Chapter 9: Biting Back
The officer behind the commissary counter fingered the singed wool critically. Standing at attention and fully aware of how ridiculous he looked with his damaged hair and the long, glossy burn on his forehead, Roy awaited his fate with what dignity he could muster.
"How did this happen?" the lieutenant asked.
"It was an unfortunate mishap, sir," Roy replied crisply. It wasn't much of an answer, but it had the benefit of being true.
"What kind of mishap?"
"It's difficult to say, sir." His left hand was throbbing, and he could still smell the acrid reek of burnt hair.
"Try," said the lieutenant with just a hint of sarcasm.
Roy said nothing. How could he explain that he had been experimenting with dangerous and coveted alchemy? His pursuits had to be kept secret until he was proficient enough – and wealthy enough – to take the State Alchemist's examination. From his discussions with Brigadier General Grumman, Roy knew that his sensei's techniques were all but a surefire guarantee of licensure, and with an examination fee of fifteen hundred sens, he had to be damned sure of the result before he took the test.
The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "Look, Cadet, I remember what it's like. If it was a dare gone wrong, just say so. There's no use trying to lie about it."
"It was a dare gone wrong, sir," Roy said, too hastily. "I'm sorry, sir."
The man looked at the file that he had pulled. An immaculate white chart, unmarred by any notations, bore Roy's name and service number. He had not yet needed any replacement garments, for he was exquisitely careful with his uniform. "Thank you for your honesty, Cadet," said the commissar. He picked up a pencil and started to fill in the first bar of the record. "The fine for a greatcoat is five hundred sens," he said. "Do you want to pay now, or in instalments?"
Roy swallowed hard. Five hundred sens? That was almost two weeks' earnings, wages and Academy per diem combined. He and Riza were only just making ends meet as it was: he couldn't afford that. "I... I don't have the money, sir," he said hoarsely, unable to articulate the other fears cascading through his mind.
"You should have thought of that before you took some stupid dare," the lieutenant said coolly. "From the look of things you're lucky you still have eyebrows." He reached under the counter and produced another sheet. "We can garnish your per diem if you like, or you can take work details to earn the money."
"Work details?" Roy echoed. Cadets in the upper years had duty rotations that were required as part of their training, and he knew that some took on extra ones to earn additional spending money. He hadn't realized that the same option was open to first-years.
"There's yard detail from twenty hundred hours to twenty-three hundred," the lieutenant said. "That pays fifty sens a week. Kitchen detail for an hour at each meal, seventy-five sens a week. Latrine detail from eighteen hundred hours to twenty hundred hours, one hundred sens a week."
All three assignments were familiar to Roy. They were usually used in a punitive manner, to punish misdemeanours that went beyond the usual disciplinary measures. He had not realized that there was remuneration attached to them. After some negotiation it was agreed that he would take kitchen duty at breakfast and lunch, for fifty sens a week, and latrine duty during the supper hour. Roy was sorely tempted to take the yard detail as well, and to quit his hated job at the tavern. Certainly, the work paid less, but it was three hours, not six, and he wouldn't have had to leave the Academy grounds.
It was, ironically, the latter point that decided the matter. If he wasn't allowed to leave to go to work, then he would be unable to visit Riza during the week. He had no further need to study the tattoo, for he felt certain that he knew enough from what he had decoded that the third circle of encryption could remain uncracked for the time being. Now that Riza was working, she was buying food out of her own wages and she was no longer reliant upon what he brought her. There was no solid excuse for going to see her, and yet Roy knew that he had to. She was a part of his life that he had sacrificed once before, to his detriment and to hers. He was not going to let her go again.
So he decided to keep the job at the Dockman's Arms, as unpleasant and exhausting as it was. His work details, which would pay the fine on the greatcoat, and then be added to his weekly income from the Academy, were slated to begin on Monday. That night, he told the barman that he could no longer start work before half past eight – news which was not favourably received, and which cost him a twenty sens pay cut. Roy couldn't bring himself to care. The job would soon be nothing more than an excuse to leave campus.
discidium
Riza was reading by the light of a sputtering candle when Mr. Mustang rapped on her door that night. She sat up, smoothing her father's old shirt, and bade him enter.
"Hey, Riza," he said softly, coming in and closing the door with care. "How was work?"
Terrible, she thought. Wretched, dull, painful. "All right," she told him. He worked so hard to support her, on top of his studies and his efforts to decode her father's research. Even though she knew he was only doing it so that he could have access to her back, she had no right to complain. "I was just... it's a good book."
