Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).
CHAPTER TWO
Mustang stared dully at the cool water as it ran between his numb fingers and splashed into the white porcelain sink, wondering if Hawkeye would let him leave early today. After all, Central HQ was just waking up, and he'd already been here for hours to fight the losing battle of keeping the peace in Amestris.
It was odd what fear and strain could do to the human psyche, he decided, regarding his own exhaustion-rimmed eyes and freshly shaven face in the mirror. People see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear, and feel what they want to feel in order to reinforce those unfounded fears and delusional thoughts. And it was up to Mustang—and his crew, he amended—to try to force these people to instead see the world for what it was: imperfect, terrifying, and sometimes unfair, but always worth protecting.
And then there was the matter of his youngest subordinate. Perhaps, he mused, it had been a mistake to lure him back into the military's folds. Perhaps he should have tried harder to convince Grumman to let the young man go…
Fullmetal's naturally taciturn disposition had taken an alarming turn since his last mission, though no amount of badgering, arguing, or berating could convince the young man to reveal his thoughts. Indeed, Edward rarely spoke to his commanding officer at all anymore, and the few words that did pass through his bitten lips were cold and lifeless.
"Fullmetal will be seventeen soon," he told his reflection, and the realization hit him squarely in the gut; Edward spent so much time trying to acting older than his years that it was easy to forget just how young he truly was.
That thought stayed with him, burying itself into his brain as he towelled off his hands and pushed past the heavy oak doors. A gaze the colour of tarnished brass met his mind's eye as he glanced at his pocket watch—the piece reminding him that his meeting with the Fuhrer would start in just 10 minutes—and he made his way up two flights of stairs.
With a polite nod and a few words, the Fuhrer's secretary motioned for him to enter the massive, red carpeted office of Amestris's leader. The double doors swung shut and without hesitation, Mustang brought his damp right hand to his eyebrow in a sharp salute. The elderly Fuhrer waved the motion aside.
"It's so nice of you to stop by my humble offices, General Mustang," Grumman said, prominent mustache hiding a grin. "Could I interest you in a game of chess?"
At least one of them could be so carefree about the situation unfolding around them, Mustang thought irritably. Still, he offered the man a seemingly well-intentioned smile as he spoke. "I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check, sir; I really do have to keep on top of this fiasco with the unsettled civilians."
"Ah, yes.." Grumman leaned back in his ornate chair. "Do take a seat, General, and tell me how that 'fiasco' is unfolding."
"As if your own men aren't keeping you in the loop, sir," Mustang said, meeting the man's eyes with his trademark smirk. Then, like a good soldier, he obeyed. "It's exactly what you thought would happen—the people have even less trust for the military than they did before the Promised Day, and they fear not only the state alchemists, but anyone who can do alchemy.
"What started as a sensationalist article written to fill the back pages of the Central Times has fuelled rumours about a powerful elemental alchemist beyond the State's control—or perhaps even working for the State—and has brought up old stories about Ishval. And it looks like the negative talk about the state alchemists' involvement there has sparked people's imaginations; I've had more reports about chimaeras, renegade alchemists, and other suspicious alchemy in the past month than I had in the last six. Frankly, sir, my resources are stretched thin trying to investigate them all."
The Fuhrer hummed his understanding and gestured for him to continue.
"Most of these reports are, of course, unfounded," he said obediently, "caused by wildlife attacking livestock or vandals taking advantage of the general population's fear. But it encourages the rumours to spread and it continues to rile up the people. Beyond that, it gives the impression the military has no control over the country—reports of hotspots where people are starting to make demands of the government have are now coming in from all over."
"I see," Grumman muttered. His eyes were serious as he scrutinized the General seated before him. "And how do you plan on dealing with these hotspots?"
Mustang sighed and ran a hand through already-tousled hair. "It's… a complicated situation, sir, as I'm sure you can understand. I've had some limited success by speaking to the media and setting the rumours straight, but headlines claiming there are no out-of-control alchemists just don't sell nearly as well."
