AN: It's been a long time since the last one. Between personal matters, and the lockdowns of the past year, well… Better late than never, yeah? So here we are!
Disclaimer: Youjo Senki is the creative work of Being X. FMA is the masterpiece of Hiromu Arakawa. I'm just a fan.
XI. BIRDS OF AQUROYA
ALPHONSE'S OFFICE, CENTRAL COMMAND, 16 MAY, 1918
There's a certain satisfaction that a productive member of society gets after a hard day's work. Science tells us that the chemical responsible for this is dopamine, which probably evolved because of the obvious survival advantage experienced by a hard worker.
If you put more hours into your livelihood, then you're more likely to survive. And if you feel good after working hard, then you're more likely to put more hours into your livelihood. A simple and effective feedback loop, right?
The point of the matter being, of course, that I work the appropriate hours, and make each one worth it. Not a second wasted on frivolities, when I can save up for my future and invest in a lucrative post-military career.
And so, as a result of digging deep into the bowels of 'modern' engineering, and comparing and contrasting the myriad of flying machine designs to see if I can rediscover the coveted Wright formula, I arrived at a sad conclusion. That being, there are a lot of competing functional designs, but on further analysis, these are very much like the early years of the combustion engine: wild machines built as scientific curiosities, rather than practical models that can be rolled off an assembly line.
So what did this have to do with me? Well, my educated guessing based on murky recollections of a single two-credit semester of Aviation History back at Nikkeidai was probably not going to give rise to the exact same thing as Flyer 1. So looking at other things might help jog my memory… Of course aside from doing that, they also made me realize how beautiful the Wright plane was in its simplicity.
Today's investigations ended, however, when Private whatsherface… that mousey bookworm with the glasses… knocked on my door and informed me that I was to report to Alphonse's office for a special briefing. This was of course, unscheduled, otherwise, I would have been prepared for that call. Fine by me.
Setting aside the reams of reports about various known, rumored, and unknown, aircraft designs, I straightened my uniform and proceeded down the hall to the office in question.
Based on the faint sounds inside, it seemed there was already a discussion going on. Normally, I wouldn't intrude on a private conversation, but I was summoned here, so this was presumably a secondary matter. I knocked on the door and waited for a couple of seconds for some sort of acknowledgement.
"Come in!"
Okay, that was actually audible. Guess the door wasn't as sound proof as I thought.
I opened the door and stepped inside with a salute. "Major Tanya Degurechaff, reporting as ordered, Sir."
Alphonse stood up from his desk and returned the salute before signalling me to go at ease with his usual welcoming smile. "Perfect timing, Tanya! We were just finishing up here," he gestured to the other person in the room.
Sitting across from him in one of the guest chairs was a pale, weaselly-looking officer with dark, slicked-back hair.
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer, with the Investigations Department," Alphonse explained, "He's been assigned to work with me on a particular case, so don't be surprised if you see him with me once in a while."
"It's a pleasure to have you with us, Sir," the rules here really were not too different from Corporate Japan. Form networks, build bridges, establish relationships with your superiors. That's how I got my job at HR fresh out of Uni. I knew the right people. Oh sure, we might go about speaking of the virtues of starting from the ground floor, but the truth of the matter is that what you know is only part of the equation. Who you know is of equal importance.
It could be the difference between a dead end internship, and a promising starting point. After I got that first job, I made sure to work my ass off so that when it came for the promotion interviews, I actually had performance to back up my words.
So, Lieutenant Colonel Archer of Investigations. Curious. Wasn't General Hughes in that department too? Based on Edward's notes, at any rate... I wonder if this has anything to do with that.
"On the contrary, the pleasure is all mine," Archer stood up and offered a hand, which I of course accepted and shook, "So you're the famous Sylphid Alchemist, the Hero of the Wall who brought down the sky. Word is you single handedly took out a heavily armoured Drachman airship that was giving Briggs trouble."
Ah, flattery. It's a tactic best used in concert with actual achievements, so you have both the social and mechanical elements down pat. Get on their good side with nice words, and show them you're worth it with meaningful actions. It's primarily a tool used by the underlings to woo the overlords to get a promotion.
So he has no reason to be using it on me, unless he intends to increase his social capital by being on my good side in case he needed my help for a rainy day. Not too shabby, if you ask me.
Anyway, demonstrating that you've just had a slice of humble pie is the best action to take in response. "I honestly couldn't have done it without Briggs, Sir. They held off the attack, developed the plan, built the weapon that brought the ship down, and cleared my path. I was merely the delivery system, the right person at the right time."
Archer nodded in thought. "As humble as you are gifted, I see. Truly a model soldier to be emulated, Major." He turned back to Alphonse, "2100 at Christmas' Pub?"
