.'" Falman recited, tracing the carvings with his finger. "It's not nearly as impressive in writing as it is fun to say."

Breda stopped pounding the wall. "Did you take drama class in school, man? Because you just gave me chills."

"This isn't a death row cell," Fury said, not really sounding sure.

"It used to be, back when there was only one military prison in Central," Breda said. "I wonder if they're trying to scare us."

"They wouldn't execute us for putting a few bullet holes in those crappy walls," Fury muttered. I mean, I wasn't even really involved…"

"Yeah, it was all Havoc's fault for trying to shoot back at me," Breda said, only the smallest hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Ain't that right, loverboy?"

No answer.

"Havoc…"

Falman rolled over in his bunk and leaned over the edge to watch.

"Havoc!"

"What?"

"Man, did you move off-planet or what? I was just saying—"

"That's enough, Breda," Fury said shortly. "Leave the poor man alone—"

"It's okay, Sergeant, I think Breda's just jealous," Falman said, quickly hiding his smirk. "Of the girl, anyway. Admit it, you scoundrel, you want Havoc all to yourself and the world just conspires to keep you two apart,"

"Conspiring to the point of me liking women," Breda shot back.

"How tragic," Falman said mournfully. "And I'd so hoped that you two would at least kiss in my lifetime."

"You can kiss my ass!"

Sudden footsteps interrupted the bout of name-calling that ensued.

"Don't—" Breda made a sudden face at the sound of clanging keys, but his warning was not heeded.

"You know, your mother and I have always been firmly against incest," Colonel Mustang said in a patronizing kind of way. Opening the cell door and stepping inside, he continued, "It turns out that as much as we love have you kids out of the house, we miss you. Imagine our surprise."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad," Breda replied in the same tone. "Did it turn out that the white powder in the glove compartment was actually chalk dust from your latest crime scene investigation?"

"The secretary 'misplaced' it," Mustang said lightly, waving his hand but playing along with the metaphor anyway. Hawkeye, behind him, made a very slight frown.

"Now that you and Mom are finally married it might be a good idea to dissolve the harem," Falman put in, feeling witty and a bit liberated. Prior to Falman noticing the poem, they'd been discussing the best tactics to use for irritating "Mom."

"I know of no such thing," Mustang said, feigning innocence. Behind him, Hawkeye grimaced a little more noticeably. Whether at the prospect of marriage or that of the harem Falman could not tell.

He'd just interrupted his mouth to further the teasing when she said, "The panel decided to drop the charges of attempted murder and rebellion against the institution if you all agree to submit daily reports on your activities, with our signatures to validate them."

"What? That's tyrrany!"

"Would you rather start looking for new jobs—and new identities?" she asked calmly.

There was a tense silence, but no outright objections.

"Then you're released. Go home and get back in uniform…you need to report to the firing range in an hour for weapons re-qualifications."

"I'm qualified—I don't need to re-take a test—" Breda started, and stopped.

"I won't be the one judging you," Hawkeye said. It wasn't particularly reassuring. "But the military's convinced that if you couldn't a target ten feet away in a closed space, something is wrong."

Three men groaned. One glanced up briefly to see what the matter was.

"I bet Mr. Lovestruck over here could still do better than you three at the targets," Mustang continued, knocking on the top of Havoc's head.

"Hey…" the protest was weak, and faded entirely after a second's effort.

"Let's go," the Colonel said before Havoc's attention entirely waned.

Feeling a bit dazed weary, the company emerged from their dark quarters and proceeded to the outprisoner station. As Fury was collecting his mystery novel, a secretary passed them. "I'm so sorry about losing that incident report, Lieutenant," she said, stopping behind the addressee.

"It happens. I've lost paperwork before too," Hawkeye said, lightly, her voice straining a bit to maintain its chipper-ness.

The secretary reached up and flipped her hair. "I just hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"We're fine. I appreciate your trying to find it anyway."

After the girl had moved out of the hall, Breda looked wide-eyed at the Colonel. Mustang coughed and pretended to ignore him.

"The things I do for your people," Hawkeye muttered.

"Well how was I to know?" Mustang muttered back. "I'm not used to people flirting with you."

"You don't pay attention, do you?"

Falman watched Breda carefully avert his eyes (and ears) from the conversation. Elbowing him and chuckling, he whispered, "Do you like girls who like girls?"

"It isn't that," Breda hissed, going a bit red.

"Give it up."

"I have. Mostly."

"You know, it's really hard to concentrate with you breathing down my neck, Lieutenant."

"Excuse my need for oxygen." Hawkeye crossed her arms and didn't budge an inch. "If you want your firearm permit back you have to fix your grip, Breda. How the hell did you slip into such a bad habit in the first place?"