The bespectacled gaze didn't waver. He should have known better than to think the Fuhrer, the wily old man he was, would forget his contingency plan for just one moment—a plan that was looking worse and worse by the day, Mustang had to admit, and cursed the man silently for even conceiving of it.
"And how have the situations in Roth and New Optain responded to your methods of damage control?"
"The protesters there have been difficult, sir," he replied, gripping the padded arm of the chair hard enough to leave creases. The man was leading him into a trap, he knew it; but no matter how he tried, he couldn't find a way out. "It's just a matter of time before I'm able to calm things down there, though."
"There are nearly half a million people living in those two cities, General," Grumman reminded him.
He could hear the cage closing in around him. "Yes, sir, I'm aware of that."
"Then you're also aware of the fact that, as fragile as the current state of affairs is—what with the recovery of the Promise Day still ongoing—we really can't allow for this much discontent to be bubbling up in such places."
The iron door crashed shut behind him. "Of course, sir."
Fuhrer Grumman leaned forward, eyes cold. He could almost hear the lock clatter into place. "I'm sure you'll agree to send the Fullmetal Alchemist out, then. This is, after all, the primary reason why he was kept in the military's employ."
"Sir," Mustang began. It was fruitless to struggle, he knew, but dammit, he had to try. "Please give me more time to sort out the situation without having to send him out. I'm sure I can manage to—"
"Are there any issues about young Edward's performance that I should be aware of?"
"... No, sir." Because there weren't, not officially—Edward had accomplished all of his fieldwork quickly, and none of the researchers he worked with had voiced any complaints—but there was something wrong. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach every time he met that flickering gaze or tried to goad a reaction out of the young man. "I'm sure you remember Fullmetal's history of… theatrics. I'd just prefer to avoid sending him into an already tense situation without having exhausted all other options."
"If I'm not mistaken, General Mustang, all of your other options have already been exhausted."
"Yes, sir." The words were acid on his tongue, and it was all he could to not to spit them at the man.
Edward, with Havoc in tow, left for New Optain the following morning, clutching a thick folder in one hand and not even bothering to disguise the dark expression that aged his face. For ten days, Mustang jumped each time the phone screamed from its place on his desk and glared at unimportant paperwork without truly seeing it. More hotspots flared, and he was forced to plaster on a smile that hurt each time he spoke to reporters and radiomen, all the while trying to convince the Amestrian people the military was stable, really, and the new Fuhrer was working with their wellbeing in mind—
—even as the People's Alchemist meddled in affairs behind their backs.
Once, after returning home from a particularly harrying day of death threats to the Fuhrer and reports of the bloody deaths of a married alchemist couple, he found himself reaching for the bottle of cheap bourbon he normally used as a bookend. He forced himself into work the following morning, entirely too early, with barbed wire wrapped around his brain and a rumpled uniform draped over his shoulders, and his mind howled at him that Maes would have been ashamed.
The thought kept him from doing it again, even as Edward's and Havoc's silence grated on his nerves and the increasingly brutal reports worried at his sanity.
Then the reports started coming in, and a part of him wished the nail-biting silence would return.
There'd been a riot in the streets of New Optain, one newspaper article bugled from its front page. Thirty-seven soldiers had been wounded; two were dead, a military report elaborated. Ninety-three civilians wounded; seven dead, one radioman announced.
Two of those civilians had been shot down by a desperate Fullmetal as he tried to protect a single mother and her child, Havoc's voice, tinny and hollow through the earpiece of his phone, informed him. The young man himself, he discovered after a certain number of prying questions, was lying in the hospital, head and torso wrapped to protect his broken ribs and fractured skull.
He breathed heavily, trying to loosen the tightness that caged his ribs, pinching the bridge of his nose until the pain lanced towards his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw a defiant twelve-year-old child standing before him, eyes blazing like fire and mouth set in a stubborn line, vowing he would never take another life; he'd find another way around whatever situation befell him no matter what. What had happened to that stubborn child? Was it Mustang's fault he was missing—perhaps had been for months or years?
Three sharp raps broke him from his dark musings, and he glanced up in time to see Hawkeye slip into his office. At least she didn't have any more reports in her hands; he wasn't sure if he could bear to look at any more casualty lists right now. "Yes, Captain? Is there something I can do for you?"
