Chapter 12: Obstacles
The rainclouds smothered Central in a greyish gloom, hanging like a gravid blanket over the city. The skies had been emptying themselves since before dawn, and the streets were choked with mucky runoff. On the grounds of the National Academy, the sane were immured indoors studying or attending lectures or wasting the afternoon in indolence. The insane, Roy Mustang reflected, stood on the edge of the parade grounds in shirtsleeves and weight belts, awaiting Captain Pike's orders.
Beyond the stands from which drills were observed stretched the aspen woods that were enclosed in the compound. The little forest hid the obstacle course that one-quarter of the class had been assigned to complete today. Because of the rain, they had been given the option of rescheduling to a different evening. Some had gladly accepted the out and would do it next Friday. A slim majority had decided otherwise, and was here anyway. The obstinate ones could not let the weather get the best of them. Others wanted to get the unpleasant task out of the way so that they could start dreading it. A few, Roy among them, had no choice: hectic schedules would allow no last-minute changes.
The truth was that Roy was looking forward to the challenge. He knew that many of his classmates had been spending time on the course in the hopes of improving their scores, but he had had no time. He was going in blind, and there was something exhilarating about the prospect. It was a chance to prove to himself and to his classmates just what Roy Mustang could do.
It was strange how the breakthrough with his sensei's alchemy had bolstered the young cadet's confidence. Roy practiced on Sunday mornings, usually under the wary eye of Maes Hughes. Each week he gained a little more control, and the little victories were nourishing a new self-assurance. Roy knew that he held his head higher and his shoulders more square than he had in the past. His voice was firmer, louder – and not only when he was taunting his peers. He had more faith in his own abilities, now that he was proving himself in his art.
Pike was striding up the row of damp cadets, assigning partners for the exercise. He came to Roy and paired him with Cadet Farrell. Verner Farrell was a brawny young man of nineteen, with broad shoulders, crew-cut blonde hair, and an attitude of entitlement. In the past, he had been one of the chief players in the mockery of skinny, Xingese-eyed Cadet Mustang. Though the recent lack of a receptive audience had stemmed the tide somewhat, and sapped the enthusiasm of many of his followers, Farrell was far from fond of the younger cadet. As Pike moved on to his next pair of victims, Farrell leered at Roy out of the corner of his icy blue eyes.
"The course is marked with orange posts," Pike barked. "Stick to the marked path. Understand me? Stick to the marked path. I don't want to hear any sob stories from idiots who went the wrong way. Also, you're to stay with your partner. You are responsible for everything he does, so stick to him like glue. If one of you makes it through and the other doesn't, or you finish at different times, or you go through different checkpoints, then both of you fail. Understood?"
"Understood, sir!" the cadets chorused crisply.
They were sorted into a line, and Pike wound up a heavy stopwatch. Every thirty seconds, he sent another pair jogging forward. Roy and Farrell were next-to-last: only the one group of three stood behind them.
"Aaand... GO!" Pike barked.
Roy took off at a steady trot, pumping his arms neatly in the way that he had been taught. When he had been small, running had been a chaotic thing. In the days... before – the vague term that his mind used for those hellish years prior to his unheralded arrival in the Hawkeyes' back yard – he had only moved so quickly when he absolutely had to. To run had been to pour out what little energy his small starved body had had in a desperate attempt to escape some danger, either real or imagined. Later, in his prepubescent years, he had only run when in the company of Maes: a mode of conveyance full of youthful abandon.
At the Academy, he had learned that running was more than that. It was a precision motion, a tightly controlled process with its own set of rules and its own standards. To run properly, one had to perfect the technique and to execute it with care each time. Like all other skills, it required attention, dedication and practice.
Beside him, Farrell was moving in an identical manner – save that instead of keeping his eyes front he kept leering at Mustang. As they rounded a tree and came upon the first orange marker, he spoke.
"You better not hold me back, Mustang," he huffed, the need to keep his breath level and controlled robbing him of the ability to speak with a normal cadence. "You might be the instructors' favourite golden boy, but we both know you're no soldier."
