The rain continued to beat the pavement. The storm would continue for a few more days before letting up, and he was ready for it to end. He could not stand how water streamed down the windshield and obscured the road, how the gutters flooded and the draining water came up almost to the tops of his boots, how the wind howled and pushed at him, how the rain fell from all different directions and the umbrella did nothing to keep him dry. Newspapers and radio hosts had already called the storm the worst since the turn of the century, and that morning they had noted that public transportation might close due to flooding.
The notices had been short though, as all had been concerned with a very different story. Every paper ran a version of the same headline, and every radio station had been discussing the pirate broadcast. The day before, no one had seemed able to talk about anything else.
He could not blame them. He had not been able to sleep for thinking about it. The twisted logic, the fact that simple observation had brought them so close to the truth, the personal address at the end. He had spent the whole day calling in overdue favours and asking for new ones, trying to find the one loose thread in his careful web of lies before someone tugged too hard and everything he had worked for unraveled.
He locked his automobile and began the trek to the main doors of Eastern Headquarters. At one point in the past, horses and carriages had trotted up the lime avenue to the foot of the massive stone staircase, but since the military's repurposing of the palace, no vehicles were allowed past the gate at the road.
He was passing the guardhouse when one of the security personnel stepped in his path and said, "Identification badge, Sir."
Mustang stopped and stared at the man before asking, "What?"
The soldier—his insignia declared him a sergeant—looked to the side and then back at Mustang. "I need to see your identification badge, Sir. New policy." He cleared his throat and repeated, "Sir."
Mustang frowned. Did the sergeant not know who he was? What sort of new policy had been implemented without his knowledge? "I'm an exception," he said as he tried to push past the sergeant, who blocked him again.
"Major Hawkeye said you'd say that, Sir," the sergeant said, confirming that he did know who Mustang was and from whom the new policy had come. "She also said no exceptions, and she was clear that it includes you, Sir."
Mustang took a deep breath. "I bet she did." He would speak to her when he saw her, because it was ridiculous that he would need to show identification to get into the building. He ran the place. He would always be the exception. He dug into his pocket for his wallet, but stopped when he heard a voice behind him call, "General Mustang!"
He turned and saw a pretty young woman running through the downpour with a broken umbrella over her head. She had brown hair cut to just below her shoulders and big, blue eyes, and she looked just like the sort of woman he would know, but her face was unfamiliar to him. Perhaps she was one of Vanessa's girls.
"General, Sir," she said as she stopped in front of him, "I wondered if I might have a moment of your time." She stuck out a hand, and he halted his search for his wallet to shake it. "I'm Geneva Menke from the Eastern Review." The reporter, the one who had snubbed him, the one Neumann had told him to avoid. He pulled back, regretting his friendliness, and resumed searching his overcoat pockets. "I've tried calling," she said.
"I've been told," he replied. He flipped his wallet open, but his identification badge was not inside. He patted his breast pocket.
"Sir," she continued, "I just want to ask you some questions."
He hummed and jammed his hand into his pants pockets. The last time he had even seen his badge was the day he had received his new one, and he could not remember which pocket of which standard-issue uniform piece he had dropped it into. "That's what people in your line of work do."
"It won't take long," she pressed. "I was wondering about your immigration policies in light of the sudden border shutdowns in the East—"
There it was, shoved into the inside pocket of his coat. "That's your normal beat, is it?"
He expected the gossip columnist to look abashed, but she squared her shoulders and looked at him in a way that reminded him of Edward Elric. "Not yet, Sir," Miss Menke said. "But if you could give me a few minutes…" She cleared her throat. "I listened to your speech on the radio two days ago. Everyone is focusing on economics and international relations for the election, or they're talking about what happened yesterday."
The mention of the disturbing hijacking made him remember himself, and he flashed his badge at the sergeant, who nodded and stepped aside.
"You didn't speak long on social policy, Sir," Miss Menke rushed as he turned away from her. "But it matters and people will want to hear what you have to say, Sir." He stopped and looked back at her as she said, "Fifteen minutes, Sir. That's all I want."
For a moment, he let himself consider it. Surely Charlie and Neumann would be more open to the idea of someone covering his actual policies, as opposed to his personal life. Besides, she had approached him about it. At least it would appear less desperate. Or would her normal column still give pause? "Call the campaign office and set something up," he said.