Alphonse laughed nervously, "My Teacher wouldn't approve. At the very least she'd want to be there to keep an eye on me."
Still not using the word 'girlfriend', huh… I suppose this is fine. It sounds like an overprotective parent anyway… How do I know he isn't referring to the mysterious Teacher from Dublith who trained the brothers? Because the actual Teacher would probably beat him up, rather than merely disapprove of this, if Edward's notes are anything to go by.
"What about Gavin's?" Archer raised an eyebrow at the comment, but said nothing of it.
"Sure, I can be at Gavin's." Alphonse sounded more relaxed, as he poured himself some tea. "I'll be there at 2100."
"Excellent. I look forward to working with you, Colonel Elric."
"Colonel Archer."
The two men saluted each other.
"Major Degurechaff," And with a last nod in my direction, the Investigator excused himself from the office.
Huh. You know, even though I do commend his simple if effective psychological manoeuvre, there's something about him that just bothers me. I don't know if it's the red flags I get from his hair being too reminiscent of a stereotypical evil corporate executive, or his employment of flattery where it doesn't necessarily make sense, but…
"Sit down, Tanya," Alphonse gestured at the chair Archer had just vacated as he opened up an envelope, "This assignment just got handed down this morning, so I apologise for the short notice." He handed its contents over to me, "But I believe it's right up your alley."
Well, I guess Archer might as well be out of sight, out of mind. I went over the briefing, and a smirk crawled its way across my face. What a pleasant surprise. I could barely contain my excitement. "When do I depart, Sir?"
"At 1500," he said matter-of-factly. And it's… what, lunchtime? That gives me three hours to get to the station.
"And Private Serebryakova?"
"She has five more weeks in reprocessing," Alphonse checked his calendar. As my immediate superior, it only made sense that he would pay attention to things I needed. Not that I didn't keep my own calendar, but I've been spending the whole week delving into aviation material, so I'd somewhat lost track. That tends to happen when you're really digging into something you're interested in. "So I'm afraid you'll have to tackle this by yourself."
Well, it's not much different from how I did things over the past year or so… But I swear. Having someone with good aim covering your six can be really… liberating. "Understood," I stood up and saluted. "I'll start packing at once, Sir."
"Enjoy your trip, Tanya!"
Oh, you bet I will…
~0~0~0~
AQUROYA, 17 MAY, 1918
Aquroya, the City of Water. Located in the bottom corner of the Eastern Sector, it sat at a fascinating junction between the Eastern Sector, the Southern Sector, and the vaguely Italianesque Principality of Aerugo. Perhaps fittingly so, as the city's epithet derives from its blatantly Venetian canals and placement on a number of islands inside a lake serving as a water border between Amestris and our southern neighbour.
Six years ago, its economy tanked after news spread that it was sinking into the lake at a rate of several feet per year. That was when a phantom cat burglar made her way into the limelight, turning the dying city into a tourist hotspot, as people flocked from across the State to watch her highly publicized heists.
Their economy revitalized by her antics, the Mayor's Office was able to hire a number of alchemically driven construction firms to shore up Aquroya's foundations. And today, the fear of a submerged city is all but forgotten, replaced by all sorts of cultural and economic transactions, and gratitude toward Psiren, who disappeared as mysteriously as she arrived.
So what does Aquroya have to do with me?
I set my suitcase down on the boarding platform and dusted my uniform as an attache from the Police Station arrived to take care of my belongings.
"We're pleased to have you to provide oversight for the Sky Race, Major Degurechaff," the Inspector said as he picked up my stuff. "It's quite the honour to play host to the heroic Sylphid Alchemist!"
It's quite simple, really… The Third Annual Aquroyan Air Expo, where they would spend a week featuring the latest regional advances in aviation, capping it off with a race between a number of artisanal flying machines on the last day: tomorrow. Saturday.
I yawned as I checked my silver pocket watch. 0503. A 14-hour trip. That said a lot about the level of development here in the South. Meanwhile, it would take a couple of days to get from East City to Central despite the fact that they were closer to each other than Central was to this place. I do love a good train that runs on time.
"Eh, it's no big deal, Inspector," I brushed off his comment, "Just doing my job."
"Which involves dealing with everything that flies, yes?" The Inspector carried my belongings and led the way from the station down to his squad car.
"Exactly." I watched as he opened up the trunk and carefully set my things inside, before shutting it tight. Satisfied with his proper treatment of my personal effects, I walked over to the passenger side and opened the door, riding shotgun. "My superiors tell me that the participants are particularly eccentric," I said as he got in the driver's seat and started the engine.
"Always have been, ma'am," the Inspector turned up the headlights and we drove down the road to the hotel where I'd be staying. "They're a very colourful bunch. Persistent too. I wouldn't sit next to them on a train, but I'll sure as hell watch them fly. Assuming they do as well as last year, anyway."
