Chapter 30: Dagger of the Mind

Roy waited breathlessly, his heart beating out a desperate staccato in his chest. He had not slept well at all last night, flopping about like a fish out of water while he relived the exam question by question – and worse, rewrote his answers.

From the expressions of those around him, he was not the only one who had done so. There were ninety-six candidates, and most of them looked half sick with anxiety. To distract himself, Roy studied his fellow candidates. There mean age of the examiners was about forty, and many of them looked as if they had done this before. Roy had noticed that yesterday: they had seemed confident and collected, needing no instructions and anticipating the invigilators' actions. Today, they were the most nervous of the lot. Roy felt a jolt of pity accompanied by a hollow echo of terror as he imagined the next thirty years, attempting the test again and again while his hair grew grey and his spine curled forward under the burden of arthritis, and Riza went on to sculpt a bright and wonderful future in which he could take no part...

He shuddered and resumed his study of the others. There were nine women, none of them especially attractive. Off to one side stood two youngish men in smartly tailored suits. They looked like they spent fifteen thousand sens on a pretty girl and a night on the town. Roy wondered with a pang of jealousy why they were even here.

A great number of the applicants had the lean, genteelly shabby look of underfed academia. They wore tatty suit jackets and mismatched socks, their hair was overgrown and their jaws had only a passing familiarity with a razor. These men roused nostalgic and halfway bitter memories of Hawkeye-sensei in the early years, before grief and his obsession with secrecy had started to corrode his sanity.

Thinking of the good that his sensei could have done with a State Alchemist's licence, Roy felt afresh the terror of failure. Had Hawkeye turned his hand to the service of the people he might have saved soldiers and civilians alike. He might have helped to end the strife with Creda and Aerugo. Most importantly, he would have had a higher purpose to draw him out of his sorrow and despair and his caustic self-absorption.

Failure was unthinkable, but Roy's odds of making it through this process were, at best, one in forty-eight. A wave of cold nausea washed over him.

The door to the Twisted Jade Alchemist's offices opened, and out came a brace of Second Lieutenants. Each carried a sheet of paper and they tacked them to the wall: one on each sied of the door.

"Failing grades on your left," said one of the aides. "Those of you who passed, report to Conference Room D on the third floor fifteen minutes before your scheduled time." He and his compatriot retreated behind the door as the "pass" list was mobbed.

Roy wanted to rush forward with the others, but he was cognizant of the dignity that he owed to his uniform. He hung back, edging around the throng and making his way to the abandoned "fail" list instead. Logan, he read. Lyle. Mardian. Moore. Mulberry. Murdoch. Northrop...

His knees turned to jelly. He had not failed the written exam. He was among the lucky third whose stay of execution had been extended to the psychological evaluations.

He stepped back, waiting patiently as the disappointed slunk away. Sixty-five people had been culled out, including one of the well-dressed men whose appearance had so annoyed Roy only minutes before. Now he felt a kind of detached empathy: that could so easily have been him, slinking away and shaking his head in frustration.

Once the crowd had thinned a little, Roy moved up to look for his name on the list of successful examinees. His appointment time was listed as fifteen hundred fifteen hours: he had to be upstairs at three o'clock. It was not yet half-past nine.

With six hours to kill, Mustang found the stairs and descended to the atrium. He walked its perimeter, the motion in his legs draining away some of his tension. He studied the sequential portraits of the Fuhrers of Amestris as he walked. There was a mnemonic rhyme for remembering their names in order, but Roy had not endured enough in school to learn it. He relied instead upon the brass nameplate beneath each of the sixty-three pictures.

Cassius Bismarck was first: Cassius the Conqueror, the lean and hungry-eyed general who had led the revolt that had overthrown the corrupt and chaotic oligarchy, and who had established military rule in Amestris. A little further down was Andrew W. Aubry, famous for the great southern expansion in which his armies had clawed away massive tracts of land from the Aerugans and established South City. Ironically, he had been succeeded with Wilfred Ignatius Briggs, better known for the northern expeditions that he had headed as a brash young major than for any deed done during his tenure of power. Roy couldn't recall the accomplishments of the next several men, though one had the most unattractively bulbous nose he had ever seen. He paused at the portrait of bull-necked Oliver Wendell Armstrong, who had made it a priority to provide funding and patronage for the arts during his time in office. From what Roy had gathered from the complaints of various female students at the University, that funding had been cut drastically in the century since Armstrong's term in office. Mustang didn't care much about the arts either way, but he did wonder if this heavily-moustached, patrician general was some distant ancestor of the draconian Captain Armstrong who had taught him to use a sword.

