AN: So it's been literally almost a year since my last update, and for that I must apologise. The short of it is, my whole family got hit with COVID and we're still dealing with the financial and especially health-related consequences. Nobody's dead, fortunately, but some of us are still on oxygen and bedridden from further sickness that has popped up in response.

But I can't let those circumstances keep this story down. So here it is! If I wasn't able to respond to your reviews earlier, please let me know, and I'll answer at first opportunity!

Guest (6/6/21): Yeah, Tanya and Mary being pretty young and dangerous does sound like a possible side effect of what Father did. It wouldn't be a hard leap to conflate Being X and the Truth, either. Though observant people like Al would probably know how differently they operate.

DFrown: That's a very good point. I'll have to keep it in mind for the future.

Guest (6/3/22): Thanks! It took a while to figure out what it is that I could make use of from the source material. Then I realised just plain flying itself is already a big thing in FMA, unlike YS where it seems to be a standard spell. So why not really dig into it? I hope it continues to entertain!

Guest (12/4/22): Admittedly, this has been something brought up before in earlier reviews of this chapter, if I'm not mistaken, yes. I just can't remember which parts specifically don't match, or what I said to explain that difference. My apologies.

Disclaimer: Youjo Senki is the property of Being X, and Fullmetal Alchemist is the creative work of Hiromu Arakawa. Please don't sue!


XIII. LONG NIGHT OF SOLACE

AQUROYA EXPO, 17 MAY, 1918

"Whoever did this must think very poorly of your intelligence, Major," Colonel Storch sighed as he examined the miniature apocalypse that had swept through the hangar. The other pilots were already hard at work salvaging what they could of their ruined aircraft. "Leaving Ilyushin's machine untouched is a bit too on the nose, wouldn't you say?"

"They could be taunting me, yes…" I pushed up my chin with a knuckle, collecting my thoughts. Someone directly challenging me wasn't the only possibility, of course. This might have been premeditated long before I received the assignment to oversee the race.

But let's take some points into consideration:

First, someone got in without security noticing. Or if they were noticed, nobody thought to keep them from entering. This makes the culprit either someone who was good at sneaking in, or someone who had permission to enter, be it a pilot, official, or even a lowly mechanic.

Second, after some initial examination, the sabotage wasn't completely irreversible. Yes, there was substantial damage, but we could very realistically put all these back together if we pulled an all-nighter. Just in case, I should probably head back to the meeting room and slap Winry sober. I wouldn't be surprised if today's trip gave her enough experience with various flying machines to be able to significantly boost our repair speed.

The culprit could have destroyed the planes completely if they really wanted to ensure the race's failure. Instead, they left it in this state of recoverable disarray. What's their motive then? It could be a number of things. Might they have wanted to ruin the race more subtly? Maybe cause a disaster to occur in the middle of the event itself, counting on the pilots to have made a mistake in their rush to repair the planes? "Do you folks have assistant mechanics or do you do all of your own work?"

"Signorina Major, surely you kid! What self-respecting air pilot does not do all of their own work?" There was an underlying laughter in Semovente's voice as he placed the dislodged dashboard of his plane on a large tool cart. More of the kind that said he was enjoying the work, rather than looking down in condescension at my inquiry.

"In this time and place, Mademoiselle Commandant," Auverland chimed in as he tightened a bolt on his tailfin, a loose lock of hair breaking free from whatever magic usually kept it in place. "Engineering is art, and art is engineering!" He stopped to rapidly comb his hair back into perfection, before getting back to work.

"I see…" Yes, there was a certain pride one could find in one's work. I would be lying if I said I wasn't proud of my alchemy… or what I had achieved in my previous life in HR, for the matter. In the same way that your brain sends signals of satisfaction after a hard day's work, or a good sweaty jog, so too does it fill you with pride when you create something worthwhile.

They weren't alchemists, but they too were creators. Each machine in this room was unique. Indeed, each machine on display at the exhibits was unique. There might be similarities in basic principles, but all of them had special quirks… quirks that served as their creators' signatures. The… "soul" of the machine, you might say.

In retrospect, it was probably insulting to have asked that question. They wouldn't tell me this out of courtesy, of course. But much like Chef Amadeo's pride in his cooking being done just the way he knew how, so did each of these men. Winry also had much pride in her work. I could tell with how she beamed whenever discussing the arms and legs she had built for Edward, or the other prosthetics for the rest of her clientele.

