Edward yawned and patted Yuriy's head where it rested on his shoulder. It had taken hours of comforting and cuddling, but his son had worn himself out after screaming Edward and Winry awake before the sun had risen that morning. "At least someone got back to sleep."
Winry cracked another egg into the skillet on the range and looked over her shoulder. "Poor little one."
"Poor us," Edward said. He leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table and yawned again.
She smiled and turned back to their breakfast. Cooking made her happy. She struggled a little at her stage with some things, like bending down to pull dishes from the oven, but she often refused any assistance. Still, he asked, "Are you sure you don't want help with anything?"
"I'm sure," she said. Over her head and through the window, he could see storm clouds rolling on the horizon. "Did you cut the fruit like I asked?"
Edward tipped the big ceramic bowl of grapes and apples and peaches and strawberries toward him. "You wanted this cut?"
She wheeled around, eyes wide and with an eggy spatula in one hand. "Ed—"
He grinned. "I'm kidding. It's done." It had been hard with Yuriy in one arm, but after two years of fatherhood he had mastered the art of doing everything with one hand.
She shook her head and turned away again. "I swear, Ed. I almost threw this at you."
He stood, careful to not rouse his son, and brought the wet cutting board and knife to the sink next to the range. "It would have been like old times."
When he reached for the faucet knob, she said, "Leave it. We'll get it after."
He leaned against the basin and rubbed Yuriy's back. "Maybe we can convince Al and Mei to do clean up."
Winry smiled and looked at Edward and their son. "Did he wake them too?"
He shook his head. They had been downstairs and heading out the door when he had come down for a glass of milk, which his ridiculous son seemed to enjoy almost as much as Winry did. "They were already up. They're on a different schedule. It's almost noon in Xing." Wherever they had gone, he hoped they would be back before the downpour began. He looked back at Winry, who was still smiling at him. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, and she went back to preparing breakfast. "You're just so happy he's back."
"Of course I am!" He had missed his brother. He had not heard from Alphonse in months, and he had been relieved when his brother had returned home in one piece. He was happy for more reasons than those, though. "Winry, for the first time in my life, Al's the screw up."
She clicked her tongue. "Ed!"
"Really! I think the last time he did something anywhere near this bad, he was three and he wet the bed." Part of him wished he had been in that office to see Alphonse take the General's ire for once. Another part wanted to deck Mustang because bullying Alphonse was Edward's job as the older brother. "I still don't understand why Al didn't just kick his ass."
"That's easy for you to say, all the way out here in Resembool." Winry wrapped a rag around the skillet handle and dumped the fried eggs onto a plate. "I just feel so sorry for Mei."
"Yeah." Edward continued rubbing Yuriy's back while he thought. The story Alphonse and Mei had told them late the night before had been sobering. "You know, I'm pissed at Ling. He should have done something before it got this far."
Winry shrugged and dropped two slices of bread in the electric toaster. "I'm sure he wanted to but couldn't. It can't be easy running a country."
Edward sighed. Alphonse and Mei had defended Ling's actions too, but he still felt Ling was responsible to some extent. "Maybe." He wondered if Mustang would ever let things get so out of hand, if he would ever exile Edward. "I can't believe people volunteer for it."
"Good morning!" Alphonse called from the kitchen door as he and Mei walked in.
"Where have you two been?" Winry asked as she laid slices of ham on the skillet.
Alphonse sat at the table and Edward joined him while Mei joined Winry at the range.
"We took a walk around the village," Alphonse said. "I can't believe how much things have changed. We must have passed ten automobiles. It used to be all carts!"
Edward looked down at Yuriy's face. He looked so peaceful. He would have to wake him for breakfast, but he could let his boy sleep a little longer. "And now every home has electric lighting and wireless radio."
"Do you need help?" Mei asked Winry.
Edward looked across the table at his brother. Alphonse had hunched his shoulders and folded his hands tight in his lap, like he was trying to make himself smaller. Edward rolled his own shoulders back and gave him a pointed look, but Alphonse cocked his head.
"Oh, no," Winry said. "I'm almost finished."
"Al," Edward told him, "you're doing it again."
"Oh." Alphonse relaxed and smiled. "I don't know how to stop."
Edward nodded. Alphonse's soul had not been bonded to the gigantic suit of armour for almost ten years, but some of the old habits had not left. Edward understood. He had gone more than half his life missing his left leg, but he still woke in the night with phantom pains.
"It's just muscle memory," Winry said. She used a fork to flip the ham slices. "You'll lose it eventually."
"How can I have muscle memory from a time when I didn't have muscles?" he asked her.