"Interesting…" I went back over the mission file. The race was very much still in the age of pioneering. In the first year, the machines suffered so many technical difficulties that the first one got off the ground at sunset. Last year went a bit more smoothly. This time? Who knows? The dossiers on these people said quite a lot about them too. I'd meet these characters soon enough…
But the race was tomorrow. I still had a good whole day and a half to do a little sightseeing beforehand. Life can't be all about business, especially when you're done with your business for the week. So for now, a little well-earned relaxation was in order.
And who knows? I might find a potential asset here in which I can invest my substantial discretionary budget.
We dropped off my things at the hotel, and the Inspector offered to show me around town before his shift started, to which I thankfully agreed. Why get lost on an "adventure" and lose precious time "discovering" things yourself, when you can efficiently get to the best parts with a knowledgeable authority?
And so we drove around the city, always with its canals somewhere in the backdrop, to see some famous sights. Like the magnificent mountain-top view from City Hall, the playful white-sanded beach they had recently reclaimed, or the sheer variety of souvenirs and local curiosities one could find at the market.
We had breakfast at La Gondola Aquroya, an Aerugonian Ristorante started by an immigrant a few decades ago, situated at the point where the main canal meets with the lake. Truly an inspired view.
Finally, at 0800, the Inspector dropped me off at the Exhibition Centre, where the expo stands were just starting to open up. With a salute, he headed off to start his shift.
So now, I would get to sample the latest innovations in "aviation engineering", as they call it, and see if I could reconstruct the Wright plans from these bits and pieces… Or maybe come up with something a tad more inspired for mass production.
My test model had proven to be quite effective after Briggs finally built it, but it was more of a high performance prototype rather than something you could roll off an assembly line. So I'll have to scale things down a notch and continue my studies. But certainly not to the highly disposable scale that Drachma mass produced their helicopter packs. I'm looking for a happy medium here. Amestris was proud of its military's quality, which combined with its sufficient quantity, kept it on top of the pecking order of Great Powers.
Showing the guard my watch - and as a result getting a free pass - I stepped into the gate, breathing in the cool morning air on a late spring day. There were all sorts of machines and parts scattered across the booths.
Some firms from Rush Valley had even set up shop to display their unique airborne automail design concepts. Aluminium-alloy-based glider wings you could install into a patient's shoulders and whatnot.
Somewhere between the Rush Valley booths and the Ishvalan "helicopter" that looked right out of a Da Vinci sketch, I stopped and considered what I've seen so far. Again, lots of novelty, but nothing that looked practical enough to be mass produced by the military. Those automail glider wings? Millions of cenz apiece. Clearly, their market was well-to-do industrialists with a penchant for flight.
As I thumbed through the pages of my notebook, sketching down the designs for my own studies, a rogue instrument bag of some sort struck my head from behind. I yelped and whipped around to see what looked like a flighty blonde woman in a matching black skirt and jacket wandering about, apparently mesmerized by the display of technology.
What was in that bag anyway? Jeez…
"Hey!" I yelled, catching up to her. "Y'know, you could be more careful where you swing that thing!" I rubbed the sore spot on the back of my head.
She stopped and turned to me, offering only an embarrassed smile in return. "Oops! Sorry about that! I was just distracted by all of this engineering..." said with a certain sparkle in her eye and hands clasped together in childlike wonder. Sounds like she really likes engineering.
"So you're also an engineer?" I asked. Maybe that bag was full of wrenches or something… which made complete sense, considering my recent encounter with blunt force trauma.
"Yeah, I run an automail shop in a town up north of here," she said. "But right now, I'm just going around studying other fields. Aviation has gotten hot over the last couple of years, so I figured I'd give Aquroya's Air Expo a looksee! And what about you…" she paused as she squinted to look down at the pips on my shoulder boards. "Major? Huh, a little Major… imagine that."
I frowned. Didn't matter if you were a soldier or a civilian, the idea of a little kid going around in a ranking officer's uniform seemed to baffle most people. I cleared my throat. "Yes?"
"Ah! Uhm, anyway, what about you, Major? What are you doing here?"
"I'm on assignment to oversee the Sky Race tomorrow afternoon," I said nonchalantly, rubbing my nails on my tunic before blowing at them. "But while I wait, I'm going to be examining all these booths. I happen to be the State's leading engineer when it comes to aviation." Which is to say, I'm cobbling together all these principles to quickly assemble something that looks like Aeronautical Engineering.
"Oh, wow! And at such a young age too!" She beamed. "Yeah, sounds like we've got a lot in common. I was learning the basics of automail engineering before I could walk!"