That woman knew what she was doing.

That being said, offending the pilots was just a possibly unfortunate side effect of this investigation. The question's purpose was to see if there were other people with the credentials who might have the excuse to get inside here at an inopportune time.

"Pit crews," Ilyushin pointed out as he too examined his own aircraft. It might have looked fine on the outside, he had said, but who was to say that it had not been tampered with somehow on the inside in a way that wasn't obvious? Another fair point. "Is maybe what you're asking about, nyet?"

Visha the flying squirrel impressed me with how she seemed to be serving not just as his mechanical inspiration, but his assistant. The little grey creature scrambled up and down his frame, swapping out the tools he would ask for. Now the only question left seemed to be whether she was a good shot with a rifle.

"Pit crews?"

"Technically we borrowed the term from the car racing scene," Storch explained. "Each racing team would have a crew of engineers waiting in an area next to the race track, ready to serve the vehicle should it need anything."

While I knew something about this from my past life, and the term "pit stop" had evolved into something less constrained and more accessible to the general public, this sort of thing was, in this world, still specific knowledge restricted to certain circles. And considering my background here, I wasn't in said circle. It only made sense they would explain it to me.

Instead of addressing this point directly, I nodded. Let them make what they would of that. "How many do you have?"

"Sometimes as many as my children!"

"Or my lady friends."

"Given what happened the last two years, the Expo has been kind enough to assign about a dozen or so mechanics to assist us," Storch finally got to work patching up the holes in his fuselage. "They shouldn't be here until tomorrow, but we did give them our schematics beforehand so it's not like they're unfamiliar with them."

"Is not like they could not come today!" Ilyushin fiddled with a wrench, using it on something inside the cockpit. I couldn't see from where I was standing, considering how short I was though. "If you think they might be suspicious, well they had plenty of time to do it."

Oh, how I miss CCTVs! Assuming the saboteur didn't know there were cameras around, this would have been solved so easily!

I suppose I could check out the logs once I make sure everything here is done. For now though, there are more important things to do. I turned around and made my way to the hangar door. I needed to get Winry here. Pit crews be damned, I'll take a drunk-if-trusted amateur with some working experience over a professional who's suspect.

Before I could get there, however, the door burst open and the automail engineer stood in the doorway, right hand raised high as her left held her bag of tools slung over her shoulder. She was already dressed in what I presumed to be her work clothes: a plain off-white boilersuit, and a green bandana over her head.

"Hey there! I heard you all needed some help fixing up your birds!"

There's a saying that loose lips sink ships. A warning for Allied seamen to keep their mouths shut on mission-specific information when writing letters or making calls home, to prevent the Axis SIGINT people from finding out about their whereabouts or even plans.

I had specifically told the guards to bring the pilots here in the same manner they'd brought me - i.e. without specifying anything. So how exactly did she…

"What? Don't look surprised. You think I don't know the sound of tools at work from a mile away?"

"Mrs. Elric," Storch managed a chuckle, "It certainly is a surprise."

"Signora Elric is an automail engineer," Semovente's voice came from the cavity in his plane where the dashboard used to be.

"Well yes, but how is an automail engineer an expert at aerial engineering?" I could understand where he was coming from, of course. One field of engineering is not the same as the others. For example, even the field of civil engineering is extremely broad, with various specialties. A civil engineer who deals in roads has a different knowledge tree from a civil engineer who builds hydroelectric dams.

"Little Guiseppe also saw her tinkering with half a dozen exhibit aircraft today."

Half a dozen is an understatement. "We went over practically all of them, in fact," I pointed out. "So you could say she became one just this afternoon."

Storch's face went from bemused to satisfied, as he nodded in thought. "That really is quite the feat, Mrs. Elric. Alright, I think we can use your set of hands in this. We don't exactly want this situation to go public, as it might lead to rumours if we end up rolling the birds out late."

"And you're sure you're alright now?" I asked, holding up my hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Three."

Okay. I dropped one finger.

"Two."

I raised my other hand into the mix.

"Seven."

Lowered two fingers on that other hand.

"Five."

"Hmm…" She seemed to be sober enough. But that brings up the question of just what the hell that drunken stupor was back in the meeting room. "You looked pretty drunk back then."

"I was." Winry reached into her bag and rummaged around a bit before pulling out a bottle with Xingese characters written on it. "Alkahestric 'Sobriety Tonic'. At least that's what May calls it."

