AN: As much as I would like to blame the month-long family visit that happened last month, and a second round of COVID infection early this month, it really didn't mean I had no time to write this. It was more of, as I noticed this chapter get longer, I realised it might be a bit too much. So I split it up. Here now, is the next one.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Youjo Senki and FMA aren't my property. Please don't sue!


XIV. TAKEOFF

AQUROYA EXPO, 18 MAY, 1918

"I'm honestly amazed at your seemingly endless supply of energy," showered and dressed in fresh clothes, and in Winry's case recharged by a brief one hour nap, the two of us got off the Inspector's car as it stopped in front of the Expo centre's gates. "Just like that and you're up and at 'em again."

Winry giggled. "Well Major, the answer is simple: I've done multiple all-nighters in a row before. Compared to those, last night was a cakewalk!"

Ah, yes. Perspective. And the body's adaptability. "Touche." I, on the other hand, am running almost entirely on willpower and Chef Amadeo's coffee. Which depending on who you might ask, is its own form of persistence.

It was opening time, so unlike my arrival yesterday, there were scores of people lined up to get in, buying tickets and all. While it was no doubt inconvenient, this was a small price to pay for the amazing experience of seeing the air revolution unfold before your very eyes. I support this principle, that the fair price for a good is not wholly determined by how much time was put into making it. Rather, it is mainly determined by the market's perception of its value.

Money is an idea. It represents value that you have earned by being productive to the market. A thousand cenz is a thousand cenz. It says nothing about itself in a vacuum. But in the context of a market, that's where the rubber meets the road. When determining the price of an item, once you've factored in production costs, the rest of the value is dependent on the buyer and seller.

Let's consider some meat from that crazy Dublith housewife's butcher shop. A rancher delivers carcasses to her shop. She pays for that service, then spends a given amount of time cutting them up into their proper cuts. She decides that based on how much she spent buying the carcass and how much time and effort it took her to butcher it, that a kilogram of flank steak is not as valuable to her as 2000 cenz. And so she puts it up for that price. Meanwhile, I could go in there and decide that, yes, I think that 2000 cenz is not as important to me as a kilogram of flank steak.

The housewife gets the money, and I get the meat. In this way, we make a voluntary exchange, purely because we value one thing over the other. In that regard, it's a win-win. She makes money, and I get a nice cut of beef for May to braise when I get home. The beauty of the free market, of course, is that nobody will force you to buy that steak at that price point. Maybe another butcher believes that their flank steak is worth only 1800 cenz. In which case you can go find and buy from them instead, once again, purely voluntarily.

What does this have to do with long lines at the Expo centre entrance? Simple, really: All these people here are voluntarily waiting in line in the rising sun, paying a certain amount of cenz, for tickets at a certain price point. Because for them, witnessing this history in the making first hand is worth more than the cenz they will be paying in the process. Worth more than the long lines and slowly increasing heat. Nobody is forcing them to do all this. Rather, it's the value they personally place on the Expo and what it offers.

Beautiful, isn't it? An economic system that is based on free exchange and personal value. Hence, the word "Free" in "Free Market" is no empty platitude, but a foundational aspect of its operation.

Of course, this country is a military dictatorship, rather than a truly free liberal democracy, so people like me who happen to be in important positions such as State Alchemist, or more specifically, overseer of the upcoming race, get perks intended to help us do our job more efficiently and effectively. Which is to say, all I had to do was show the guard my watch and the special ID card issued to me by the Expo officials, and they let me and my guest inside through a special VIP gate further down the street from the main entrance.

At least the market is mostly free.

We made our way to the hangar, noting the growing mass of warm bodies in the stands lining the starting line for the race. The competitors weren't there yet, but they would be soon enough.

"Looks like we've got a good crowd getting ready for it," Winry remarked, her wide eyes telling me she was impressed.

"The last two years had their own challenges," I explained, "But I've been told the ad campaign emphasised this one would start on time." After what happened last night, I really hope so.

"Major!"

Huh? A voice had called out from behind us, some distance away judging by how faint it was. It was familiar, too. Odd. I don't remember anybody else I know being down here.

It called out again, closer this time.

I turned around and my eyebrow shot up in response to what I was seeing.

A young woman in the State Military's blue uniform was running in our direction from the main gate, waving her hand wildly. She had long brown hair that went past her shoulders, big blue eyes, and shouldered a rifle. She stopped in front of me with a salute, which I returned, as was part of the military's standing orders.

That said, the first words out of my mouth were more of confusion than familiarity. "Private Serebryakova, what are you doing here?"

Last I checked, she was supposed to be at the Academy, with five more weeks of reprocessing.

"Well Major, once I heard you'd come down here, I requested leave from the Academy!"

You know, that response still doesn't answer much of anything. I'm pretty sure the Academy doesn't take well to recruits, reprocessing defectors especially, just casually asking for leave to go down south and watch an aeroplane race. It's not just suspicious. It's downright inconceivable. "Just like that?"