Huh. What a coincidence. Another child prodigy. Is this country full of child prodigies, or is Being X trying to rub them in my face by having me sometimes literally bump into them?
At this point, we decided to 'team up', in a way. Split up at some points to explore opposite sections, meet up again and exchange notes before switching positions and exploring the sections we didn't check out earlier.
It was an effective method, to say the least, taking only a few hours before we managed to cover the entire expo, an impressive array of booths numbering around a couple of hundred, inclusive of tangentially related things such as aircraft-themed food stalls, or aircraft souvenirs. I smirked as I shut my notebook, now filled with a few dozen pages' worth of new notes and sketches. These might come in handy...
It was around lunchtime, when we each grabbed a cone of Aerugonian gelato, that things really came to a head, however.
SIGNORE SEMOVENTE
The man was tall, dark, some kind of handsome or another, the average girl would think. Dressed like a pilot with his flight goggles and gloves on his head, even though he wasn't exactly in a rush to get to a plane. A woman with long dark hair dressed in frilly white clung to his arm like a leech. Most importantly, he was surrounded by children. Lots of children. Raucous little monsters orbiting their parents in a cacophony of childish arguments while occasionally darting out to look at the nearest booth before heading back to the collective.
Two of them had gotten into a little squabble and somehow found themselves right in front of me. One threw a punch at the other, who deftly ducked out of the way. It struck my pistachio gelato, sending it flying off the cone… and right into my face.
For a long enough moment, I looked like one of those women on TV caught in the middle of a facial with green cream and cucumber slices over their eyes. Except I didn't have any cucumbers, obviously, but the image was close enough.
Engineer's free hand snapped to cover her mouth, perhaps to emphasise a gasp to some. But from what I could hear, it was more stifling a laugh.
This wasn't exactly a funny situation, considering I now had to find a restroom to wash up, but these kids also seemed to find it funny, if their giggles were any indication. My irritated grunt quickly shut that up, though, and they quickly ran behind their parents, who scolded them in Aerugonian.
"I'm terribly sorry, Signorina eh…" The man squinted as he bent over to look at my shoulder boards, "Major. Eustachio and Benito are really friendly, if a little on the wild side."
I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and started to wipe the gelato off. A shame. 300 cenz down the drain. Certainly worth every penny, unlike that disgusting slop that passed for coffee up in Briggs.
But there were more important things to worry about, as I finally managed to associate his face with one of the dossiers. "Nothing to worry about." No harm done, really, except to an otherwise very enjoyable day. "Signore Semovente, was it?"
"Si, Signorina Major!" He spread his arms out. "Here with my whole family. They have come to watch me win the race tomorrow!"
"Oh wow, that's some dedication!" Engineer beamed and bent over to see eye to eye with a couple of the girls, who approached her out of curiosity. "I'm hoping to start a family soon myself."
I guess they'll get along swimmingly.
The other kids didn't even seem to notice the kerfuffle that had just happened, and continued on their business.
"Well, consider me another part of your audience then, Signore," I placed what little gelato that still held its shape back into my cone. It would be a waste not to finish it, and it's not like it fell to the ground. "I'm Major Tanya Degurechaff. I'm here on orders from Central Command to oversee the race."
"Mamma Mia! The overseer!" You'd think he must've wet his pants by now, but that wasn't how he said it. More excitement than terror. "Children, look! Signorina Major will be the one running the race tomorrow. So you'd all better behave!"
How did he even get so many kids? As I tried to calculate the age he had to be to still look as strapping as he did while having around a dozen children, another man stepped up from the side.
If Signore Semovente was surrounded by children, this one was surrounded by young women. The distinctively debonair air that surrounded him made the man look completely at home in his current environment of haremettes.
MONSIEUR AUVERLAND
"Bonjour!" He tipped his hat and tucked it into his coat, revealing a peculiar head of hair.
Ah. The Frenchie. Great. "Good day to you too." I nodded in response.
Well, to be more accurate, a Cretan immigrant from the fantasy-Francophone equivalent known as the Citroen Tribe. Monsieur Auverland, the flashy pretty boy pilot who had a reputation for swooping in with his "Aerodyne" upside down to literally pick up girls and take them on flights of fancy.
If you could peg Signore Semovente as a "Family Man", Monsieur Auverland was a "Ladies' Man". How this portable harem of his somehow managed to share him without ripping each other to shreds in a catfight boggles the mind. A lady clinging to each shoulder, and another one getting down to recline along each leg whenever he stood still, as if posing for a pictorial. And still, half a dozen more orbiting him within a relatively tight circumference. This group was stuck in a state of limbo somewhere between chatting each other up with girl talk and shaking with impatience just waiting for a chance to tear one of the four away to take her place.