Ah… alkhaestry. Of course. I mean, sure, Xingese alkahestry was a highly advanced medical field. If an (albeit talented) amateur like Alphonse could completely close up a freshly bleeding knife cut, then perhaps some old sage or another could have conceivably created a cure for drunkenness - and no doubt made a fortune off of it.

Consider that it seems the one thing everyone was scrambling over in recent years was immortality itself, going by May's story of how she met Alphonse. They were already at that stage, where they were directly tackling the final problem that was death itself. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that a number of lesser ills were now taken care of. I mean it's not like insobriety is cancer, right?

This must be the advantage of having an alkahestrist for a future sister-in-law. Though I have to say, this could lead to entirely different forms of abuse.

"I should probably get a few boxes of those," I said matter of factly. "Central has a particularly irksome drinking culture, and I wouldn't want my men slacking off in the morning from hangovers."

"We can all use a few of those!" Auverland cracked a smile before getting back to trying to attach his aerodyne's nose wheel. "Ilyushin gets twice as rowdy when he's drunk."

"Only because you squishy southerners get thrice as annoying!" the mountain man laughed from beneath his flying machine's undercarriage.

"I've heard the Xingese have all sorts of tonics, remedies, and lesser elixirs," Storch said on a more serious note. "I'm not surprised at all that they've got a cure for drunkenness."

That's always good to know. Maybe I really should ask May about what else she has available on hand.

"Well then, don't let me keep you standing here," I stepped aside and held out my hand as if presenting the carnage to her like the entrance to an amusement park. "Show us your newfound expertise!"

Winry rolled up her sleeves, picked the nearest plane - Semovente's - slid underneath, and got to work.

We all did.

She radiated a certain energy that got everyone fired up somehow. Possibly once again that same young eagerness and wonderment at seeing so much complex machinery to play with.

For a few hours, I took a break from trying to suss out the culprit's motives and narrow down their identity. I wasn't just a supervising entity anymore, observing and evaluating every aspect of the Expo with detachment from behind my notebook and pencil.

You could very well say that I had gotten into the thick of it too.

"Pass me that No. 2… ah, no, the No. 3 spud," Winry's voice came from beneath Semovente's undercarriage. The Aerugonian pilot watched with interest as I picked up the aforementioned tool from the cart and passed it to her. A few seconds of metallic and wooden sounds later, it popped out from underneath, held by her hand, as if to signal it was done. "Thanks."

"She really does know her way around aircraft now," Semovente noted, impressed. "I didn't even tell her which ones I use down there."

"I wish my girls could help me with the maintenance like that," Auverland sighed. He wouldn't say it, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out he was jealous of Edward. For all the girls fawning over him, none of them could assist in his passion. Maybe none of them could even understand how deeply he was committed to his aerodyne.

Sure, he was blatantly a player. And you might say that he only used the thing to pick up girls - even literally sometimes - but to have built it all by himself was sure to have taken a certain degree of passion with a high minimum. This isn't 2013. You can't just buy a prebuilt plane even if you had the money, since no such business exists yet. Every single machine at this Expo is an experimental wagon train out into the wild west known as the sky.

The hours ticked by. Midnight came and went much faster than I expected. I shut my pocket watch the second after it passed, carrying on.

We would share tools, exchange in-jokes that only flying people like ourselves could relate to, and make use of each other's skills where they fit.

Illyushin easily picked up anything that otherwise would have needed a jack, for example. Auverland could add fully functional yet aesthetic finishing touches to a newly attached part, refining it to work as well as it looked. Semovente was good at coordinating our work to make sure nobody fell behind, and Storch brought his background as Führer Bradley's secretary to bear with his precise track of where each tool, part, and other item was at any given moment.

From this down and dirty vantage point, one could actually see just why these gentlemen got along so well despite their differences: they respected each other's equally fiery dedication to their craft.

It might have been obvious in retrospect, but sometimes, people of a certain mindset have a tendency to reject the ostentatious, as if they made no sense.

But these people often forget that many cliches are such because they happen often.

Combined with Winry's boundless energy and general understanding, and my usefulness for… fitting into tight spaces nobody could… everyone was being productive in the effort. We were making pretty good time too.

Of course, even with such progress, there was never a guarantee of smooth sailing.