He continued on, past Lloyd Zephyr, who had held the post of Fuhrer President for only twenty-nine days, from his inauguration to his sudden and mysterious death in the presidential mansion in Central (which set him apart from the other short-reigning Fuhrers who had all been slain in battle). He had been succeeded by Octavian Borden, alias Quicksilver... the only Fuhrer to have begun his career as a State Alchemist.

Roy lingered at that portrait, studying the saturnine face with its remarkably blue eyes. Funny to think that a Fuhrer of Amestris had once stood in Roy's place, anxiously awaiting the next portion of the most important exam of his life. It was an oddly comforting, but also daunting, prospect.

Two portraits down from Borden was the slightly portly Wesley McFarland, last of the past Fuhrers. Roy remembered the day of his death: Hawkeye-sensei had been in the mood to celebrate, and he had done so by doling out brandy to everyone, even eight-year-old Riza.

Last of all hung the painting that was replicated on the current five-sens stamp: King Bradley in full dress, seated with his hands clasped over the hilt of his elegant sabre. There was a hint of a politician's smile on his face, and his lone eye gazed benevolently upon his nation.

For some Roy felt strangely unsettled. Anyhow, he thought dismissively, he couldn't stay here for the next five hours: he'd be arrested for loitering. There were a few important preparations that he had to make before the practical exam tomorrow, and now seemed like the ideal time to make them. Because in spite of his nervousness, he had no doubt at all that he would pass the psychological assessment.

And yet if that were true... why was he so anxious?

discidium

Conference Room D had been sectioned in two by curtained screens that looked as if they belonged in a hospital. There was no reason for the division, for only one candidate was admitted at a time, but it did give Roy the vague impression that he was being set up for an ambush, as if someone was going to spring from behind the sterile white barrier and attempt to garrotte him.

He stood at attention next to the single wooden chair set out before the panel's table, using the military trick of scanning the five men before him without moving his eyes. General Haman, the Twisted Jade Alchemist sat in the centre of the table, an impressive figure with his chest full of service ribbons and his gaunt, ascetic face. To his right sat a military doctor wearing a white coat over his uniform, and beyond him sat an enormous, muscular man with a thin black moustache. Though Roy could not place him, he knew he had seen the man before, and felt equally certain that he had a very deep voice. A silver watch-chain was visible at his belt: he was a State Alchemist. At the general's left was a middle-aged major with a thick, greying thatch of hair and very patient eyes. Next to him sat a very bored-looking master sergeant with strawberry-blonde hair.

"Have a seat... Cadet," the large man said, his moustache flapping in a way that might have been ridiculous had his entire demeanour prohibited such a thought. There was just a hint of scorn in his voice as he fixed his eyes on the rank insignia on Roy's epaulettes.

"Thank you, sir," Mustang said crisply. If there was one thing he did well, it was taking orders. He sat, his spine so straight that it made no contact with the back of the chair.

"Mustang, is it?" the Twisted Jade Alchemist said, consulting the papers in front of him.

"Yes, General."

"Well, Mustang, Doctor Krause has a few questions to put to you. Answer as completely as you can, but be brief. Huxley will signal you with a yellow card if you're beginning to ramble. If he shows a red card, you had better shut up. Understood?" Haman said curtly. At his far left, the master sergeant held up the two coloured cards demonstratively.

"Understood, sir." A nasty voice in the back of Mustang's mind hissed that this was not going well. He sounded like one of those wax dolls with the pull-strings in their backs.

The doctor in the white coat fixed Roy with a steely frown. "Do you have any family history of mental abnormalities, emotional disturbances, alcohol dependency, criminal infringements or treason?"

That would be an easy one to fake: obviously they wanted a "no". But the lie died on Roy's tongue. "I don't know," he said instead. "My parents died when I was young, and I don't know anything about my family history."