"Over half the faculty was called to Western Command due to a sudden increase in recruit demand or something…" she sounded less certain, possibly because they didn't exactly teach reprocessing recruits everything about the country's political situations until the last couple weeks of training. "I guess they needed more trainers to help out, so they told us to take the weekend off while they went to find substitutes." She raised a finger as if she remembered one more important detail. "Also, Lieutenant Colonel Elric took care of my papers and everything."

Huh, so it was just like that. What were the odds of something like that happening anyway?

"Al did that for you, huh? That sounds just like him." Winry chuckled, before pointing in Serebryakova's direction. "So… who's she again?"

I faced the engineer and pointed my thumb at my subordinate with a smile that some people might consider smug. How could it not be? I caused her defection myself. That's like closing a pretty big business deal, wouldn't you say? "Mrs. Winry Elric, this is Private Viktoriya Ivanovna Serebryakova, my charge. That is to say, she's a defector from Drachma, and until she completes her retraining at the Academy, she will be under my supervision."

"Retraining, huh…" Winry said, thoughtful as she nodded. We were outside the realm of engineering and off to the art war - which unfortunately is not a published work in this world. Presumably she knows a lot less and would rely on experts such as Alphonse and myself. "What happens after that?"

I appreciate that even outside of engineering or medicine, she still has enough interest to ask. Whatever her reasons are, it means she's open to learning new things, trivial as they may seem. That's a good attitude to have in life. "She'll become my Adjutant. More importantly, whether it's now or later on, she serves as my eyes and arms."

"Ah!" She pounded her open palm with the bottom of a fist. "It must be handy having someone to reach for the stuff on the top shelf!"

Please tell me you're joking. Did… did that not go through right? Behind me, Serebryakova giggled. See, it's nice that you find her misunderstanding of my explanation amusing. But on a personal level, it means I have failed to properly communicate my intended meaning! I gave the Drachman mountain girl a stern-faced grunt and she cleared her throat, standing once again at a proper decorum.

Hopefully, this communicates my thoughts better without being too blatant about it. Communication skills are very important, to be tactful but understood is a cornerstone of negotiations. "... yes. And, also, she's a lot better at shooting things than I am. Given the places I sometimes get sent to, I'd rather not die too soon." Sometimes, though, you just gotta be blunt. She is my eyes and arms in the sense of the right to self-defence. More specifically, the right to keep and bear arms… which in this dictatorship, is less "right" and more "privilege".

"Oh… I see…" she appeared less enthusiastic somehow. It's only understandable. When I'd asked about her parents, she said they died during the war while tending to the injured. It wasn't surprising that she would see arms in such a poor light. In this country where guns are concentrated in the hands of the powerful and abusive rather than the upstanding common citizenry, such weapons would be viewed as a symbol of oppression rather than protection and freedom.

"With any luck, we won't be needing the good Private's aim. Not here, not today." I can't guarantee that, of course. Who's to say the saboteur and their possible henchmen aren't armed too? And knowing Being X, he might get the bright idea to do just that now that I've tempted "fate". Or well… him.

But it's a sour subject, and so the best thing to do is to suppress it. I don't want Winry having to worry about dealing with such a problem. She can't be distracted. Not now, when the success of the race might hinge on her skills again. No, worrying about the culprit and whether or not they'll have to be shot is my problem. And the burden of executing my possible orders to shoot someone will fall on Serebryakova.

"Let's go, ladies." We continued our trip to the hangar, itself not too far from the track. There was still time to wish the gentlemen a good flight, and other such formalities. They probably would rather not have it, but I imagine after everything we went through yesterday, they would be a bit more receptive to my well-wishing.

The aircraft were all lined up. In the warm morning sunlight, rather than the cold fluorescence of the hangar lamps, they took on a more living appearance. Auverland's work on aesthetics really made them stand out compared to what they once were. His multi-layering of thin coats also meant that they dried much faster than if a single thick coat had been slathered on.

To an onlooker eager to watch them fly, I'm sure they would really grab some attention. The personal insignia added on in the hour before sunrise was a nice touch too. Semovente's green olive tree, with the trunk standing for his wife, and each branch representing one of his children. Auverland's bright red stag rampant. Probably some statement on his perceived virility. Ilyushin's grey squirrel atop a mountain, the latter either representing himself or his home region. Last, Storch's azure rendition of the State Flag's argent dragon rampant, along with a "double cross" that looked more like a large asterisk. When I asked, he said it represented Venus, and was a reminder for him to keep getting up early.

Speaking as the alchemist, I'm pretty sure that's not what the symbol for Venus is, but I'm guessing it's not an alchemical symbol.

Though speaking of Storch, he didn't look so good. And by that, I mean he was sitting down on a crate with his right leg bandaged and in a makeshift splint. A bottle of expensive-looking wine stood right next to him. Surely, there was some story behind this. "What happened to the leg?"

Bradley's former secretary responded with a pained smile, putting on a poor act of bravado. "The dumbest thing, Major."

"Try me." How dumb could this story be, though?

"A shelf fell on me while I was picking this one out for the post-race party." He tapped the cork at the top of the bottle of wine, shaking his head with a sardonic laugh. "Don't worry about it, though. I'll manage."

"It's a tradition we came up with, Signorina Major," Semovente explained. "Someone has to reserve a bottle from their collection for the party after the race. It just happened to be Storch's turn."