"I did, Sir," Miss Menke replied, her shoulders and gaze dropping. "That's why I've come to you."
Then again, Charlie would still be put off by her initial refusal to interview Mustang. He could almost see his manager saying as much. "Perhaps if you had better foresight, Miss Menke, you would have had a different result." He turned away from her again and started down the lime avenue.
"I don't get to choose!" she cried.
He sighed and turned back. Yes, she was very much like Edward. Petulant. Relentless.
She moved toward him and he sergeant stepped out of the guardhouse again and said, "Excuse me! Miss, I need—"
Mustang held up a hand and said, "It's alright, Sergeant."
The sergeant looked between General Mustang and Miss Menke, and he nodded, but he hovered nearby. He was more afraid of disobeying Major Hawkeye than he was of displeasing the general, which, Mustang allowed, was a sensible way to feel in rainy weather.
Miss Menke took a deep breath. "Sir, you were new once. You did what others told you to do because you had to, but you still had to fight your way to where you are now. Don't you remember that?"
He did remember. He remembered grueling schedules and taking extra work to make his way. He could recognize that same ambition in her eyes.
"I want to write about you, Sir," she said. "And not the sort of thing I usually write. I want to write something that matters."
He pressed his lips together. "And if you can handle something like this you get moved to a different column? Or is this for your portfolio?" When she blinked, he explained, "You want to get ahead."
"And you want to talk about the parts of your platform everyone else is ignoring."
A city tram pulled up and a crowd of uniformed officers poured out of the doors and popped open umbrellas, creating a sea of black vinyl domes. He saw Hawkeye in the crowd, and she glanced at Miss Menke with a question written on her face. He shook his head in reply.
He looked down at the reporter, who still waited for his response, and he said, "That may be true, but unfortunately, Miss Menke, it's not possible. Sometimes I still have to do what others tell me, just like you do." He had made a decision to trust his campaign team. He turned to Hawkeye as she approached with her own identification badge out. "Major Hawkeye, good morning."
"Good morning, Sir," she said as the sergeant waved her through.
"Have a nice day, Miss Menke," he said, and he followed after Hawkeye.
She looked at him as he caught up with her, and he sighed. He had made no promises and given no remarks. Satisfied, Hawkeye nodded.
"Neumann wanted to speak with you yesterday," he said. His wet collar rubbed at his neck. He felt as if he had swam up the Marl River to get to work instead of driving.
"Yes, Sir," she said, unperturbed by the incessant rainfall. She seemed to almost enjoy heavy storms. Of course, she had grown up in the East and with its wild weather. He had lived there for fifteen years and was still unused to it. "He brought up the change in travel plans."
He nodded. Central would be cooler and drier, and there were people he wanted to see. He was glad he would be going earlier. "We're leaving in one week." He worried that she would stick to her original plan. She would not have much time to prepare for weeks away from home. Black Hayate was old and she might worry about keeping him away and in a hotel for too long. "You're coming?"
She smiled. "After all this time, you have to ask?"
He smiled back and relaxed. Of course, she would leave early with him. She was his in a way that none of the other officers were, in a way they never could be. He felt the urge to just reach out and touch her, to put his hand on the small of her back and—He realized his hand was already hovering there, and he clenched his fist and forced it to his side. The law was explicit about outward affection between officers in a direct line of command. If anyone had seen, if that reporter had seen…He looked behind him, and his pulse pounded in his ears when he saw that Miss Menke was still at the gate, still watching him with narrowed eyes. Had she seen?
He cleared his throat and looked forward again. "There's nothing too important to reschedule?"
"Nothing Captain Havoc can't do for you, Sir."
He nodded. "Good." If she had seen, how bad was it really? How long had his hand been there? One second? Two? Longer? "Let me know when you speak with him." They reached the wide staircase and started the climb. "When does Breda get in today?" Focusing on the events of the day before would keep him from troubling over anything the reporter had or had not seen.
"Ten-hundred hours."
He groaned. He would be waiting for three hours for the captain to arrive. "Bring him into my office when he gets here. And come in yourself."
She nodded. "Yes, Sir."
There were things he had learned in his time away from the office that he needed both of them to hear. "I have a date on Thursday. One of Vanessa's girls. Don't let me forget."
