The Game of Three Generals

by Lady Norbert

A/N: You guys are all so, so, so nice. I was answering private messages and responding to reviews, and it was like I was answering fan mail. Thank you for all the love you have shown for this trilogy. I can't say that enough.

I do want to remind you that the chapter titles don't always have something to do with the content of the chapter in question. I try to make them relevant as much as possible, but sometimes it just doesn't work. This one, for instance, is pretty much unconnected.

I sincerely apologize for the wait on this chapter. I've had it ready to go but FFN was experiencing technical difficulties.

Chapter Four: Tokin

Tokin: A promoted pawn.

"So the girls are off on their shopping trip?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who's escorting them?"

"I couldn't get Riza to agree to a full escort...but Havoc and Breda are shadowing them, and I believe Fullmetal is with them too."

Grumman eyes his grandson-in-law critically, making the younger man cringe slightly. Then he laughs, relenting. "That should be sufficient," he says. "I highly doubt that Riza and Catalina are unarmed in their own right." The two men are in Grumman's office, discussing matters over coffee, while the women are - as previously agreed - taking Winry Elric to find a dress for the ball.

"Perish the thought, Your Excellency." Mustang's expression clears. "Though between ourselves, I'm looking forward to Riza not being able to fit into her holsters. She's as careful as they come, but in her present condition..."

"I understand, my boy, but don't smother her. We both know that's a bad idea."

"I'm trying, sir. It's a remarkably overwhelming urge."

"Yes, I remember it." Grumman's eyes twinkle. "Have you considered names yet?"

"She named the dog Black Hayate. I really don't know that she should be allowed to name our children." Mustang chuckles, then sobers. "We did agree, however, that we won't be naming the baby after anybody."

"Really? I fully expected you to tell me that a son would be named after your friend Hughes."

"That was our first idea as well." Mustang sips his coffee, looking thoughtful. "But the more we talked about it, the more we realized that there are just too many people for this. You, for example, and your late wife, and Madame. Or there's Alphonse Elric and Princess May Chang - they both saved Riza's life, at different times. My parents - my birth parents, I mean - and Riza's parents too. We have so many friends and relations who deserve to be honored in this way. We finally decided that in order to do it justice, we'd either have to saddle our child with the most inhumanly long name in history or else come up with something that belongs only to the baby."

"I see your point." Grumman nods. "I'm still trying to decide what I want the baby to call me, however," he adds good-naturedly. "It amuses me that Riza calls me 'Fuhrer Grandfather sir,' but that's a bit much for a baby."

Mustang smirks, and contemplates the matter. "Grummy?" he suggests, mock helpfully.

"I don't think so. Well...maybe."

They play chess and speak in low voices of plans and concerns. Fuery and Douglas are on guard outside the door, assuring them that they will remain undisturbed. The young communications specialist has combed the Fuhrer's office and confirmed a lack of listening devices, so they feel reasonably secure; still, at least part of their dialogue remains encoded, always. Half precaution, half habit.

Riza joins them, when the shopping expedition comes to its conclusion. She's weighted down with bags, and looks a bit tired, but content. Grumman hums to himself with quiet amusement as her husband fusses, ushering her into a chair and getting her a cup of honeyed tea (no coffee, he says, because he's been reading and he thinks it might not be good for the baby). She bears it all without comment, but the look she gives to her grandfather speaks volumes.

"Did the charming Mrs. Elric find herself a ballgown?" Grumman inquires.

"She did," Riza replies, accepting the tea. "Becky and I got new dresses too; I wasn't planning on it, but I realized I didn't really have anything good enough for such a special occasion."

"And as the First Granddaughter, you have to present well," Mustang teases her. "Do I get to see this dress?"

"Perhaps. In the short term, though, you might be more interested in hearing about what Havoc was doing."

"What do you mean? He wasn't slacking off, was he?"

"Not the way you might be thinking." She sips, and smirks. "There's a jewelry store next door to the clothier we were visiting. I picked that one on purpose."

"The one on Nineteenth Street, right?" She nods. "That's where I bought your enga... oh." Mustang's eyes widen.

"Exactly." Riza nods again. "He spoke to me about it this morning, so that's where we went. It was easy enough to keep Becky distracted while he went shopping."

"You think he's going to do it at the ball?"

"That's the plan."

Grumman coughs slightly, and the distracted pair look at him, startled. It never fails to entertain him. He enjoys watching them interact; they occasionally tend to forget that he or anyone else is present, and instead become completely attuned to the words of one another. "So," he says, joining the conversation, "Havoc is planning to propose to Catalina?"

"Yes, Grandfather. It's a bit overdue, if you ask me."

"Interesting. Yes, I think they might suit very well."

"They do," Mustang confirms. "Havoc finally found a girl who doesn't look for flimsy excuses to break it off, and Catalina found a man who puts up with her harpy's tongue."

"Roy!"

