Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

It wasn't that the First Library was unusually crowded. It was the people inside it that made it seem that way.

The central tables were the place where most alchemists did their public research. They were easy to get to, easy for the librarians to bring requested references to, and offered a truly impressive amount of real estate. They had been all gathered together and were almost buried under a very thin coating of papers. A pair of blue uniforms bustled around them.

Neither of them were alchemists.

In fact, neither of them were even librarians.

Her long blonde hair had been clipped up crisply per her usual, but hours of research had loosened it as efficiently as a thorough make-out session might have. Her partner in crime was probably having more fun than a fictitious make-out session, but even she looked a bit frazzled.

No wonder Al had said they were 'too busy.' Too busy was an understatement.

"Colonel," he greeted, when his shadow in the doorway caused her to glance up. "Decide to become an alchemist and enroll in the Academy?"

Colonel Riza Hawkeye gave him a brief but sincere smile, tapping her stack of documents on its edge to re-align the papers. "I don't suppose you're incredibly bored and would like to assist?"

He gave her an easy smile in return, coming to the corner of the table island and glancing at the rows and rows of neat documents labeled 'Personnel Records' and 'Classified.'

"I don't suppose I have the clearance, even if I had the time."

The colonel surveyed her handiwork as Sergeant Sheska made a triumphant little chirp and, with uncanny skill, caused a sheet of paper to drift at seeming random across the table, landing squarely on one of the three dozen piles.

"I don't suppose you'd decide to become a State Alchemist in the next twenty or so minutes? It comes with a rank of major . . ."

"Gee, with an offer like that, how could a guy refuse."

Riza's grin lingered far longer this time. "We're not taking up your usual study space, I hope?"

Fletcher re-assessed the island as Sheska made a quick loop. "Nope. Even if you were, I think I'd let you have it. What is all this?"

Hawkeye took the top document from her pile, reaching gracefully three documents in to place it neatly on another short stack. "Background checks of the Prime Minister's staff."

She said it so nonchalantly Fletcher found himself nodding absently before it sank in. Background checks . . .?

She tapped her collection of documents on its edge again as two stapled ones tried to escape. "It's hardly routine, but this is just preliminary, and required of all government staff."

Technically he figured it ought to have been done when the staff was hired, but the new paranoia around Central was probably the reason for this. And while someone like General Hakuro or the House Speaker could just rattle off such a simple-sounding task, it was officers like the colonel and sergeant that would spend a couple days completing it while reminding themselves not to rip their hair out.

Then again, Riza couldn't have picked a happier officer to be stuck doing busywork with. "And you wonder why I don't want to be a National Alchemist."

The colonel apparently had no retort, and he watched the activity a moment longer before remembering his purpose. "I need to look something up. I'll catch you on the way out?"

He received eye contact and a nod, and with a quick wave at the oblivious sergeant, he proceeded past the reference desk towards the back of the first floor. He and Russ had spent enough time in this library – hell, they'd helped rebuild it – that he knew exactly where he was going. Many of the older documents had had copies stored in the Second Library, which weren't nearly as easy to get hold of but were accessed so rarely there had been no point in storing them in the cluttered First Library. When it had burned, those copies had been a lifesaver – the tax records of thousands of citizens had been one of the collections spared the fire's destruction.

And it was tax records he wanted.

Alphonse Elric hadn't explicitly told him why, or even where to look, but if he wanted to track down a non-certified alchemist by name, and didn't want to take a week to do it, he was much better off perusing the state's tax records than the many journals and diaries of certified alchemists that might have run into their non-certified brethren. He knew for a fact he was mentioned all over the place; in Russ's papers, the Elrics' travelogues, the incident with Mugwar, his arrest for impersonating a State Alchemist-

But he could search police and military reports all year and not find one reference to any Avram Blane. Nope, the best place to look was at tax records. All he had to do was scan a single year from that part of the country, and he'd find the man's name.

Death and taxes. The only two absolutes in this world.

The rebuilt First Library was quite a bit larger than its original, with two more floors above and a deeper basement. Because of that, it was currently housing the Second Library's records while that building was thoroughly cleaned and renovated. It meant the back of the first floor was a little crowded, but the documents were still meticulously sorted.

