Chapter 2: Sleepless Nights
The colours were drilling on the parade grounds. From his vantage point on the roof of the armoury, Cadet Second Class Maes Hughes watched the spectacle in amusement. In theory, the colour guard represented the Academy's finest: dedicated young men who would one day become the paragon of military professionalism. In reality, they were a gaggle of gangling adolescents, stir-crazy after a long day of lectures and ready to goof off, no matter how loudly Master Sergeant Wickersham shouted. Forget paragon: these guys were a parody of professionalism.
Maes chuckled to himself as one of his classmates tripped up the senior who was marching next to him. The regimental banner that the first-classman was carrying dipped dangerously close to the ground, but did not quite fall. There was a scuffle and an argument that the drill instructor broke up with a series of sharply barked commands.
For a while, order reigned. The exercises were executed with precision, not a step out of place. Maes was just starting to give up any hope of more entertainment when the Fourth Class pennant wavered. Maes adjusted his spectacles, squinting in an attempt to see what was going on. It just so happened that he had a particular vested interest in the Fourth Class pennant.
The little cadet carrying it had relaxed his grip, it seemed. In the sea of smoky blue it was hard for the myopic tinker's son to pick the seventeen-year-old out of the crowd. Maes noted critically the weary slope of the thin shoulders. Wickersham had seen the feint and was now shouting at the cadet. The boy saluted crisply, responding with the strong, sharp voice that was expected. Maes knew that that kind of response cost his quiet friend, emotionally as well as physically. After that, though, he didn't falter once.
When the drill was drawing to a close, Maes moved to the far side of the building where the empty munitions crates were stacked below. With agility that was the envy of his compatriots, Maes lowered himself onto the boxes and thus reached earth again. He meandered lazily towards the parade grounds, arriving just as the colour guard was starting to disperse.
Maes exchanged pleasantries with a couple of upperclassmen, and then found the cadet he sought.
"Yo, Roy," he said, holding out his fist for their customary greeting.
Cadet Fourth Class Roy Mustang knocked his gloved hand against his friend's bare one and smile vaguely. "Hey, Maes," he murmured.
The older youth's eyes narrowed to slits. Something was off. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, not wanting any of the others to hear. His friend was the butt of a great deal of ridicule for everything from his appearance to his reticence concerning his personal history to his fervent dedication to the Academy. Maes did not want to give the perpetrators any more material to work with.
"I'm great," Roy said. He pulled off one white glove, doffed his dress-uniform hat, and raked a hand through his close-cropped sable hair.
"Are you sure?" Maes pressed. "I saw the flag dipping, Roy..."
His friend shot him a look of blackest annoyance. "The guys were horsing around," he said.
"Yeah, I saw that, too: I was watching the whole thing." Maes shrugged indolently. "Listen, we've got an hour 'til supper. You want to come back to my dorm and play some backgammon or something?"
Roy shook his head. "I have to get out of these," he said, plucking at the skirts of his dress uniform. "Then I thought I'd just go to the barracks."
"C'mon, Roy! I know you hate the barracks," Maes jibed. "Anything you can do there you can do just as easily and twice as comfortably in my room."
"Maes, I don't want favours," Roy said, starting towards the low, squat building that housed the first-year cadets. Undaunted, his friend followed him.
"You know," he said; "some people would be glad to have the patronage of an upperclassman as popular as me!"
"Yeah, and as modest as you, too," Roy grumbled. He dragged open the heavy, bunker-like door and entered the barracks. Maes grimaced empathetically, remembering his year in this drafty old barn. There were two hundred cadets in Roy's year, half of whom slept here in two long rows. Hospital screens at the far end cordoned off a semiprivate sleeping area for the three females in the first year class. Roy's bed was in the centre of the southern wall, and it was here that he went now, Maes on his tail.
"What's going on?" Maes asked, looking judiciously around the room. At this hour, most of the cadets were off enjoying their scanty leisure time. One was napping across the way, and on the other side of the divider one of the girls was bend over a Tactics textbook, but otherwise the barracks was deserted.
"Nothing," Roy told him, and then began to unbutton his coat with care. "I'm fine."
