The party felt like the last party before the end of the world. To the young captain, at least, as the dregs of seven years of battlefield adrenaline left his system, the mood was not so much celebratory as conciliatory. Congratulations, the assembly of dignitaries seemed to say, you have made it to the other side alive. A score or so squadron commanders and their lieutenants, shambling about the opulent drawing room in their stodgy wool dress uniforms, tailored for them on commission, and now hanging off their skinny, exhausted frames like laundry put out to dry.
The room was dim, and uncomfortably warm; two huge fires kept the night-time chills away, and soft, creamy candlelight glimmered off gilt walls, brass buttons, and the ladies' diamonds. In one corner, the youngest of the Armstrongs – a petite blonde girl, who held a dozen of the society-starved men in sway – sat at the piano, tinkling and crooning her way through a selection of tastefully patriotic and sentimental ditties. The charming effect was somewhat ruined by her gigantic brother, standing behind her with moist eyes and pink cheeks, already drunk, and bellowing and honking along to whichever words he knew, or imagined that he knew. His voice was good, a deep and rich baritone, but it only seemed to have one register, and that was 'loud'. The girl at the piano fairly winced as his voice boomed out still louder at the climax of a pretty tune about the "dear blue mountains of the north".
The captain stood close to a window, where there was at least some cool air, swirling the remains of a cocktail around in his glass, and watching the conversations happening around him. With a sigh, he downed the remaining liquor – a sickly mixture of expensive spirits and vermouth – and deposited the empty glass on the windowsill, before intercepting a serving boy to take another. When he returned to his spot, there stood a lanky, bespectacled figure with mousy brown hair already beginning to grow in at all angles to his head, where he had recently stopped shaving it off. The man raised a glass to him, with a delighted grin;
"I didn't realise they were letting just anybody in to these parties! Here's looking at you, Captain Mustang!"
The captain smiled in response, and clasped the man's hand;
"Hughes! I lost track of you after Ramadi. I thought you'd bought it."
"Ha! It'd take more than a couple of thousand armed men to stop me from going home! That and I was redeployed at the eleventh hour to gather intel on the suspected Chalus tunnel. Every man who marched into Ramadi was dead before the end of the day. I'd have been with them."
He removed his glasses, and cleaned them anxiously with this sleeve. Then sighed, and resumed his smile.
"But, here we are! Back in civilisation, at long last!"
His companion drained his glass, and looked around the room, dubiously. The conversations were punctuated by shrill laughter, and the voices were slightly too loud, with an edge of fear. He perceived that every man present was secretly afraid that they were currently dreaming, and could wake up at any minute, back in the desert. He obtained another two glasses, and passed one to his friend, who in the meantime had found a plate of canapes.
"You should slow down, my friend," he said, taking a piece of spiced sausage on rye bread, coated in mustard, and shoving it into the captain's mouth, "and for God's sake, eat something. You'll be flat on your back in under an hour."
The captain choked the rich, fatty meat down, and spluttered;
"God damnit, Hughes!"
"Sshhh!" the man responded, with a good-natured wink, "You're not in the field any more. You need to remember your society manners."
He shook his head, and leaned closer to the window. The food had the same effect as the overheated decadent drawing room, the perfumed ladies, and the cloying music, making him feel sick and jaded. He gulped at his cocktail, hoping that he could find unconsciousness soon. But his friend would not let him dial out just yet, and was still talking in his ear.
"So where are you being dispatched to next? Have you got your commission through yet?"
"I'm, uh, they're sending me to Ausburg as deputy to the Western Provincial Governor. It's a death sentence, basically."
"That's an honour, man! You're a safe pair of hands. The old man will give you a glowing write-up after three years, and it'll be great for your career"
"Huh. If I don't die of boredom, maybe. And you?"
"Intelligence corps. If I told you, I'd have to kill you," he dead-panned, and then ruined the effect by laughing, "It's going to be great! I'll be back in Central City, I can have lunch every Sunday with my mother, and I can pick up where I left off with Gracia."
