AN: Another truly chilling and beautiful fanart of Riza and Kimblee in Ishval by Sonja Jade is now only my profile. Please give this artist some love for capturing my screwed up imagination so perfectly in art form.
Of all the people the Captain has met from her work place, she likes Vato Falman the best, and when she tries to pinpoint why that is, she can't help thinking it's exactly due to the fact that he doesn't treat her any differently from any other soldier who works in their office. While the others go out of their way to explain things to her, speak carefully to her and are generally cautious around her, Falman addresses her with the same brisk courtesy he uses for everyone. He doesn't feel the need to fill up silences with words or sounds and always gives a direct, albeit short answer to all her questions. She can't be sure, but the Captain gets the feeling that even before her memory loss, the First Lieutenant treated her exactly the same. The fact in itself is a comfort.
It's also why she's here right now, during lunch when everyone save her and the white-haired man are at their desks.
"What can I do for you, Captain?" he asks, looking up from a sheet of shorthand writing.
"I'd like to look at my file, if that's at all possible," she requests plainly. Even in the few days that she has been back to work, she has learned that it is best to speak simply and truthfully to this man.
Falman puts his paper down and takes of his glasses, polishing them on his wrinkle free uniform before replacing them back on his face. "You realize that's not strictly legal, Captain Hawkeye." A statement, not a question, meaning he knows perfectly well what she's requesting.
"That's why I came to you."
A ghost of a smile appears on his face, and the expression is so rare yet familiar, she knows she has seen it before. "I can't give you the file."
"But you can help me?" she challenges, her expression mirroring his own.
"Yes I can. I have all our files committed to memory. I can have a perfect replica done by the end of today if I work through lunch."
"Thank you First Lieutenant, I appreciate it," she says, meaning every word.
True to his word, at five thirty that evening, she finds a nondescript envelope on her desk as officer Falman is shrugging on his coat. He doesn't say anything, but as Breda and Fuery wave goodbye from the door, she notices a slight spring in his step she is sure wasn't there before.
Ishval.
The word makes her skin crawl.
According to the file, she served in Ishval during the civil war for almost five months back in 1908, right towards the end of the seven-year conflict. It also states that her job was that of a sniper, something that isn't surprising anymore given how many times she has been told of the legend that is the Hawk's Eye.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary in the records themselves. Graduated from East Academy, deployed to Ishval at age twenty, promoted to First Lieutenant at twenty three… Still, her eyes keep returning to the same word over and over again. Ishval.
The file explains her burn marks. She was caught in a crossfire and received severe burns, only to be brought to the medic – a Dr. Knox – by the man who would later become her commanding officer. In fact, now that she sees it written down, the name "Roy Mustang" seems to appear quite frequently in her file. If Falman's memory is to be believed – and she knows it is, even if her own is subject to question right now – then Riza Hawkeye has only ever worked under Roy Mustang after Ishval as his aide with only one brief transfer under the last Fuhrer's orders. And even that only lasted a few months after which she was transferred once again to the Flame Alchemist's unit. That's what the papers refer to him as, among other things. She also spots the words "Hero of Ishval" but skips over them hurriedly as they make her cringe too.
Nothing in the document suggests that Ishval should be more meaningful to her, but somehow it is. The neat and precise handwriting states that it is located in the eastern region. The maps show it is sandy and hot, but no material evidence implies that she should be physically sick at the sight of these six letters.
She has looked up the state as it now stands. It is no longer war torn, and in fact, has been almost rebuilt due to her commanding officer's efforts. Maybe that's why they call him the hero. But somehow, she doubts it.
About halfway through her reading, the Captain gets up and makes herself a cup of tea. Hayate comes into the kitchen, and she offers him a few biscuits, which the dog accepts happily. It would be so easy to ignore the sheets of papers spread out in her living room, she realizes as the water comes to a boil. She could busy herself with cleaning, Hayate and a number of things instead of trying to piece together her past.
But even without her memories, she knows Riza Hawkeye was never one to run away from problems. So, out of habit more than anything else, she picks up her mug of tea and heads back into the living room, to once again try and fail to piece together what she used to be.
It is only as the clock strikes midnight that she sees the strangest thing of all. In her application form to join the military academy at age sixteen, the place where a parent or guardian's signature should be, the words "Roy Mustang" stare back at her.
June, 1908
Off the field, they called her the ice queen because she never broke a sweat. Some were discreet about it, either because they feared her skill with a rifle or because they had some remaining dregs of courtesy left in them. But others didn't even bother to hide it. A cadet had once glared at her and spat, clearing intoning the words "frigid bitch" in her direction as she stepped over the body of an old Ishvalan woman to make her way back to her tent.
Everyone was always complaining about the heat in Ishval but Riza never felt it. If anything, she was cold and numb most of the time. She had to be in order to do what she had to. When she first stepped into the sand, her head had been naively filled with ideas and notions of patriotism and a better world. That was before she met the officer in charge of their camp.
Major Zolf. J. Kimblee.
