Chapter 8
Hughes' last life line had snapped. The tightly twined thread of hope had slowly unwound and snapped, millimetre by sorry millimetre as Roy's desire for self-preservation slipped away. He was right, and his worst fears were now batting him upside his head. Roy couldn't be forced into anything.
Forty-eight hours and a doctor's severe warning later, Roy stepped out into the streets of Central; one kilogramme lighter. Instead of helping, Roy's hospital stint allowed for the loss of a further kilogramme. One thousand grams, two point two pounds…how many ounces? Whatever it was, Roy was in high spirits, he hadn't lost this much weight since two weeks ago. He could practically feel his military issue pants pinch a little less at the pocket of fat on his inner thighs. The fat-percentage test machine was all he could think of now. Maybe he'd hit a two percent fat percentage. Roy smiled.
If anyone had been observing, they would have seen an odd sight indeed: Two military men – one large, one slight; one following the other, on their faces, etched entirely different expressions. The man who appeared an amalgam of ebony and marble – he wore joy on his face, confidently pulling on white gloves. Behind trailed a dejected poor fool – bangs limp and looking as though the entire world rested upon his shoulders. They would have been right. Currently, Hughes' world consisted largely of Roy.
Now Hughes' wasn't stupid. At the very least he was good at Intelligence, and he planned to apply what he'd been trained to well to do – snoop around. He knew Roy ate, albeit occasionally. This he had found out with a piece of paper with his girlfriend's friend's cousin's ex-lawyer's number scribbled on and passed under the table to the woman-hungry Jean Havoc. Hughes' made a mental note to manipulate the man more often. He was an easy catch. He though the tough cookies would be next to everyone else. Hughes' could not have been more wrong.
"So Riza – " Hughes hadn't counted on finishing his sentence, talking to this particular Lieutenant. He was right.
"I cannot disclose anything about the Lt. Col.'s personal life. Therefore I am unable to inform you of his eating habits, such as the vegetarian nature of his meals, his scheduled six meals a day, his enormous consumption of water and diet beverages, as well as his lack of participation in annual dinners and affairs." Riza ended in a flourish and promptly conceded to the paperwork she had temporarily neglected. A moment later, a wink was flung at the shell shocked Hughes', followed by a whispered "Nine, twelve, three, six, nine, twelve".
Hughes blinked and put on the dreariest face he could muster.
"Ah Lieutenant Hawkeye," he drawled deliberately, "Is there absolutely nothing you can tell me? I do wish to know more."
"I apologise," replied Riza, a little too loudly perhaps, "but the matters of my superiors are not mine to dabble in. I suggest you go to him directly. Thank you and good afternoon." She had even managed that steely tone she used when patronising others; it was almost too good.
Actually, it was perfect. In one tricky sentence the Lieutenant had managed to impart all he needed to know. Tough cookie his 34 inch ass, this woman obviously knew something was up. But naturally, being the politically correct and ever so proper officer, she had said nothing. Hughes didn't want to attempt comprehending how much this issue must have been hurting her. He himself was buckling under the inner turmoil. One thing still, however, was left churning in well-oiled cogs within his mental ambit. What on earth did that string of numbers mean?
Roy had a predilection for complication and intricacy. He had his eating disorder down to an art. At precise intervals Roy locked his office and denied entry to any potential interlopers. He would take out his miniscule container of whatever he had planned to consume, utilise specially purchased infant utensils and commence with his daily sin – eating. Roy had many specifications involved with this food swallowing process to curb the guilt which often resulted in unpleasant sessions doubled over the sink. He knew the sink of his private washroom exceedingly well. So perhaps his multitudinous rules and regulations didn't help much.
Today saw a raw spinach salad topped with hummus. Cutting up the legumes into nano particles, Roy chewed each empty mouthful precisely thirty four times. He had read somewhere that the calories burned from chewing thirty four times was enough to negate whatever he had put into mouth. Two, maybe three calories? Whatever it was, Roy made sure he had made mince of his mini-forkful before his brain ratified a treaty with his gullet; allowing safe passage of the quartered spinach leaf into the waiting stomach. Thirty minutes and fifty seven calories later, Roy kept the tools of his damned diseased and brought out a highly gilded notebook with a matching pen. What preceded the ritualistic mastication of his greens would have struck most people as an esoteric and most un-thought of practice. Fastidiously, Roy recorded what he ate to the last calorie. He entered the time of the start and end of the meals, the number of calories, the articles of food – everything! It had to be written down, or he'd feel extremely unsettled. It was called calorie-counting.
Roy told those who'd caught him in the act that he was merely accounting for his food purchases. Sometimes, a disbelieving stare and a few words of concern would come his way. However most of the time, said intruder would flounce off, just as happily as he'd arrived. But Roy? Roy would spend the rest of the day mulling over it, and most likely exercise to the point of unconsciousness at the end of the day to make up for the slip. Roy was psychotic in so many ways it seemed almost normal.
At exactly 3.35pm he closed his record book and thought over the exchange he'd heard earlier between Hughes and Riza. So Hughes was doing the Intelligence thing – snooping and nosing. Well Roy had a few tricks up his sleeve too, after all, the voice in his head provided many a wonderful idea and many a valid excuse. He was beyond feeling threatened by Hughes' persistence. It was just another game, another challenge. It wasn't just "Let's see how little you can eat" anymore. It was "Let's see how little you can get away with eating." The prospect entirely thrilled Roy.
Outside, the sky unzipped itself on Hughes. Fat raindrops pelted the thirsty ground. It was the first rain in weeks. Hughes hunched over and huddled beneath his overcoat, now even the weather seemed to be working in his favour. Rain meant the Flame Alchemist had to stay put. Besides, according to Havoc, Roy hated the rain because it gave him the nibbles. Silently, Hughes willed the tumultuous grey expanse to cry more. After all, it would be interesting to have the heavens to mirror his heart.