Dark nights lingered a little longer around the Eastern Headquarters after Hughes died. The moonlight was dimmer in the alleys, the romance of an evening walk overtaken by the air, damp with melancholy. No room knew the sorrow of the military men better than the Midnight Bar. An ironic consequence of the ominous murder was the aftermath of increased patronage at the pub. This disturbing trend of alcoholism in the ranks became customary; every night after shifts the soldiers would drift in for a drink. Even though their attendance was not urgent, they arrived very punctually, as if a visit to the bar was a part of their daily agenda. After they arrived, they stayed just long enough for the alcohol to drown out the restless fear inside them. Cloaked within the company of the bar and the hazy veil of a good beer, they could forget what was impossible to forget: that the kindest soul in their troupe occupying the most harmless position in the military imaginable had been killed in cold blood.
There was one person in the military, however, who would not stand for wanton drunkenness, regardless of the extenuating circumstances. Along the way home to pack for Central City, a Riza made a very intentional visit to the Midnight Bar. She figured after they had handled a few good shots at the pub they could deal with her very good shot. A steely gun sequestered in her left pocket; any observer of this determined female would have gathered the impression that she was teetering on insanity; little did they know this was Riza having a good time.
Something happened to the doors of the bar when Riza walked in. The euphemism, "flew open," might not be as fitting as the eye-witnesses account that the doors of the Midnight Bar were destroyed by what was described as a peculiar combination of kick and gunshot. It would be assumed that the impulse of any soldier in that bar would be to reply with an accompanying fire at the door. However Riza was counting on the fact that none of them were dry enough to handle their armor. They were all just sober enough to scurry behind the tables for cover.
"ARMSTRONG!"
Her voice rang through the increasingly comical silence as everyone slowly recognized her. Twenty some grown men cowering in your presence, that's satisfaction military rank can't buy. Another pause.
"Orders from Colonel Mustang for Major Armstrong!"
"Sir present sir maybe sir no sir definitely not sir!"
Armstrong jumped from his seat and delivered a less than understandable reply.
"I am not your commanding officer, Armstrong, you can address me as your subordinate."
An oddly feminine blush filled the Major's face as Riza gave him a reprimanding look. Armstrong was suddenly very sober.
"The message from our commanding officer, Hawkeye?"
Riza unexpectedly took a chair for an announcement.
"The message from our commanding officer applies to every soldier in Eastern Headquarters: The Midnight Bar from this day forth will exclusively sell fruit juice!"
Chaos ensued in the form of dropped jaws and guffaws-little schoolchildren crying after the teacher took away their recess time.
"We're tired, we're worried restless, and you take away our beer?" asked one soldier, almost weeping with disappointment.
"What kind of woman are you?" asked another.
Riza tried to assuage the crowd without sarcasm.
"This is not an order that I enjoy delivering, but this is the sixth month of this epidemic and it is starting to show, it is effecting the performance and the morale of everyone in the ranks!"
Riza genuinely felt sorry for the few she knew looked to this place for comfort. She wished she could exclude those like Armstrong who had witnessed the horror-the rest were just taking advantage of circumstances.
"Hawkeye, said Armstrong with emotion, it's like this-a good beer is like a warm pair of socks-
"Socks, Major?" Hawkeye smiled with sad eyes.
"Yes, a man without a good beer loses his strength, he is less fortified than other men-without a good draught, I would be unable to carry the burden, a delightful one mind you, of being a son in the Armstrong family!"
"We can sell warm socks here if you'd like Major," replied Riza, widening into a coy grin.
Armstrong understood the severity of a Colonel's order; others were a little more desperate. One soldier took to tugging on her coat. She was somewhat caught off guard by this approach. Her only response was to gently pat his head.
"The midnight bar will offer a wide variety of fruit juices, including Colonel's favorite blend of the house-Pineapple Sunrise!"
"What's your favorite blend, Lieutenant?" a man with greasy blonde hair asked suavely. He had barricaded himself with a group of compadres, a small he-man club that took to jeering at Hawkeye. They sat a part from the rest of the men. The rest of the men had given up the fight and lingered around the perimeter of the room, some still spinning from Riza's entrance, some waiting in half fear and half anticipation if she'd fire her gun at them again.
"I think she's a cherry myself!" Said one thrusting his pelvis.
"I'll taste anything you're selling, Riza!" An ugly bloke with a bawdy expression.
Armstrong took a protective stance in front of Riza as the verbal mongering escalated.
"Look's like the Major has a piece of the action, boys!" Again Armstrong blushed and almost backed away from Riza. She looked at him with understanding and appreciation.
"Maybe she'd like a little taste of Roy Rogers!" Sneered another man, whose body who was literally rolling with laughter.
Again the magic that everyone had been waiting for. Riza made her exit as stunning as her entrance, if not a bit more artistic. Everyone crowded around the burly soldier, now stunned in his chair, to witness the marvel of 12 bullet holes in a perfectly formed halo, all the classical Hawkeye inch from his head.