"Maybe," Roy said smoothly. "But at least I have the basic intelligence required to qualify as an officer. And I can run and speak at the same time."
The path took a sharp turn to the left, and there was a steep descent into the creek bed. The rain had rendered the path slippery and muddy, and the two cadets banked as they moved into their descent, scuttling down on the sides of their boots. Roy lost his footing about halfway down, and would have slipped, save that he caught hold of a loose root and managed to regain his balance.
Farrell cursed. "I told you!" he said. "The military is no place for slope-eyed pantywaists!"
Roy whipped his head around to look over his shoulder at his partner. "You've never seen a panty waist in your life," he sneered. "I doubt you've even seen a petticoat."
Verner scowled blackly, but by this time they had reached the bottom of the bed. There was a log spanning the swollen creek, and a little further upstream there were four broad stones protruding from the swirling waters. Farrell made for the log, but Roy grabbed his arm.
"Don't," he said, pointing at deep grooves in the mud to either side of the makeshift bridge. "The ground's too soft, and the log has been rolling. I'll bet more than one pair's taken a tumble."
"You can't be serious!" Farrell snapped as they approached the stones. "The current's too fast and the water's too high!"
Roy contemplated continuing the argument, but each moment wasted was another moment added to their time. Instead, he darted forward and leaped nimbly onto the first stone. With four more long, springing strides, he crossed the creek, turning to look back.
"Hurry up," he drawled, cocking one eyebrow scornfully. "You better not hold me back."
Farrell rolled his eyes and climbed onto the log. He took three confident steps. Then, as Roy had predicted, the tree trunk pitched south, and Farrell lost his balance, landing with a splash in the frigid water. He thrashed on his back for a moment, then found his footing and tried to scramble up the slippery bank. His feet slipped from beneath him, and he pitched onto his stomach.
There was a roar of laughter from the opposite bank: the last group had caught up, and they were watching with vindicated amusement. Roy looked at the other three young men, and realized abruptly that perhaps Verner was not as popular as he had thought him to be. The others seemed gratified to see him in such an undignified position.
He had more immediate concerns, however. A mud-spattered face glared up at Roy from the mucky creek bed. He strode back towards his partner and extended a hand.
"Come on, Cadet!" he said sternly. "We have a job to do."
Verner glowered in resentment, but he took the proffered leverage and let Roy haul him up. Not waiting for any further discourse, Cadet Mustang grabbed hold of one of the ropes draped over the steep embankment, and started to scale the mucky eight-foot cliff. Wordlessly, Verner took the other.
There was a log wall to climb, old truck tires to leap over, a very damp culvert to slither through. There were pitfalls to avoid, loose patches of path to be navigated, and a field of dummy mines armed with ear-splitting alarms to navigate. All of it had to be done at a steady running pace, and more than once the two cadets were obliged to help one another. Nevertheless, they made good time, and passed pair after pair of their fellow trainees. When at last Mustang and Farrell emerged on the other side of the parade grounds, rain-soaked, sweat-drenched and muddy (Verner moreso than Roy), they clocked in at a secure second place, despite the holdup at the first obstacle.
As the sodden cadets crowded around a table in the mess hall, drinking hot tea and towelling one another's hair, Roy tried to inch away from the group. He had to get changed and ready for latrine duty before grabbing a little supper and running off to work. He was halfway to the door, when Farrell started after him.
"Hey, Mustang!" he snapped.
Roy froze, expecting the worst as the bigger cadet came up behind him. "Farrell."
The next words were whispered. "Why didn't you cut me down in front of the others?" Farrell demanded. "I mean, I've done it to you enough times. Why not take revenge?"
Roy regarded him as coldly as he could. "You were on my team," he said. "It would have been counterproductive to make you feel like garbage."
There was a brief silence while Verner sized him up. "Oh," he said flatly. "Well... good work today."
"Thank you," Roy said curtly. He turned and strode away then stopped at the door. They had been teammates today, united for a common purpose, and they had done well. That most certainly did not make them friends. "Just watch out next time: I'll cut you down in a minute if the opportunity arises."