I swear. These men really have everything laid out. Did they plan to do this for years, I wonder. Given the pace in which aeronautics advanced on Earth, it would make sense to keep ahead of the curve here. Each year would bring new improvements to their machines, and new opportunities for even more exciting flight.

"It's nothing, really." He stood up with some difficulty. With all his weight on one leg, he looked completely unbalanced. And yet he had the gall to proclaim, "I'm going to get in my cockpit, and fly this race."

"No, Colonel, I don't think you will." Had I even half of May's skills at Alkahestry, I probably could have given him a proper examination, then fixed up whatever bones had broken there. As things were, though, I could only go off of how he looked. Even if I did know a bit better about anatomy, I still wasn't at the level of repairing fractures. "Winry, maybe you could take a look at him. See if we can at least improve his first aid before I ship him off to the hospital."

Why hasn't anyone even called up an ambulance yet anyway? Are they all seriously thinking I'd let him fly like this?

"Alright, let's see what we've got here…" Winry stooped down to inspect the damage as I introduced Serebyakova to the group.

When you think about it, Automail Engineering requires more than just expertise at engineering. It also needs a healthy dose of medical knowledge and understanding. This is, after all, an advanced prosthetic that can be directly controlled by nerves. Understanding how they relate to the body is no mean feat. And that's not even including the part where you have to build something that can simulate such a highly evolved piece of machinery as a human limb, with all its various joints and little features.

"Iseta, eh?" Ilyushin laughed heartily as he gave the Private a big smack on the back. "I have good memories of that place. Excellent hunting grounds."

"I shot my first wolf there when I was ten," Serebryakova explained wistfully.

"Not bad at all!" The squirrel on his shoulder chittered, as if reflecting her master's enjoyment.

What was I doing when I was ten? Not now, of course. I'm technically ten again right now. Back then, I mean. Oh right. I was playing Wolfenstein when it first dropped. That one got me started on FPS games, honestly. If I'd known that learning how to shoot people in the head for staying alive - rather than bragging rights - was going to be a significant part of this career going forward, I would have gone through OSS instead of skipping it.

And now, I'm paying the price for that missed investment. I would say 'better late than never', but with everything I've got going on, it's going to be quite the challenge taking four months out of my busy schedule to train in the basics. Maybe I should just have Serebryakova teach me how to shoot instead on off days. I might not end up as good as her, but at least I won't be completely defenceless in case someone destroys my gloves.

"Okay, I think that should do it." Winry finished up the improvements to Storch's splint and bandages. It certainly looked a lot better than it did a while ago. Something you'd expect from someone who grew up reading her parents' medical textbooks. "The bones don't seem to be too banged up based on physical manipulation. But he'll need an X-Ray to figure out just how bad it really is."

"Alright then." Introductions seemed to be over at least, so for now, it was time to go use Serebryakova as my legs. "Private, go fetch some of the staff so the Colonel here can be taken to the hospital."

The Private snapped a salute and ran off into the crowd. Given it was her first time here, I'm assuming her plan was just to run up to whoever happened to be wearing official IDs and the like. "You better start thinking about who should be flying in your place. If anyone can be qualified for your bird, at any rate. The last thing I want is to drop you out of the race for this."

Maybe it's time these guys start thinking about substitute pilots too.

Yes, at the end of the day, these are personal works of art, and the man is very much responsible for the machine. But this incident clearly tells me that at the very least, a man should be present to fly the machine itself, if he becomes unavailable for any reason.

"Major, I built that bird for myself. Either I fly it, or it doesn't fly at all."

I looked between him and the other three pilots. Their faces were fatigued, of course, still recovering from last night. And at the same time, the unanimous expression of determination among them gave me the feeling that they were all in agreement. "That's what you all think, huh?"

"It's not the same when an artist doesn't get to unveil his art personally, no?" Auverland pointed out.

"These are our passion projects. And a big part of the passion is flying them ourselves." Semovente added.

"Mother Drachma needs a Drachman son to prove Drachman talent, more than just a Drachman machine."

I sighed. Being X really didn't let me get by that easily. "Alright." My eyes darted over to Winry. "And you're sure it's best for him to stay grounded, yeah?"

"Flying his bird could just make his leg worse, Major," she explained. "Especially since I can't be too sure of how bad it is."

"So better safe than sorry," I concluded.

"Basically…"

"I guess that's that, then." And of course Halcrow is going to put this into his report and spin it in a way that somehow makes me look bad. Even though I had no control over everything that transpired that led up to this injury. How is it my fault that these guys have a tradition that involves picking out some wine? Or that Storch kept his collection up on a shelf? Or that he wasn't balancing himself properly at the time?

This accident is the result of free agents freely associating and freely acting in ways that aren't just beyond my control, but beyond my authority to control in the first place!

"Gentlemen, I'm really sorry, but I've made my position clear. There will always be next year's Expo. Maybe that one will be the lucky break." Never really heard of the fourth time being the charmer. Especially since where I first grew up, the number four is the furthest thing from lucky.

The mood was sour now. But it was clear they wouldn't let something like this keep them down. As the pit crews arrived to help roll the planes to the starting line, and the ambulance arrived with some hospital staff to carry Storch off, I saw just a small crack of triumphant smiling on their faces.