Maes frowned, taking in the other cadet's pallor and deeply shadowed eyes. Something was definitely up. Ten days ago, when the Victory Day break had ended, he had returned to the Academy broken-hearted and mourning the death of his older brother. Roy had come back tight-lipped and evasive, and the only thing that Maes had been able to wrangle from him was that his sensei, whom he had gone to visit, had given him a code containing his alchemical secrets – a code which Roy had yet to unlock. Since then, despite his best efforts, the elder youth had not managed to get any more information – at least not from Roy.
"You know what I think?" Maes asked. "I think you're tired."
"I'm a first-year," Roy said as he folded his uniform jacket carefully into its tissue-lined box. He took great pride in his garb, and in the full dress ensemble especially. He would have been more popular with his peers had he been less fastidious, but the instructors were delighted by young Mustang's dedication. "Of course I'm tired."
"True," Maes allowed; "the first year's a challenge. But you know what? I think it's all those after-hours forays into the city."
Roy's expression was immediately closed, as if someone had slammed the door and bolted the shutters. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Hughes."
"Oh, I think you do," Maes said lazily. He sat down on the cot next to Roy's, cocking his head to one side to watch his friend smooth his gloves and brush down the brim of his black hat. "Rumour has it that Cadet Mustang's taken a night job."
"So what? Lots of the men do it," Roy said defensively.
Maes was surprised. He had not expected such a frank admission. "But why?" he asked. "You don't have a family to support, and you've got almost enough to take your State exam. How'd you even get permission?"
Roy said nothing, but removed the fine cambric dress shirt and set it aside to be washed, then bent to remove his boots. Maes eyed his friend's torso critically. When Roy had come to Central almost two years ago, he had been a stick-thin fifteen-year-old, undersized and practically starving. Now, he had grown nearly six inches, the hollows in his ribs had almost filled out, and there were even compact muscles in his arms and back. Military life obviously agreed with him.
"You know I'll find out eventually," Maes said. "Or else how do I know you're working as a busboy at the Dockman's Arms?"
The look of surprise that flared Roy's eyes was exceedingly satisfying. "How..."
"It's on your dispensation form," Maes said.
"I know it's on my dispensation form, but when did you see that?" Roy asked.
Maes smiled smugly. "I didn't. I had one of my informants in the records office get me the information."
Roy gawked for a moment, and then chuckled ruefully as he stepped out of his dress trousers. "Your informants," he echoed. "Fine. So I'm working as a busboy. What of it?"
"Why?" Maes asked. "You can't need the money."
"Can't I?" Roy asked darkly. Then he closed his eyes as if in deep thought. He sighed softly. "Maes, my sensei is dead."
It was the older cadet's turn to ogle in amazement. "Dead? When? How?"
"His lungs, apparently," Roy said, his eyes still screwed tightly shut. "He died the day I went to see him. The money... someone had to pay for the funeral. It's gone."
"Your money?" Maes breathed. He had never considered how costly a death was. The State, of course, had paid for Ira Hughes' burial, for he had been a sergeant and a war hero. "The money you were saving to take your State Alchemist's exam? Twelve thousand sens?"
Roy nodded tightly. "The estate was practically bankrupt. I couldn't let them bury him in a pauper's grave. It wouldn't have been fair to... anybody." He shrugged. "It's only money. I'll earn it back."
"Yeah, but don't you want to focus on your studies? You're obviously exhausted – why work nights if you don't have to?" Maes said. "I'll contribute my per diem, and next year you'll have six hundred sens a week instead of two – more if you take extra duty rotations. What's the hurry, anyway? You haven't unravelled his notes yet, have you?"
"No," Roy said, gritting his teeth. "No, I certainly haven't."
"Well, then. You don't need to be in such a rush to raise the fifteen thousand sens," Maes reasoned. "You don't have to work."
"I do," Roy argued.
"But..."
"I do."
The tone of Roy's voice made it obvious that he would brook no argument. Maes knew his friend better than to even try. "Fine," he said softly. "Fine. You have to work. But I want you to take my per diem, too. God knows I don't use even half of it."
"No, thank you," Roy told him curtly. "Now, if you don't mind, Maes, I'd... I'd like to have a quick nap before supper."
