Chapter 18: Tools of the Trade
When a sixteen-year-old farm boy enlisted as a non-commissioned officer in the Amestrian military, the first thing he was issued was a uniform. The second was a sidearm. By the end of their sixteen weeks of training, NCOs were turned loose on the battlefield, heavily armed and ready for action.
Ironically, cadets at the National Academy did not get their hands on a gun until they had been studying for eighteen months. They had intensive theoretical training on the proper use of firearms, their role in distance and proximity combat, and even the mechanical structure of the weapons used in the military, but it was January of his second year before Roy actually held a pistol in his hands. Even then, it was two weeks of field stripping, cleaning, and pouring simple bullets from scraps of lead before the class was allowed onto the firing range in groups of twelve.
Captain Douglas was the arms instructor; a short, broad-shouldered man whose red air was cropped in a severe crew cut. He had removed his uniform jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of the white shirt despite the chill of the morning. He prowled up the line of cadets, tapping his gleaming Luger against his palm. A table bearing twelve similar pieces waited near the booths, and Roy knew that several of his compatriots were eyeing them hungrily.
"Now, I understand how it feels to be where you are now," Douglas said gravely. "You're eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. You think you're immortal. Nothing in the world can hurt you, and certainly no nine-inch conglomeration of gears and steel. Well, guess what, you cocksure kids! You're wrong."
He brandished his gun so that it gleamed in the winter sunlight. "Beautiful, isn't she?" he asked. "Beautiful and deadly. A shot from one of these things can rip your eye socket into a pulpy hole. It can shatter your hard pallet and make filet mignon of your brains. It can rip between your ribs and drive right into your heart. Or dig a crater in your leg that'll fester with gangrene until we have to chop it off. This baby is not a toy. It's not a joke. It's a thirty-one-ounce killing machine."
He slid the luger into his hip holster. Then he plucked up his shirt and hoisted it to reveal a triangle of bare chest, and a star-shaped scar just below his left floating rib. He jabbed at it with an emphatic finger.
"This was the handiwork of a smart-ass cadet who thought he knew better than the seasoned vet who was teaching him," he said. "One extraction and three surgeries later, and I still break wind like a rheumatic old woman."
Snickers ran up the line, but only softly. Douglas was glaring murderously at them.
"You treat your gun with respect, and it'll be good to you," he said. "You'll learn how to trust it. It'll be your best damned friend. Treat it with disrespect, and you're not going to live long enough to trust anybody."
He jammed his shirt back into his waistband, pausing for effect.
"I know you don't believe me," he sneered. "Because I'm an officer. Because I'm an old man. Because, let's face it, what else am I going to say? But I'll tell you this. If I catch anyone horsing around with the pistols, it'll be twenty laps and latrine duty for a month. If in the course of these lessons any of you are harmed as a result of juvenile shenanigans, every single one of you will be expelled. Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the twelve young men chorused.
"Fine." Douglas seemed to relax. "That being said, have a good time. There's nothing quite like the satisfaction of nailing your target, and by the end of these five weeks, I promise every damned one of you will be able to do that. Single file, please, and take a piece."
discidium
Maes came out of the tiny water closet with a basin of warm water and set it on the bedside table. He took a vial from between his teeth, and poured a little into the water.
"What's that?" Roy asked, squinting through his discomfort and clutching his right wrist.
"Tincture of arnica," said Maes. "Gare sent some in his last care package. It's good for muscle aches."
"How 'bout muscle death," Roy countered sourly.
Maes chuckled. "It's not dying," he said. "It's just stiff. Give it here."
Roy shook his head. Not to be so easily dissuaded, Maes seized the sore hand and plunged it into the water. Once it was immersed, he began working his thumbs into his friend's stiffening palm, digging at the spasming muscles.
"Ow, ow, Maes!" Roy yelped, trying half-heartedly to pull away – half-heartedly because he had to admit, at least to himself, that it felt kind of good.