"Sorry." He has the good grace to look sheepish. "I'm only kidding. She's much better than she used to be."

"She was only ever a harpy to you because she thought you ignored me," his wife chides. "And because she didn't realize that your little harem consisted chiefly of your sisters and other informants."

"Well, people weren't supposed to realize that. That was sort of the point."

"At least that's all behind us," Riza says, and Grumman returns the little grin she shoots in his direction.

Later that afternoon, the allies convene in the Situation Room once more, to talk about plans for the ball. Grumman finds he sort of likes calling them that; it describes them very aptly. There are two additions to the earlier group in the forms of Major Miles and the one called Scar, but that's all right. Both of his Generals would vouch for Miles's character, if he didn't already know the man could be trusted. Grumman's truthfully more wary of Scar, but he also knows that the Ishvalan was highly instrumental in the Promised Day as well as in the successful recovery of his missing granddaughter - after all, he's there to receive a commendation, same as Fullmetal.

"No one outside of this room knows the truth about the situation, correct?" he asks. "Other than Mrs. Elric and Madame Christmas, that is?"

"No, Your Excellency."

"Then let's get started. Major General Armstrong?"

"Sir!" She has been sitting at the far end of the table, arms folded and legs crossed at the knee, but when addressed she snaps into a more formal posture. He gestures for her to be at ease.

"I want you to be my personal guard for the evening." He sees the spark of surprise in her blue eyes. "It will appear to the general public that I'm merely indulging my tastes for the company of beautiful women. The truth is that you're far and away the deadliest non-alchemist I know, and that's who I want watching my back."

"Yes, sir." She looks mildly smug.

"General Mustang will, of course, be chiefly responsible for the safety of the First Granddaughter." Grumman's mustache twitches with amusement. "I'm assuming that everyone here has heard the news?"

"Not everyone," Riza corrects him. Indeed, while Fullmetal and those who have accompanied the Mustangs from Ishval look knowledgable, the others have puzzled expressions on their faces.

"I see. Well, I assume you have no objection?"

"I was half expecting you to have already told the newspapers, Fuhrer Grandfather, sir."

"I'd rather wait on that, I think. But I see no reason to keep it from those present." The Fuhrer smiles. "I've recently been informed that I'm going to be a great-grandfather later this year."

There's a flurry of excitement; Major Armstrong, predictably, bursts into tears. "My dear, dear Colonel Mustang!" he sobs, and it's only her husband's quick movement that prevents him from picking her up in a potentially fetus-crushing embrace. Instead, it's Roy who gets subjected to the hug, but Armstrong doesn't seem to mind. "This is such wonderful news! My heartiest congratulations to you both! Or should I say, to you all, for that includes you, Your Excellency!"

"Don't hug me," Grumman orders.

"No, sir." Armstrong lets go, and what's left of Mustang stumbles back to his chair. Other, less violent expressions of congratulation are offered, and Grumman has to rap on the table after several minutes to bring the meeting back to some semblance of order. Normally, he wouldn't mind in the slightest, but things are serious.

"Fullmetal, I'd like you and your wife to merely serve as extra pairs of ears on the dance floor," Grumman continues. "Nothing very dangerous; just stay alert and, if you overhear anything that sounds even theoretically problematic, report it to one of these officers immediately. Should anything go amiss, your first priority should be to secure her safety, and that of any other civilians you can reasonably shield. Under no circumstances are you to put yourself into harm's way if it can possibly be avoided." The young former alchemist looks mildly nettled, but he settles for simply nodding.

"How about the rest of Colonel Mustang's security detail, Your Excellency?" asks Fuery.

"Fuery and Breda, you take up position near the musicians. Fuery's in the best way to spot anything out of the ordinary with the sound equipment, and Breda's sharp enough to provide adequate cover while he inspects." Grumman looks thoughtful. "Douglas, Havoc, and Catalina will take it in turns to back up General Mustang. The rest of you will largely mingle. It is a ball, so feel free to dance and converse with whomever you please; you're all guests of honor, after all. Enjoy yourselves. Just be very, very alert."

Mustang nods gravely, looking around at them all. "Protect each other," he says. "And if I may, Your Excellency, I'd like to give them another order."

"General?" Grumman is curious.

"On the eve of the Promised Day, I launched my counteroffensive aided by Breda, Fuery, and Hawkeye, and they received exactly one order from me," Mustang explains. "I think it's applicable for this entire group - on the eve of the ball, and in any other incident which follows." He meets each of their gazes in turn; Major General Armstrong eyes him suspiciously but doesn't look away. "Do not die," he tells them.

"Aren't you being a little overdramatic, sir?" asks his wife, mildly.

He turns and looks at her sharply. "On the contrary. That order goes double for you."

She looks at her grandfather as if to say He's hopeless, but Grumman shakes his head. "I fully endorse this particular order," he says. "Dismissed."