He wasn't going to budge, at least not today. Maes knew, however, that he would have ample opportunity to attempt to sway his friend. Now that he knew what was going on, he'd be able to wear away at Mustang's resolve until he finally agreed to take some portion of Maes' per diem. There was just one problem.
Maes was not at all sure that he had the full story.
discidium
At half past seven, Roy Mustang left the mess hall with the other cadets. While they all wandered off to the library or the common rooms to study, he returned to the barracks. He emerged five minutes later, having changed his smart uniform for a tatty gabardine suit, an utterly disreputable cap and a woollen muffler. He still wore his military boots, for he had no other cover for his feet, but as the trouser legs covered them to the ankle, this detail was not obvious. He crossed the square to the great iron gates, and showed his pass to the third class cadets manning it. They let him pass.
The walk into the city was a long one, and cold. He wished he could have taken a job nearer the Academy – perhaps at the Hopping Raven where the cadets were wont to congregate to drink and socialize. He had decided against trying, however, because he did not want to be seen as inferior to his comrades-at-arms. Bad enough that he was undersized and scrawny, with jet black hair and sloping sable eyes. Bad enough that he was one of the youngest cadets in his year. Bad enough that he had no family to talk about, no wealthy parents of whom to boast. If it were known that he was working in addition to his studies, he would lose what little respect he had managed to commandeer these last three months.
He had not lied to the Academy authorities, nor to Maes. Though he had not told the whole truth, Roy was employed at the aptly-named Dockman's Arms – a seedy tavern down on the waterfront, in the very worst section of town. From twenty-hundred hours to oh-two-hundred each night, he cleared tables, scrubbed plates and was generally run off of his feet – all to supplement his meagre per diem with half as much again, not counting the occasional gratuity. The work was hard, the customers demanding, and the barman impatient and heavy-handed, but Roy had no choice. For he had undeniably misled Maes as to the reason that he needed the money. As much as he would have liked to rebuild his savings against the day when he might attempt the examination for a State Alchemist's licence, Roy Mustang had more pressing responsibilities.
So it was that every night, when his shift at the bar was over, he made another long trek through the night to a dilapidated tenement on a street full of Xingese. There, under the cracking slates of the roof, waited the reason for his added labours. Riza Hawkeye, the daughter of his sensei, had come with him to Central, and together they were working to decipher her father's research notes.
Or not notes, exactly.
Mordred Hawkeye had always been a difficult man to live with. Having come to the house when he was not quite eight, Roy had thought he understood the man's harsh temperament, mercurial moods and strict disciplinarian tendencies. He had looked upon his sensei as a great man, a genius stunted by tragedy and persistent ill-fortune. To the moment of his death, and in the days that immediately followed, that quixotic image had remained untarnished. It was on the night after the funeral when it had come crashing down into the rubble of disillusionment and horror.
Apparently fixated with protecting and preserving the knowledge of his own particular brand of alchemy, Hawkeye-sensei had gone to extraordinary lengths in his quest for secrecy. Not only had he devised a code that, as far as Roy could see, could not be broken, but he had ensured that the encrypted information could not be accessed by anyone without his daughter's consent.
While this in itself might have seemed sensible and not at all repugnant, his methods had destroyed any illusion of nobility. Hawkeye had chosen to tattoo the array and the code that doubtless contained instructions for its use onto the back of his daughter – his only living child. A little girl who had been not yet eleven when Roy had been sent from the house to discover his path in life, and who was now not yet thirteen. Hawkeye had betrayed his duty as a parent and as a human being, and mutilated his own child to serve his research.
The revelation had sickened Roy, shaking him to the core and cracking the very foundation of his being. He had looked upon Hawkeye-sensei as a father, and had never imagined him capable of such cruel depravity. Yet he had the proof before him: the marred back of a girl scarcely old enough to be considered a young lady. And worse, her spirit broken and her capacity for trust shattered by this abuse. Roy could not imagine what the application of the tattoo had entailed, but it had clearly changed her. As timid and quiet as she had been when he went away, she was withdrawn almost impossibly now. She was fearful of people, like a puppy too often whipped. Why she trusted him he could not say, but he was thankful that she did.