"The East City hospital tried to contact you while you were in your earlier meeting with Major General Armstrong." His adjutant's voice was strong as always, but he could see how drawn her face had become. "The doctor I spoke to said they should be discharging Edward in four days."
He nodded his understanding. "Excellent. Thank you. I'm going to be busy with the media all day tomorrow, but if he or Havoc phones to report in, tell them I want them both back in Central as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
"And be sure to schedule them both in to be debriefed as soon as they get back."
"Scheduled, sir?" Hawkeye asked; a quirk of an eyebrow was the only indication of her surprise. He very rarely asked for debriefings—especially Fullmetal's—to be added to his calendar.
"This fiasco in New Optain is a priority, Captain, and I need to hear straight from them exactly what happened, and in detail, as soon as possible." Mustang couldn't mention to her he was unsettled by his youngest subordinate's new behaviour, or he was on edge as to how the young man would handle his involvement in the riot.
After all, they'd both heard several times by now that Edward could take care of himself.
"Of course, sir. Is that all?"
"No." Mustang hesitated for just a moment, eyes falling on the plush chair where Edward had once reviewed the Fuhrer's seemingly generous offers in exchange for his continued service. "When you schedule Fullmetal's debriefing, make sure it's in the afternoon. I doubt he'd come in if it was too early."
"I'll make sure to do that, sir," she told him, face softening ever so slightly as she touched her right hand to her brow in a crisp salute. Then she marched out of the office, closing the door behind her.
It wasn't until nearly six o'clock the following day that he was finally able to stalk into his private office and slam the doors behind him. All this scrambling around in the dark, trying to allay fears and make explanations with only the barest of details about New Optain… With a groan, he collapsed into his leather chair, and scrubbed at his face furiously.
When he finally pulled his hands away, he saw the note, written in Hawkeye's precise, bold penmanship, resting by his ink blotter. Havoc had called in, it explained, and she had scheduled debriefings for both him and Edward on the day of their return to Central. The woman, in all of her wisdom, had set the meeting with his youngest subordinate to last the entire afternoon.
He sighed and cleared the note away with a snap of his fingers, willing his shoulders to relax. He would get all his answers by the end of the week, and there was little he could do then.
"Good idea about the food, sir," Havoc told him five days later, a slice of medium-rare steak in his mouth and a pint by his hand.
"I don't know about you, Second Lieutenant," Mustang replied, "but I occasionally get bored of the mediocre fare they offer in the mess hall." Unlike the blond man sitting across from him, his lunch was barely touched, though the glass of wine by his right hand was empty. His eyes gazed absently through the windows of the restaurant they had chosen for an early lunch. He could make out a few brave souls scurrying from some coffee house to an even more distant location. His mind, however, was much farther away.
"I s'pose," Havoc countered, taking a swig from his pint, "if you eat like this often enough, you would get tired of the food they serve there. Not all of us can afford stuff like this, though, unless maybe their boss was a good guy and decided to give them a pay raise."
Shaking the thoughts from his head, Mustang picked up his fork and helped himself to his meal. "I'll tell you what, Havoc. I'll consider giving you a raise when Hawkeye stops having to remind you to keep on top on your duties."
"Come on, General! She'll bother me about my work whether or not she actually needs to! You know how much of a stickler she is about that sort of thing!" Havoc's fork flew and weaved through the air as the man himself gesticulated wildly. There was something about the scene—flying fork, wide-eyed Second Lieutenant, half-eaten steak seated on expensive china—that just seemed so remarkably normal that the smirk beginning to grace Mustang's lips felt quite natural.
"The expectations have been clearly spelled out for you if you want that pay raise, Havoc," he said with the smirk still firmly in place. Havoc groaned, and it grew into a satisfied grin. "It's not my problem if you don't think you can meet these expectations."
They bantered about money and raises and women and assets until both plates were cleared and Havoc's pint was emptied. After laying down the appropriate money (along with a sizeable tip) for the blushing waitress, both soldiers dashed out of the restaurant and managed to make it to the black military vehicle without getting thoroughly soaked.