Maybe my words were starting to get to them. There would always be next year's Expo. This wasn't the end of it all. And the pioneering age of aeronautics will be sure to continue for a few years more.

I led the two ladies over to the VIP boxes. Best seats in the house, of course. But it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to get there, even though the path was gated and guarded. It wasn't about the gated path, which stood wide and clear, only a small number of VIPs filing through. No, it was the fact that people had been swarming the stands before we even arrived at the Expo Centre.

It was like a bag of unpolished rice, with grains of various colours, from white to dark purple, all packed into a tight space. Around each other. On top of each other. I mean they probably weren't like that unless they were scrambling over each other to get a better look at the three planes being lined up.

The buzz of human white noise was loud, but even that was drowned out by the static feedback projected by the speaker system. Some shouted in annoyance, but the crowd quickly quieted as the announcer broke the bad news. "Unfortunately, Colonel Storch will be unable to participate in this year's race, due to an accidental leg injury. He will recover at Aquroya Doctors Hospital."

I could almost imagine General Halcrow snickering from his spot in the VIP stand right now.

We struggled all the way through the crowd, pushing and being pushed in return as the planes rolled up to the starting line and the excitement increased. Sure, it was hard, but we made it regardless, even though nobody had bothered to send someone like me a detachment of MPs to clear the way. That's probably one thing I'll mark against the organisers. I'm the overseer, I should be present to see the opening flag!

Upon seeing my guests and I just poking out of the crowd of watchers, the MPs at the VIP gate rushed to clear a path and let the three of us in.

Took them long enough.

We made our way down the railed path and up to the stand, on the left side of the runway. The planes were already in position and the pilots were doing final pre-flight checks.

I caught a glimpse of the Halcrows up on the fourth row, and the General didn't look too happy at all. Well, maybe he didn't like how the race had yet another problem. Or maybe because Storch was closer to him than the others. Both, perhaps? Not to mention his kids were surely disappointed now. Yes, I can see how all that might outweigh the glee of putting in a bad word for me in his writings on my performance. Of course it might also have been a projected image, and he could have very well been cackling uncontrollably on the inside.

Before I could take the ladies up to our assigned seats, however, I was accosted by the MPs, who led me instead to the side of the stage, where the Expo Chairman was just finishing up on his lengthy puff piece opening remarks. I suppose I'd have to pay attention to him too, huh.

"And now, to give the final word and open the race, may I present this year's Overseer: Here to represent the government at Central Command, the famous Sylphid Alchemist and Hero of Briggs, Major Tanya Degurechaff."

He presented me to the public with open hands as the MPs gently nudged me in the direction of the podium.

Really? I mean, I thought I was here to oversee the race in a more technical capacity, but alright.

I suppose it couldn't hurt to say something about this…

Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I stepped forth and shook hands with the Chariman - whose name I didn't even know, by the way.

He stood aside and allowed me to have the podium. Which went over my head. I cleared my throat, and some MPs brought a small crate for me to stand up on. Just enough that my mouth was level with the mic if I tilted it all the way down. Eh, I guess this is fine.

"Thank you, Chairman. To the fair people of Aquroya. It has been an honour to have had the pleasure exploring this year's Expo. Innovators in aviation have come here from the length and breadth of the State to put their talents on display, and I was not disappointed. Yesterday, my guest and I went through each and every exhibit to find a wealth of creativity and ingenuity."

I swept my arm across the top of the podium. Considering it was still at head level, it was an awkward thing to do, but hopefully it got my point to them.

"We attended a fine dinner with your pilots, and stayed up all night inspecting their machines for any flaws or imperfections. I stand here before you now to say that they have passed my rigorous examination with flying colours. Though our beloved Colonel Storch was forced to drop out because of injury, I have no doubt that with his resolve, he will return next year refreshed, and eager to fly as his compatriots who are with us now!"

Murmurs across the crowd. Yes, of course Storch was a tough point. But to that, I counter.

I clenched my fists. "We are entering a new age. The age where man no longer relies on mere hot air in mostly aimless balloons to wander through the realm of the gods. No. We stand here now, to demonstrate that we can take what the gods have given the birds for ourselves, and soar through the heavens with true direction and intent! With power and dignity to surpass any mere bird! This may only be the third Air Expo. But mark my words, there will be a fourth! A fifth! We will continue to demonstrate our talents and creativity in flight until we have conquered the sky itself!"

And there it is. Applause. That's what I'm looking for.

"And when those times come, I am certain that our good friend Colonel Storch will be there to take flight. So stand tall, and watch the skies! I hereby declare the Third Aquroya Air Expo Sky Race, open!"

The crowd indeed stood tall. They looked up to the skies. They applauded the whole time. I looked behind me at the three planes on the runway. The three pilots were giving me various gestures of approval.

Electricity ran through my nerves as I stepped down from the crate and left the stage to join the ladies up in our reserved seats. This was it.

"Contact…" I muttered to myself as one of the flight crew spun Semovente's propeller with force, that crucial initial push to get the thing running. Soon, the engine was fully powered, revving up on the starting line like an F1 car preparing to drive off. Some in the crowd were already appeased enough by this. Certainly a great improvement from the first and second races.