"Hey, I told you to practice with the rubber ball," Maes said, no apology in his voice. "Why the hell d'you think they issued the damned things?"
"We're supposed to do this again tomorrow," Roy moaned. "I'm not going to be able to button my fly, let alone pull a trigger."
"No comment," Maes said dryly. "You'll loosen up after a few days. You just need more strength in your hands: they're flabby like a girl's."
"Are not! We were out there for two hours! Don't they oil those things?" It was a rhetorical question: Roy and the rest of the second-years had spent weeks learning how to lubricate weapons properly. He wriggled his last two fingers tentatively. They weren't as sore as the others, which were now starting to cramp up excruciatingly.
Maes laughed. "You think this is bad, just wait 'til you get to the swords. Old man Crawford's a sadist."
Roy grimaced. "I'm going to be a State Alchemist," he said. "Why do I have to learn how to use a sword?"
"Because." For a moment Roy thought Maes was stopping the explanation there, but then he realized that his friend was waiting for him to look up so that he could fix him with a grave stare. "There hasn't been a single officer in Amestrian history who made it past Colonel without learning how to use one. You want to change the world, fine. But to do that you need rank. And to get rank, you need to know how to use a sword. Got me?"
Roy rolled his eyes. "You know," he said; "if they don't want you in Criminal Investigations, you could always go in for a career in guidance counselling."
"Hah. I've already got a practice!" Maes rejoined. "A very exclusive one, mind you: Cadet Mustang's my only client." He let go of Roy's wrist and tossed him a hand towel, followed rapidly by the red rubber ball. "Squeeze that one hundred times fast, once an hour on the hour. Once the agony goes away, you'll be able to crack walnuts in your fist."
Roy favoured him with a long, exasperated glare. He didn't want to crack walnuts, he just wanted to get through ballistics training. And (he shuddered at the thought of aged Lt. Colonel Crawford's disciplinarian glare) swordplay.
discidium
On Riza's fourteenth birthday, Roy took her out for supper. They went to a proper restaurant, with real table linens and a waiter who came right to the table. Roy had only been in such a place once or twice, and for Riza it was a wholly new experience. He watched with pleasure as her carmine eyes took in her surroundings with wonder. She looked very becoming in her new dress – which of course was a second-hand dress that a friend of her employer's daughter had taken in for her – with her short hair like a fine cap of golden silk.
They ate quietly, exchanging snippets of conversation between bites of very nice roast chicken with southern vegetables. There was very little to do in the flower shop in the winter, Riza told him, and she had been doing much more tutoring lately. Roy couldn't imagine trying to teach a seven-year-old how to read. At the age of seven, he had been entirely illiterate, recognizing only the letter "U", and he still struggled with the reading level expected of a cadet. He admired Riza's gift for written language, and even envied it. She was probably a very good teacher, he thought, and he told her so.
Oddly enough, she flushed a little. "I'm not, really," she demurred. "But Kat can't go to school, of course, because somebody has to take care of Mikey. So I guess I'm better than nothing."
Roy wanted to point out that she had taught him a lot of things, in those early days when he had first come to live in her family's home, but he stopped himself. If he didn't talk about those days, maybe it would be as if they had never happened. He was ashamed of where he had come from, and he hated to think about it. The other cadets boasted of their families and their childhood adventures – even those who had no wealth were proud of their parents and the accomplishments of their siblings. Mustang, on the other hand, had nothing to boast about.
Nothing but Riza... but then, she wasn't his accomplishment. He had no claim to be a part of her triumphs. He had not made her the strong, brave young lady that she was.
At the end of the meal, Roy leaned towards her, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "Riza, we need to talk."
"About what, Mr. Mustang?" she asked. The words were formal, but the delivery was not. She was comfortable in his presence. She trusted him.
"I know that in the fall... you thought you wanted to join the military."
"I do want to join the military," Riza said. There was a hint of defiance in her voice.