He rubbed his hands together with glee. His friend raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"What makes you think she's waited for you? You'd only been courting, what, a year before you were conscripted?"
"Oh, she's all mine, make no mistake. The day I was due to leave, I went round to her house to say goodbye, and I got down on one knee in the front parlour – her mother almost fainted, it was too funny! – and I asked her to be my wife. She said yes, of course, my good little darling girl."
"She could have changed her mind. Seven years is a long time."
At this, the man drew from his breast pocket a dense wad of carefully-folded pages, which he raised to his lips.
"Read them and weep, my friend! Well, actually, don't read them. These are unfit for the eyes of a virtuous bachelor like yourself. I really hope the guys in the Intelligence Corp steamed these open and took a read. They'd give the Fuhrer a few more grey hairs in his beard, alright!"
He cackled with laughter, and mimed a glass eye popping from his left socket, catching it and reinserting it.
In spite of himself, the captain smiled, enjoying his friend's delight.
"You should be careful what you say, you know. Anyone here could be one of his men."
"I know!" he was irrepressible, "Isn't that wild! So in answer to your question, my first action when I get off the train at Central will be to quick-march round to Gracia's, sweep her off her feet, and take her to church so we can seal the deal, and then-" he winked, broadly, "seal the deal."
"Sounds like it's all working out for you," it was an observation of fact, and he hadn't meant to come off as bitter.
"Will you come and be a witness? Stand by your old buddy on the happiest day of his life. Well, not the really happy part, but the part that comes before. Come on, Roy! You have to meet her, she's the greatest!"
"I'll try. I know Bruhns will expect me to attend a briefing as soon as possible, and start to select my staff. But I want to come up to Central anyway, to pay a visit to old man Hawkeye."
Hughes face grew serious, and he looked at his friend with compassion.
"Nobody told you, Roy? Meister Ferdinand Hawkeye passed away over six months ago. Something in his lungs, apparently."
"No. Nobody told me. That means his daughter doesn't know either."
"Well, that's hardly surprising. They were estranged, you know."
"How do you get all this, Maes? Do you read minds or something?"
"Actually, it's much simpler than that, my friend. You just have to talk to people. Come on, I've had enough of this cocktail muck. Let's get some proper schnapps!"
He led the way back across the party to a table near the piano, on which stood a large crystal bottle of clear liquid, packed into an ice-bucket, and many small glasses. Mustang assumed that the reason for the move was less to do with spirits, and more to do with the noise, which would minimise the chances that they could be overheard. Nonetheless, he accepted the shot of schnapps with gratitude.
"To absent friends!" Hughes raised his glass in toast.
"And the ones who won't be coming home," Mustang finished, and they emptied the contents at one swallow.
Hughes shuddered.
"Ah! Anyway, it seems Hawkeye junior was underage when she answered the call to arms. She signed up on her sixteenth birthday, as a private in the infantry. Well, over the past four years, her talent was recognised, and as soon as she got through basic, she was sent straight to the front line as a sharp-shooter. Daddy was horrified, of course. Once he'd gotten over the idea that she was totally without any natural ability as an alchemist, he'd pegged her as the stay-at-home, house-wifey type. Hoped she'd provide him with a son that he could apprentice. Haha! Nope. They'd never had a particularly close relationship. She hinted, in the most gentle way you ever heard, about some kind of injury that he'd inflicted on her at some point, but I never got any more than that out of her. But running away to join the army, and lying about her age and identity, was the end of it. The old man left his property and all his assets, including his writings and his title, to you."
"Christ. Poor kid."
"You don't need to feel sorry for her. She'll always have a career in the military, provided this business of her real age doesn't come out. And even if it does, she's sufficiently talented that I'm sure she'd survive that too. No less an authority than Captain Hans Van Aalten wants her bad for his Iqbal clean-up operation."
"Huh. Well, that's alright then," he poured another glass of schnapps apiece, and handed one to his friends, with the toast, "To Gracia! A woman of rare patience and fortitude!"
"I'll drink to that!"
They were interrupted by the younger Armstrong, Marie, who stepped between them and curtseyed. They returned the bow, and she turned her glowing face on Roy.