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Where, Sir?"
"The opera." He had thought it appropriate. It was dark, loud, and he could get a secluded box seat easily. It would also make him look cultured, which would help his public image.
Hawkeye frowned at him and raised an eyebrow in a way that made him feel he had made a poor decision.
"What's that look?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I'll remind you to drink some coffee beforehand."
He scoffed. "It was one time!" Besides, the Eastern Opera was running a later piece by Johann Keller, and he rather liked Keller. He could not be mad at her for making a well-placed joke at his expense, though, not when a smile played at the corners of her mouth like that and her eyes gleamed like they always did when she teased him.
But he did need to address the issue of the new identification policy she had implemented on his behalf after he had left her with the office and his scheduler. His scheduler, who had stood when she had entered the room and had an interest in her that everyone seemed to have noticed. "So, Neumann—"
"As I said, we spoke," she said, as if it answered every question he had. "And he left soon after you did, Sir."
He frowned as they crested the stairs and closed their umbrellas, and he threw open the doors and strode into his base of operations with her behind him. Personnel scrambled to salute him as he passed, and he ignored them. It would take hours to walk to his office if he stopped to acknowledge everyone, and the dry air inside reminded him that he was wet and he wanted to be alone and dry as soon as possible.
There was another staircase to the right, and he climbed with loud footfalls that echoed the discomfort of his thoughts. "And here I thought he would ask you to dinner."
"He did."
He halted on a stair and wheeled about to face her, and she grabbed the banister to keep herself from falling back. He swallowed and furrowed his brow, unwilling to ask what her answer had been. Neumann was a handsome man, Mustang's own age, but without the odd combination of a round baby face and early grey hairs. His hands did not shake from old wounds, he did not need glasses to read small text. Neumann was clever. Most offensive of all, Neumann was kind and gentle, just as she was.
Hawkeye shook her head, but he was not satisfied. His jaw tightened as he wondered if she would ever consider it. She clicked her tongue, and he knew. He knew it was none of his business, but he looked up at the ceiling because somewhere above them was an office that needed to run without a romantic drama miring efficiency and casting a shadow over his campaign. Then he looked back at her and shrugged. He did not care what she did with her time outside of the office. She sighed and smiled at him, because she knew he did care.
He cared too much. He cared so much that he made mistakes in front of reporters who could run a story the next day about his possible affair with his adjutant.
He turned back and started up the stairs again. "What do I have today?"
"You have a few new items on your agenda, telephone calls with Central and the like," she said. "They're demanding your attention on yesterday's…" He was already nodding his head, so she left the incident unnamed and continued, "And you might want to respond to General Armstrong. She called three more times."
He let out a loud sigh as he stepped onto the landing and walked down the hallway. "Of course she did." He heard Hawkeye quickening her steps to keep up with him.
"There's an afternoon meeting to prepare for inventory next month," she said.
He grimaced. Inventory was the worst part of his year. He did not have to do any counting, but every department would come to him with numbers and charts, and he would have to pay attention to all of it. However, he had managed to be lucky that year. He was heading to Central just in time. "You didn't tell them not to expect me? I'm not even going to be here for inventory."
"I can let them know, Sir," she said as they approached the office door. "But I thought you might appreciate the chance to take a nap."
He grinned and pushed open the door because she knew him too well. "I would." In an inventory meeting, even if he fell asleep at the table, no one would dare wake him.
An unusual silence hung over the office. Fuery did not look up from his radio, and Havoc only nodded to the general. The enlisted personnel under them busied themselves with organizing and filling out various documents, but all conversation was hushed.
He knew no one would have forgotten the day before, but could they not act with a degree of normalcy?
He looked at Hawkeye and jerked his chin toward his private office. When they were inside, behind the safety of the closed door, he said, "Has anyone asked?"
It was a ludicrous question, because of course people had asked, but her response was gentle all the same. "Yes, Sir. Our operators have been fielding calls, and we're not allowing any non-personnel past the gates."
He remembered. What did she mean by telling people he wasn't an exception? He only ran the region. He should be allowed into his place of work without jumping hurdles.
"Simple extra security measures, Sir. Until we know more."
He looked at her and frowned. She shook her head and looked toward the ceiling. It had come from higher than his office, then. Had the Führer himself commanded it? He considered his chair, but he did not want to sit in wet clothing and ruin the leather. "For God's sake," he said. "They didn't attack a military base. Didn't Fuery say they could have been anywhere?"