All Al really wanted was an address, and he'd said the guy used to be Sorn's sensei, so he should probably look up the records from at least four years ago and go from there. Locating Jannai's records took him a little while, but eventually a slightly decomposing box revealed itself on one of the shelves. The guy apparently didn't live in Jannai anymore, but he had to have lived there in the last five. If he wasn't in the 1918 box, it was probably going to be later, not earlier.

Since he had a last name of 'Blane,' he would be right in the front. Easy to find-

Quite abruptly, an entire stack of boxes suddenly animated themselves and shot around the corner, and even more shockingly, they bowled right into him.

Fletcher abandoned his box, letting it tip and catching it with his left hip as he struggled with the fifty pounds of records that had been suddenly thrust upon him. The boxes gave a startled squeak and would have collapsed if not for his efforts. As it was, eventually some mousy brown hair and the rim of round glasses peeked around a trembling corner, and Fletcher shifted further, trying to slide his arms under the boxes as they tipped dangerously to the left.

"Mr. Tringum?"

Sergeant Sheska was possibly the one person on the planet that referred to him that way.

He grunted an affirmative and helped her lower her unstable stack to the ground. It was only five tall, but it was an unwieldy bundle for such a short woman. She was panting but her eyes were unnaturally bright, and there was no weariness in her movements.

No, Sheska was in her element. This was probably a grand adventure considering her usual office duties.

"I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't see you there!"

"I'm sure you didn't," he agreed, making sure to over-emphasize his already good-natured tone. The boxes had been stacked far over her head. "Aren't there librarians who would just love to re-shelve these records for you?"

The look she gave him was sympathetic – and almost patronizing. "The reference librarians are too busy to worry about reshelving these right now, and we might need to access them later. This way I know they've been put away properly."

Having lived with Russ all his life, Fletcher could appreciate the idea that when you put something down, you might reasonably expect it to still be where you left it when you next needed it. "You guys are running checks into people's taxes?"

She took the top box from the stack, bustling around the bookcase to slip it into its place. "Finance reports are stored with the tax information for easier retrieval." He supposed that made sense; if you wanted one, chances were you wanted the other as well. Luckily for him, all he was doing was getting an address.

As Sheska – and he – were no longer in physical danger, Fletcher turned back to his own box of records, pawing through the first couple hundred pages. He was already in the F's.

Jannai was obviously a pretty small town.

He backtracked as Sheska peered interestedly over his shoulder. "Sir? That information is classified . . ."

Fletcher just raised an eyebrow and kept digging. "Really?" He was fully prepared to pretend he didn't know that, and even if not, he had been pressed into service by none other than a lieutenant colonel – they'd need to plan a party for Al's promotion, he reminded himself. He was allowed to use the library since all the Academy students had been granted passes, but he knew damn well that free pass only stretched so far.

If the physicists realized this sort of information was lying around in boxes in the back of the library where almost no one ever went . . . well, the practical jokes being played on the alchemists would probably get a lot uglier. It was better they stick with flash-bangs and chemicals and leave personal information out of things.

And as soon as the restoration of the Second Library was complete, it would go back to being secure. So he didn't feel too bad about breaking the rules, in this instance.

Yep. Russ was a bad influence on him.

And so was Al . . . when had he gotten so . . . sneaky?

"Yes, only military and government personnel have access." She wasn't exactly pulling him away, but she was starting to use her agitated librarian voice.

Too late. He pulled a folder of documents from the box, noting the faded label. Blane, Avram.

"I just need an address," he remarked contritely, flipping open the folder and glancing. Yep, the alchemist had lived in Jannai four years ago – and there was his tax ID number, plain as day. 5289754, 5289754 . . .

He replaced the folder, stuffing the box back onto the shelf. With that tax ID number, he could ask the reference librarians to pull this year's tax information, which wasn't yet public domain. It was the most recent information Central could possibly have, the best Al could hope for.

"Whose address?"