Occasionally, we'd run up against one snag or another. Nothing that wasn't insurmountable, but given how little time we had to begin with, even the slightest problem could sometimes lead to frustrated swearing when they first cropped up.

I was currently sitting down on a small wooden crate, resting after having crawled through the black greasy fuselage of… someone's plane, I can't even remember whose now… I think that's when it happened.

"No. This is no good," Ilyushin muttered at some point.

From where I was, I could only see his back as he tinkered around with his flying squirrel machine. Visha chittered, reflecting her owner's sentiments almost like how Xiao Mei would mirror May's every move.

Next to him, Winry held out her hands as she proffered a course of action.

"Have you tried diverting the phase charge through the flux capacitor?"

What?

I opened my eyes wider. For some reason, my eyelids were a lot heavier than I remember, and everything looked just slightly blurred.

"I did. Bilateral kelilactiral output is still below the Heisenfram threshold."

No, no, no, that's not how it's supposed to work. I thought they knew what they were doing. How could they lose the plot so quickly?

Disappointed, I stood up and struggled against my hazy vision and lead-like feet to get over there.

Took a deep breath.

And spoke.

"Guys! You're overthinking this. Everyone into aerial engineering knows that the best way to get around that problem is to REVERSE THE POLARITY OF THE NEUTRON FLOW."

The deep breath must have helped wake me up, because the next thing I noticed was that I was seeing the two of them with crystal clarity. To be more precise, they were staring at me in utter confusion.

"Major?" Winry tilted her head, confusion replaced by concern. "Are you alright?"

"What is a neutron?" Ilyushin asked.

I snapped to attention and cleared my throat, composing myself. I get it now. "Yes, I'm fine, and that's an alchemic thing, never mind." I briefly wondered if that ignorance was because Ilyushin was a mountain man, or because the state of Drachman education in general was terrible. After all, they didn't have any equivalent to State Alchemists, so their alchemy could very well be extremely backward… or restricted to trade secrets passed solely from master to apprentice, rather than publicly available like here.

"Erm… I think I'll have the guards get us some coffee. It's…" I checked my watch, "0217 Hours. Still have time till the sun comes up, and we don't want to waste it!"

I'll probably have to get my first few bags from Chef Amadeo sooner than later. Sometimes, you can't avoid sleepless nights. But until now, I've honestly been holding back on the coffee and just flat out falling asleep on various occasions. Neither the mediocre cups from the PX nor the utter hogwash at Briggs could pass muster.

A round of cups and a short break later, we were back at it.

Engine testing eventually started, and between the smoke, sweat from the heat, and all that grease, things got pretty dirty.

By the time the first rays of sun peeked through the window, though, we were actually done. Somehow.

It was tiring, but at the end… or… beginning of the day, rather… it left a gentle satisfactory buzz in my head as I sat back down on "my" crate seat. Or maybe that was all the coffee I downed to stay up. Either way, we finished what we had set out to do. We successfully ran an almost nine-hour marathon to get the birds back in working condition.

The pilots had already excused themselves and either gone back to their quarters, or if your name was Anton Sergeyevich Ilyushin, climbed into his cockpit and reclined into the seat, fuzzy ushanka covering his face. For them more than anyone right now, sleep was paramount. The last thing you'd want is to fall asleep at the joystick while flying 2500 metres in the air.

Winry stretched her arms high, a very fulfilled yawn escaping from her mouth. "Now that was a night well spent!"

"Adding reinforcement to the airframes was a time risk, but somehow we managed to pull it off…" I turned to face the engineer head-on. Instead, I saw her navel. Over the process of the engine testing, she had undone the upper half of her suit, revealing a black and white crop top.

Sure, it meant she would get more of her skin exposed to the soot, but the greasy part was over, which would have been the worst of it. She would rather just wash some soot off later than put up with a couple hours of sweating from the exhaust heat.

I blinked and tilted my head back to look up, past what I quickly realised was a rather impressive bust line, and on to her smiling face. "We'll only be able to really see if they'll fly later, so knock on wood."

Winry nodded before squinting at something. On my face? "Huh… You forgot to take off your coat, Major," she dusted the soot off my shoulder boards.

Oh.

"Eh, I've got a spare change in my hotel room," I waved it off and smiled back. "Don't worry about it."