Mei shrugged. "You know muscle memory isn't really your muscles, Al." Winry nodded as Mei continued, "It's your brain."
Alphonse pointed at her. "I didn't have one of those either."
"Still don't," Edward murmured.
Alphonse reached into the bowl on the table and threw a strawberry at Edward's face.
"Behave, you two," Winry said while Edward wiped juice from his cheek.
Alphonse stifled a laugh and stood. "I'll set the table."
"Yes, thank you, Al," Winry said as she rolled her eyes.
"I've never been very good at cooking," Mei said. "But you seem to enjoy it."
"I do!" Winry said. "I can teach you while you're here."
Alphonse pulled a stack of plates from a shelf and walked back to Edward and Yuriy. "What's that construction going on by the watermill?"
Mei clapped her hands and grabbed the kettle off a burner. "I can make tea!"
Edward shrugged. "They were building an outdoor theatre, but stopped before they could finish the projector room." Winry had volunteered him for the committee, saying he needed to reinsert himself in town life since he had settled down. He had fallen asleep in so many meetings and could not remember the particulars of any of the plans, but he had a rough idea of what had happened.
"So you could just sit on the hill and watch a picture?" Alphonse set down the last plate. "That sounds great! Why'd they stop?"
"Just on hold for now," Edward said. Then, quieter and with a look at Winry's back, he added, "Budget problems. It's happening all over town."
Alphonse nodded and sat next to him. "Are you two alright?"
They were not. Shop finances were in the red. His own savings were almost gone. He did not want Winry to overhear and start an argument, though, so he shook his head and whispered, "Not now."
"You think later today I could take a look at your aeroplane?" Winry asked while Mei filled the kettle under the tap.
"When you're small enough to fit in the engine, I'll hold your feet," Mei promised.
Winry laughed and gestured to her belly. "All the more reason to get this over with."
"I'll teach you to fly it, Winry," Alphonse said.
Mei looked at him. "No, you won't." She repeated to Winry, "No, he won't."
Winry looked between Alphonse and Mei while he focused on the wood grain in the table and she put the kettle on a burner. "What's wrong?"
"Ling gave us two," Mei said.
Edward grinned and held the back of Yuriy's head as he fussed in his sleep. He turned to Alphonse in glee and said, "Where's the other one?"
"Malfunction," Alphonse said while at the same time Mei said, "Alphonse crashed it." Alphonse stuck his tongue out at her.
Edward cackled and slapped his hand on the table, but Yuriy whimpered, so he reigned in his laughter and shushed the toddler.
Alphonse scowled. "I'd like to see you fly an aeroplane."
"I don't plan to try," Edward said, "which makes me the smart one." Alphonse threw another strawberry at him and he dodged it. "But you have two massive screw-ups on your record—"
"Are we comparing scores, Ed?" Alphonse asked with a smile. "Because I'm still winning."
Edward grinned and shrugged. "That depends on your perspective."
Alphonse launched a grape at him, but Edward was too slow in dodging and it hit Yuriy on the head. The boy wailed in protest and Edward bounced him in his arms while he laughed in astonishment and Winry said, "Don't hit my son!"
Mei ran to the table and scooped Yuriy into her arms. "Oh, come here. Did mean Uncle Alphonse throw fruit at you?"
"Hey!" Alphonse said.
"You can come with me," Mei continued. "We'll go meet a panda." She winked at Winry and left the kitchen.
Edward flashed three fingers at Alphonse, who threw his arms in the air and yelled, "Oh, come on!" Keeping score was fun, now that there was a score to keep.
Winry shook her head and dumped the fried ham onto the plate with the eggs. "I always think that being apart for so long will make your differences more obvious." She pulled jars of marmalade from a shelf. "But the opposite happens." One of the jars slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, splattering sweet orange preserves on the planks and lower cabinets. "Oh!" she cried as she doubled over and grabbed her stomach.
Edward and Alphonse jumped up.
"Are you alright?" Alphonse asked while Edward said, "Is it starting?"
She shook her head and reached for a rag, but Alphonse waved her away and insisted he could clean the mess. "I just need to walk around a bit," she said. She took a few steps toward Edward and he caught her hand. "It's a false alarm.
Edward nodded, but his heart pounded hard in his chest. "I'll get you some water." The baby was not due for another week at least, the doctor had said. It could come sooner, he knew, but he had also learned with Yuriy to not panic during early contractions. Winry had been having them all week. "You want it cold?"
She nodded, then she gasped and tightened her grip on his hand. "Oh, no. Ed, this is real."