Al had explicitly said that he hadn't asked Sheska because he knew she was so busy. The moment he gave her any information he knew that overactive brain of hers would be thumbing through her mental set of records to find the information, and Alphonse had been right. She was busy.

"Just trying to track down a non-certified alchemist. He was doing some work with using tubers as filters for toxic substances, but never wrote a paper." Hah. So she couldn't try to wrack her brain for him. "I just wanted to write him an invitation to Central, to discuss his work."

Sheska just stared at him a moment, as if in shock, then glanced around them surreptitiously. She lowered her head quite a bit further, and Fletcher resisted rolling his eyes as he copied her.

"I've been looking up addresses all morning," she confessed in a whisper, and watched him with magnified eyes.

Fletcher stared at her a moment, wondering where the comment was heading. When she didn't say anything else, he felt his eyebrows raise. "Uh . . .okay."

"You were looking for addresses in that box," she added. She was pointing to the correct box, so he nodded, slowly so as not to startle the shorter woman.

She gazed at him as if expecting him to say something grand, so he licked his lips. "Uh, sergeant? Why are we whispering?"

"Because!" She hushed herself, ducking down even lower into the small fort of records that was formed around them. "They've all been here!"

Fletcher just continued looking at her. ". . the records . . .?"

"The addresses!" It was a hiss. "All from the south! All of them! Did you know that Major Breda was born in Libar?"

Libar was a rather small town, south-central Amestris really, and it wasn't too surprising. It was a lower class working town, and he knew Breda had known hard work before he'd come into the military. That was where the slightly slovenly man had learned his lazy ways, despite having a keen mind. He'd cheated more than a few officers out of their wages on the other side of a chess board thanks to it.

"No?"

"Yes!" She seemed elated that he'd caught on. "And Second Lieutenant Kain Fuery was born in Bithport! And Dr. Timothy Patterson in Arturu!"

. . . what kind of staff investigations were they carrying out? Breda and Fuery he understood; they were part of Hawkeye's staff. But the doc . . .? Why would Hawkeye be digging into his past-

Of course. Any and all staff that had ties to Roy Mustang, for the purposes of absolving them. Which meant –

Which meant Sheska probably already had pulled the file on nii-san and him. The alchemists had access to Roy, so they'd be checked into as well.

Hadn't there been an announcement about it the other day at the academy . . . military presence and routine checks . . .?

Fletcher hid a wince. If Sheska was able to dig up anything related to their escapades eight or so years ago, he and Russ were in deep, deep shit with the military. And would probably be fined by the State. Of course, Mustang knew almost all of it, since most of their more illegal activities had tied almost directly with the Elrics, who had been reporting to him at the time-

And were still reporting to him. And speaking of the Elrics, he really did need to give Alphonse a call back.

"So . . . what? You think the military's being taken over by the southern Amestrians? Or the Parliament?"

Sheska gave a shaky sigh of relief. "You see it too?!"

Fletcher straightened. "No, I don't," he replied, in a slightly louder tone. "If that were true, all the female officers would be in miniskirts by now." At least if Breda and Patterson were both from the same area of the country, it could explain how their wacky friendship got started in the first place. In fact-

"How is Major Breda?" He hadn't seen either Breda or Fuery, actually, in several weeks. He knew they were both out of the hospital, and he knew Patterson wouldn't have allowed it if they weren't going to be okay back on duty, but he was not soon to forget how bad they had looked when they'd been wheeled into the room next to his and nii-san's. Nor was he soon to forget how helpless he'd felt, within earshot as they'd been puking up stomach lining and blood, and being ordered by their superior officer and his Prime Minister to go back out into the city, instead of next door to save them-

But they were fine now. Right?

Sheska was not so easy to derail when she was on a tangent. "The major's been restricted to light duty," she replied instantly. "You – you really don't see a connection . . . ?"

Fletcher stared at her for a moment. She was serious. This wasn't a tangent.

"I'm afraid I don't," he replied firmly. Great, now she had him wondering if maybe there was some kind of conspiracy to get southern Amestrians into a place of power so they could have an effect on the Parliament or something-

5289754, 5289754 . . .

