"Right," I said, flipping my notebook shut and stowing it away in a pocket, "where to now?"

"Central," cut in Roy, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. Though he was acting pretty natural, I caught a small flicker of worry behind his brown eyes. Obviously the fact that Edward Elric's baby brother was really just a walking tin can with an annoying voice wasn't made open to the public.

"Yay, paperwork!" I said, clapping my hands together in mock joy. "Whenever can we start?"

"Are you kidding? We really can't do much until we get an autopsy report," Killan said. This was his underhanded little way of talking himself out of work. He's not one for filling out formal charts and signing everything and whatnot, but he gets the job done. Even if his way of getting the job done usually ends in some sort of pain. For the killer, that is.

I'll give Mustang credit for not buying it. "I'm sure we can find something for you," he smiled, and I half-expected him to start cackling with evil laughter and for lightning to randomly strike a building behind him.

The Lieutenant growled something inaudible. Well…I heard it, but it'd not something I could write down here without a few eyeballs catching on fire. "So…we're going to Central when?" I asked, if only to break the silent staring contest between Roy and Killan.

"Now-ish would be nice…"

"Fine, fine," said the Colonel, waving us away. "Havoc! Fuery! Take Colonel Genya and her subordinate back to headquarters. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go cover my as—I mean, explain to the reporters what's going on here." He walked off, and was swallowed by the crowd not long after.

Almost as soon as Mustang disappeared his subordinates reappeared. These people really have a thing for coming out of nowhere, huh?

The hot blonde guy, Havoc, I believe, cleared the way through the sea of bored teenagers, nosy reporters, people who were lost, and cranky shopkeepers. The assembly was a Class F , or "mostly idiots" according to Killan. A Class A is "Good God, say one thing wrong and those reporters will tear you apart like a pack of wolves".

"Fuery, where's the keys?" Havoc stopped at the door of the van, patting his pockets. "Damn, I knew I had them just a second ago…"

"That wouldn't be them on the seat there, would it?" Killan said, pointing inside the vehicle.

Fuery pressed his face to the window, then looked at Havoc, sighing sadly. "You did it again, sir."

"Wha-are you saying it's my fault? You were supposed to remind me not to lock them inside!" Havoc said indignantly.

"I did, sir. Five and a half times." Fuery blinked innocently up at the taller man.

"Now what?" I asked.

"We could break a window," suggested Havoc, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"We could pick the lock," replied Fuery, "assuming that someone here knows how."

"Use a coat hanger to pull up the inside locky-thing," I said.

"You need a coat hanger first."

"Or you could break a window."

"Doesn't Mustang give you guys spares?"

"Or you could break the window."

"Look, all we need is some long hook-like object to—"

"This is a goddamn waste of my time," growled Killan, and placed his hands on the window and melted the glass, grabbed the keys, and started up the car. "I'll fix your window later."

Havoc shrugged, and got in the passenger seat, and Fuery and I climbed in back.

"Sir, may I ask…?" began the black-haired man, tapping the Lieutenant on the shoulder.

"Yes…?"

"Umm…can you even reach the pedals?"

Havoc drove us to Central.