One perk of being a Field Grade Officer was that you had the option of sending your laundry to be done by the logistics department. As much as I make it a point to clean my room - which has tried and tested psychological benefits and instils a much-needed sense of individual responsibility - sometimes, you're just too tired and/or busy to do all of your own personal laundry. Even Alphonse does it sometimes because he doesn't want May to distract herself with his cleaning clothes. Not when she's doing other, more important things.

"Well alright," she scratched her head, fingers still clean thanks to her gloves. "But we should definitely hit the showers after this!" Winry pointed excitedly to the west. "The guards say there are some communals in the staff lodge we could use!"

Had this been in my past life, my face would have gone red at such an offer. Right now, though, I have not yet hit puberty. And while the proposal was certainly awkward, considering my previous incarnation, the lack of biological factors to reinforce these feelings meant my reaction was far more subdued. "I appreciate the thought, but perhaps I could just escort you back to your room and we could take turns instead. Your personal privacy trumps the immediate need to clean up, after all."

"I know I said this already last night, Major," she settled for ruffling my hair, "But your family really did raise you right."

"You could say that," I smirked, repeating my previous answer.

"There's only one problem, though." She picked up her bag, all the tools already having been returned to it.

"And that might be…?"

A nervous chuckle escaped her mouth. "I actually haven't checked in anywhere…"

Had I been drinking, I would have spit it out. What the hell was she thinking? "I… I'm sorry?"

"I got here right before opening time, so I figured I'd just check the Expo out first and find a hotel after the day was done."

And she did all this knowing she still needed to find someplace to stay afterward. I guess it can't be helped. It seems to me the only thing she loves as much as machines is helping people. Though in this case, the helping part also involves working on machines. I can imagine her thought process being something like, 'Hotel room be damned, that's a win-win proposition!'

Well… she probably doesn't actually think that way, but you get the idea.

"Then maybe I can offer my shower and room instead," I added. Privacy really is important. I'm sure she knows that much. She doesn't seem like a completely naive jungle girl who doesn't know anything about modesty. But at the same time, I'm sure she feels at least as bad as I do with all this gunk that piled up on us overnight. "It's a short drive away, and you could even catch a nap before the race."

Me, on the other hand? Sure, I've been up for over 25 and a half hours already, and as I've said before, this body requires an average of nine to eleven hours of sleep per day. But right now, I don't have time to sleep. I need to get back to focusing on who the culprit is. Be it pit crews, or disgruntled officials, or Halcrow himself attempting to humiliate me through some proxy…

It's so hard to narrow down still. I think I might need several pots of coffee to get me through both this investigation and overseeing the race. I should get in touch with the local Investigations Office ASAP. The Expo is an important economic boon, and I'm sure they would be obliged to help out.

"You really don't mind?" Winry asked, wide eyed.

"Of course not. It's much better than you having nowhere to clean up and bunk down… or hell, having to put up with a communal shower."

With the speed of a falcon, she grabbed my hands and bowed her head deeply, "Thanks a lot, Major!" When she raised her face up again, there were stars in her eyes. "Then shall we go?"

"Yeah. Let's." I stood up from the crate seat. After dusting my bum, I led the way out of the hangar, and we were off.

The night had ended, but the day was far from over. In fact, it had just begun.

Which meant there were now more opportunities for Being X to screw me over.

~0~0~0~

FIELD HQ, 313TH MOTORISED INFANTRY BATTALION, OSWELL, CRETAN FRONT, MAY 29, 1918

xxxXxxx

She does the job, but I can't help but feel she could do better.

All she cares about is killing the enemy. But what about the friendlies?

The Major almost got us wiped yesterday. It's not the first time either.

I thought I was going to die. Have you seen what her alchemy does to her bayonet? Sure, it looks cool, but she swings it so wildly someone might catch friendly "fire"!

Can't say she's leadership material. But at least she kills real good.

People like her are why you don't let emotional kids in the military.

It's easy to keep attacking when your alchemy can melt through concrete like fire through a candle. Too bad she's the only alchemist in the platoon.

xxxXxxx

Alex Louis Armstrong rubbed his perfectly chiselled chin as he reviewed the notes he took while interviewing Major Sioux's - conscious at the time - platoon members.

It had been well over a month since her request to be transferred to the Cretan Front had been approved. And as he'd feared, she wasn't performing in the best fashion.

Certainly, her platoon was responsible for a number of vital tactical successes. He couldn't question her commitment to winning. But these frequently came at the cost of morale, injury, and death.

