Once again, at 1800 hours, Roy is the last to leave the East City Public Library.

His current routine began soon after his visit to the Hawkeye house not two weeks ago. He had briefly considered staying there, as it cost nothing to take up his old room again, the town was already familiar, and he might have had time to investigate Berthold's death more by talking to the townsfolk. But the sight and stench in Berthold's study proved to be unbearable, even after he tried to clean it with alchemy.

At the very least, Roy managed to bury what was left of Berthold in the grounds, preserving it so an autopsy can be performed under a formal investigation. Berthold's remains were placed in a simple coffin transmuted from a dead tree; a marker was similarly made from a few stones scattered around. Roy couldn't make flowers bloom for laying on the grave, but defrosting the soil so it could be dug was easy.

There was no one else around to mourn the old master.

Retreating to the city became his only option upon realizing that the locals truly knew nothing of Berthold's death except that he had been burned beyond recognition, and that all capacity to conduct an investigation lay with Eastern Command. It turned out to be a good decision. Roy stays at a comfortable hostel near the downtown area, where he has a private room for only 1,500 cens a night, and from where the library is a mere five-minute walk.

In the city, he has everything he needs; the journals retrieved from Berthold's bedroom, all the reference materials that could possibly be helpful in deciphering them for pointers on advanced alchemy, and a quiet place far from any deathly distractions to do all the work.

His days begin just before sunrise in the hostel's small dining room. He arrives first just as the hostel staff begins to serve their free breakfast buffet, including unlimited coffee and fresh fruits delivered from the countryside. In the corner of the dining room is a small table that he gets to have for himself as he pores over one of Berthold's journals, writing in the margins when he finds something he could look up in the library for the day.

Roy has become a favorite among the library staff thanks to his daily visits. Always the first to come in when the library opens, always courteous as he makes his way to a table in the back of the natural sciences section. By the fourth visit, he realizes that they've taken note of his favorite table and have made a habit of preparing it just for him; the chair is set at the angle he finds most comfortable, the blinds of the adjacent window tilted to let just enough sunlight in while keeping the heat out. And day after day, once Roy has settled in with a ruled notebook, one or two of Berthold's journals, and his reading pile for the day, he hardly leaves his spot.

Today is the second time that the library's shy, brown-haired intern has had to peer around the nearest shelf to call Roy's attention at the end of the day.

"Excuse me? Mister?"

He looks up from his book, his index finger pressed firmly to the spot he last read. The intern continues, "We're closing for the day. Would you like some help returning those books?"

"Oh, yes please. Thank you."

The intern begins collecting the books scattered all over his table, sorting them so deftly into neat stacks that he is unable to keep up as he tries to help. He doesn't realize that she has stopped, observing him, until she speaks again.

"You must be training to become a State Alchemist, huh?"

The corner of his lips lifts into a curious expression. "How can you tell?"

"Well, on your previous visits, you've been taking books from the same few shelves in natural sciences—that makes it easy enough to guess. You can't be learning alchemy for the first time, because these books are mostly on specialized topics, and a beginner alchemist wouldn't have the capacity to go through so many books at once. " The intern pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and offers him a kind expression. "I would have guessed you were already one, since you carry yourself like a soldier. But you wouldn't be here if you were; you'd be at the National Central Library."

Roy hesitates before he breaks into a smile. "You're very perceptive. Are you studying alchemy yourself?"

"Oh, alchemy isn't for me. The research appears to be very interesting, of course, but there's too much to be done. I wouldn't be able to do anything else but read!" Sheepishly, the intern adds, "But I do know which books alchemists like to read and borrow. It's all material you would have read by now."

"I suppose." An idea comes to Roy. "Unless… you wouldn't happen to have anything by Berthold Hawkeye in the stacks, would you?"

"The stacks? Let's see… I have spent a lot of time in the stacks since I started my internship, but I don't recall seeing anything by a Berthold Hawkeye. Is he an alchemist?"

He sighs and smiles sadly. "He was."

They are interrupted by the loud scraping of chairs as they are tucked into their respective tables. The intern hastily continues gathering Roy's books. "Well, thank you for always accommodating me here," says Roy. "It seems it'll take a while for me to complete my research."