Sheska looked back up at him with suspiciously tearful eyes, having not yet straightened herself. She now seemed to be slumping dejectedly, rather than hiding from prying ears. "So . . . you think it's just a coincidence too . . . ?"

That half of Mustang's officers were geographically from the same region? "Where were you born, sergeant?"

"Dublith," she answered automatically, then clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. Her eyes were almost as round as her lenses.

Fletcher just raised his eyebrows at her. "And are you part of some conspiracy of southern Amestris to control Parliament interests?" After all, Dublith was definitely southern Amestris.

She shook her head violently 'no.'

"Then it's just a coincidence." He tried to make his voice reassuring. He knew very well that she had been the one to spearhead the investigation into what had really happened to the late Maes Hughes, and that she had also overlooked 'coincidences' like that over and over again before she'd put the pieces together. With Mustang's life now in jeopardy – as much as it could be called that – he could understand why she'd be a little quicker to latch onto oddities than others.

Come to think of it . . . he and Russ grew up in Central, true, but they'd been born in-

No, he told himself firmly. 5289754.

Sheska did not look convinced. "But-"

"No," he repeated, this time aloud.

She almost looked like she wanted to sniffle. "So . . . you don't think I'll get fired again?"

Fletcher just stared at her. ". . . what?"

"After L-Brigadier General Hughes realized the truth about Juliet Douglas, he fired me," she said thickly. "To protect me. Now there are all of these investigations, and the assassination rumors and I already know I'm under suspicion because I identified some of the evidence so quickly and-"

"Wait." He held up a hand, and lowered his voice again. "You're under investigation? You're participating in one! How could you think-"

"That's just to give me a false sense of security," she confided miserably. "The colonel already pulled my files. I'm afraid that once all this is said and done – and my mom is much better, so I don't need the money, but I'd miss everyone so much- and if General Hakuro finds out about what I did for the Elrics and even before that with Fuehrer Bradley-"

If he wasn't careful, she was going to turn on the waterworks. "No one's going to fire you," he interrupted her gently. "Mustang would be a fool to let you go."

Sheska gave him a watery smile. "You're nice to say so, sir."

Fletcher resisted the urge to roll his eyes – again. "My name is Fletcher, not sir," he corrected, "and if you really are under investigation, you don't want to stick around back here too long. Someone might suspect something."

. . . she couldn't really be part of any conspiracy, could she? Even as he watched her straighten her skirt and swallow back any threatening tears, his mind recognized how truly easy it was to manipulate her –

No. There was no southern Amestrian conspiracy. No one was suspecting Sheska of being in league with Drachma or whoever the hell it was behind the attempts. And there was no reason to think maybe Al had asked him to do this not because Sheska was busy, but because she was under investigation. Because then he'd have to wonder why Al was keeping his promotion so quiet, and consider that the reason wasn't to avoid pissing off his brother, but instead had something to do with 5289754.

Augh.

"You're contagious," he muttered under his breath as Sheska bowed low and scuttled away, babbling all the while. Now he couldn't wait to pull these records and get back on the phone with Al. Not that Al would tell him if his promotion had anything to do with this or not, even if he asked –

Fletcher scrubbed a hand down his face. Yes. This was another perfect example of why he wanted nothing to do with the State. Nothing.

5289754.

- x -

"Getting cold feet?"

Enormous hands clamped down on his shoulders, and before he even had time to realize the words were meant for him, he was in the air.

And just after he'd made the first observation, he was making a second.

He had landed pretty much on his head.

He felt himself skidding, and clamped a hand down on the top of his head, hanging onto the too-long bangs for dear life as the rest of him collided with something too narrow for comfort. A chair leg, he though muzzily, and then he was being hauled up again. This time by his collar.

He coughed in the man's face, and was dropped in disgust. Once more on the fetid floor, he curled into a ball, afraid of being kicked. Luckily for him, they were content to let him lie there and cling to his hair.

For a moment.

"The set-up was nice."

He tried for a smirk. The mercenary's accent was getting better, but still very obvious on the word 'nice.'