Her landlady, on the other hand, hated him. Tonight he gave her the customary bribe, endured her black looks, and ascended the long staircase as quickly as he could. The building in which Riza lived had four floors, and she was at the very top, under the eaves. The room was tiny, but not unreasonably wretched. It was a step up, at least, from the place where Roy had lived when he had first come to Central, before he had reached the age at which he might be accepted without question into the military.
She was waiting for him, sitting rigidly on the edge of her bed. Roy closed the door behind him, and took the packet from under his arm. Riza's carmine eyes slid involuntarily towards it, and he handed it to her. It was a good haul tonight: three half-sandwiches – one ham, two corned beef – a boiled egg, a dinner roll with butter, a fistful of almonds, an apple, and a small piece of shortbread. The girl's lips parted in a tiny "O" of wonder, and she almost smiled.
"Thank you," she breathed. Then she took the ham sandwich and bit ravenously into it.
"My pleasure," Roy said, belying his guilt. He wished with all his heart that there was enough money to buy Riza food of her own. But Central was burgeoning with refugees from the south, fleeing the war with Aerugo, and from the west, doing the same from Creda, and from the east, where years of unrest had built into riots and finally into a full-scale uprising. The influx of people and the booming economics that attended a nation in wartime had driven up the price of lodgings.
Riza had a little money of her own: one thousand sens that had been a gift from her schoolteacher, intended as a scholarship should she decide to pursue further education. Out of necessity, it had been used to pay for the first month's rent on her room. Of what was to be Roy's twelve hundred sens a month, ten hundred would be needed for next month's. The remaining two would be just barely enough to buy coal, and any money he earned in tips was used to bribe the landlady – for Roy was due back at the Academy at oh-two-thirty, the very hour at which he usually turned up at her door. Until either Roy found better work or something changed drastically, Riza would have to be fed out of his duty rations. Each day he pocketed what could be carried – porridge, soup, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes and so forth could not – and each night he brought it to her. This was the eleventh night since they had arrived in Central together, and she did not yet appear to be losing weight, so Roy hoped that this arrangement would suffice for a little while.
"Mr. Mustang?" Riza repeated, and Roy realized that she had said something. He looked at her helplessly, but her eyes softened in understanding. "I said that I need to find work: this can't go on."
"Oh, no, there's no hurry..." Roy began, but then he stopped. In all likelihood she was sick of sitting here, day in and day out in this dreary little room, with a landlady who suspected the worst and nothing to eat but gleanings from the Academy mess. Quite probably, she was longing for some change, any change. Also, though he considered his contribution to her upkeep to be a solemn duty, he knew how he would have felt had Maes paid his rent in those early days. Riza doubtless felt the same, and it would be useless for him to try to reason with her otherwise. "Would you like to find work?" he asked.
Riza nodded. "I came to Central because you need the information on my... the information I have. I didn't come so that I could be a burden to you. You've been so very kind, but I want to take care of myself. Y-you understand, don't you?"
"I understand perfectly," Roy promised. "You aren't a burden to me: never think that. I'm glad to be able to do something for you after..."
He had been about to say after all you've been through, but he caught himself just in time. "After you've consented to help me with my studies," he finished lamely. It was a wretched euphemism, a desperate attempt to avoid admitting to what her father had done to her – and what he now did to her night after night as he attempted to discover the secrets concealed beneath her shabby blouse.
"I'm proud to do it," Riza said. "Your dream... a better Amestris, a better world. If I can do anything to help you achieve that, I'm proud to do it."
Her eyes glittered like garnets as she spoke. By the light of the candle, she looked unspeakably beautiful in her bleak and dilapidated surroundings: the very personification of hope against all odds, of optimism in the face of impossible obstacles. She was the embodiment of faith in a brighter future. A better future. A future that they would build together, if it was within the power of humanity to achieve. Her belief in him bolstered Roy's faith in himself. He could do this. They could do this. They could and they would.
Now, if only he could decipher the array on her back.
He looked back at Riza. She had her blouse in her hand, and had turned her back to him as she climbed onto the bed. "Maybe tonight you'll find the key," she whispered, as if she had read his thoughts. "Maybe tonight."