Tingling shot down his arms. "Are you sure?"
"My water just broke."
Edward took a deep breath and looked at Alphonse, who had stopped scraping broken glass off the floor. "Leave that," he said, "and call Doctor Maller. His number is on the board." The trip from town was an easy one, but he would feel more at ease if the doctor could arrive before the rain did. Alphonse ran to the telephone and Edward held Winry's shoulders and said, "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
She grabbed his wrist. "I need you—" She moaned and bowed her head while thunder rumbled in the distance.
He bent down. "What? What do you need?"
"Ed, get out of my face," she groaned, and then she shouted, "Get out of my face!"
Edward jumped back and held up his hands in surrender. He had been here before, and every instinct told him to hold onto her, but he knew it was better to just give Winry whatever she wanted.
She pointed toward Alphonse, who was speaking into the telephone on the wall. "Go stand over there!"
His hands shook and his limbs felt loose and unsteady, but he did as she said. Alphonse covered the receiver with one hand and whispered, "Ten-thousand and one, you."
Edward faked a laugh and glared at his brother.
Alphonse grinned. "Thank you, Doctor." He hung up the telephone and said, "He's on his way."
Winry nodded and lowered herself into a chair, her breathing evening as the contraction passed. She waved Edward over. "Ed, come back." He sat next to her, and she took his hand again. She breathed in and out. "When he gets here, I want you with me. Like last time."
Alphonse moved behind them, gathering the forgotten breakfast and locking plates in the refrigerator.
Edward remembered the last time well. The screaming and swearing and her punishing grip. "Last time you almost broke my hand."
She scowled. "So I'll make you a new one."
Mei appeared in the doorway, balancing Yuriy on one hip as he reached for the black and white "kitty" cowering on her other shoulder. "I heard shouting. Is it coming?"
Winry nodded. "Please keep watching him." She closed her eyes as she tried to focus on deep breathing.
Alphonse wiped his hands on his trousers. "Anything else we can do?"
Edward looked at them. "Go pull out some towels. We want to be ready."
When they had left, Winry tightened her hold on him. "Don't go."
"I won't," he said. He would not leave. He would not miss the birth of his child. The kettle screamed on the range and he jumped. "But I'm going to get that."
She nodded.
He walked to the range and turned off the burner. The contractions would grow worse and more frequent. He hoped that labour would not take as long as it had the last time, for Winry's sake. She had been bedridden and in pain for almost nineteen hours.
The telephone rang.
He looked at Winry. His heart had not slowed. "It might be the doctor." She nodded again, and he picked up the receiver. "Hello?" he said. Winry grimaced and moaned as she bent over again.
"Fullmetal," said the arrogant voice on the other end. "Did your brother—"
"No offense, General," Edward said, and he meant it, "but you have really shitty timing." Then he slammed the receiver down and ran back to his wife's side.
Mustang pulled the receiver from his ear and stared at it as if it could tell him what had just happened. All he had wanted was to know how Alphonse Elric had been when he had arrived in Resembool the day before—it was a matter of great career importance to him, after all. What had he done to deserve such treatment?
He looked up when his office door opened and Hawkeye walked in with a stack of papers in her arms. "Fullmetal hung up on me."
She stopped before his desk. "Sir?"
"That little asshole just hung up on me." He slammed the receiver into the cradle and flexed his fingers.
Hawkeye set some papers down and added a few envelopes from the corner of his desk to her pile. "He's taller than you are now, Sir."
He scoffed. "No, he's not." Edward was not taller than he was—at least, not by a significant amount. "I didn't mean it literally, anyway." Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he turned to look at the oncoming storm. It would be the last one of the season, a torrential downpour that would wash away the summer heat, and when the rain ceased, autumn would come. He hated the late summer storms and how they made the East so wet.
"What did he say?" she asked.
He shrugged and looked back at her. "Something about bad timing, and then he was gone."
Her eyebrows shot up. "It must be the baby."
He had not considered that, but it made sense. His fingers tapped out an unsteady rhythm on his desk. "Must be." He could check in the next day if Edward had forgotten to return the call, and he would forget. He imagined Edward was preoccupied and would be for some time. The new Elric had not even been born and had already managed to disrupt Mustang's day.
"Anything else for the morning post, Sir?"
"Ah." He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of quarterly performance reviews and handed them to her. "Drop these with human resources on your way."
She nodded. "Of course, Sir." She would not look at them. She had no need to.
He stood to walk her to the door, but he stopped with his hand on the knob. "About last night, I'm—"
"Sir, no," she said, cutting off his own apology with the start of her own. "I'm—" She shook her head and said, "It wasn't wholly your fault."