His sneer went unappreciated as he was grabbed by his collar for the second time, and this time set on his feet. He opted to take the suggestion and stand, making a show of trying to keep his balance. Maybe they wouldn't hit him anymore if they thought they'd actually knock him out.

Or maybe not.

He coughed again, then spoke. "The job I set you up for hasn't happened yet."

There was the sound of shattering wood, far too close for comfort, and he released his head, brushing the straight brown bangs out of his eyes to get a better look around. He'd been right; he'd collided with a chair. The pieces of it were now scattered around the floor. There were three that he could see, this time, and their little scuffle had emptied half the tavern. The other half wasn't moving, wasn't so much as drinking from their half-raised steins.

The unfortunate part of the matter was, they were also silent. He'd picked this place specifically because it was loud, and a conversation could easily be covered by the raucous crowd. Now there'd be no such luck.

"I take it you ran into something unexpected." He tried to keep his voice hard. He didn't want to get hit again, but he wasn't stupid enough to take a subservient tone. Not to these people.

"Two somethings." The man that he assumed had originally tossed him was the one that had put him back on his feet, and he was crouching now, as if he was coaxing a lost child. Getting down on his level. "Blondes. Alchemists, too. Friends of yours?"

Blonde alchemists. The only one that came to mind was Lucille, but there was no reason for them to have encountered her. "Where was this?"

The slightly sour-smelling men in front of him leaned forward, apparently intent upon studying him, and he made no move to avert his gaze. He was confident his eyes were still shadowed by his hair, but they couldn't have been as dark as the deep brown glaring at him, mostly concealed by thick, dark folds of skin. Very thick skin, with deep wrinkles telling tales of long hours spent squinting in the glaring sun.

"Your house."

He involuntarily stiffened, then burst out laughing. It sounded fake to his ears, but he did it so rarely he wasn't sure anyone else could tell. "Women in my home. That must have been something to see."

"They weren't women."

Ah. Two blonde male alchemists.

That was another story altogether. It also made a heck of a lot more sense.

He shouldn't have cut class. "Well, they obviously didn't give you too hard of a time."

The mercenary remained where he was, forward, weight resting on the balls of his feet. "It's too late to back out. I thought I made that perfectly clear." There was a slight crunching sound as the soles of his boots ground against splinters of wood. "What did you tell them? Or did we interrupt you before you could sell us out?"

He glared at the older man, continuing to meet his eyes. "It's the first I've heard of it. Might I suggest you not make unnecessary trips to my residence. If you'd stuck to the plan, little blonde dogs wouldn't have caused you trouble. Now you've gone and jeopardized everything."

It was too difficult to tell from the description whether the visitors had been the Tringum brothers or the Elrics. It was one and the same, as far as these men were concerned. Wasn't an issue. Wasn't even unexpected. Not really. Just inconvenient.

The mercenary cocked his head to the other side, glaring steadily at him. "You're saying you didn't know they'd be there?"

At some point, their conflict had stopped being interesting. The static background noise of guffaws and glassware had returned at some point, and he dared to straighten the too-large jacket around himself haughtily. Blinking in irritation as his eyelashes scraped the bangs crowning his forehead, he raised his voice slightly.

"Of course not. Nor did I know you would be." The man's eyes didn't so much as flicker. Well, obviously the mercenary couldn't feel too guilty about it, if he'd admitted they'd made the unscheduled visit. He allowed a brief frown to cross his features, resisting the urge to rub his forehead. "Thank your gods it's too late to change the day's itinerary. And thanks for tipping them onto me. You always double-cross your informants?"

On the plus side, to have survived and escaped a confrontation with either the Tringums or the Elrics, he could believe they really were as good as they claimed. And it was nice to have the head's up. Obviously his plan to head home after this would need to be reviewed.

"Sounds to me like you owe me another thirty thousand cenz. For the inconvenience of having to find a new home," he growled, interrupting a protest before it could be formed. "I wonder what kind of reward I could get, giving you to the military-"

He'd been anticipating the attack, but it still hurt a hell of a lot more than he expected. The fourth was behind him, and had tossed him into the edge of the nearby table. He was too winded to even whimper when the leader's face swam into view, upside down.