But the real wonder was hardly there yet. No, it would be there soon.

"So that's the race course?" Winry pointed over at the lake surrounding the island city, out to which the runway extended.

Multiple pairs of gondolas steadily floated in the water, rendered calm by this morning's fine, clear weather. Each gondola served as the foundation for a tall white and red balloon cone over a hundred feet high. And each pair of cones formed something that resembled a soccer goal or a 'gateway' you could even say. They weren't all like that, though. At the middle point of the course was a true curiosity: a giant metal hoop, big enough to fly through, but with a smaller allowance than the cones, suspended in the air by a manned hot air balloon. That was one way of scoring bonus points, and probably the biggest test of skill here.

"That's right," I drew an imaginary circle in the air around the cones and hoop to give them an idea of how the pilots would navigate the course. "The rules are simple. Each pilot will have to fly through the course, with each pair of cones or 'air gates' marking the path they have to take."

"Kind of like a race track then," Serebryakova mused. "Grampa took me to a few horse races in Chkalograd. We didn't have a lot of entertainment out in the woods, so going to the city for the races was a real treat!" She turned her attention back to the starting line, where Semovente prepared to take off. "Why is only one of them preparing to fly, though?"

"The race isn't a direct head to head competition," I explained. "It's more of a time attack, to see who can clear all the laps in the shortest amount of time."

"Time what?" Winry asked. The two ladies looked at me, confused.

Oh right. That's a more modern term. More importantly, it's a term with a Japanese origin. So excuse me for being so used to using it, yeah? "Basically they take off in intervals," I went on. "Look at it this way: the air gates are only wide enough for one aircraft with some allowance. If you try to squeeze two through, they could decapitate the cones, or worse, collide midair."

I continued explaining: that creating a bigger opening with the air gates would make the race unnecessarily harder. This is because of a number of reasons, but one of them is that the referees also need to pay attention to the angles that the planes were making as they crossed the air gates.

All of that seemed to satisfy their curiosity, at least enough until they were caught up in Semovente's dramatic takeoff.

The crowd went wild as the Aerugonian aircraft rolled past the starting line and down the runway, taking flight just before the tarmac ran out. And just like that, he was in the air, flying through the first air gate to set the first clock. Down on the runway, his family cheered loud enough for their voices to reach me up in the VIP stand. Those little monsters really could compete with a crowd through the raw power of their vocal chords.

"The race is twenty laps. Whoever finishes it in the least time wins."

"I heard there were engine troubles last year," Winry said. "How long do you have to take to finish that many laps anyway?"

And in a manner of speaking, how long did this race have to be for your engine to start having trouble? Right? "The last winner finished in under an hour. 58 minutes, 37 seconds, to be exact." For something like that, you'd have to finish the 5 kilometre lap in an average of under three minutes. Not a bad start, that was for sure…

"So if we did our work well enough, we should know who the winner is in maybe an hour or two, right?"

"Hopefully." The intervals shouldn't be too long. Just enough that you don't have them flying into each other from attempting to overtake their opponents. If they all take off in proper, short order, theoretically, all three should be up there for a good chunk of the time. Then eventually, they should land as soon as they finish their laps.

Auverland was the next to take off, about ten minutes later. Down on a lower rung of the VIP stand, his harem swooned, but just as quickly recovered and executed a highly synchronised cheering squad routine, complete with skimpy sporty outfits in his colours, pom-poms, confetti, and human pyramids. As to what they were chanting, it was hard to say. Outside of spelling out his first name, everything else literally sounded like French to me.

I stole a glance up behind me at Halcrow's row, where his son was stooped over the railings with his Expo-issued binoculars, clearly ogling the young ladies in their decidedly family unfriendly outfits. The General himself was too busy watching the birds that he didn't even notice what his brat was up to. Instead, his sister smacked him on the back of the head and pulled him back into his seat. Well… there might be hope for her yet.

Two birds were now in the air, and they were making good time, if the records of the previous year's race was anything to go by. It was of course impossible at this point to tell whether it was the upgrades they installed over the year leading up to this race, the all-nighter we pulled off, or a combination of both. But if my estimates were correct, they could very well finish this in under an hour.

In another ten minutes, Ilyushin's engine was running, and…

Hold on.

I leaned over the railings and stuck my binoculars to my eyes, focusing on the cockpit. I mean, given what I've seen over the past day, I shouldn't have been surprised, and yet there she was: Visha the flying squirrel gripping his shoulder tight. Did I mention she was wearing a tiny aviator hat and goggles?

"What're you looking at, Major?" Serebryakova put on her own binoculars and followed my lead. "Ooh, is that Gospodin Ilyushin's squirrel? That's so adorable! I never did catch its name, though…"

"It's Visha," Winry joined in at our little staring game. "Seeing her help so much with his bird, I'm not surprised she's flying with him too."

"Huh? But I just met him," the Private was confused, and rightfully so. "And I'm right here."

"But isn't your name Viktoriya?" It was the Automail Engineer's turn to be confused.

"Yes, but in Drachman, we shorten it to 'Visha'."