The physician made some kind of notation, and the general raised one eyebrow. Roy felt his pulse quicken a little. Maybe he should have fibbed... what if they held his ignorance against him? He could have—"

"Do you yourself have any tendencies towards any such behaviour?"

"No," Roy said, this time letting the lie trip smoothly out. Mental abnormalities? Probably not, unless his childhood stupidity counted. Emotional disturbances, yes. He couldn't control his emotions the way that he was supposed to, the way that he was trained to. The last few days had proved that... but he couldn't think about that now. He couldn't think about that now. He had to stay focused. Focus. Focus.

"As a child, were you frequently disciplined for fighting with other children?"

"Not frequently," Roy said uneasily. He remembered one particular fight, in which Maes Hughes had done the bulk of the swinging... but the truth of the matter was that he had never had enough contact with other children to get into frequent altercations.

"As a child, did you ever injure, torment or kill small animals?"

"Did I what?" Roy choked out before recalling himself. He cleared his throat a little and tried to sit back. The effort failed.

"Snare birds just to tease them, or pull the wings off of flies, or cut up a squirrel," the doctor said. "Did you ever do anything like that?"

"Of course not!" A slightly nervous laugh escaped. What kind of a question was that?

"As a child, were you prone to defying authority? Were you frequently in conflict with parents, teachers, or other adults?"

Roy nodded. "I wasn't... I wasn't always obedient," he admitted. "But my record at the Academy is spotless, and—" He stopped, horrified. His spotless record was about to be besmirched with an unforgivable offence: he had disobeyed a senior officer, and absconded from a practical placement. He would be reprimanded, suspended, perhaps even expelled, and no one would understand that he had had no choice—

Damn it, he couldn't think about that now. The physician was scribbling madly on the paper before him, one eye still scrutinizing his expression. Roy was visited by the horrifying feeling that the man could see right through his forehead into the workings of his brain...

Ridiculous, he told himself. He was just being paranoid. He was thinking too hard about this... but these were not at all the type of questions he had been expecting.

"How would you describe the relationships you had with other children?"

"How would I..." He shook his head blankly. How on earth was he supposed to answer that? "I had a friend," he tried lamely.

"Dominant? Submissive? Equitable? Were you often in charge of the games or activities? Were you bullied? Did other children look up to you?"

"No... a little... yes..." A hot flush was working its way up from Mustang's collar, and he wished that he could slink away with what was left of his dignity. In his discomfiture, he didn't notice the way the physician's mouth twitched as he made another notation.

"Would you care to elaborate?" he asked sweetly.

"I... my best friend and I had an equitable relationship, I guess. I mean, I was younger, and I didn't understand a lot of things at first, so he used to be in charge, but after a couple of summers we just... did things together. And there was a gi—there was a kid who looked up to me, I think. But..." Roy flinched. He didn't sound like his new, confident self at all. For the first time, he wondered if he had left New Mustang behind in the railroad camp. It was a terrifying prospect. "But I admired her – er – them. I admired that person, too."

"Hmm."

The major with the patient eyes cast a sidelong glance past General Haman, pursing his lips at the white-coated doctor. Roy was too distracted to notice. He hadn't really expected them to get into his head like this. He was thinking about things he hadn't considered in years... and he didn't much like it.

"In your adolescence, would you have described yourself as popular? Unpopular? Ordinary?"

What a question... he was still in his adolescence. He was only eighteen. "P-popular," Roy said. "I mean, my classmates like me – the instructors at the Academy – and..." A miraculous thing happened: his left shoulder dropped ever so slightly into a cocky lilt and he smirked. "And I'm especially popular with the ladies," he said suavely.

"With the ladies?" the physician said sharply. "Are you presently involved in a serious romantic relationship of any kind?"

It was just the kind of question that Mustang loved. "Naw, of course not!" he said airily. "When you've got a whole smorgasbord to sample from, why tie yourself down to one dish?"

That would have elicited laughs from his fellow cadets. Here, it wasn't received quite so well: the doctor impassively noted it. Haman closed his eyes to hide the fact that they were rolling. The muscular alchemist's moustache twitched. The middle-aged major frowned ever so slightly. Master Sergeant Huxley, at least, snorted into his hand.

"Are you morally or financially responsible for any vulnerable persons?"