"Well, that's what we need to talk about. I'll sign the permission form for you to enrol in the Academy at fourteen, but you still need a letter of endorsement from an officer. A lieutenant colonel or better, if you're going to be eligible to attend here." Roy braced himself. He knew she wouldn't like what he was going to suggest, but he couldn't see any other solution. "Brigadier General Grumman is due to return from the front in March. I'll go to him and see if he'd be willing to support your application. I know you don't want anything to do with him, but he wrote on my behalf and I'm sure he'd be willing to—" He stopped, the bewildered, cornered expression on Riza's face reigning him in short.
"I don't... I don't want that," she said.
"Why not?" Roy asked softly. "He's a good man. I promise you, he's a good man."
"I... I know that. I believe you." She didn't. He could see in her eyes that she was lying: she didn't believe he was a good man at all. She was afraid of him, and Roy couldn't understand why, but a nagging voice in the back of his head insisted that it had something to do with Hawkeye-sensei.
"Riza, you wouldn't have to see him. You wouldn't have to talk to him. I'd just—"
"No," Riza said firmly. "I don't want to have anything to do with him. I can take care of myself. I can figure this out myself."
"How?" Roy asked.
Riza swallowed so hard that he could see the strain on her white throat. "I don't know."
Roy closed his eyes. "Okay," he said. "I could talk to my instructors. They like me. Maybe someone would be willing to do me a favour—"
Riza shook her head. "That's very kind," she said; "but I'll figure something out. On my own."
She fixed him with a steady gaze, and in the twin pools of crimson, Roy recognized something very familiar. It was the stubborn streak that he remembered so well: the same stubborn streak that had convinced two adults grieving the death of their only son to take a beggar boy into their home. Riza had always been impossible to sway once she set her mind to something.
"All right," he said. "You let me know if you change your mind."
"I won't," Riza assured him primly.
And damn it if he didn't believe her.
discidium
One week before the lessons in swordplay were to begin, Lt. Colonel Crawford suffered a heart attack while working with a group of first-classmen. He was rushed into the city, and given the very best care, and within a week he was resting on a regular ward at the military hospital. What was obvious, however, was that he would not be doing any more teaching this term. Roy was relieved beyond words. He hated ballistics, and he had a feeling that swords were probably worse than guns.
Two days before the lessons had been scheduled, an announcement was posted in the mess hall. Alternate arrangements had been made for those cadets enrolled in blade combat training. A locum had been engaged: a soldier recalled from the western front to temporarily fill Crawford's place. The lessons would proceed as scheduled, and a list of the rotations was posted. Roy and nine others were to report on Thursday afternoon.
When Roy arrived in the small gymnasium, he saw that the instructor had not yet arrived. Six of his classmates – one of them female – were already present, and had shucked their uniforms in favour of the padded white fencing gear. There was a rack of wicked-looking katanas along one wall, and next to it stood an identical rack bearing rattan canes with wooden crosspieces. Roy exchanged hearty greetings with his classmates, and moved to the pegs bearing the coveralls. He changed quickly, but by the time he was finished the other three young men had arrived. They, too, were dressed and waiting by the time the gymnasium door finally swung open and an unexpected sight strode through it.
It was a woman, shorter than Roy with a petite but powerful build. She moved like a tigress, with coiled precision. Her hair was a white-gold waterfall of silk, cascading down her back and falling over her face so that it obscured one side of her sculpted jaw, part of her perfect nose, and the corner of her generous, dark mouth. Almost as an afterthought, he noted that she was wearing a duty uniform with captain's epaulettes.
"Ten-SHUN!" she barked, reminding the nine gawking men to follow Cadet Martins' example and snap into crisp salutes. The female officer regarded them with cold disdain. "Pitiful," she sneered. "I've seen straighter spines on the hunchbacks at the circus."
She came forward, moving down the line like a huntress, her hooded eyes assessing each cadet with haughty indifference. Her left hand rested on the hilt of a sword that hung against one trim hip. She stopped in front of Cadet Martins.
"Square those shoulders, soldier!" she snapped. The younger woman tried to obey. "Push the small of your back towards your navel, and tighten your buttocks."