Winry knocked on the side of her head and stuck her tongue out, like a kid who just realised she "did a dumb". "Whoops!"

"Crazy coincidence, huh?" I chuckled. "Just to clear things up, the squirrel is also named Visha. Make of that what you will."

The quirky Drachman flying machine spread its membranous squirrel gliding wings and barrelled down the runway, Ilyushin's bombastic laughter echoing the whole time, until it took off into the sky, and he could no longer be heard. Probably because he was already so high up and far away.

All three birds were now in the air. Had Storch not gotten into that accident, we would have been just waiting for him. Instead, we would have to make do with three…

But that is as bad as I will allow this year's race to get!

You get your one point, Being X. But I'm going to make sure to score all the rest!

"Major, what's that?"

"Huh?" I looked up and saw Serebryakova pointing to a dot in the distance, flying in from the other side of the city.

"Are you expecting any late entrants?" Winry asked.

"No. No I'm not." My stomach panicked. It was that sickening feeling you get when you reach the top of a drop tower theme park ride, and you know you're about to fall, and your body is tensing up from it, but you don't know when exactly it's going to happen. And then, without warning, the tower drops your chair and you start screaming…

Perhaps it was because of all the work I've been doing on all sorts of experimental planes over the last year. You'd think a person would go deaf, depending on one's constant exposure to the whir of propellers, but I made sure to keep a safe distance. As a result, my ears had been trained to know what was up. Before I could even see its exact make, I could already hear the spinning blades.

A very high RPM, appropriate to the speed I was estimating. Similar to the three racers. Which was bad, if this guy was here to cause trouble. At this point, I wouldn't put it past Being X to send a surprise contestant to ruin everything.

Wouldn't it be the funniest thing if he decided to help out for once, instead of trying to screw me over? Like maybe fix up Storch's leg, and send him back here to race? My eyes wandered for a moment down to Storch's plane by the hangar. Alas, no such "miracle" of leniency for me here.

Storch was probably now getting X-Rayed at the hospital, if not getting a cast made already.

Leaving me with a suboptimal race and a grounded plane. Now Being X was adding insult to injury by sending a mysterious pilot this way. Too bad aircraft radio wasn't standardised yet. I could have easily had the hypothetical control tower challenge this guy for an IFF.

The plane drew closer, sporting an unusual profile. My first reaction on seeing the triple-wing cross section was to resist the urge to make a Red Baron joke. To begin with, it wasn't painted red, and nobody else would have gotten the joke even if it was.

More importantly, as it buzzed the stands, flying low over the starting line - as if to show off - it became clear that it wasn't the famous Baron Richtoffen's Fokker Dreidecker. Still, it was definitely a triplane. Had I had the opportunity to examine it up close, I might have been able to determine precisely how it stacked against the contemporary designs. But all I had to go by was its speed, and it was definitely worthy of racing this trio.

The crowd went wild, completely oblivious to the fact that everybody who was in charge of the race was confused and anxious. The Chairman's eyes were wide and trembling. Staff on the runway were gesturing at each other as if asking what was going on.

"Is this guy for real?" Winry scoffed from behind her binoculars as it flew by. "I mean, a skull helmet? Major, are you sure you have no idea who this is?"

"Unfortunately, his sense of style is the least of our worries." I missed the skull helmet. Mainly because my own binoculars were focused on the machine gun mounted in front of the cockpit. "I'm afraid our luck has run out today, Mrs. Winry. We might need the good Private's aim after all…"

I clenched my fist. What was all this anyway? The only thing I could figure out was that maybe, just maybe, this was the saboteur. And having caught word of our heroic efforts, he has decided to just finish the job with force.

Why were they doing this? I still have no idea.

I stole a glance up at Halcrow, who had his arms folded and furrowed his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkled up. Was the stress because the race was falling apart and his family's enjoyment with it? Or was it more that he was secretly hoping this saboteur would pull off this crazy stunt?

It's hard to say.

Serebryakova slapped a fresh magazine into her rifle. "What should I do, Major?"

"I'm thinking…"

"I want to do something too. I didn't stay up all night helping fix those birds just to let some bonehead ruin everything!" There was fire in the Automail Engineer's eyes. "Let me take a crack at this!"

"How well do you know Storch's bird?" I asked, watching the mystery triplane make its way toward the race course. "Can you fly it?"

"There were a lot of demos yesterday," she started. And while it was true that she dismantled pretty much every flying machine she ran into, a few also offered to teach her how to fly them. "But Colonel Storch's interface did resemble a few of the exhibits… I'll need some time to figure it out, but I could probably manage."

"Then figure it out fast and get it off the ground. Serebryakova, you're going up with her. To catch a wild bird, we're going to need our own."

The Drachman marksman saluted and acknowledged the order, following Winry's lead over to the hangar. Hopefully they can work together to get that thing flying. I might need some serious backup.

I can't let Being X get another one over me. There's no way!

~0~0~0~

ALPHONSE'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL CITY, 17 MAY, 1918

Alphonse Elric sat at his desk, the warm yellowish incandescent lamp hovering a short distance above his head as its rays melted into the blackness of his undershirt. His uniform overcoat hung behind him on his chair's backrest.