It was one of the volumes that he had given her for her birthday. Riza saw the spark of recognition in his eyes, and was delighted when he smiled. "I'm glad you like it," he said.
She looked up at him, wanting to say something sweet and charming, but all thoughts of elocution died as she got a good look at him.
"Your hair!" Riza cried, springing to her feet and reaching up to pluck gently at his ravaged fringe. To her horror, she saw that there was a broad, glossy burn on his brow. "What happened?"
To her amazement, an enormous grin spread across his face. "I did it," he said breathlessly. "Your father's alchemy – I did it!"
"Oh."
The word fell flat as Riza's world deflated around her, but Mr. Mustang did not seem to notice. He was still talking animatedly. "It's really very simple," he said. "Well, simple in theory. It's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. I think my problem's the proportion of gases that I'm using. See, I had too much hydrogen, so it got out of control. That's how I singed my hair, and the rest."
Riza cried out in empathetic pain as he gestured a little with his left hand. The knuckles were blistered and red. She clutched the injured appendage, and stared at it in dismay. "Your poor hand..." she mourned.
He laughed a little. "It's all right," he said. "It's not important. Do you understand, Riza? I did it! I solved it!"
Mr. Mustang looked ready to float away on a cloud of triumphant bliss. His eyes were snapping with a joyous fire, and his voice was taut with delight. "All I need to do is practice," he said. "Once I've learned how to shape the flame, how to control it, then I'll be a sure shot for the State Alchemist exam!"
"And then you'll be able to make a difference," Riza said breathlessly, momentarily borne away by his excitement. "You'll have the power to change things for the better."
"Exactly," he said emphatically. "And I never could've got this far without you! Thank you, Riza! Thank you so much!"
Her brief exultation ebbed away. He was finished with her. After tonight, these visits would end. He had no further use for her: anything that he did for her now he would do out of charity, nothing more. He had a good heart, and he would not leave her to her own devices... but he did not need her anymore. Riza cast her eyes down.
"Y-you ought to soak your hand," she said, moving to the clothespress and pouring cold water into her washbasin. She sat on the bed, cradling the porcelain dish in her lap, and reached for Mr. Mustang's wrist.
He sat obediently beside her, and let her slip his hand into the water. She focused her gaze and her energy on it, scooping up fluid with her own small hand and trickling it over the burns.
"I know how hard it's been for you," Mr. Mustang said, his voice a little more subdued but still suffused with triumph. "I can't thank you enough. Your father's research is going to allow me to achieve my goals. I'll be able to help protect Amestris, to keep the people safe with my own hands."
Riza nodded mutely, gnawing the inside of her cheek and striving valiantly to hold back her tears. She didn't understand why she felt this way. She had known all along that this time would come. Now that it was here she should be able to accept it with grace. Instead, she felt as if her heart would break.
"You'll see," Mr. Mustang went on. "I can make things better. I know that I can. All I need is the chance, and now that I'll be able to become a State Alchemist, I'll get that chance. Riza, can you imagine a future like that?"
"A future where everyone can live in happiness," Riza whispered. The words were familiar. She had said them on the day of her father's funeral, wondering aloud whether such a future was possible. Whether she could invest her heart and soul in dreams of such a time. Mr. Mustang had told her then that she could. He reiterated it now.
"Exactly," he said. "That's what I want to accomplish, and I can't do it without help. Your help."
Riza looked at him wonderingly. Was he saying that he still needed her? Was such a thing even possible?
He withdrew his hand from her gentle grasp, drying it on the front of his tatty suit. "I need to be getting back," he said, running rueful fingers through his ravaged hair. "I'm exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Riza's throat went dry. Tomorrow? He was coming back?
"T-tomorrow," she stammered.
Mr. Mustang smiled and nodded affirmatively.
discidium
All his life, Roy had been ordered around. As a runaway and a gutter rat, he had been at the mercy of everyone from village corporals to railroad bums. In the Hawkeye house, he had meekly obeyed his sensei, and in the days before her committal to a State asylum, Mrs. Hawkeye as well. During the two years he had spent in Central, striving to achieve some proof that he had chosen a direction for his life, he had been on the very bottom rung of the hierarchy at a publishing house. By day, he took orders from the Academy instructors and the NCO support staff. By night, he danced to whatever tune the drunks on the waterfront chose to sing. Yet strangely enough, Roy found it hardest of all to take orders from his peers.
"That's not enough: more eggs!"
"I don't want the meat touching the hotcakes, you idiot!"
"Well, well! What'd Cadet Perfection do to deserve this?"