It might be because my hormones haven't started kicking in yet, but I honestly have no idea how he could possibly be keeping them eating from his hand. Sure, he seemed to be vaguely attractive, but I was more concerned with how he was able to keep his dirt brown hair in such an immaculate voluminous pompf of a fauxhawk up eight inches like that, than how this hair might have kept the ladies' affections.
And yes, it seemed to me that the ladies' were most smitten by his hair.
As if this couldn't get any more awkward, he had completely ditched me after we exchanged pleasantries to, what else, put the moves on the Engineer. Before you could say "Cassanova", he had already bowed, picked up her hand, and kissed it, bringing her face to a flush.
Still, she managed something of a stuttering objection. "Ah, well actually, I'm already…"
His blue eyes darted down to see the ring on her finger, at which point he gently released her hand and stepped back with all the grace of a peacock. "Je suis navre, Madame, I simply could not help but express my appreciation for your sprightly charm. Whoever he is, Monsieur is a truly star-kissed man."
The human ornaments he wore didn't seem any worse for wear despite this little incident of potentially creating another rival for his affections. Strange. One would think they would at least react to it, but no, their fixation on his hair kept its stranglehold.
Engineer chuckled and turned aside to hide the red that still remained. "I'll say we're both 'star-kissed'."
I don't even know what that phrase means. Did he just make that up? I cleared my throat to get his attention. "Monsieur Auverland."
"Ah yes, of course!" The ladies' man took another bow. "Mademoiselle Commandant, I assure you that your time will come, in ten years or so. All I ask for is your patience and that you focus on your continued service for our great country's brave military in the meantime!"
… did he just hit on me?
My face went from 'strictly professional' to 'subtly frowning in disdain'. What does he take me for? One of his ten bimbos with an unhealthy obsession for worshipping his hair?
"Signore Auverland!" Semovente waved. "Please keep your adventures to a minimum, my children are not old enough to be seeing such things!" The mass of children surrounding the Aerugonian pilot had seemingly disappeared in a puff of magic, but a quick survey of the area revealed their mother had pulled them further away, perhaps as soon as Auverland had started making his moves.
"Monsieur Semovente! Here to lose again, you old geezer?" Auverland laughed.
"This 'geezer' will have you know that his family will give him the power to win this time, you whippersnapper!"
The two glared at each other for a few moments before breaking out into a hearty pair of laughs and shaking hands.
"I will also advise you to be more professional with the Major. She will be overseeing the race tomorrow, and I doubt unloading your charms on her will help you win if you get left behind!"
"Oh, Mademoiselle Commandant is overseeing the race?" Auverland turned his attention back to me and bowed. His hair bobbed as he did. "Then for that, you have my deepest apologies. Sometimes, my manners simply cannot cope with my nature."
You think? I held back the urge to roll my eyes. "Yes, well so long as you keep it professional, there will be no hard feelings."
GOSPODIN ILYUSHIN
"Da, there will only be hard feelings after I have taken the trophy from your squishy Southerner fingers!"
Oh, don't tell me… I turned to the right and alas, my fears were confirmed. He was closer to a bear than a man, standing so tall and broad that you might wonder, 'how could he possibly fit in a single-seat plane?'.
The Russian stereotype is a big brawny pile of muscle covered in a thick fur coat, sporting a grizzled beard, and the iconic ushanka to keep his head warm in the freezing winter. The Drachman stereotype is, unsurprisingly, quite similar. While he certainly ticked off a number of items on the checklist, he wasn't dressed for the cold, so much as he was to fly. The ushanka notably held a pair of flight goggles.
"Well if it isn't the Great Flying Bear!" Semovente reached up to give a playful punch to the mountain man's shoulder. "Still sore from coming in last place, eh?"
Auverland chuckled. "Don't be too hard on him now, Monsieur Semovente. I think he was just late waking up from hibernation."
The three exchanged various greetings and accompanying gestures.
Anton Sergeyevich Ilyushin was this bear's name, and his official business south of Briggs was to serve as the Drachman Ambassador. Of course, smelling political cover worth its salt, the Investigations Department knew to keep a close eye on him, in the highly likely event that he was a foreign intelligence asset. Or, as the Briggs Army would more bluntly put it, a Drachman Spy.
Never mind the fact that given Drachma's current similarities to Imperial Russia, the stereotypical mountain man would not be their ideal choice to represent them abroad. That role should have gone to a more refined aristocratic sort, who had risen up the (theoretically) meritocratic Table of Ranks into a position of political respect.
Sending a walking stereotype to represent their interests in Amestris was likely more a form of sabre rattling than anything else.
The real question was how such a man could build and fly his own plane. Not that I'm one to judge books by their covers, but he really didn't strike me as fitting this picture, politically or otherwise.