It wouldn't have been inaccurate to say that he was in too much of a hurry to change into his house clothes. Indeed, the young State Alchemist was still in his trousers and boots.

Sitting in front of him was an open folder containing an authorised copy of the First Laboratory's file list, specifically the odious Section X. Seven missing special weapons projects of unknown status, and too clean an erasure.

On a sheet of paper next to the folder, he had scribbled down a list of the missing files. First, in alphabetical order.

X-E5, X-L3, X-N6, X-O2, X-S1, X-T7, and X-V4

Then, numerical.

He was intending next to move on to something a bit more complicated. Perhaps, multiplying the letters by the numbers that were attached to them.

Five Es, three Ls, and so forth. And then from there, try to arrange all the letters into a phrase or statement.

But it turned out that it wasn't even necessary.

Numerical order alone was already particularly revealing, as it spelled out a word.

That could not have been a mere coincidence. After all, when you see "I LOVE YOU" scrawled into the sand of a beach, you don't assume that the random movements of the waves and flotsam made it happen.

No, when sand is arranged in a way that is neither random noise nor a repeating natural pattern, the only conclusion is that information with an intended recipient, coded into a message by an intelligence, was added.

Yes, it was certainly possible for a random selection of letters to bring about a random word even when you were dealing with intelligent human action.

More than that, however, this particular case demonstrated the intentionality involved. It wasn't just that the missing files spelled out any random word like PANTY. Although it could be argued that such a choice could also have been deliberate to throw off anyone investigating, because PANTY was such an odd word.

It was that the word in question was a piece of basic alchemical nomenclature.

Honestly, if cryptography was anything to go by, perhaps PANTY was the better choice if you wanted to leave behind a hidden message in your handiwork.

At least then, people would wonder if there really was a message to begin with. It was better to use random words.

That was how alchemists operated with their most closely guarded secrets. Encrypt them within an unrelated text. A self-proclaimed housewife like Teacher used a cookbook. So did Dr. Marcoh.

Alphonse had once stolen a few glances at General Mustang's personal diary, which was rumoured to double as his alchemical notebook. The man had written much about his bachelor exploits way back when, in excruciating and nauseating detail. And his code took a while to crack from memory.

While at the end of the day, he hadn't been able to completely do so, he had figured that at the very least, the names of the women the General had spent time with served as keywords.

The colours of their attire and the decorations they wore were definitely related to equations.

And perhaps the locations of their meetings and even the dates and times factored into nodes on a circle somehow.

It was complex and dangerously full of twists, turns, and red herrings. Written by a man who most certainly did not want his secrets to escape the confines of his journal.

If one were to fall for those formulaic traps and attempt to use the resulting self-sabotaged circle in a transmutation, Alphonse had no doubt they were very likely to cause a lethal rebound. Like the unwitting alchemist bursting into flames, instead of whatever it was they intended to set on fire.

Suffice it to say, had he seen more entries in that journal, he was sure to have discovered the secret to why PANTY kept cropping up. Maybe it was a metaphor for the SALAMANDER, the mythical fire spirit that factored so crucially into theories of flame alchemy.

Or perhaps, the General had thrown it in as another trap to throw off someone who was looking to crack his code. It could have been either or, really, and the only way to truly find out was to go through the whole journal to use as a basis to find the main cipher…

Alphonse shuddered at such a prospect. May would strangle him to death if she found out he was even entertaining the idea of decoding notes that had been encrypted under the veil of lurid tales of a bachelor's romantic conquests.

Never mind that flame alchemy was highly destructive and was never mastered by more than a scant few.

That being said, whoever encoded these filenames was either incompetent, or arrogant.

It was too on the nose. Either they didn't know that using this word would trigger red flags in any cursory investigation, or they wanted any would-be investigators to find out about their handiwork.

Better to err on the side of caution then, and assume the latter.

That they wanted someone to find this word.

XS-1, XO-2, XL-3, XV-4, XE-5, XN-6, and XT-7.

SOLVENT.

He underlined it twice.

The disappeared files hadn't simply been misplaced. They had to have been deliberately removed. That much, which he and Archer had previously suspected, was now all but certain.

The culprit was either someone who didn't know enough about cryptography, or someone who did, but wanted to let observant people know that they had done something.

But why would they want anyone to know?

"You know, figuring out that word seems almost too easy," May said from behind his shoulder.

Alphonse turned around to see her beaming as she carried a tray of tea for two. Xingese style earthenware, with the little cups that were used more like shot glasses than how people in the West would have their tea.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he scrambled out of his chair and bowed deeply in apology. It was their daily routine, nay, ritual, to have gongfu after he got back from work. A special time they kept for themselves, to unwind, relax, and catch up on each other's day.

That Alphonse was in such a rush that he would forget about it, and not even bother to change, told her that something was weighing heavily on his mind.

The Seventeenth Princess only smiled. "My dear Sir Alphonse must be in a real bind right now," she set the tray down on the table a safe distance from where the papers lay. The fruity aroma of freshly steeping tea leaves, just waking up from their dried slumber, wafted into the air. "It's a good thing you've got someone right here to help carry your burdens, huh?"