Cadet Naugler, who was standing next to Roy, snickered. Instantly the ice-blue eyes were boring into him. "Something funny, Cadet?" she demanded.
"No, miss," said Naugler, his disrespect thinly veiled.
A second later, he was on his back. The blonde captain had seized his wrist and thrown him over her shoulder with the ease of a wrestling champion.
"After class, you and I are going to run a few laps of the parade grounds," she informed him coolly. "Anyone else who wants to call me 'miss' is more than welcome to join us." She looked disdainfully at Naugler. "Get up."
She strode up the line again, as confident as if she had been born in those gleaming combat boots. Now that the shock of seeing such a person in uniform was wearing off, Roy realized she was gorgeous. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and she exuded an aura of unfettered power and fearlessness that was even more astonishing than her looks. This, he realized, was what a commanding officer was meant to be: strong and bold and the epitome of confidence.
"I am Captain Armstrong," she was saying. "On TDY from the nineteenth regiment, currently stationed on the Creda border. I was pulled from the battlefield because you jackasses apparently drove your other instructor into heart failure."
"Heart attack, ma'am," Roy called out in the requisite military deadpan.
She wheeled on him. "What was that, Cadet?" she purred.
"It was a heart attack, ma'am, that took Colonel Crawford out of commission," Roy said, keeping his spine straight and his shoulders squared. She was intimidating as hell – but he was damned if he'd let her see it. He dared to curl his lip up ever so slightly into a tiny smirk. "And he wasn't our instructor, ma'am. This is our first lesson."
"Name, Cadet!" barked the captain.
"Mustang, ma'am!"
"Mustang, sir!"
The smirk grew ever so slightly. "Mustang, sir!" he repeated crisply.
For a fraction of a second, her confidence wavered. Roy could almost hear the thoughts behind the instant of weakness. He was meant to fear her. Why wasn't he afraid?
He was afraid. But he was also determined. Someday, he was going to be a high-ranking officer. Far above a captain. And when that day came, he was going to need a spine of steel, just like this mettlesome patrician beauty. Now was a perfect opportunity to practice.
She turned on her heel and marched up the line again. "Who instructed you to appear out of uniform?" she demanded, addressing the group as a whole.
"Sir, they're the fencing costumes, sir!" Cadet Martins said.
"I see. And will you be wearing fencing costumes when you face down enemies in the battlefield, Cadet?" Armstrong demanded.
"Sir, no sir!"
"Then there is no place for them here! In future, you will all report in full uniform! I'm here to prepare you for the real world, not for playing kiss-in-the-ring at the Fuhrer's garden parties! No helmets, no masks, no pretty white jumpsuits! Colonel Crawford might have let you get away with that nonsense, but then again he's flat on his back in a hospital bed now, isn't he?" She glared at them as if they were the scum of the earth. "Now pair off and take a sword."
Naugler and Lumley nodded at one another and started for the rack of rattan "weapons". Armstrong cleared her throat.
"Are you going to be using those against the Credoans?" she asked sweetly.
"No, sir!" barked Lumley.
"Or the Aerugans?"
"No, sir..."
"Well, perhaps the Ishbalan rebels who have been giving so much trouble? Maybe you'd go up against them with a little bit of cane with a nice wooden handle?"
"N-no, sir."
"Well then! There's no place for them in this lesson, either!" She tossed her head so that her long hair rippled. "I realize that they handle you brats with kid gloves. Personally, I think that's horseshit. You're soldiers, and I expect you to behave like soldiers. That means I also have to treat you like soldiers. So pick out a sword, and let's get to work, here! The day's wasting!"
By the end of the afternoon's lesson – much verbal abuse and many bruises later – Roy returned to his dormitory room with two ideas firmly fixed in his mind. One was that by the end of the four weeks of sword training, his technique would be beyond reproach. The other was more ambitious. He had spotted the chink in Captain Armstrong's armour. He now intended to do his utmost to crack the breastplate open and watch it fall away.