"You're welcome!" beams the intern. "I hope you pass your certification. If there's anything you need, you can always ask me."

"Thank you."

It is the loveliest night that Roy has seen in a while. He steps out of the library and into a pleasantly cool breeze; looking up, he finds a starry sky with sparse clouds. The streets glisten with a light, powdery coating of snow that reflects the warm glow of the street lamps. The city has never been more welcoming of his evening walks before returning to the hostel.

On nights like this, it's easy to forget the circumstances that brought him to East City, and even easier to momentarily dismiss the civil war that has been raging in one southeast region of Amestris for nearly four years, in the annexed territory of Ishval. There was no trace of it back in Cameron and there is none in East City now, where the people all greet one another on the sidewalk like old friends, where families laugh and stroll hand in hand, where young lovers appear lost in their own little corners of town. But it was this very war that urged Roy to enter the military, and it's what has brought him here in pursuit of advanced alchemical knowledge.

Indirectly, it's also the reason for the impatience and disappointment that pulses through his gut as he walks by the Eastern Command Headquarters. He had reported Berthold's death to the heads of the Intelligence and Civilian Safety Divisions on his third day in the city; they had promised to promptly investigate the matter and that they would be in touch with him for his assistance; he has spent the past week with books and handwritten journals and nights made sleepless by the horror he has been trying hard to forget, and still he hasn't heard from them. Would they have acted more urgently if he had told them he intended to learn the old master's expertise so he could apply for State Alchemist certification and devote his efforts to the war?

He doesn't think so, but he cannot lie to himself: he feels as if he has been left in a dead end. No answers to Berthold's death. No lead on flame alchemy.

Roy wishes he'd been entirely confident when he discussed his intent with the intern, but each day without word from Eastern Command dims his hopes. He sees them as his only chance now, as he begrudgingly comes to accept that none of the concepts he has studied thus far could lead him to flame alchemy—the knowledge in Berthold's journals is indeed advanced, but disappointingly generic. And with a month lost between Berthold's death and Roy's discovery of it, any further amount of time that passes becomes increasingly critical. There's the matter of the State Alchemist certification exam to worry about, then the war where he could be helping, and the dangerous prospect of what flame alchemy might be used for if the murderer had in fact run away with its secrets.

If all else fails, Roy still has the fundamentals of Berthold's research, and he could perhaps work from there. He has already become desperate enough to learn from it to consult even philosophy books, after all. The loss of his original goal is a lamentable prospect, but what choice does he have?

With any luck, he might be able to optimize his alchemy for preserving corpses. Or removing offensive smells.

Roy returns to the hostel thirty minutes later than usual. Although he is hungry, he considers skipping dinner and turning in early for the night, but he has barely entered the lobby when he is called from the front desk.

"Mr. Mustang?"

"Yes?"

The receptionist emerges from the desk, as if propelled by the urgency of the message. "You have a visitor waiting for you in one of our private lounges. A gentleman from the military. He says it's urgent."

Quite stupidly, Roy blurts out, "I wasn't expecting anyone." He recovers with, "How long has he been waiting?"

"Ah, at least an hour. This way, please."

A hundred questions enter Roy's mind all at once, all lost in the cacophony of his mind's voice echoing a hundred times over. He follows the receptionist nonetheless, past the quaint dining room, turning left into a short hallway where there are three ostensibly small rooms that Roy has neither visited nor seen before. The receptionist opens the door at the end of the hallway and gestures for Roy to enter.

The lounge is small and far less cozy than the main dining room, with only one table for two and a cast iron heater in lieu of a proper fireplace. Roy sees his visitor right away. Even seated, head down as he reads the evening paper, he appears intimidatingly tall, with a build that would put many younger, more athletic men to shame. The insignia on his chest and the stars on his epaulet reveal him as a brigadier general, but even these do not fully state his importance, as Roy quickly realizes when the general looks up, smiles, and rises from the table.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Mustang." His voice is quiet, but full and firm. "I am Brigadier General Dieter de Havilland. State Alchemist, from Central Command."

Central?

Roy stands at attention. "Sir."

The general nods curtly, then turns to the receptionist. "Thank you for leading Lieutenant Mustang to me. May we have our dinner served here?"

"Of course."