Roy thought of Riza, to whom he stood as legal guardian. Technically, he supposed that made him morally responsible for her to some degree, but by no stretch of the imagination was she a vulnerable person. He shook his head. "No."

The physician exhaled through his nose and sat back, rapping his pen against the papers. "Fine," he said. "Your turn, Major Gran."

The moustached alchemist leaned forward onto his elbow, his cold eyes locking on Mustang. "Which comes first: duty to family, or duty to the State."

This was more like it: these were the questions Roy excelled at. He had always had a philosophical bent, even as a young boy. It had driven Hawkeye-sensei to distraction, Mustang thought smugly. "In a way they're the same," he said. "I mean, I don't have much family, but if I did, they'd be Amestrian citizens. They'd live in Amestris, and they'd work in Amestris, and they'd suffer or flourish with Amestris. So by serving the State I'd be serving the best interests of my family, now wouldn't I?"

No response came, of course, except in the form of another question. "You're a third year cadet? So you have some perception of what it is to serve your country. But I'd like to know how far that goes with you, Mustang. How much would you be willing to sacrifice for Amestris? Your life? Your health? Your limbs? Freedom? Youth? Your personal convictions?"

"I'm a soldier, sir," Roy said levelly. "I hope that means that I would be willing to sacrifice whatever my country asked of me."

Gran nodded once, bluntly. "Why State Alchemist, Cadet?" he asked. "Why not earn your rank the old-fashioned way?"

"I don't care about the rank, sir," Roy said. "I have a gift, and I think that I should use it for the good of the masses. Alchemists, be thou for the people. I can do more good as a State Alchemist than I would be able to do as a junior officer. With talent comes a responsibility to do good."

"But couldn't you do good in a little town somewhere?" a soft voice asked. It was the major with the patient eyes. "Or you could affiliate yourself with the University, and teach. You don't need to be on the battlefield to help the people of Amestris. There's more to be done behind the lines than—"

Haman turned on him. "Tim, I've warned you," he growled under his breath.

The major wilted away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, but though his words were for the general, his eyes were fixed on Roy. There was a warning in them, but Mustang didn't understand it. Anyway, he had a question to answer.

"It's true," he said; "there are many ways to do good, but as a State Alchemist I would have the resources and the authority to make a difference on a large scale. It's more than just serving in battle: maybe one day I could help shape the laws and policies of the State. There are a lot of things that need to be changed, and I could help to do that."

"Change?" the Twisted Jade Alchemist said, chuckling grimly. "We have a revolutionary in the making here! What would you change?"

"Oh, no, I'm not a..." Roy almost mouthed the next word: it was almost profane. "... republican. I'm just... well, there aren't enough laws to protect our children, for example. The State orphanages are deplorable places. If we could replace them with a formalized foster system that would take the place of the informal arrangements already in existence in many communities—"

Haman held up his hand for silence. "Enough," he said. "That has nothing to do with your psychological fitness to serve as a State Alchemist. If you want to save the puppies and kittens, you can do so on your own time: don't preach to me about it. State Alchemists are responsible for guaranteeing the safety of the citizens, not for engineering social reform."

"But that's my point!" Roy protested, good sense fleeing in the face of his conviction. "Amestrian children aren't safe if a single act of fate can rob them from their only protection from an outmoded law. Other nations are instituting legislation to guarantee the rights of disenfranchised minors. Creda for instance has—"

"As you were, Cadet!" barked Haman, shooting to his feet and slamming his knuckles down on the table. "You are deviating from the point: this interview is over."

The major turned to look at the angry alchemist. "But General," he said; "I think it's very relevant—"

"I realize that all this appeals to your bleeding heart, Marcoh, but that doesn't make it relevant," the Twisted Jade Alchemist said dismissively. "Get out of here, boy. Send in the next candidate."

Roy's eyes widened in horror. He had somehow blundered... he had ruined his chances of becoming a State Alchemist... he had...

"Cadet," Gran said with the curt military authority in which orders ought to be spoken; "you are dismissed."

Somehow Roy got his feet under his body, and in a feat of self-control he made it to the door. He even managed to tell the waiting woman that it was her turn to go in. But the moment he was around the corner and out of sight of the conference room, he stumbled against the wall, leaning upon a conveniently placed radiator. He buried his face in one hand and succumbed to his consternation.

What had he done?