There was a small, oddly respectful grunt, and as he strode away Roy squared his shoulders a little more confidently as a tiny swagger slipped into his precise, military stride. Another victory for Mustang, he thought.
discidium
Riza's carmine eyes were shining like rubies in the candlelight, and somehow the sight caught Roy completely off-guard. He was tired and stiff, and he still felt damp, though he knew that the last symptom was purely psychological, since the rain had stopped sometime after twenty-two-hundred hours. It was a shock to see someone looking so... radiant.
She was obviously bursting with excitement, but as always she waited for him to speak.
"Hey, Riza," he said, closing the door with care. "Did you have a good day?"
"I know what I want to do!" she exclaimed quietly, her voice ignited with enthusiasm.
"Do?" he echoed, startled.
"Yes!" Riza's head bobbed in delight. "I'm going to join the military."
Roy's throat went suddenly dry. "What?" he croaked.
"I'm going to enrol in the Academy, too!"
"You're too young," gasped Roy, choking out the first thing that came to mind, despite knowing just how much he would have hated to hear such a comment.
To his surprise, Riza didn't seem in the least bit upset. "I know," she confided, nodding. "I'm only thirteen now, but next year when I'm fourteen I can apply."
"No you can't," he said, relieved. "You need parental permission."
"I don't have any parents," argued Riza. "It's perfect: I can contribute, just like you do. I'll be able to do something with my life, and I can attend university just like you and Maes Hughes, and—"
"You can go to university without joining the military," Roy protested.
She shook her head. "There isn't any money for that," she told him sombrely. Then her smile reappeared. "But the military would pay for it, and I would have lodgings and board, and two hundred sens a week per diem. Maybe I could even help you save the money for your exam."
Roy flinched. How did she even know about that? He couldn't remember telling her: had it perhaps slipped out in the hazy nights of discouraged exhaustion that he had spent over her back. He didn't want her to feel guilty about the money. It wasn't her fault that her father had died almost penniless. He had been glad to help then, and he was still proud to assist her in whatever small way he could. He was proud of her, working so hard despite her youth. None of these thoughts made it to his lips.
"That's ridiculous," he said cuttingly. "You can't join the military. Do you have any idea what it means?"
Riza drew back one uneasy step, her eyes widening and her delight fading. Roy didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't let her labour under the delusion that military life was a safe and ideal way to build a future for herself.
"The Academy is hard work, Riza! You're so busy learning how to march and drill that you hardly have any time to study. I can't put in even a fraction of the time I want to working on my alchemy, and you'd never be able to take all the courses you want at the university. And never mind that: when you're finished school you'll be an officer! Don't you know what that means? They could send you into battle. You could be hurt. Maimed. Killed. You could die in a ditch like a dog! You should hear the stories Maes has about the front lines! Poor food, no sleep, men torn to pieces by Aerugan shells. What about Ira? Do you want to die like that, with a festering wound in your chest?"
"No, of course not!" Riza cried softly. Her eyes were still bright, but with tears now. "Nobody would want to die that way, but what about what you said? That the soldiers have to fight and suffer so that ordinary people can be happy? What about building a better future? What about your dreams?"
"They're my dreams!" Roy exclaimed. "I don't want you to die for them!"
Riza narrowed her crimson eyes, and the motion caused one tear to spill out onto each cheek. Her expression, however, was determined and even defiant. "That isn't fair!" she snapped. "It isn't just your dream! You're not the only one who's working for it! You wouldn't even be able to become a State Alchemist without my father's research, and I'm the one carrying it! I've been here every night, waiting for you to solve it. I've been just as tired and hurt and discouraged as you have, only I wasn't allowed to say anything!"
It was true. She had never once complained, no matter how cold the room had been, or how long he had spent staring at her naked body, studying the hideous burden with which she had been afflicted. She had put up with hunger and misery and a dreadful, debasing factory job, all to provide him with access to her father's research. But now, when all was going well – why did she want to set herself on a road that would only bring her more suffering?