"What happened, Mustang? Forget to suck up to the wrong lieutenant?"
"Hurry up with that spatula: I haven't got all day!"
"I want exactly three-quarters of a cup of coffee, you alchemical wizard."
Roy looked up, startled, straight into a pair of mossy green eyes sparkling mischievously from behind rectangular spectacles.
"Maes!" he exclaimed. "Be quiet!"
Maes had almost whispered, but Roy had neglected to be so circumspect. The cadets in the line behind the third-year hooted with laughter.
"Oh, Maes!"
"Sucking up to the upper-years, too, Mustang?"
"Maes, be quiet!"
"You got told, Hughes!"
"Bossy little brat, isn't he?"
"Hey, shrimp, you should speak to your betters with more respect!"
Roy stiffened and slammed the serving spoon against the trestle table. "That's enough!" he said sharply, turning a murderous glare on the harassing crowd. "We're the men of the National Academy, not a horde of ravening Drachmans! Eyes front, plates out, and shut up!"
There was a startled silence. The cadets looked at one another, and then at Roy. Someone chuckled.
"You're all right, Mustang," one of the First Classmen said. "C'mon, Hughes, move along. We're all hungry, too!"
Roy gave Maes his coffee – three-quarters full, as requested. "Shape up or you don't eat!" he warned.
There was a widespread noise of amusement. Maes winked and moved along.
discidium
At lunchtime, the needling started out much as it had that morning.
"Hey, Mustang, what'd you do to pull this duty?"
Roy smirked. "I got tired of eating at the same table as the likes of you, Bartlett," he said amicably, sending the heckler off with a wave of the soup ladle.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"
"I wouldn't talk," Roy sneered. "Hold your plate steady. Hold it steady, Cadet!"
"I'm trying," the second-year said.
"Yes, very." Roy favoured him with a haughty grin as he shuffled along the line.
So it progressed. For every oh-so-witty comment thrown at him Roy had a sharp retort. The next day, the taunts were fewer. By the end of the week, the teasing had all but stopped. The act was successful: the snarky facade provided effective protection from the biting remarks of his peers. There was no fun in mocking one who could get the better of you.
An unintentional side-effect of the retaliatory sneering was that the others now looked upon Roy with greater esteem. Politeness and timidity were not respected in military circles. These were tough youths in the midst of intensive training designed to produce hardened men. Silence was perceived as weakness. A sharp retort spoke of strength and self-confidence. When Roy had born their remarks with quiet fortitude, they had looked down upon him. Now that he was giving as good as he got, he was an equal – not one to be victimized, but one to be tested as a comrade.
The change was surprising, and not unpleasant. Had Roy realized that a mask of confidence was all that he needed in order to ward off the hated attacks, he would have donned one long ago. With practice, he polished the skill of the sharp retort, and with each successive incident, his self-assurance grew.
Now he was more socially adept in the community of proto-soldiers – a society unlike any other. As an alchemist, too, he was developing by leaps and bounds. Any spare time was spent manipulating the air with increased skill and precision, and on Sunday mornings he would rise early and go out to the farmer's field to experiment with the proportions required for controlled combustion. There were a few more incidents of burned fingers, but no further damage was done to his clothing. His hair began to grow back, and each day brought him closer to perfecting his sensei's art. The third circle of the cipher, whatever it was, obviously did not contain any information that was fundamental to the mastery of flame alchemy.
The nightly visits to Riza continued, but they were brief. It was a rare night now when Roy was not in his bed by oh-three-hundred. He would have been better off physically if he had resigned from the tavern and reverted to weekend visits to the young girl, but the truth was that he needed to see her. He couldn't bear the thought of her, lonely and isolated in that wretched garret. At least by visiting her every day, he could assure himself that she was well. Though he did not admit it even to himself, Riza's wellbeing was the most important question on his mind. If only she could find better work: something more suited to a girl of her temperament and intelligence. Then life would be perfect.
There was a guilty part of his mind, too, that knew that he also wanted her to get a job with better wages. With the greatcoat paid off, the money from his work details was being sequestered away in an attempt to rebuild his savings, but the fifteen hundred sens that he needed in order to sit the State exam still seemed like an impossible amount of money. If only Riza could earn enough to pay her own rent, or even a portion of it, then maybe Roy could have a hope of taking the test. He knew that, to be just and for his own sanity, Riza's daily needs had to come before his goals, but he would have been lying if he said he didn't long for something to change. He hated himself for being so selfish, but he wanted to take the exam. He wanted to become a State Alchemist. And soon money would be the only obstacle.