The younger Elric chuckled nervously at her reassurance, lightening up as he scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, it sure is." He watched as she deftly poured an olive green liquor into each cup with the grace one expected from her upbringing. Although her clan was the smallest in Xing, their dedication was no smaller than any other that could hold its head up high.

They've done this for a long time now, since his sojourn to Xing to learn more about their culture and alkahestry. And yet, it was always a pleasure to watch her practise tea ceremony.

It was a different side of her, seen only a scant few times during their grand adventure. This was opposed to the spunky, headstrong princess who travelled all the way to a foreign land without any escorts, just to find the secret to immortality for the sake of her people. Or the quick-witted alkahestrist who seamlessly combined her martial arts with transmutations into a fearsome enemy for those who didn't know how she fought.

This was the courtier's prowess of the Seventeenth Princess of Xing.

May pulled up a chair of her own, and the two raised their steaming cups as she sat down.

The tea went down fast, and left its mark. Gentle, almost none of the bitterness that would need milk to soothe. The flavour and aroma reminded him of freshly picked peaches.

"So this is about those missing weapon research papers, right?" May poured more hot water into the lidded steeping vessel, preparing for the next batch.

Alphonse nodded. "It's like whoever took them left us a crumb trail to follow."

"Why would they do that?" She poured the next set of tea liquor. Once again, the couple raised the earthenware cups in a toast and swallowed.

Wet grass and the smell of rain after a long dry spell. That's what it tasted like now.

"It's hard to say…" He cupped his hand in his chin as he thought. "Maybe they want us to find them… to see what they've been using the weapons for."

"Wouldn't they just show off the weapons at work, then?" May put more water in the steeping vessel. "Has something involving crazy weapons happened recently?"

"The research has been missing for at least three years," Alphonse mused. "I wouldn't be surprised if they'd already demonstrated them somewhere by n- Briggs!"

It went off like a lightbulb for the both of them. May knew exactly what Alphonse was referring to when he mentioned Briggs.

Tanya had been kind enough to share her firsthand account of what they were up against. Sure, it was in her official report, but she had also told them the story from her own mouth.

The airship that could stay aloft even with fortress-grade armour plating. Held in the air by four gigantic "turbojet" engines, whatever that meant. Neither of them was an expert at aerial engineering, but with how impressed Tanya had sounded, they could tell it wasn't something you could build so easily, even with modern technology.

In fact, that an industrially backward country like Drachma could build such a monster at all was truly suspicious, when you thought about it.

That wasn't even including the small army of soldiers wearing "helipacks". That is, they were kept in the air by rotors that spun like a helix.

That kid really did come up with all sorts of new words. It was hard to believe she had never met the Truth.

And while these truths were more in the realm of physics than alchemy, one could argue that with all his fancy talk, the Truth should just have knowledge of everything in the universe. Was there a taboo that physicists weren't allowed to cross? Would that bring them to meeting with the Truth for a humbling lesson? It was hard to say.

She really didn't seem to know anything about the Truth, so maybe she really was just a gifted child?

The third tasting was like drinking roses, while the fourth tasted like freshly mown hay. Time went by as they mulled over this insight, punctuated by the unravelling of the tea.

It really was amazing, how tea worked. It wasn't necessarily transmutation, since no literal alchemy was involved. But as the leaves were exposed to more heat, one could see the flavour change. Each layer of flavour stripped away one at a time until you had tasted everything it had to offer. Almost as if it transmuted into something else with each batch.

"It's only a hunch," Alphonse set down his cup after the tenth and final steeping. "I don't want to put all the eggs in this one basket…"

"But it's still a lead regardless." May began to put the tea set away.

He nodded. "That's right. I'll get this over to Archer tonight, and see what he can make of it." The State Alchemist eyed the typewriter case. He still had a few hours, and these notes had to be organised enough to be of any use. "But for now…"

He cracked his neck.

"A spar right?" May smirked. Office work always tightened up his muscles so much. And while a massage would probably do a much better job unwinding them, Alphonse was too much of a physically active busybody to spend a whole hour lying down. Sparring was the next best thing.

"Once again, the Princess has read my mind." Alphonse stood up and bowed in a gentlemanly fashion.

"What can I say?" May curtsied in return, as she had learned from Amestrian girls of proper etiquette. "Dear Sir Alphonse, we've simply spent that much time together!"

She used to call him Sir Alphonse in public, back when they first met. As they became more familiar, other friends rubbed off on her such that her public address became 'Al' like the rest. But Sir Alphonse never truly went away. Whenever they were alone, times like this, that was when it surfaced.

And as the time went by, it eventually evolved into "dear Sir Alphonse". It was almost as if she were writing a letter every time she mentioned his name. But for Alphonse, it was more precisely a love letter. And that was just fine in his book.

They changed into their training gi and went out to the roof. The next hour or so would make a lot of noise, but the neighbours had long gotten used to the sound of that nearby couple who were into transmutations and martial arts.

Nobody would mind if a few pots and dummies ended up shattering loudly in the process.


AN: For future reference, I'm a bit of a tea enthusiast. Nowhere near a professional taster, but I do have a little collection.