"Captain Mustang, this is such an honour. Are you amusing yourself?"
He was flustered, not having spoken to a woman in a social context for some years, but managed to answer;
"Yes, thank you, ma'am. It's a very enjoyable evening."
"I am so glad," she looked it, her smile was sweet, welcoming, "Perhaps you would do me the honour of accompanying me for an introduction to your hostess?"
He blinked, and looked at Hughes. The look on the man's face expressed the same confusion; they had both been under the impression that Major Armstrong, the elder son, was their host. Marie awaited his answer, patiently.
"Of course, ma'am. Please excuse me, I'm quite fatigued."
"Naturally!" she soothed, "You've all had a terrible time of it, I'm sure! Believe me, I would not interrupt your evening, but my sister is peculiarly insistent that you should meet."
He allowed himself to be led from the drawing room, back through the mercifully cool hallway, and up the grand central stairs. As she led him, Marie made small talk about the artworks they passed, and portraits of various deceased members of the clan. Looking up, blearily, he recognised the fierce blue eyes and thick blonde hair, going back through generations. After what seemed miles of walking, Marie knocked on a plain garret door.
"Enter," a low, honey-smooth voice from inside. She pushed the door open, and said;
"Captain Mustang to see you, Oli."
"Show him in. Thank you, Marie. You may leave."
The girl ushered Roy inside, and, with a final brilliant smile, turned to go. The room was cold, and well-lit. It contained a desk and chair, facing the tall windows, an empty fireplace with two deep chairs, and a woman, who stood when he entered. She too wore a dress uniform, that of a Major General. Her hair, like that of her sister and brother, was golden, and fell to her hips.
Her face could have been sweet, as was her sister's, with the same large, round blue eyes, pink pouting lips, and small upturned nose. But the expression was hard, and she seemed to challenge any admiration.
He stood to attention, and saluted at once. She motioned him to be at ease.
"Captain Mustang. You know who I am, I suppose."
"Major General Olivia Armstrong, ma'am. Last time we met, you were a Colonel, and operational adviser to my platoon commander, Brigadier Walmar. I'd been seconded to my first serving post as a state alchemist, and my first honourary title, Second Lieutenant, with your brother as Lieutenant."
"Well remembered. I don't recall meeting you then, but my brother speaks very highly of you."
"That is kind, ma'am."
"He is a soft-headed fool," she remarked, drily, "I'm going to come straight to the point, Captain. I'm sure that you would agree with me in observing that the assumption to the throne of Amestris by the dictator Bradley is a retrograde development for our state."
He was shocked into silence. His nerves, although dampened with schnapps, tingled with the awareness that just hearing these words could have him up on trial for treason.
"One can criticise his protectionist, isolationist defence policies, or point to his totalitarian and populist domestic agenda. His nepotistic plans for succession are cause enough for alarm, and he has relegated the Senate to perpetual leave, citing a continuing state of emergency. Besides all this, I have information that points to a strong ulterior motive for his position. Somebody else got him his throne, and that means that he is being controlled, like a puppet, in pursuit of somebody else's agenda. Do you understand what I am telling you?"
He nodded, agreeing but hardly daring to express it.
"Now," she continued, "once we have supplanted him, I do not wish to take the title of Fuhrer for myself. It comes with a tiresome administrative burden, the focus of popular opinion, and a never-ending parade of public appearances. Furthermore, I would have an uphill struggle on my hands, due to the unfortunate fact of my being female. You do not have the same unfortunate handicap."
She waited for his reaction.
"Ma'am," he swallowed, took a deep breath, and then tried again, "If I understand you correctly, you wish to overthrow Fuhrer Bradley, whom you believe to be under the control of an outside agency, and place an alternative under your control."
"Correct. You would like me to elaborate why you?"
He nodded.
"You are an excellent soldier, a talented alchemist, and a competent leader. You have good situational awareness, and an uncanny ability to survive and deliver the mission in the face of adversity. But you are, if I may be so blunt, nobody.