The roads were very nearly empty, but the horizontal rain forced Havoc to lighten up on his normally aggressive driving. As it was, they strode into the main set of offices just 10 minutes before his debriefing with Edward was due to start. The young man wasn't there yet, though he supposed he shouldn't be too surprised; Edward wasn't known for being punctual.
"Tell Fullmetal to come into my office when he gets here," he told Hawkeye as he glanced at his silver pocket watch.
She nodded. "Of course, sir."
He let himself into his private office and eyed the report Havoc had written up. He'd already read it over, had already questioned the Second Lieutenant about its contents, already knew about the missing pieces he'd have to collect from Edward. Still, as he slid into his comfortable leather chair, he picked it up and read through it again.
Fanaticism. That was the only way to describe the mentality of the people in New Optain. The demands, the fear-mongering by the self-appointed leaders, the rumours about the Fuhrer's intentions and the military's involvement in the Promised Day… There had been no way Fullmetal would have been able to defuse the situation.
Anger flashed through his nerves, jolting into his joints and running along his skin like electricity. He could feel it in his fingers, in his bones, behind his eyes.
Damn Grumman! With his extensive spy network, the wily old man had to have known how entrenched the people of New Optain were in their twisted version of reality. His stomach rolled; he remembered Edward's dull eyes and weary face as the young man disappeared from the office, Havoc in tow, not knowing what he'd meet in the eastern city but knowing he wouldn't like it.
With a sign, he slashed his signature across the bottom of the report and threw it towards a corner of his desk. Once he received Edward's report, they'd both be sent to Archives without another glance.
A glance at his pocket watch told him it was one o'clock. Edward should have arrived by now.
He swiped at a stack of papers resting by his right hand, and reviewed the first one with unseeing eyes. It's not like he didn't have enough to do without having to wait on arrogant subordinates, he thought irritably, hand fisting around the heavy paper. His signature was dashed messily across the bottom of the document and it was tossed next to Havoc's report.
Three sharp notes echoed through the office, and his eyes flew towards the heavy oak doors.
It was just Hawkeye, a thick sheaf of papers clutched in her hands. "Major General Armstrong would like these reviewed by the end of the day, sir," she told him evenly, dropping the papers onto his desk. "You may want to look them over until Edward arrives."
He swallowed the growl that was threatening to bubble up between his lips and checked his pocket watch. Fullmetal was late by nearly ten minutes. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
"You're welcome, General." She turned on her heel and made to leave the office, but his voice stopped her.
"Lieutenant? Find Fullmetal's personnel file for me, and find out which officer's barracks he was assigned to when he was promoted. If he can't have the courtesy to report to me when ordered to do so, I'll have to do something about it."
"Right away, sir."
The doors swung shut and he gathered the tendrils of irritability around him like a familiar cloak. This type of behaviour was absolutely unacceptable even for Fullmetal, he decided. He had every intention of telling the young blond as much—in length and in volume—as soon as he found out just what the hell was going on.
With a heavy sigh, he reached for the report Hawkeye had left for him—some dull thing about the levels of security being set up around New Optain—and scanned the document without truly taking in any information about it.
He drummed his fingers against his desk, reread the first page, gave in, and checked his pocket watch. 1:15. The brat might not have much in the way of manners, but dammit, this was ridiculous.
Five minutes. Fullmetal had five minutes to get his ass in the office—
Three sharp knocks resonated throughout the room. He all but jumped as he brought his eyes to the door, but it was Hawkeye again. "I have the information you requested, sir," she explained, offering him a slip of paper with a few lines of text on it. "Edward was assigned room C-12, in the north officer's barracks."
"Excellent," Mustang muttered, more to himself than to the blonde woman already excusing herself.
He redoubled his hold on the irritation and annoyance that blanketed his mind, held them there until his fingers itched and stomach swelled. Then, damning the little hell-raiser he had the misfortune of calling a subordinate, he glanced at his pocket watch once more.
It'd been five minutes. Muttering curses, he pushed himself away from his desk and strode out of the room, heels echoing a quick tempo against the whitewashed walls.