He smiled. "But it was." It would always be his fault. The law said the superior would be held responsible for any improper fraternization, and for all the laws they had broken, that one held the most risk. It would be easy to detect, and any suspicion would lead to an inquiry. One right question and one wrong answer would expose everything they had done over the past fifteen years.
He had to be better. He had to step back and be more formal, distant, even, for both their sakes.
"I think the best thing to do about it," she said, "is to get back to work."
Then she was gone.
He leaned his head against the door. Get back to work. He knew he should, but he had a meeting in a few minutes, and he did not have time to start something before it. Besides, he did not think he could concentrate on anything while his mind kept returning to possible developments in Resembool and to Edward.
Edward, who had given up alchemy for his brother's life and had somehow also gained a family, a wife, two children, and everything.
"That's not how equivalent exchange is supposed to work," he muttered. He threw open the door and strode into the office. "How's the news this morning, Fuery?"
"Slow, Sir," Fuery called from his desk. As usual, he squatted in his chair and bent over a transmitter. Fuery had long ago been commissioned and appointed as the head of communications at Headquarters, but Mustang liked having him close. He wanted to be the first to hear if anything important happened. He could not abide couriers.
"Good," he said, and Fuery pulled his headphones back over his ears.
The door opened and his campaign scheduler, smiling and alone, walked in.
"Ah, Neumann," Mustang smiled. Charlie would not be far behind, and then they could begin. He was grateful that election regulations, either by oversight or intention, had not excluded political or military buildings as meeting places, even if they had excluded active employees or subordinates from working on the campaign.
"Good morning, Sir," Neumann said as he gave Mustang a firm handshake. "I tried to say something to Miss Hawkeye when I passed her in the hall, but I don't think she heard."
That sounded like Hawkeye. She could block out the world when she was focused on a task. Something about the comment made him uneasy, though.
"Don't worry, Mr. Neumann," Havoc said from his desk. "She'll be back and you'll get another shot."
Breda snickered and Mustang tensed. He did not like what Havoc implied.
Neumann's smile faltered, and then he forced it back into place. "Charlie said he won't be able to make it. Something with advertising came up."
Mustang wondered if it were a good thing or not that he would be in a scheduling meeting without his manager. Charlie always had something to say, but Mustang was not always pleased to hear it. "Is he still on about the chewing gum thing?" One of Charlie's newer ideas was putting slogans and advertisemnets on wrappers. Mustang did not want people tacking used gum to his picture before they threw it in the bin. It was bad enough having his picture in the newspapers that were then being used to wrap fish and raw meat. He did not want people tacking used gum to his picture before they threw it in the bin. He sighed and shook his head and pointed to his office. "Go in and get yourself settled."
When Neumann had gone, Mustang glared at Breda and Havoc. "Don't do that."
Havoc looked up from a report he was typing. "Why? He doesn't have a chance in hell."
Breda guffawed and crossed his arms. "I doubt she's even noticed he's hitting on her."
"She hasn't noticed," Mustang said, his temperature rising, "because he's not hitting on her. He's just being kind and polite. You two should try it sometime."
Havoc and Breda burst into laughter, and Fuery lowered his headphones and asked what he had missed, which made them laugh harder.
Mustang shook his head and turned toward his door. "Fuery, interrupt me if anything happens." Then he stormed back into his office.
Neumann had made himself at home on a sofa and had spread out papers and files on the low table before him. "I wanted to first discuss a schedule for next month," he said as Mustang sat next to him. He passed Mustang a page with enough lines and dates and time stamps to make Mustang's head spin. "There are some gaps, but we can fill them easily. We got a lot of calls from Central-based papers and radio stations following the announcement yesterday." He tapped a date in the second week of the month. "We think it'll be a good idea to travel to Central early, ahead of the Cretan ambassador's welcome party, if you can manage it."
Mustang looked over the rest of the documents on the table. There were proposed travel plans to the West, the North, and the South for the coming months.
"It's a popular election," Neumann explained, "so we're not concerned with swinging districts like they have to do in Creta or Elcana, but it's still a good idea to get people in other regions excited so they show up to the polls."
Mustang nodded. "I'm familiar."
Neumann chuckled. "Of course, Sir. Charlie gave me a sort of script, though."
Mustang snorted. That was Charlie. He motioned for Neumann to continue.
"The Central Times has been running pieces on all candidates who have announced," he said as he uncapped a fountain pen and pointed to a time slot early in the month where he had scratched in a note about an interview. "I thought this date might work, but I wanted to confirm. They printed Richard Kaufman's yesterday."