The receptionist leaves, but Roy remains where he is. He stares unblinkingly at de Havilland until the latter smiles; beneath his powdery brown beard, the gesture seems to soften his features and bring out a twinkle in his eyes. "You seem so surprised, Lieutenant. Won't you join me?"

He pulls out the chair opposite him, and Roy quietly takes the invitation. de Havilland continues, "It came to my attention that you conferred with our men at Eastern Command with an urgent concern the week prior. Were you not anticipating further action?"

"It's not the matter at all, Sir," Roy finally says. He pauses; when he speaks again, he does so in a more measured manner. "I didn't expect my report to be taken up at Central Command. You see, Berthold Hawkeye was—"

"Not a State Alchemist, yes. Then it may also come as a surprise to you that I am the director of the—ah, how nice."

de Havilland is interrupted as a server enters the lounge with a cart bearing a silver tureen, an elegantly carved pitcher, and two sets of dinnerware—tall goblets with frosted etchings, white ceramic bowls with gilded edges, and dainty, polished silverware. As the server arranges the items before then, de Havilland says, "Young man, would you be so kind as to bring us the rest of our meal all at once? My companion and I would like to carry out our conversation uninterrupted."

The server nods. "Certainly."

Thick, steaming mushroom soup is ladled into their bowls, and the server promptly leaves with the cart. de Havilland begins with his soup, speaking again only once the server's footsteps have faded away. "As I was saying, I am the director of the State Alchemist program. You may be wondering what has brought me into the investigation of a man who was not a part of that program."

"It is a surprise, General, yes," Roy utters slowly. "But I did hope Master Hawkeye would join the State Alchemist program before I found out he had died. I plan to take the State Alchemist certification exam myself."

"Yes. I've surmised that this Berthold Hawkeye's alchemy has had much to do with your intentions. Flame alchemy, is it not?"

"It is."

"And you believe that he was killed for his research on flame alchemy?"

"Yes." In his mind, Roy has returned to Berthold's study, the old master's rotting remains back on the floor from the grave. His hands begin to tremble and sweat. "As you might know, General, there's very little information on flame alchemy in published books and journals. Much of it is anecdotal, even theoretical. But Master Hawkeye devoted his life to refining flame alchemy. It was intricate and precise. I've only seen him perform it once myself."

It was at the height of summer, shortly after he had first moved in with the Hawkeyes. He was barely fourteen years old. A tree had fallen in the grounds behind the Hawkeye house, its roots weakened by the heat. Young and persistent, Roy had convinced Berthold to demonstrate flame alchemy to him, and the scene that followed was one that he would never forget.

Roy had stood behind Berthold as the latter wordlessly knelt some distance away from the fallen tree, fluidly traced an array in the earth, and set his hands on it, fingers pointed in the direction of the tree. The fire began with small flames at the tips of the tree's branches and roots, before erupting in a blaze that consumed it entirely. As the tree disintegrated, the fire spread and engulfed the other trees in the vicinity, some living, some dead—it was as if the world had turned into fire itself.

The inferno never spread towards the house; there seemed to be an invisible border keeping it at bay. Before Roy could properly marvel at this feat, Berthold had extinguished the fire almost as quickly as he had conjured it, leaving not even a single glowing ember. Several trees had died, but many were spared beyond the reach of the flames.

"The practice of alchemy is more than mere science or skill," Berthold had said. "It is communion with forces that have allowed us to use their power. And this communion cannot happen without due reverence for all the things around you."

Roy remembers how a young, meek Riza had watched them from the doorway.

In the present, Roy draws a deep breath and continues. "I never had the chance to learn flame alchemy myself. I left for the military just as soon as I completed the fundamental lessons. And I fear that flame alchemy may have fallen into the hands of someone less than trustworthy."

Before he can respond, de Havilland's face becomes a picture of delight as the door swings open again. Roy is taken aback by the amount of food on the cart this time, never having seen this much of it all at once throughout his stay in the hostel. It is also a great deal richer than his past meals here have been. Served before them are lamb chops with herbed rice and two kinds of brightly colored purée, a side of fragrant roasted vegetables, and a platter of fruit cut into glistening slices.

"My, my," says de Havilland as the server rearranges their table to make room for the new dishes. "You have truly outdone yourselves, thank you very much. This service is impeccable."