"You've already given us the information, rat. Far as I'm concerned, there's no need to give you the other half at all. Particularly if the military's sniffed you out."

Damn. His mouth was working, but nothing besides gasps were coming out.

The one that had flanked him was now in sight, staring not at him but at his boss. He muttered something, and the two exchanged a significant look. Then the dark eyes were back on him.

"Then again, I suppose you haven't said anything on the state of those orders."

Well, at least one of them had a brain. He barely had time for relief, though, before he was plucked up off the floor once again, and this time laid no less gently across the table.

"So it seems you're still useful. Isn't this your lucky day."

He fought to hold his breath, and slowly the urge to hyperventilate was leaving him. "Double . . . or nothing."

The mercenary sneered. "Ain't you a ballsy one." When several seconds of intense staring had completed, the look became amused again.

"Done." Then he leaned in close, and his accent became far more pronounced. "If you've betrayed us or embellished your papa's chances of getting those orders changed, a thousand alchemists won't save you."

He struggled to keep his voice under control. "You keep fucking up, I won't . . . need to worry about those alchemists. They'll be . . . too busy gutting you."

The mercenary regarded him for several more seconds before there was a heavy metallic thud by his right ear. "Get a room on me, rat. Wouldn't want those alchemists to find you before those orders get issued."

At this point, he looked away, and with a rough shake he was released. He lay sprawled awkwardly across the table for several seconds, enough time to let them get some distance but not enough that any of the other ruffians would think to take advantage. He leaned up slowly and favored his back, snatching up the three coins without looking around the room.

Another thirty seconds found him slinking out the side door like any street rat, and he kept himself well bundled, eyes on the street, as he hurried out into the morning bustle. It was a bright day, which meant more of Central's denizens were paying attention to the sky and less to the slim figure that darted in and out of the crowd.

When he'd reached the appropriate alley, he looped the corner, knowing the sagging roof overhangs and sunlight would hide the flash. He'd etched the circle some time ago, and a brush with his fingers resulted in a planked metal wall forming behind him. He doubted the mercs would have followed him, given what he considered a stellar performance, but he couldn't be too careful.

Since he obviously wasn't being careful enough. He'd figured he had another day to get things in order. And Elrics – or Tringums – were not people he was willing to engage yet.

It was disappointing, but if everything went well, there was nothing in that house he'd need.

It was with great relief that he yanked the wig off his head, enjoying the sensation of air on his sweating scalp once again. It looked great, but the damn thing itched. A few more minutes' walk found him approaching a nondescript car, and he slid into the driver's seat, tossing the wig and brown overcoat into the back.

Get a room indeed. Close enough to hoof it, but not so close as he'd be seen . . . and his to-do list had just gotten longer. If alchemists had already been dispatched to his house . . . but the why was important.

The motor purred to life, crawling from the curb into traffic, and Franklin Sorn contemplated the available lodgings.

- x -

"Colonel Mazo's report is fairly brief, sir. No credible leads, no information."

He resisted the urge to roll his eye, instead continuing his quick pace down the hall. His secretary, Challiel, simply moved it to the back of the pile. "The latest reports on the incident last night have been placed on your desk."

"Anything of note?"

"The briefing from the Full Metal Alchemist was not among the papers." She was no alchemist, but she could quantify things into available versus missing information. It was just after ten am, so Hakuro had had more than enough time to track even a recalcitrant Edward down and get information out of him. Either he was withholding it, or Edward was not where he was scheduled to be.

Alphonse had already left Central, so he couldn't be certain Edward was well. Still, there was no chance that the general's men, not finding Fullmetal in front of a lectern, would not have then proceeded to his place of residence. He couldn't have gone with Alphonse, since his traveling documents would have been suspended, and there was no way in hell he'd actually checked himself into a hospital. Most likely, he was following any leads the two had uncovered last night, or back at the site himself.

Still, he needed information now, not later. "Have Master Sergeant Brosh dispatched to find Fullmetal." Sometimes, having a colonel for his head of security was very, very convenient. It meant he could still give military orders, however limited. Riza still had control of her staff, something the general hadn't been petty enough to strip, and he could count on her to give the order quietly.