"I guess I thought mine worked the way it was."

"As illustrated by the pitiful display of marksmanship."

"How much overkill does one need, exactly?"

"Never enough." Colonel Mustang, who had been pacing along the stalls, stopped for a moment to contribute to the dialogue. His hand deftly appeared on Hawekeye's shoulder. "Though from personal experience, it takes overkill just to—"

"You're lucky you're not being tested too," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You've got the worst aim I've ever seen."

Mustang scoffed. "Alchemists don't need guns."

"That would explain a few things."

Breda snickered.

The Colonel looked puzzled for a moment, and slowly made a hurt face. "Hey!"

Fury, who was in the next booth over, stuck his head around the barrier. "I think maybe she's won this round, Colonel. You might as well get back to work."

"Work? What work? Just call the overseeing officer over and get this over with…If I wanted to work I'd go back to the office."

"How much paperwork is this little jaunt costing?" Fury asked.

"I've no idea of what you speak."

"Ah."

Hawkeye pulled roughly away from Mustang's hand and continued on her rounds. A moment later there was a groan from Falman's booth, to the tone of "all right already."

"Hardass," Breda muttered.

"Yeah…she is" Mustang answered.

"Colonel?"

"What?"

"The situation between the First Lieutenant and yourself, as it currently stands, is an unnecessary decoration to our interaction and I would appreciate your utmost discretion in going on about what is frankly none of my business."

"It's perfectly all right to be jealous," Mustang said, a hint of condescending in his voice. "Not that any competition you might offer is worth anything, but—"

"Leave me alone."

Lieutenant Colonel Kosta sat at the reviewing table, four target sheets spread out in front of him. Four soldiers stood at attention behind them.

"Second Lieutenant Havoc," Kosta called, holding out a small black folder, "here is your permit."

Havoc, after a nudge from Fury, stepped forward to take it without a word. His target was easily the neatest of the four—there was a small mostly-round cluster carved out of the center. Idly, he wandered away.

"Now as for the rest of you…" Kosta began, sounding not very pleased. "I can't believe you're in the same division as Lieutenants Hawkeye and Havoc. How long has it been since you used a gun?"

"While sober, sir?" Falman asked before anyone could stop him.

"Fine soldiers, the lot of you," Kosta said wearily. "I suppose no one thought to put you on the watch list for alcohol abuse?"

"It was our commander's fault, sir," Breda responded.

"Your displacing blame is not making your case any better," Kosta warned him.

"Sorry, sir." Well, it was true. But Mustang got away with everything.

"Atrocious," Kosta continued, picking up the chart furthest to his right. Out of the thirteen rounds fired from the pistol, there were eleven holes. Only about a third of them were within the target's inner portion. Another third was outside the target area, and the eleventh had just barely nicked the left edge. "I suppose that you didn't kill any woodland creatures while you were at this is somewhat of a miracle, Warrant Officer. Watch your drinking problem."

Falman accepted his folder with mild astonishment, saluted and went to join Havoc, Hawkeye and Mustang.

Kosta tapped two fingers against Fury's target. It was modest, better than Falman's but obviously not as practiced as Havoc's. "I suppose our technical officers don't really need the strictest standards, Sergeant. You're dismissed as well."

Fury nodded and without much show took his own permit.

"Now you…"

Breda stared questioningly at the man. Despite Hawkeye's criticism his shooting was far from terrible. He'd beat Falman by a mile and several hundred points.

"Your grip is incorrect."

"What? You weren't even watching—"

"Shut up or I'll keep this," the Lieutenant Colonel threatened, and waved the last black folder.

Breda grimaced and clenched his jaw over his protests. After several seconds of amusing his judge, he got his permit back.

"What the hell kind of trick was this?" he demanded of the others, as they began to make their way off the compound.

"What trick?" Mustang asked.

"We totally don't meet the standards! We shouldn't have gotten these permits back. I want to know what happened to the system that was supposedly going to execute us!"

"They were never going to execute us," Fury protested. "I think you've got your systems confused…"

"Like I had anything to worry about," Havoc sighed.

"What is wrong with all of you?"

"Are you feeling all right?" Mustang asked blankly.

"Yes!"

"You're being paranoid, Breda," Falman insisted.

"I am NOT!"

"Can you at least show a little gratitude?" Hawkeye asked suddenly, turning to stare stonily at him. "You have your weapons permits back; you managed to keep your jobs and even got a remodeled office in the process. What exactly do you have to complain about?"

"I don't understand why."

"I don't really think it's all that necessary," Hawkeye said. "Considering all I do for you people, it'd be nice just to get a thank-you!"