Hawkeye approached him with a dry shirt, jacket, and pair of pants she had found by some magic only she possessed. He accepted them and said, "Thank you, Hawkeye."
She nodded once, brushed her wet bangs from her forehead, and left him.
He changed and looked over the list she had left on the center of his desk. There were notes paper clipped to the sheet and comments in her writing in the margins. The top note was a message from the Führer's office requesting a returned telephone call.
He dialed the office number and rattled off his identification code, but when the operators finally put him through, Vogel, the Minister to the Führer, answered. Unfortunately, the Führer was very busy at the moment, and would he mind making an appointment for later, Sir? Mustang said he would not mind, and Vogel, sounding more harried than he usually did, asked him to hold for a few minutes before coming back and saying that he was sorry, but the Führer was very unwell and would not be taking any calls that day. Vogel would call him back, though, after meeting with the Ministers of Internal Affairs and Security. It was the third time that month the Führer had been too ill to take his call, and Mustang didn't know whether he should be concerned about Grumman's health or annoyed that his staff couldn't think of a better excuse, but he agreed.
Then there were three notes regarding telephone calls from General Armstrong in the North, but he would prefer to put those off as long as possible. He did, however, need to telephone her brother, the newly minted Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong, about security at the Cretan Ambassador's welcome party the following month. He remembered that Armstrong had requested to borrow Hawkeye for the night. Mustang was inclined to agree—although he needed a date for the event, he could hear Charlie telling him that it needed to be someone not on his payroll. He could not give the image that he needed to pay people to agree to being seen with him, and he could not risk a rumoured affair with a subordinate. In the best case, he would get a slap on the wrist and she would be reassigned to a different office. He could not afford having her in a different office. In the worst case, he would be stripped of his rank and his political career would be finished.
He needed to be more careful. He had been crossing too many lines in recent months, and he would have to address it at some point. They were both in danger of going too far, and when that happened, someone would notice.
Had the reporter noticed? Had she noted his gesture as anything other than friendly? Maybe that watchful expression on her face had meant something different.
Gracia Hughes. Of course he would take Gracia Hughes to the Ambassador's party. He would call on her when he arrived in Central and ask her to be his plus-one. Her being the long-time widow of one of his closest friends might wave off any romantic suspicions from the press. And as for the other thing…Perhaps he could rely on his reputation to save him. The general public would expect him to hit on the female personnel in Eastern Headquarters, even if the law prohibited it.
Why had he reacted? Why had he looked back as if he had been caught? Would he wake up the next day to a headline about him and a court-martial order on his desk?
A knock sounded at his door and Major Hawkeye poked her head in. "Sir, Captain Breda is here, if you're ready for him."
He looked at the clock on his wall. He had not realized how much time had passed. "Bring him in." While Hawkeye left to get the captain, Mustang dug into the pocket of his overcoat. The scrap of paper was damp, and the ink had run, but the name was still legible.
Breda saluted when he entered, and Mustang released him before saying, "I have something for you." He handed off the paper, and continued, "It's only one name, but it's all we have to go on right now."
"Elise Holfer," Hawkeye read over Breda's shoulder. She furrowed her brow like she did when she was thinking harder.
"One name is better than none," Breda said.
Mustang shrugged. "It may be none in the end." He drummed his fingers on his desk. "She's an alchemist. Failed the State Alchemist examination twice, which is no surprise." The exam was grueling. He had failed the written portion his first time around. He knew of only one person who had ever passed both the written and practical exams on the first try—an obnoxious child from Resembool. "And she's been vocal about her feelings on the Führer's scaling back the program."
"Not thrilled, I take it?" Breda said.
Mustang shook his head. "According to Vanessa, she's been waxing nostalgic about the old government. I realize there's a difference between nostalgia and actively trying to reinstate the old government, but Vanessa thought she might be worth something all the same." He watched Hawkeye as she bit her lip in thought. "Miss Holfer is apparently a bit anti-Ishvalan."
"A bit?" Breda asked.