The information from upstairs told him the key details, of course. That her father was assassinated by Cretan operatives. That she made her way into the State Alchemist program, presumably using his research, although very little could be said of it. Even as a State Alchemist with unlimited access to the State's alchemic secrets, that didn't help much when it came to research notes encrypted this heavily. It would take at least a few more weeks to crack the main cipher even with decryption techniques passed along the Armstrong line for generations.

Well, the results of the research spoke for itself. She passed the test for, as the assessment panel put it, "taking a complex concept and giving it a simple, practical application".

And what could be more simple and practical to a military than a weapon that completely nullified the protective capabilities of armour and fortification? In that way, she was the perfect tactical frontline asset, much like those deployed to Ishval. And, as she herself spoke without illusion that day, "that's what a State Alchemist is for". Implicitly, a replacement for artillery.

For her first annual assessment, she chose an alchemic duel, and was pitted against Lieutenant Colonel Martins, an eccentric connoisseur of Xingese culture known as the Thunder Alchemist. An appropriate matchup, considering the latter's employment of bladed weapons himself. Suffice it to say, though she was ultimately defeated, it was not without a fight that saw the arena cut to ribbons by the both of them.

The thread that bound this entire narrative was her single-minded focus on revenge, or if not possible, releasing her frustration for the lack of an opportunity to do so. In a way, her commitment to defeating the Cretans was simply an excuse to justify the satiation of that desire. If it wasn't obvious when she started on the front, it was crystal clear now.

While a capable commander could use such deep motivations to the benefit of the campaign, the soldier herself had to be willing to play ball with the team. Sioux was not a team player. As these witness reports noted, she focused solely on pushing forward, without regard for the safety of her men.

And if the rest of the accounts were to be believed, even her own safety.

What a tragedy this was. To be so consumed by vengeance that you would even be willing to throw your own life away at the chance to succeed… One might even say that it wasn't so much that she didn't care for her men. It was only an extension of how she cared for nobody, not even herself.

Tears flowed gracefully down his cheeks as he continued to go over the notes and reports.

The more he read, the stronger his conviction grew. He knew, of course, that keeping her safe was a mission that was all but impossible. That someone with her inclinations would only be further incited to violence if given the chance to take out her revenge on those she believed responsible.

Vengeance was a ravenous beast that could never truly be satisfied.

If you released it on an individual, you would be left with a biting emptiness. And if you were to use it on a faceless mass of people… you would never find satisfaction, or peace. So long as a single one of those people lived. And when you brought down the last of them? That would just mean you took a much longer, more costly route to find yourself with an even greater gulf of emptiness.

That wasn't to say there was no room for justice. But at least in theory, justice was blind. She first weighed all the evidence, and then delivered the cold, rational verdict. Vengeance by its nature was steeped in the fires of the heart. And once the heart burned away…

He shook his head.

Even at this stage, surely, it might be possible to keep her from going that far.

Armstrong drew his pen from his pocket, and began to draft a letter to those above.

Simply put, while Mary Sioux was highly effective in combat, she was not a good leader. And though she might continue to serve as an excellent individual combat asset, she was not in any position to be leading men.

More importantly, should she continue to be allowed to expose herself to the people she believes murdered her father, her mental health would no doubt continue to deteriorate.

It is therefore her Commanding Officer's strongest recommendation that MAJ SIOUX MARIA, TORCHBLADE ALCHEMIST, be relieved of combat duty, and transferred away from the Cretan Front, immediately.

Technically, Armstrong himself could do the former. But the latter was entirely the purview of the powers that be.

And although the Hastfalt Campaign was on the verge of its conclusion, there was no telling when she might fall down that spiral. Immediate action had to be taken.

Even today, she had taken down another Hasfalt fortification, one of the most significant ones. The last line before their capital. The platoon somehow survived, but with the amount of automail they would be needing, one could easily tell they had been scarred for life.

Though she might consider it cruelty to be taken away from a victory that was so close as to be within her reach, Armstrong knew it was an act of mercy.

For on the road of war built on vengeance, there was no final victory. Only a hollowness at the dead end past the last enemy's corpse.

The Federal Army had begrudgingly decided to fight alongside them after Hasfalt decided to secede from the Federation. The Cretan tribes were always at odds with each other, but to the extent that they would break away so that they could continue to war against Amestris was the height of arrogance.

They would tread on the road to Hasfalt, that was certain. They would besiege the city if they had to. They would put an end to this war without a doubt.