As I mused over these difficulties, licking at what remained of my gelato, I noticed that I was tasting air instead of pistachios. My eyes turned down to see that the dollop of confectionery was now in the hands of a large grey rodent standing on my cone.
What.
Like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, the creature chittered and threw the green sweet into my face before spreading its arms to reveal a furry membrane connecting its wrists and ankles. With force, it leapt off my cone and glided over to the Drachman mountain man's shoulder.
Said mountain man was now laughing out loud, drowning out some of the crowd, even, with his volume. "Good, Visha! Good! You make Matushka Drachma proud!"
For just a moment, the image of Private Serebyakova throwing gelato in my face and flying off back to the Tsar in a helipack flashed through my head.
Yes, of course he was talking about his flying squirrel. You don't see Serebryakova here anywhere, do you?
Whether that arose from a deep seated insecurity over my intention to string her along for as long as possible, or because I'm developing a warped sense of humour, I have no idea.
Regardless, I was now back to frowning.
Can't scowl outright.
Must. Stay. Professional.
"Ambassador," I started, licking my mouth clean as I wiped the last gelato away, "I must say, you have a… unique… taste in pets."
"It's so cute!" Engineer squealed.
Yes. I'm sure it is.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a dog treat, reaching up to offer the bone-shaped biscuit. Visha spread her flaps and swooped down from her perch, snatching the treat, turning just enough so that she ended up landing on Ilyushin's other shoulder. She would spend the rest of her time here nibbling on it.
"Da, Visha is my inspiration. She taught me how to build a good flying machine!" The bear-man beat his chest in pride.
"Flying squirrels do have a unique style," Engineer rubbed her chin as she eyed it more analytically now. "I can't wait to see your aircraft!"
"It is a good one. I am sure you will be impressed." He nodded in satisfaction. "So what is a Tiny Major doing hanging around with you zhopi anyway?"
"Mademoiselle is overseeing the race tomorrow," Auverland pointed out. "Though I suppose you don't need to worry about pissing her off since you'll no doubt come in last again!" Said with a chuckle as he ran a comb through his ineffable hair.
The other two pilots laughed with him.
Yes, the dossiers did say these folks have been coming here since the first race. Of course they'd all be friendly with one another in some way shape or form, if in the crass Western sense of exchanging playful insults.
I took this time they were distracted with each other to find a waste bin and chuck the cone, napkin, and what was left of the gelato. Then made my way to a drinking fountain to both rehydrate and wash off all this sticky green confection. What a waste of fine artisanal work...
By the time I got back, they were still there, chatting along. I was just in time, too. Someone had just finished looking over a nearby booth and was approaching.
MISTER STORCH
"I see the gang's all here again," this new person's voice was smooth, composed. One might even call it professional. Judging from his words, that could only mean one thing: he's the last pilot on my list.
So what are the odds that all four pilots competing in tomorrow's race just run into me while I'm minding my own business? Considering the size of the fair grounds and the sheer number of people running about, they'd be astronomically tiny.
I can only assume that Being X has something planned for me here. Hell, that bastard might even have that Engineer girl in mind somehow too. I've gotta be careful.
"Ah! Podpolkovnik Storch!" Ilyushin laughed aloud and gave the newcomer a pat on the back. "I see you are not in uniform again!"
"I'm off-duty, Ambassador," Storch answered matter-of-factly as he casually flapped his coat, highlighting his clean, middle-class attire. "And this far south, things are actually rather relaxed."
"Colonel Storch," I offered a freshly washed hand. Normally, when commencing interactions with one another, a junior officer salutes the senior, who will then return it. But that only applies when both are in uniform. In such cases as this, the more common courteous gestures are appropriate. "I'm Major Degurechaff, from Central Command. I've been assigned to oversee tomorrow's race."
"Major Degurechaff," the senior officer shook my hand and nodded with a smile. "Yes, I've been informed of your arrival. I'm glad to see that Central is sending its top aviation expert to oversee the race this year. I feel like we haven't gotten enough support the last two years, considering all the trailblazing we're doing in this field…"
Alas, if he only knew how much of a good thing that was. Of course, being a career officer, I doubt he had any idea of the pitfalls of government subsidies.
On Earth, most people know about the Wright Brothers. A pair of entrepreneurs who owned a humble bicycle shop yet went on to create the world's first plane. But how many people have heard of Sam Langley, the Smithsonian's Director and top aviation expert of the time? The man held honorary degrees from four different top universities, and had written a seminal book on flying. The government gave him an R&D grant 35 times bigger than the Wright budget of $2000.
Both his test flights failed. And the Wrights ended up in the history books. They also went on to develop a combat plane for the US military just five years after. Free market principles won out in the end.