Challiel nodded, jotting down the order on her pad. "The Drachman ambassadors have finished their tour of the Parliament buildings and invite you to high tea."

He had accepted their dinner invitation last night despite the brief scandal involving faulty utility repair in a block near the prison, so turning them down for lunch would probably not be outrageously rude.

"Please convey to them my gratitude, but I must attend to less pleasant matters."

Another quick but neat scribble. "Major General Olivier Armstrong has requested an audience to discuss your policy on Drachma following the visit of his Eminence Shurik Tolya."

"Grant it." As the hand and heart of Briggs, he wasn't entirely certain her visit with Alex hadn't been explicitly planned around the Drachman visit.

"Major Breda is waiting to speak with you in your inner office. I have added fifteen minutes to your schedule."

She said it very matter-of-factly, as though she had squirreled away a quarter hour yesterday just to elongate this day by fifteen minutes. If anyone could actually modify time, he believed she would have mastered the skill by now, if only to make her job of keeping his schedule a little more reasonable.

"Thank you."

She made a note of that, too – did he so rarely thank her? – before leaving his side to move towards her desk. "I'll let Parliament know you will begin the audience in twenty minutes."

They, after all, deserved to be told it wasn't faulty repair of utilities, but rather further alchemical experimentation. He really wasn't sure they could wrap their brains around chimeras, and he did want to get the highlights before he walked into that audience. There was no way he could explain this away as anything other than related to alchemy, but at the very least he needed to know if the evidence was clearly pointing at one of his alchemists.

Which meant there wasn't a lot of time to talk to Heymans, whether she'd bought him fifteen minutes or not.

He entered his office by his favorite route, the door that appeared to be a bookshelf. There were several such secret entrances – and exits – from the room, doubtlessly placed there for the Speaker, before there was a Prime Minister. He had no doubt the Fuhrer's old offices had similar entrances and exits, and for probably the same purposes. To enter and leave without every aid on the planet knowing.

He also had a hidden washroom, for those times when there simply wasn't enough time to retreat to the shower, and a washcloth would have to make due.

The major wasn't surprised by his entrance. If he didn't know the man better, he'd say Breda was asleep. He was slouched in one of the armchairs, rather than in front of the majestic desk, and his shoulders had a distinctly dejected slump to them.

He quietly pushed aside the urge to sigh, and quickly looped the room, rifling through the neat stacks of paper on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. Then he headed straight for the loveseat opposite Heymans.

The major stood when he approached, but he waved down the salute without even looking. "How are you feeling?"

He took his seat and opened the first page of the report. Breda was long used to speaking to officers while they multitasked, to the point he was beginning to think Heymans preferred it that way. He didn't want to pin down his old friend, not when he knew damn well what this conversation was going to be about.

It was going to be about why Breda had investigated his colleagues under Hakuro's order without telling them about it.

"I feel fine, Minister." The same answer he gave every time they asked. According to Dr. Patterson, that appraisal was more along the lines of "Restrict him to light duty no matter what he says."

"I'd like to report, but I wasn't sure you'd want this on paper."

Momentarily confused, Roy glanced up at him to find the same apologetic look in the man's eyes. He frowned.

"You had your reasons, Major."

He averted his eyes. "Yeah, but I didn't get much chance to discuss 'em with Hawkeye before shit hit the fan, so to speak."

Roy stared at him a moment more, then closed the folder and laid it on the coffee table between them. "Then report."

Breda reacted to the complete attention exactly like he'd thought; the man stiffened and kept his eyes averted. Damn it, he must have looked pissed off. When Johann Irving had gone after the remnant of his eye, he'd dug deep enough to affect some of the nerves in the left side of his face. Despite the fact the eyepatch covered most of that half of his face, sometimes that corner of his mouth curved down when he wasn't paying attention.