But Mary Sioux would not be part of that.

She must not have any part of that.

For her own sake.

Armstrong called for his adjutant and had the letter dispatched to Central via telegraph. The telegraphy officer would be responsible for translating his text into something that would fit the traditional 25 word limit. This included the sender and receivers' names and addresses. Technically, government telegrams were allowed to be longer, but it was more efficient to stay within the limits. For most, such a thing would be difficult, but the telegraphy officer was quite experienced. Armstrong could trust him to take care of it as he had done to many other messages before.

It was just past noon.

The field was quiet now, with the front lines pushed so far back.

She had just gotten back from her last engagement, and once again, had to be ordered to stand down lest she burn out.

Perhaps, if the response came back early enough, he would be able to send her home before dinner.

At worst, it would arrive in the morning, if they spent more time deliberating over it.

Either way, this was the best he could do. And for now, all he could do was wait. Armstrong passed the time speaking to the men, visiting each of the various tents to see how they were doing. Depending on who they had fought under, morale was either high or middling.

Sioux's troops had it lowest, unsurprisingly. But as for the rest of the camp as a whole, they were looking forward to just getting this campaign over with, and they were proud of what Armstrong had done to improve the battalion's survival rate.

Far from the coward who had requested a quick return home after a short stint in Ishval, he had turned around and faced his duties to protect his nation. He emerged from that dreaded conflict a new man. A scion worthy of his family's name, a triumphant officer worth following. And now, having led this battalion so close to victory, it appeared that that first choice to stand and fight against the schemes of the homunculi was one that those around him would never regret.

"Colonel Armstrong, Sir!" His adjutant's voice came from the direction of the camp gates as he exited one of the last tents.

The camp's perimeter wasn't a permanent fortification, but the land walls, palisades, and barbed wire served their purpose. Sandbag machine gun nests at the gates were the finishing touch.

Armstrong acknowledged his presence with a nod, checking his pocket watch as he noticed the stack of mail envelopes in his adjutant's hand. Only past 1600, and he was already doing mail call. Just in time for afternoon tea. Presumably, the response was also already there, otherwise he would not be calling the CO's attention.

"Lieutenant Weiss," the living mountain turned to meet his approaching subordinate. "Am I correct to assume that Central's response is already somewhere in that stack of letters?"

"Yes Sir!" Weiss stopped as they reached a close enough distance, and the two exchanged salutes. He retrieved a telegram from the stack and handed it to his commander.

Armstrong's eyes darted quickly left and right, scanning over the telegram and then reading it again just to be sure.

xxxXxxx

LTC ARMSTRONG ALEX LOUIS
HQ 313 MTZBN CAMP OSWELL

REQUEST TO REMOVE MAJ SIOUX MARIA FROM COMBAT DUTY AND CRETAN FRONT APPROVED (STOP)

ACCOMPANY MAJ SIOUX TO CENTCOM FOR YOUR NEW ORDERS

BGEN RUDERSDORF KURT

RM 418 GHQ CENTCOM CENTRAL CITY

xxxXxxx

Armstrong's eyebrow rose at that second line. Did Brigadier General Rudersdorf just order him to go with her? He looked at Weiss, who drew a second telegram from the stack.

"This arrived shortly after, Sir."

Armstrong took it and went over the follow-up message.

xxxXxxx

LTC ARMSTRONG ALEX LOUIS
HQ 313 MTZBN CAMP OSWELL

COMMAND OF 313 MTZBN TRANSFERRED TO COL DUIKER GERALD EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY (STOP)

YOU ARE REASSIGNED TO DIRECTLY SUPERVISE MAJ SIOUX UNTIL ORDERED OTHERWISE

BGEN RUDERSDORF KURT
RM 418 GHQ CENTCOM CENTRAL CITY

xxxXxxx

No sooner did he read this that the sound of motorised vehicles approached the gate. A number of troop transports, led by an armoured truck, made their way along the dirt road that went up the hill where the camp was built.

Say what one could about the military. Thanks to the efficiency of General Rudersdorf's experience in Eastern Command as part of the previous commanding general's staff, they would waste no time from the moment orders were handed out.

"Well then, Lieutenant…" He cleared his throat. "It appears my time here has been cut short. Central has acquiesced to my request… but at the same time, assigned me to serve as Major Sioux's custodian. Colonel Duiker will take charge of the operation moving forward. Inform the command staff of my and Major Sioux's transfer. We will have to make haste if the siege is to proceed on schedule."