Of course the difference is that I have the incredible super power of hindsight. I know the Wright formula works. I know the evolution of modern flight. I just have to figure it out for myself. Or come up with something equally affordable without sacrificing quality.
"It's all good, Colonel," I said. "Rest assured, you have Central's attention… and mine."
So who was Lieutenant Colonel Storch, exactly? As I said, he was a career officer, if his dossier was anything to go by. The high point of said career was serving as Fuhrer Bradley's adjutant, until a few years ago, when he was abruptly reassigned, just months before the Central Coup. Since giving his testimony along with his successor - one Lieutenant Hawkeye - he ended up floating around various posts for some time before finally ending up in this city.
He's been working on flying as a hobby ever since. Things in the South are relatively easy-going, after all. Down here, a man can very well afford a hobby even in the State Military.
Pleasantries were exchanged between the four pilots and they started with a bit of smalltalk.
The question then, was whether I should leave them to their own devices, or just go back to trying to have a decent lunch.
"Looks like they go way back, huh?" Engineer whispered from behind.
"Yeah. From what I've read, these four have been doing the race since the first one three years ago." I turned around to face her. "So, you wanna just grab some lunch, or-"
"Oh yes, Major," Storch called my attention back to the group of pilots. "Before you go, the Expo Committee is hosting a dinner at the Event Hall at 1900. Meeting Room C, race participants, facilitators, and their guests. Perhaps you might want to join us?"
Ah yes, a golden opportunity to get to know these guys better, beyond the shadow of these socially awkward circumstances. Yes, and if I can pry them well enough, I might be able to get an opportunity to examine their machines up close. "I'd love to!" I answered with a smile.
"Your friend is also certainly welcome, of course. What do you say, Miss…?" He gestured at the Engineer.
Well, I wouldn't be surprised if she said yes. After all, she's just outright enamoured with all the machinery here. Getting to know the people who actually fly competitively would sound exactly like the sort of thing she's after.
"Elric."
My eyes darted in her direction as soon as that name left her mouth. Edward's notes blazed through my head. I suddenly saw her in a completely different light. Spunky automail engineer. About that age… could she be…?
"Winry Elric," She beamed. "And I would love to join everybody for dinner!"
"Miss Elric, then." Storch bowed. "We'll see you and the Major tonight at 7pm. Casual dress is fine."
Winry pumped her fist up into the air so hard it lifted her feet off the ground into an excited jump. "Woohoo!"
"Da, Tiny Major and Gospoza Elric can watch Visha do party tricks while I tell jokes about my homeland."
"Oh please, they would obviously rather sing along with the band like me and my girls!"
"No no, my children will give them the best entertainment! They know plenty of parlour games!"
Storch could only shrug, as if to tell us that they're always like this, and that we shouldn't be worried at all.
"Yes, of course, Colonel. We'll see you all tonight." I flashed the sincerest-looking smile I could muster. "So… lunch, then?"
"If it's as much of an adventure as our tour this morning, I'm all up for it, Major."
"Excellent." I led the way to the food court. Yes, not even past 1300, and today feels like it's been so productive. And here, I get the bonus of being able to talk to Edward Elric's childhood sweetheart to boot!
In your face, Being X!
~0~0~0~
GAVIN'S PLACE, CENTRAL CITY, 16 MAY, 1918
Alphonse Elric sat at the counter, staring into the glass of caramel creme liqueur on the rocks that he'd ordered. His 18th birthday was still several months away, so he technically wasn't quite legal just yet, but he was a State Alchemist, and an officer, so the barkeep didn't seem to care.
And while skirting the legal age by a few months might have left a sickening pain in his gut, rule-abiding citizen that he was, he remembered how his brother always said that sometimes, you had to bend the rules a little if it meant achieving good. Abusing military privileges wasn't the same thing, however, and they could just as easily have met at a restaurant that wasn't primarily alcoholic, but he was just being polite to his associate.
Next to him, Frank Archer held a glass of neat whiskey in his hand. "So, what have you found so far?"
"I went over the recorded First Laboratory files prior to the Reclassification, and your suspicions are correct," the younger Elric said. That was why they got him for this task, after all. When he first passed the Certifications, the State started him off with work at the First Laboratory as cleanup, where he intensely pored over its files, to the point that he almost completely memorized each one's classification under the Bradley Administration's system.
Well he had a little bit of help from Sheska, but only so much as she memorized all those files' contents.
A few months later, all the documents were reorganized under a new classification system, one that he had developed.
"From what I can tell, there really are a number of file slots that are empty. Almost like someone purged these documents from the record. Though I don't know if they were burned, or merely stowed away somewhere..."
"Go on…" Archer sipped from his drink. They were off-duty, so it was fine now. But it paid to be careful that he wasn't too inebriated. This still was a work-related meeting, after all.