And maybe part of the dejected look was the weight loss. It had been a while since he'd had the major in front of him, in uniform, in the light of day, and now that he did, it was obvious. His complexion was still sallow, though it was obvious he'd tried to correct that with the sun. His jowls were somehow softer, as if the fat that had made them part of his face had melted away, leaving only the skin behind. Most alarming of all, his hairline had receded considerably, and his goatee was gone. He'd lost almost all his hair at one point, and five months later it was starting to look like some of it might not ever grow back.

"Hakuro approached me right after Doc let me back on duty." Breda paused, as if expecting a comment. When one didn't come, he continued in the same steady voice. "He gave me a line, so I bit. It wasn't exactly hard to convince him I was pissed off, since, well, I kinda was."

That wasn't a surprise. He'd kept the man off duty for over four months, and he recalled how frustrated he'd been himself, after reinstatement, when they'd treated him like glass because of the eye.

"I had to report to him three times a week, so I'd come in on the tail ends of meetings. There's a fair number of goldcoats that are backing him next election, and are willing to campaign for him. More than we thought." He paused again, this time to scoot closer to the edge of his seat.

"But still less than half. Majority of Parliament wants to be re-elected, and they know that voters support you. They'll continue to vote in your favor for a little while, at least. Hakuro's lobbying to get them, and in his eyes he's making strides in that direction."

Breda finally looked back up at him, and he wanted to slap that kicked dog look right off the man's face. Instead, he frowned at him.

"Are you certain the general bought it?"

Breda looked slightly surprised at the question, then suddenly relieved. "Not at first, no. I let him find a couple of less dirty secrets. Made it seem reluctant. Got a few free dinners out of the deal, which wasn't so bad."

At least Heyman's appetite was back. "And you're no longer being watched?" That was the only reason he could think of that Breda couldn't have tipped his hand to them.

Unless he was still pissed off. The major was pretty even-tempered, but he could hold a grudge.

The relieved look morphed into something pseudo-normal. "It just took me a while to figure out their schedule. Ditched them at the mess twenty minutes ago."

Mustang nodded. "What else?"

"He's looking into the bomb." He said it quietly, but with surety. "So far he's had no luck, and he's keeping me far away from it."

Of course. Hakuro couldn't be sure that Breda, even pissed off, would betray him to that extent. "How angry are you?"

Heymans gave him a steady look. "I was mad for a while. I only like to be lazy when there's work to be done. It's no fun sitting around when you're supposed to."

Breda was thinner. He was tired. But there was no doubt he was better, even if he wasn't 'fine.' And there was no doubt he was going to find something to do, whether Mustang wanted him to or not. Roy found himself fighting down a small smile.

"Well said."

He held Breda's gaze for a moment, looking the man up and down. "I am extremely disappointed in you, major. I had expected better from my loyal subordinate, and violating a direct order to remain on light duty will not go unpunished."

The major straightened and gave him a flat look. "I'd expect nothing less, sir."

"Excellent. Report to Dr. Patterson for another physical, and keep an eye out for any empty glass containers when leaving the examination room."

Breda saluted smartly, and Roy stood, signaling business was at an end. Part of him wanted to ask about Fuery, but now . . . now it was obviously time to re-evaluate them both. If Challiel could create fifteen minutes to speak with Breda, she could get him a half-hour in Fuery's barracks.

Fuery was less likely to get angry and more likely to accept his fate, and the gentle specialist deserved better than to believe he'd been cast so easily aside.

And having an inside man, even one Hakuro didn't really trust, was better intelligence than he'd get otherwise. He firmly believed Dr. Patterson would catch on quickly, and hopefully someone would report the broken glass to the general directly. It wasn't likely to buy Breda anything more than time, but judging the weather of Parliament was getting more difficult, and hadn't he already been warned winter was on the way?

- x -

Author's Notes: Well, you waited a long time for this chapter, and I'm sorry! Blasted real life again. I don't expect to be delayed much more, so at least you can expect regular updates from this point on! I've read over the thing and found a zillion typos, so I imagine there are more. As always, please let me know and I'll correct them all.

Hello to all you new readers out there, and thank you so much for the reviews! Next chapter marks the end of exposition! Expect the pace to pick up pretty significantly. Except, well, it's me we're talking about here, so pace is relative . . . ; )