"I understand that you are a farmer's boy, that your family and community were wiped out while you were at the front, and that you have no name or wealth to speak of. You were then apprenticed to former State Alchemist, Meister Hawkeye, and inherited from him the title of Flame Alchemist. You are a self-made man, to some extent. You are competent enough to climb up the ranks, swiftly and reliably. Yet, you present virtually no threat to the establishment. The old boys will barely notice you. This makes you ideal for my purposes."
He had never been dissected in this way before, and found it unflattering. However, on hearing her perspective, he was compelled to agree. As a pretender to the throne, he was a strategic candidate.
"So what do we do?" he asked, by way of agreement.
"You need do nothing for now, except to progress. Do not rock the boat. Be your competent, difficult, scheming self, and all will be well. Assemble a staff you can trust. I will dispatch Alexander to watch over you, and protect you from harm. At Ausberg, you will find an old, semi-retired Lieutenant Colonel named Karlweis. He was my mentor. I assume you are reasonably proficient at chess?"
He nodded again, there had been precious little else to do, to fill the evenings and days between battles in the desert.
"Make a standing appointment to play chess with him once a week or so. He will advise you in highly discreet terms. He is an excellent tactical mind, and a first-rate pair of eyes. He is also able to communicate with me."
"Where will you be?"
Her mouth twisted with displeasure.
"I am to be promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General."
"Congratulations, ma'am."
"My commission will be the defence of Fort Briggs against the Drachman insurgence in the north. It is not an honour, Captain, it is a banishment. Bradley senses that I conspire against him, and he cannot kill me, because my family support him financially, and with social connections. So he is sending me as far away from Central as he is able, and he will do everything in his power to hasten my death. If I die before our efforts come to fruition, you must take advice from Marie. She is my deputy in this, and she will find it easier to make contact with you. Fabricate an affair, perhaps. You will be the envy of half the men in Amestris."
He was just about keeping up, and nodded to show his understanding. She approached him for the first time, and looked him boldly in the face, as though measuring him.
"You may not hear from me for some time. In these uncertain political times, you may feel that you have been cut off. I will protect your interests, and we will achieve our end. Keep working. Stay out of trouble. Climb the ladder."
He saluted.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Dismissed!"
He marched to the door on shaky legs, and Marie opened it for him. She waved back inside the room.
"Come down soon, Oli, darling! The gentlemen are pining for some more ladies to amuse them!"
She closed the door on her sister's harsh laugh, and took Mustang's arm to lead him back downstairs.
"Isn't it fun to meet somebody new at a party? You never know where the conversation might take you!" she trilled.
"Indeed. Miss Armstrong, forgive me, is your sister in her right mind?"
He expected her to laugh this off, but instead she pulled him into the shadow of a doorway, so close that he could breathe in her perfume, and the scent of wine on her breath, and she whispered to him.
"Olivia knows what she's doing. I have faith in her. If you are wise, you will too."
Then she kissed him, immodestly, at the corner of his mouth. He was astonished, as she opened three of his shirt buttons and closed them in the wrong order, and then ruffled his hair into disarray with her fingers.
"We have to provide some excuse for your absence from the party," she smiled, "Now when we go back in, act incredibly bashful and defensive when questioned. Do not make eye-contact with me, and try to get a little drunk. Alright?"
He followed her downstairs, touched his fingers to the pink lipstick smudge by his mouth, and prayed that he would not run into Hughes. Naturally, the first person to greet him as he re-entered the party, dazed and full of thoughts, was his friend. He laughed uproariously as soon as the young woman had disappeared into the throng.
"You sly dog! What an excellent evening! Haha! Barely twelve hours back in civilisation, and already you have bedded the most desirable woman it has to offer! After my own Gracia, of course!"
He appeared even more drunk than when Mustang had left, and cheerily handed him another sickly cocktail. As he raised it to his lips, Roy asked his friend quietly,
"Maes. You'll make sure I get home in one piece, won't you?"
The man winked, showing that he was far more conscious than he appeared, and Mustang wondered how much his friend knew.
"I've spent the past seven years doing so, haven't I?"