The server bows and makes his exit, leaving Roy and de Havilland alone again. de Havilland's eyes crinkle with a smile, and he clears his throat after a moment. "Forgive me, I seem to have been distracted… What leads you to believe that Berthold Hawkeye's research may have been compromised? Were you not the custodian of his research materials?"

"No, sir, I was not. I don't know what his research looked like. In fact, I've spent the last week here in East City trying to decipher the journals I retrieved from his home in Cameron. I was hoping one of them would contain the code to his research."

"And have your findings served this purpose?"

Roy's ears ring with the clattering and squeaking of de Havilland's utensils, agitating him further. "His flame alchemy research isn't in those journals. I've approached them from every possible scientific field, every possible perspective, and I'm convinced that he hasn't written it in code. The information in his journals is direct and plain, and it all discusses advanced concepts in alchemy. But not flame alchemy itself."

de Havilland blinks at Roy incredulously while somehow still maintaining much of his composure. "Not encoded at all? How unusual. Do you believe his flame alchemy research may have also been written as plainly as you say these journals were?"

"It's possible, sir. In any case, I believe that Master Hawkeye's murderer may have information on his flame alchemy research. Solving the murder may be the key to finding it."

In the silence that follows, de Havilland eats slowly, as if to give himself time to consider the matter. Roy begins eating as well, quiet with anticipation. At last, the general puts down his utensils and dabs at his mouth with his table napkin.

"Well, first I must thank you for bringing this murder to our attention, Lieutenant," says de Havilland. "I'm sure you understand that we face uncertain times, with a war being fought in Ishval as we speak. And while the violence on the battlefield is the most urgent of our priorities at present, we have not forgotten the well-being of our people throughout the rest of the country. Especially not when they are threatened by hateful, dark intent."

Roy puts down his utensils as well, listening intently. de Havilland continues, "The grim reality is that many lives have now tragically been lost, and as always we hope to turn to our fine alchemists, so they may continue serving our great country during this war. But we cannot rest easy if they too are unsafe, whether they are civilians or employed by the state. And this case—this callous murder of an innocent alchemist—it cannot be ignored." He pauses for a moment. "Lieutenant Mustang, I would like to give you an important assignment."

"Sir?"

"I will be speaking to Internal Affairs, of course, but consider yourself on assignment in my division from now on, beginning here in the East Area, where conflict is highest. By yourself, you have instigated an investigation into the murder of a civilian alchemist. Under my direct supervision, I would like you to secure all known alchemists in Amestris—meet them, profile them, ensure that they are well, that their research is accounted for. There is no other time that our alchemists have been a more precious resource to our country."

de Havilland resumes eating, although Roy knows that the general is observing him as he thinks.

"And the murder? Won't I be involved in the investigation as well?"

"A crime scene can be investigated by the average officer, Lieutenant. But only an alchemist can know other alchemists well; that is where you come in. If one reclusive alchemist had been the target of such a heinous crime, it would be wise to assume that other alchemists could be as well. And, see, if someone has indeed murdered Berthold Hawkeye for his flame alchemy research, what might they have made of their prize? Must we protect them as well, or must we protect others from them?"

Roy nods slowly. "Do you believe it's possible, General de Havilland?" he asks, following a short silence. "To solve Master Hawkeye's murder... through the work of other alchemists?"

"Oh, I do. But the true question is, don't you?"

It's curious, the way it feels as though a new fire has been ignited within Roy. He had hoped to find a clearer path towards the truth about Berthold Hawkeye; he never imagined the more personal part of his journey to be so closely intertwined with a greater purpose. He couldn't possibly turn away from the call now that opportunity has knocked on his door, and there is more to push him forward than just a dead man's notes. The director of the State Alchemist program as his direct superior, a network of alchemists all across the country, all the resources he could need to finish what the master had started.

Suddenly his doubts over the past week disappear, and for the first time in a long time, he feels as though he is exactly where he should be.

"I accept the assignment."

de Havilland taps his knuckles on the table, knife still in hand. "Splendid. I look forward to working with you, Lieutenant Mustang. I do believe this assignment will yield what you seek just as much as it will serve our wishes for this country. We begin tomorrow."