That was unfortunate timing, but if what Neumann was telling him was true, then the story had not overshadowed his own announcement. "How was it?"
Neumann dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded clipping. "Charlie wanted me to bring it so you can read for yourself."
Mustang unfolded the article. He had seen Richard Kaufman in pictures, of course, but for the first time he took a moment to study him. He was older than Mustang, perhaps in his fifties, but there was a look in his eye that said he was nowhere near retiring from politics. He posed with his hand on the shoulder of a seated woman Mustang assumed was Mrs. Kaufman. Indeed, there was a short piece below that called her a potential future first lady and delved into her own political and philanthropic work. He would read both articles later, but as he looked back at their photograph, at their confidence and obvious partnership, he understood what his campaign team had meant when they had approached him about the spouse question.
"Charlie will go over possible questions and answers with you before the interview." Neumann rubbed his hands together. "Do you know when Miss Hawkeye will be back? Only, I wanted to speak with her about your work schedule and figure out what important events you have coming up that we can use."
The question irked him, and he folded the article and shoved it in his pocket and asked, "Isn't that illegal?" Then he cleared his throat and said, "I can't exactly campaign during a strategy meeting."
Neumann smiled and said in a gentle voice, "It's an election, Sir. Even when you're not campaigning, you're campaigning."
Mustang leaned back and tried to imagine the next year with his entire life on display. He thought he had known, but looking at time tables and interviews had made the concept real. His heartbeat thrummed in his fingertips and adrenaline burned through his veins and he grinned. "Were Parliament elections always like this?"
Neumann shrugged. "More or less." He had worked a number of campaigns before Charlie had brought him in to be Mustang's scheduler. "I think everyone is stressed and the spotlight is brighter because this election is bigger. Obviously." He picked up the schedule again. "The ambassador's welcome party at the end of the month will be a nice opportunity to connect with a few more donors and secure some endorsements. Just remember—"
"Not the Führer," Mustang finished. Charlie had drilled that into his head.
"Exactly," Neumann said. "Nothing compromises a new democracy like nepotism."
Mustang nodded. It was odd. He needed connections to win, but the wrong kind of connection could ruin him.
"Anyway," Neumann continued, "Charlie said your message on international relations is strong, but you need to really take an open stand against isolationism. Make sure you're seen speaking to as many foreign dignitaries as possible." He waved a hand. "He'll tell you all of this again."
Mustang nodded. "At great length and a high volume."
Neumann smiled at the joke. "Well, that's Charlie." He tapped his pen against his leg. "That one reporter called yesterday. Geneva Menke. She's suddenly free for an interview."
Mustang scoffed. He had predicted her availability. "Wonders never cease." He looked down at the schedule. "When will you set that up? I don't see it on here."
Neumann hummed in thought, then he said, "If I may, Sir?" When Mustang nodded, he said, "I think you can do better." He pointed to the schedule again. "The Central Times called us, Sir. They called us begging to run a story on you. You don't need to ask reporters from rags anymore." He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "No offense to Miss Menke, but you can be above tabloid publicity now. You should be."
Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Charlie agrees?"
"Charlie said all press is good press," Neumann said, choosing each word, "but he would rather make her wait, since we reached out first." He laughed. "It doesn't look good at this stage if interviews aren't earned. It makes you look desperate."
That had not been the opinion they had given Mustang when he had first suggested meeting with her. Their earlier excitement had turned into reluctance. "And that's changed since we made the call?"
Neumann nodded. "Timing is everything, Sir."
The door opened and Hawkeye walked in with some large envelopes. Neumann jumped to his feet and wiped his hands on his trouser legs. She stopped, surprised, because she rarely pulled rank in the office and as a consequence no one had stood when she entered a room in a long time.
"Hello, Miss Hawkeye," Neumann said with a lopsided smile.
"Hawkeye," Mustang said, because he was annoyed by Neumann's eagerness and by the fact that Breda and Havoc—Havoc!—had noticed before Mustang had. "You'll be pleased to know I'm not doing the gossip column." She dated other men, he knew, just as he dated other women, though his relationships were more frequent and often with a different agenda. He had never expected her to wait, but it had been easier to think about when those men had been nameless and faceless. As long as he did not know who they were, they would leave in the end.
She smiled at Neumann first, and Mustang took a breath. "Hello, Mr. Neumann." Then she looked at Mustang and said in a sharper tone, "That's good."
"How are you today?" Neumann asked. He gestured toward her. "You seem well."