"You can't join anyhow," he said. "Even if it wasn't such a terrible idea, you're much too young."
"I'll be fourteen in February—"
"You can't enrol at fourteen without parental permission!" Roy repeated. "I wanted to my first year away. Your grandfather said—"
"I can't get parental permission: my parents are dead!" Riza protested. She looked genuinely alarmed, as if this hurdle had not even occurred to her. "I'm living on my own, I have a job, I don't need—"
"You aren't even supposed to be living alone!" Roy told her. "They'd send you to the State orphanage if the authorities found out. If you try something stupid..."
"Like what?"
"Like forging your father's signature," Roy said. "If you try something stupid they could lock you up."
"That's ridiculous," Riza said, but there was doubt in her voice.
"Besides, you're a girl!" he added.
"What has that got to do with anything?" she exclaimed. "Girls can be in the military!"
Roy had been startled by his own exclamation, and her disputation was so obviously true. "Well, yes, they can," he allowed; "but they don't have to be. You could... uh..."
"Get married?" Riza snarled. "Have babies? Slave away keeping an empty house neat and clean? Even if I did want to do that, which I don't, what kind of man would want to marry me? I don't want to be an accountant in a flower shop forever. I want to do something worthwhile. You don't have any right to tell me what to do with my life!"
"Of course I don't, but I can't let you do something like this! Even if you could get a signature from your grandfather or something, the Academy's not an easy place for girls! There are three in my year, and they're... they're not very nice." They were abrasive and standoffish and twice as tough as their male compatriots. They had to be: it was the only way for them to survive in a hostile environment. Though he respected them as classmates, he didn't want Riza to become like them.
"There's a woman in the military who's a captain at twenty-three!" Riza told him. "She enrolled when she was fourteen. If she can do it, I can do it."
It was at that moment that Roy realized there was nothing he could do to talk her out of it. She had told him once that she was just as stubborn as he was, and he believed it. She had been a strong-willed little girl, and though years of her father's brutal mistreatment had turned her into a meek and withdrawn little wraith, it was obvious that some of that obstinacy remained like a skeleton of tempered steel. She wasn't going to give up, and he had no right to try to force her to. She deserved a dream, even if it was the same naive notion to which he so desperately clung. She had a right to decide what to do with her life, even if he did not like the idea.
"Riza," he said softly. "I think it's a bad idea, but—"
"I don't care what you think!" Riza cried. "You can't stop me; you have no right to stop me! I don't need you anymore, and I'm not going to let you control my life! I'm old enough to take care of myself, and I'll join the military if I want to! Now go away and leave me alone!"
Roy gawked. "Riza, I—"
"Get out! Go away!" She gestured at him, waving him away.
"Riza, I care about you—"
"No you don't!" she shouted. "Did you care about me when you left without even bothering to say goodbye? When you left me all alone with my father and his research? When you never, not even once, in two years..." She seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say, for she turned her tirade in a different direction. "I don't want you telling me what to do! If that's the price for taking your help, then I don't want it! Now get out of my room! I pay for it now, and it's mine, so get out!"
"But—"
Riza pushed past him and wrenched open her door. "OUT!"
Afterwards Roy dimly remembered stumbling down the stairs and into the street. It was not until he was back on Academy soil, safe between the standard-issue sheets of his bed that he let the reality come crashing down. They had had a fight. He had fought with Riza, the one person on earth – apart from Maes, of course – who he cared about. He had been wrong to force his charity upon her, and to try to tell her what she could and could not do. She was brilliant, intelligent, determined, educated... beautiful. She could do anything she wanted, including join the military and be a captain at twenty-three, like this mythical female soldier about whom she had heard. He had no right to crush her dreams, not when she had given everything to support his.
Roy did not go to see Riza the following night: he did not want to inflict his unwanted presence upon her. Somehow, it did not seem appropriate to go back the next night, either. Or the next. Or the next. He couldn't go back to her until he had some way to make it right.