"Yes, Sir." Weiss didn't salute just yet, however. It seemed he still had something to say. Now, it would have been too easy to speak of how serving under the Lieutenant Colonel had been an honour, and it was certainly part of that. But more importantly… "I will continue to train in the basics you've taught me, Sir."

Armstrong nodded, humming in agreement. "Do so, Lieutenant. You know the nature of those basics." Basics which had been passed along the Armstrong line for generations, of course. Not just anyone could receive the privilege of learning such fabulous secret techniques. Weiss had earned that privilege. Of that, his mentor was certain. "They will serve you well, especially in the practical examination."

"Thank you, Sir." Weiss bowed in gratitude. "And let me just say, it has been an honour serving under your command."

"As it has been mine to serve as your commanding officer."

The two men exchanged salutes, and parted ways.

However, before he could go on to greet Colonel Duiker, who had yet to disembark from his truck, Armstrong's attention was snatched away by something far more urgent.

That is, from his perspective, the mass of brown hair that had emerged from a nearby tent, and was approaching. To be more precise, hair adorning the head of someone who was so short all he could see from the current angle was her hair: Major Sioux.

"Colonel Armstrong, Sir!" She saluted, holding a letter in her left hand. It seemed she had something from today's mail call. She sounded excited, certainly a much bigger improvement than her usually serious demeanour. Or the underlying petulance she suppressed whenever she received direct orders to take a break.

Armstrong returned the salute and said the first thing off his mind. "Major Sioux, I assume you have received good news from your family?"

"Yes, Sir!" Mary nodded, still bubbling with excitement. "It's from my uncle," she clutched the letter to her chest as if it was a precious jewel. "He says they have a new lead on the ones who murdered my father."

The Strong Arm Alchemist stopped to think. A lead? Then… "Is your uncle part of the Investigations Department?"

She shook her head. "I don't really know much about him, Sir. I've only seen him once or twice, actually. But he's supported my family since Dad was murdered." Mary beamed. "He's a real nice guy!"

"I see." He rubbed his chin. What a curious uncle. Not necessarily in Investigations, but carrying out an investigation… Perhaps he was a private investigator. Armstrong's moustache curled in a way that invoked a smile. "Well, I'm glad there's progress being made into learning the truth. Thank you for informing me, Major."

"Yes, Sir." She scratched her head, as if still trying to wrap it around a confusing concept. "He… also wrote that you might have something to say to me…?"

Curiouser and curiouser indeed. How could a letter, which even in this day and age, took a day or two to reach its intended recipient, predict orders that were made hours after it had been sent? Granted, "something to say to her" was rather vague, but it implied an understanding of events that required a mind that understood both the situation and the people involved.

Well at the very least, she might have perhaps written this uncle about how he had been treating her. And a man smart enough to find a lead on a Cretan assassination without the power of the Investigations Department might be smart enough to understand how Armstrong was feeling. Maybe even predict his next move. But within a day of it happening? A truly remarkable mind, this uncle.

"That is correct, Major. I've received orders from Brigadier General Rudersdorf. We are being transferred away from the field, with myself now serving as your direct supervisor."

Her eyes and mouth widened, even more excited, for just a moment, before she put herself back together. "To go after the lead?"

"He was not clear on that. Only that we are to report to Central Command for our new orders."

"This has to be it," he heard the child mutter. "When do we leave, Sir?"

Armstrong looked over at the gates, where Colonel Duiker was finally getting off his truck. "As soon as I officially transfer command of the Battalion to Colonel Duiker over there," he said, "We will be on our way. So pack your things."

Mary saluted, excitement now barely contained. "Yes, Sir!"

As she turned to leave, Armstrong called out to her. "One more thing, Major."

She stopped and faced him again. "Sir?"

"What did you say your uncle's name was?"

Mary hummed in thought for just a moment, before finally shrugging to herself. "I never really got his last name, Sir. But to me, he's always been good old Uncle Roy!"

To that, the normally sesquipedalian Strong Arm Alchemist could only say, "Ah."

Given everything previously considered, that was all that needed to be said.

Shortly after sunset, they boarded the armoured truck that had brought Colonel Duiker to the camp, and rode off into the night.


AN: Not really a lot to say here. Just review and share your thoughts!