"She always does," Mustang said from his seat.
Hawkeye shot him a look that told him she knew what was going on, and she was not impressed by his maturity. "I am well," she said.
He remembered his earlier decision to be more professional, to back off. He stood and held out a hand to take the envelopes from her. "I can—"
"Sir!" Fuery said as he threw open the door. His eyes were wide and his face pale. "You said to interrupt. You need to hear this."
Mustang tossed the envelopes onto his desk and followed Fuery into the office where the other officers were already still as they listened to a man speaking on the radio.
"—Taking up the fight for our country's future," the voice said as Mustang approached the receiver on Fuery's desk. "We are the Amestrian Freedom Army—"
"Any group with the word 'freedom' in the name usually fights for anything but," Havoc said.
"Hush," Hawkeye said.
Mustang looked back at her. She stood behind him, like always, and her soft brown eyes him that she did not care about his pettiness, not anymore. But Neumann was there too, and he was watching her, and Mustang could not bear to see it. So he turned back to Fuery and said, "When did this start?"
"Just now, Sir." Feury pointed to the dial. "But look. They're overriding the signal."
Mustang looked at the number and saw the radio was tuned to a military communications channel. "How is this possible?"
Fuery took a deep breath. "Well, it's easy, Sir. They just need a stronger signal. Anyone with a powerful transmitter can do it."
"—Years we have been watching, learning, waiting," the man continued. "Your government has been lying to you, and the evidence—"
"Damn propagandists," Mustang said. "We have to find them and shut them down." He marched toward Havoc and Breda's desks. "Havoc, call your men. Have them start searching the city." Havoc acknowledged the order and spun the rotor on his telephone. Mustang turned to Breda and said, "Breda, what can—"
"Sir!" Neumann said, and Mustang turned around. Neumann was looking at him and not at Hawkeye, who was still bent over the receiver and speaking to Fuery in a quiet voice. "What if the news picks this up?"
Mustang frowned. The news picking this up was what he meant to prevent. He heard raindrops beginning to hit the glass window behind him.
"I mean," Neumann said, "what if they say, well—" He looked at Hawkeye, who paid him no mind, and then back at Mustang. "It won't look great if people say you're silencing free speech."
Mustang took a breath. While the new constitution guaranteed free press and free speech and even against the government, an act formerly considered treason, he considered that amendment irrelevant. "Free speech be damned. They're jamming a signal and broadcasting outside the independent frequencies without a license." He looked back at Breda and Havoc. "Those are crimes. The law isn't on their side." He watched through the windows as the rain fell harder. The sky had darkened to a deep, cold grey.
Breda, anticipating the order, had dialed his own telephone and was speaking to the Lieutenants under him.
The man on the radio continued. "When Führer Bradley was killed—"
"Sir," Havoc said as he pulled the receiver from his face, "they want to know what they're looking for."
Mustang turned back to Fuery, who shook his head and said, "I don't know, Sir."
"What do you mean you don't know?" Mustang barked. "Radio towers that weren't there before! Antennae or something! Large pieces of equipment!"
"Not necessarily, Sir," Fuery said while the radio recounted the publicized death of Führer Bradley. "The size doesn't matter." He twisted the cord of his headset around his wrist. "It can be powerful without being big."
"That's not phallic," Havoc said.
Hawkeye looked up. "Not an appropriate time, Captain." Then she bent over the receiver again as if she could will the speaker's name to appear on the dials.
"—We were promised his vision for the future of this country would continue. But the opposite has happened—"
Mustang walked back to Fuery. "Well the signal should be stronger the closer—" He stopped when the voice cut off and then started again.
"—Make friends with aggressors and enemies. We rebuild Ishval—" It cut out. Then the voice came in again. "—Violation of his extermination orders. We overturn—" When it cut out that time, he noticed Hawkeye's hand on the dial, turning it one tiny line at a time. "—Stable government in favour of uncertainty—Reject our national strength—"
He struggled to find his voice as the knob turned from the numbers on the left to those on the right. The speaker continued listing the errors of the current government, unperturbed by the rain that pelted the windows and the thunder that boomed outside. "How many channels is this on?" He looked at Fuery. "This can't be done with one transmitter."
Fuery shook his head. "No, Sir. It's impossible." He moved to his transmitter and Hawkeye stepped back to give him room. "You need to tune them to specific frequencies—"
Mustang snapped and pointed at him. "That's actually helpful. How many would they need? Dozens?"
Fuery shook his head. "To effectively interfere with every channel, Sir, they'd need several hundred."