"I count seven missing files, all categorized under Section X - Special Projects." Which was of course worrisome. He'd heard rumours about the First Laboratory even before he started working there. And understanding the roles they played during the reign of Homunculus, the Dwarf in the Flask, meant that anything considered a 'Special Project' was sure to be something bad.
The Fifth Laboratory manufactured Philosopher's Stones using human lives. The Third Laboratory was a pathway into Father's Lair. The First Laboratory was where they experimented on "weapon systems", including chimeras like Jerso and Zampano…
"Special Projects X-E5, X-L3, X-N6, X-O2, X-S1, X-T7, and X-V4." Most of the Section X projects were scrapped by the Grumman Administration, considering how dangerous they were. Most showed slow progress anyway, even if they wanted to use them… The few that remained were retained for being practical, and couldn't necessarily be categorised as weapons of mass destruction. But what if - assuming that they were taken away instead of just burned - what if these seven projects were further along their development? Or worse, what if they had been completed? "That's a lot of special projects that went missing."
Archer hummed in agreement as he wrote down the file names on a napkin. "If these weapons are at large, they could be a major threat to State Security."
"We'll have to notify Command, then," the concern in Al's voice was palpable, "Get as many people on this as possible."
"Slow down, Colonel Elric," Archer raised his hand to emphasise his point. "We don't even know what these weapons are just yet. And we don't know who we can trust with the task of finding them. Clemin and Edison might still have loyalists we haven't flushed out from the ranks."
Of course. The cover story was that the coup was ultimately headed by Brigadier Generals Clemin and Edison. Perhaps because they were the only Central Command generals still left alive after the event. Someone had to take the blame, and since the entire General Staff were in on Father's plot, they might as play their part as the most senior conspirators left.
That was the logic, at any rate. Still, that told Al how much Archer really knew of the situation. It only made sense. He was apparently busy with investigating General Raven's disappearance by the time the coup rolled around. Didn't have time to deal with such things…
At the time of the arrests, he'd apparently put two and two together, and decided to pin the disappearance on the conspiracy. The working theory was that they had sent Raven up north to Briggs and assassinated him along the way… or something like that?
It didn't exactly hold up 100 percent, but that's why it was a working theory. Al knew better, but given how little Archer knew, it was in everyone's best interests that he be kept under the shadow of the cover story.
As for this case, he had a good point. While it had been three years since the conspiracy had been thwarted, investigations were still underway. Once in a while, a remnant conspirator would make a misstep and get found out. The military was far from completely clean.
Alphonse nodded. "Alright, let's just keep this to the both of us for now." He refilled his glass. The smell of caramel and alcohol filled the air. "What's our next move?"
"I'll see what I can dig up on my end about Lab 1. You keep after that trail. Maybe we'll find something that can lead us somewhere."
"Sounds like a plan." Not much of one, but they didn't have a lot to go on. The First Laboratory was going to be his first real assignment that had anything to do with danger.
Spending a year east in Xing? He was friends with the new Emperor, and a princess was his guide.
Passing the Certifications? The exam was a breeze. Not to mention, he was one of Father's human sacrifices. Circle-free transmutation alone was enough to get him through the practical test, on top of the unique style he developed in combination with what he learned from May and his sojourn in Xing.
Going back to Xing to spearhead diplomatic relations under General Mustang? The worst of it was bureaucratic paperwork. Heck, even supervising Tanya's air power project was easy if exciting. That child practically did all the work herself!
But looking into some missing "special weapons"? This might have been similar to the path that General Hughes took. He'd have to let Ed and May know. The last thing he wanted to do was end up repeating that tragedy because nobody was there to watch his back.
No offence to Archer, but outside of his basic officer combat training, he didn't seem like much of a fighter. He did, however, have a sharp intellect that was being put to good use in Investigations.
The younger Elric raised his glass. "To finding a way." He didn't really know too much about drinking etiquette, considering he wasn't old enough yet. But he at least understood that a proper toast consisted of well-wishing for something good.
Archer raised his in kind and nodded. "To finding a way."
In a busy Central bar, several hours into the night, two glasses clinked together in a toast. Two Lieutenant Colonels had shared drinks, and met about business. One a State Alchemist, and the other an Investigations Department official. What did they meet about? Only they really knew.
Everyone else around them was too drunk and revelrous to care.
AN: Yes, the map doesn't show any lakes big enough for a whole city. But there's a pretty big lake in Dublith you don't see. And yes, the map wasn't visible in FMA 03. So it's not impossible, that maybe, there might be a really big lake in the South along the Aerugonian border.
Also, yes, I know Madame Christmas blew up her pub… but who's to say she didn't rebuild it after the Promised Day, right?