For someone of his rank, the Major took an unusual amount of interest in new recruits. But Riza could ignore the stream of both male and female soldiers, leaving his tent in various states of undress at odd hours. After all, everything was legal during times of war. And all she really had to do was stick to her platoon. Her expert shot had yet to come to anyone's attention, and most of her work involved digging trenches and cleanup duty.
And at the end of the day, she always had her blade.
One day, as the sun beat down unusually hot - hot enough to even make the ice queen sweat as she leaned against her shovel, pushing her blonde fringe out of her eye – the Major appeared beside her. "Why are you afraid to kill?" he asked curiously by way of greeting. He stared at her as if she was a peculiar specimen, one that deserved close examination before he can decide what to do with it.
"Sir," she snapped a salute, at a loss for words. He ignored her salute completely.
"Answer the question, Private."
She looked up at him, at his pale features so untouched by the sun, at the gleam in his eyes as they traveled all over her form. She wanted to shiver, to back away, but she was also fascinated.
"We kill in the line of duty, we don't have to like it." She gave the most politically correct answer she could give because she was genuinely surprised that he noticed her hesitance every time she pulled the trigger. In a camp where she had become famous as the heartless ice queen, someone noticed that she in fact, hated to kill.
"Do you know why I haven't sent you with the other snipers yet?" he asked casually, startling her. The shovel she was leaning on slipped from her grasp, and the Private only managed to steady herself in time as the tool fell into the sand. So he did know of her shooting record.
"No sir," she said truthfully, looking down at the fallen shovel.
"It's because you're too afraid of yourself. You're too weak to defend even yourself…" he trailed off, his eyes roving her over body once again. Stretching a hand in her direction, he touched a cool fingertip to her cheek, making her shudder violently. Shudder in fear, but unable to move away, like a snake would hypnotize and trap its prey. "You see… I could kill you right now, and you won't even move, Private. Why do you loath yourself so?"
She was unable to break the spell, unable to form words, unable to even look away from his mesmerizing gaze even as every sense in her body screamed at her to get away, to run and hide and never come back to this blood-drenched place again. Why had she decided to come to Ishval? Had the papers not been enough? How could she – a single person on a fool's quest – make a difference? Because the harsh reality was that no one could change anything anymore. It was too late, far too late to even hope. And she had given up praying a long time ago.
He was the one to look away, but not from weakness, of that she was all too aware. He was giving her a chance to redeem herself, in his eyes and her own. And it was a chance that she would have to take out here lest she die amid these sands. The war, the guilt has been growing like a tumor inside her, forcing her to maintain the façade of the ice queen who felt nothing and regretted even less. But only now did she realize that she would have to stop pretending and embrace that façade if she had any hope of survival.
Later that evening, she received her new orders. She was now to tail the Major on all his expeditions, protecting him as he went about his work. She was equally revolted and excited at the prospect, knowing that a new chapter in her life, no, the life of a soldier was beginning. Because if this soldier was to exist, Riza Hawkeye would have to die. The little girl who once loved her father, pined for a boy and believed in a better future had no place in Ishval where men in military blues murdered in broad daylight. It was much easier to let that little girl and her ideals die.
And at the end of the day, she always had her blade.
It was at one of those moments when she was about to slip the cold steel into her flesh that the Major walked into her tent. Her lower half was covered by a blanket, but that didn't fool him. He wasn't angry, not in the slightest. In fact, he looked… victorious, as if he had uncovered a secret he always knew of.
"Go on Private, don't stop on my account. I like to watch..." The words cut the air between them, sharp as the razor she held in her fingers. Slowly, ever so slowly he made his way towards her and inch by inch, removed the blanket. She couldn't have stopped him if she'd tried.
A soft smile lit up his features as he noticed the freshly healing cuts on her thighs. His eyes shone as they took in the scabbed skin against the older scars, making her realize she had always been a specimen to him, nothing more. And now that his curiosity had been satisfied, what would he decide to do with her?
"Well, go on then," he encouraged softly, licking his lips in anticipation as he gestured to the razor in her hand. "If you can do it in private, you can certainly do it for an audience. Or do you hate yourself less when I'm around..?"
It took forever to make up her mind as she stared back into his empty, lust filled eyes. The eyes of a monster, she realized for the first time. She had seen him committing atrocious acts, loving the power he possessed and the harm he could cause with it. But only now, as he tempted her to harm herself further, to damage herself even more than he could damage anyone, she realized her commanding officer was nothing more or less than the devil himself.
"Yes," she said softly, then raising her voice, repeated it again. "Yes." Yes, she did hate herself less when he was around. That was why she agreed to tag along with him. It made her feel better about herself, giving her a sick satisfaction that no matter how much she deserved
to die, he did so even more. Raising her hand, she flung the razor across the tent, and she knew she would never pick it up again. She would never be like him.
The next day, she was assigned a sniper's position and killing became marginally easier. All she had to do was imagine Major Kimblee's face in each and every one of her targets.
End Note: A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has been reviewing, you guys make me want to keep on writing.