Mustang nodded, and lightning flashed, making the lights flicker and the voice on the radio stop and start.
"The coup succeeded," said the man, and everyone in the office held their breath. "Those who rule painted the defenders of our government as villains—"
"There aren't a lot of places that can hold that many high-powered transmitters, right?" That would narrow down the buildings they had to search.
Fuery shook his head. "Not…" He puffed out his cheeks and then rushed, "They could be broadcasting from a single location, using receivers to pick up the sound, and retransmitting from different locations."
"Or they could be playing records," Breda said. He and Havoc sat unmoving, receivers in hand, but Mustang still did not know what to tell them yet. What did they need to look for?
"There would be delays. The channels would not be in sync either way." Mustang pointed to Fuery. "See if there's a channel slightly ahead of the rest." He began to pace. The thought that the transmitters could be spread out was aggravating. If the broadcast were not localized and was instead spread across several buildings in the city, the search would be harder. They could find the origin. If they knew how, they might be able to know where—He stopped as something new occurred to him. "What's the chance this is happening nation-wide?"
Hawkeye bent over Fuery's shoulder. "Check the national broadcast channels first."
Fuery nodded and turned the dial to a number in the range used by national news and entertainment channels.
"—Murdered Führer Bradley to seize his power and destroy our country," the man said, unfazed by the change in frequency. "Citizens of Amestris, what you believe is a lie."
Mustang ran a hand through his hair. "Shit."
"It doesn't mean anything!" Fuery said. "They don't have to jam the signals coming from national broadcasting stations. They just need a stronger signal that the receivers will pick up instead. It could still be local."
"—Reality of this conspiracy was hidden by everything you trust—"
Mustang rubbed at the stiffness in his jaw. He couldn't think. There were too many questions and not enough answers to give him a location.
Lightning cracked, and thunder came not far behind, and Hawkeye's telephone rang. She ran to her desk.
"—Your gut will tell you the truth about that day, about how the coup was not stopped by those who hold power now, but planned by them."
Hawkeye picked up her receiver. "General Mustang's office."
"Führer Grumman," the man said, confirming Mustang's suspicion that the broadcaster had made his voice heard in Central, "did you think no one was watching?"
Hawkeye flinched and said, "Just one moment, Ma'am."
"General Mustang," the man continued, and Mustang held his breath, "did you think no one was paying attention?"
"Sir," Hawkeye said. "It's—"
"General Armstrong," the man finished for her, "did you think no one would realize?"
"What did she say?" he asked, though he could already guess. How many people were in this so-called army? How far could they spread themselves?
The man said, "The citizens of this country will not be ruled by illegitimacy."
Hawkeye closed her eyes tight. "She asked, 'What the hell is going on, Mustang,' and, 'Are you hearing this?'" She opened her eyes and added, "Sir."
He looked at Fuery and breathed, "How?"
Fuery swallowed. "It could be thousands of transmitters across the country, or a few very high-powered short-wave—"
"So what you're telling me," Mustang said, his voice rising, "is that they could be everywhere, or they could be in one spot anywhere?"
"We are coming," the man on the radio promised.
His team looked at him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. He thought about how he would accomplish the same feat, and then he knew. "Tell them," he said to Breda and Havoc, "to start with large, abandoned spaces. Warehouses. Gutted buildings. Check in if they find nothing." They would find nothing in those places, because he knew how he would do it. He knew what steps he would take. Still, there was a chance these hijackers would leave some clues behind, and he needed to give the appearance of acting to those who were not in the room. Enlisted personnel at least had to believe he was in charge.
"We will return our nation to what it was and what it should be," the man said, and Mustang wished more than ever that he could send his alchemy careening down radio waves. If Fullmetal could figure out how to do that, he would be impressed. Then, the man finished. "An Amestrian future for an Amestrian people." The radio went quiet.
The silence was broken only by the rain and Hawkeye's voice hitching. "He'll have to call you back, Ma'am," she whispered before returning the receiver to its cradle.
He had given his orders, he had listened through to the end, and all he could do was wait for the broadcasters to prove his hypothesis.
Another voice on the radio cleared his throat. "Well, Freddie," he said, and Mustang knew the illegal transmitters had been turned off and the original broadcasting stations had been given control again. "I think…"
"We don't get something like this every day," another man laughed.
"No we don't," the first agreed. "Let's get back to our regular schedule. Coming up we have the next part of Across the Aerugan Sea, a drama by Phyllis Mann. If you missed the last episode—"
"Turn it off," Mustang said.
The speaker sputtered as Fuery plugged in his headset so he could still listen for anything else without disturbing the room. Mustang pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and watched the sparks of colour against inky blackness like fireworks.
"Did they just say that?" Havoc asked, referring to the final statement. Mustang had heard it, and he had recognized it from that little slip of paper Fullmetal had found at the site of the explosion. He understood the significance.
"There's no way someone could buy and set up enough high-powered transmitters to do something like this," Breda said, his mind already on investigating through backchannels. "Not without being detected. Not that many places sell them, so they'd be buying several at once, and someone would be wondering what they were doing. We can go to shop owners and ask if they—"
"You don't need to buy them," Mustang said, because he knew. He could be wrong, but he wasn't. "You just need to know how they work. You just need raw materials." He let his hands fall and opened his eyes.
"You're suggesting a team of alchemists did this," Hawkeye confirmed.
He nodded. "They could pull elements and compounds from the cement floor of a basement. And if they did, and if they're smart, they'd deconstruct everything immediately after. Put the floor back together." He leaned against Fuery's desk and let his head drop back so he could stare at the ceiling. "They're already gone."
"Skilled, pro-Bradley alchemists," Breda said. "It's a start. There can't be too many of those."
"And they're not smart," Neumann said, and Mustang looked at him. He had almost forgotten Neumann was there. "They're crazy. And crazy won't convince anyone."
"They're also right," Mustang said. "Or close to it. It's easy as hell to figure out what happened to the old regime if you look hard enough."
"Or," Breda said as he nodded at Havoc, "maybe someone talked."
Havoc scoffed. "Why did you look at me when you said that?"
"I didn't!" Breda said. "Not like that!"
"Captains," Hawkeye said. "Please."
Mustang tried to breathe in deep. Pro-Bradley alchemists would be the best place to start, but they would have waited to make themselves known. Alchemists hated the military state on principle, as he was well aware. Still, someone may have heard about them.
"But everyone else will think they're insane," Neumann told him. "That's what counts."
A "freedom army" large enough to interfere with every major frequency nation-wide? Something on that scale could not have stayed hidden. There would have been rumblings of that forming in the underground.
He straightened and walked out the door before someone could say anything else to him.
Vanessa, one of his aunt's former girls, had set up her own establishment in East City. It was too early in the day to visit without starting rumours of alcoholism and other addictions, but it had been a while since he had sent a message to Madam Christmas. If he was lucky, all the news would be focusing on the mass signal interruption anyway.
"Sir!" Hawkeye called behind him, and he stopped walking down the hall to wait for her while she caught up with him.
Instead of convincing him to turn around and go back to the office, she held out an umbrella.
He took it and asked, "Why does it feel like everything is happening now?"
"Because it is, Sir," she said. "And because it matters more."
He nodded and looked down the hall toward the main doors. They were alone. All other personnel were probably gathered around radios and whispering behind doors. He did not blame them. "I'm taking the rest of the day." He was taking the entire day, really.
"Sir," she said. "Don't you think she would have already told you if she had heard anything?"
He smiled, because of course she knew. She always knew what he was thinking, what he was going to do next. "I need her to start looking, then. I'm sure she already has, but—" He met her eyes, and he saw that she too was unsure and frightened. Their country's entire communication system had been hijacked, and those responsible had all but claimed a bombing. He did not know what moves to make or who the other players were or where the pieces lay. He could not even see the board. Yet they had given him the objective. He took a deep breath. "Like I said, I might not be back today, so I need you to hold things down." She could field telephone calls from Central or from General Armstrong in the North, and he could deal with them the next day. When she nodded, he added, "What would I be without you?"
She looked at the umbrella in his hand and said, "Extremely wet, Sir."
He sighed, glad that in the midst of everything she still knew how to make a joke, and pointed at her. "Just so we're clear, I know what you mean by that. And I don't appreciate it."
She smiled and the corners of her eyes crinkled. He almost said something else, something less sarcastic, but a door down the hall opened and he heard voices. So instead he thanked her for the umbrella, asked her to tell Neumann he had gone, and left her there.
He pushed open the main doors and watched the rain fall in sheets. For once, he wanted to stand in it, to let the morning run off of him and flow down a storm drain and into the Marl River, running out of town and far, far away. He knew that was impossible, though. He had long ago chosen a greater responsibility that made putting off national security threats unconscionable. So he opened the umbrella and descended the steps to the street where he parked his automobile every morning. As he drove, his pulse raced and his chest felt light and he remembered that it wasn't the first game he had played against an unknowable opponent with a despicable plan for the country.
He had won the last game. He would win at the new one.