"Did you know there's a movement favouring the relegation of the region to a separate territory?" Mustang said, and that shocked Hawkeye from her reverie. "I didn't. The supporters want border control and a strong military presence, and all Ishvalans would need travel documents to cross into Amestris." There had been a small separatist movement in Ishval as well, though it stemmed from different motivations. The Ishvalan separatists wanted a total demilitarization and self-governance, but the Amestrian group had different ideas. "But they don't want the Ishvalans to have autonomy. Separate, but with stricter governance."
Hawkeye took a deep breath. "So what it was before the war."
"That's disturbing," Breda said. "But something like that can't have much traction."
"Perhaps," Mustang said. In his experience, hatred was a powerful—and contagious—motivator. "She may be connected to what happened yesterday, and if she's not, she may know people who are. Can you look into her?"
Breda scoffed. "Give me two weeks and I can tell you what score she made on her second spelling test in primary school."
"You have four days," Mustang said. Breda's eyebrows shot up, and Mustang gestured between himself and Hawkeye. "We're leaving for Central on Sunday, and I want a report on my desk before then." It would require all of Captain Breda's focus, but Mustang had no doubt that he would get it done.
"And if she is connected to this freedom army, Sir?"
He could feel the spasms starting in his knuckles. He was meant to be reducing his stress, according to his doctor. "They've already bombed building with people inside, and we're lucky no one died. We can't wait for them to actually kill someone. They're terrorists. We stop them by any means necessary." He pressed his hands flat against the top of his desk, but his thumb jerked, and Hawkeye frowned. "We need to do what we can to find them and take them out." He nodded. "That's all."
Breda saluted and left.
Before Hawkeye could excuse herself, he asked, "Are you alright?"
She nodded. "It's the name, Sir." He waited for an explanation, and she continued, "It sounds familiar, but I can't place it."
His gut twisted. If she knew Miss Holfer, if they were old acquaintances, could he expect anything from her? He thought of Heathcliff—a soldier and friend from the Academy who had defected to join the Ishvalan resistance—of staring down the barrel of his gun before watching him bleed out on the street of an Ishvalan town, of Maes Hughes being the one who had killed him. He knew her to be incapable of the same act, of killing a friend, yet he needed her. If she could not place the name, it might only be someone she had met in passing. Still, it was a terrible thing to ask. His hands twitched and his fingers locked. "Will you be ready to pull the trigger if needed?"
"I'm always ready." She reached forward and squeezed his hand to still the shaking. "Sir."
Then she was gone, and he was alone again.
He ran a hand down his face and sighed. There was still much to be done. He needed to call Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong, then he needed to call General Armstrong. He could wait to call her after lunch, though. Of course, after lunch he had that meeting, so he would have to call her after that. But then it would be late in the day, and it might be best to put off calling her until the next morning.
He found the lieutenant colonel's number in a card box and dialed. He hoped Breda would be able to get him some information soon. He had no idea what was coming, but he knew he needed to be prepared like he hadn't been in a long time.
In a matter of hours and with Falman's help, Breda had pulled two boxes of documents and small news articles on various anti-Ishvalan movements spanning the past ten years. None had dubbed themselves the Amestrian Freedom Army, and Breda was still investigating Elise Holfer, but the General had been insistent on reading everything as it came to him. It meant a week of sleepless nights for him, and Riza was not happy. There would be little time for rest in Central, and he would overwork himself if he did not take some time to sleep.
The General kicked open the door to his home study and dropped the box he carried with a loud thud. "Just drop it on top," he said before walking toward the bay window that overlooked the street.
Riza pushed the first box to the wall with her foot, because he would trip over it in the night if she didn't, and then dropped her own on top of it. She straightened, flexed her fingers, and waited for him to speak.
"We need to talk," he said.
She had assumed as much when he had asked her to help him move the boxes from headquarters to his home. She looked at him, but he leaned against the window frame with his arms folded and face lifted to the ceiling.
"Have you ever thought about the fraternization law?" he asked. "I mean, really thought about it?"
Her throat and chest constricted. She thought about it every day. That law seemed to define her life.
He laughed and dropped his head and said, "It's funny," though it was not. "I've spent years congratulating myself for not breaking it because we never…" He gestured between the two of them. "I mean, not really."
She nodded and swallowed hard. She did the same, telling herself that those minute displays of affection were fine because they would never go further, pretending that the one kiss many years ago did not count because they had both been so young. She let herself believe that whispers and soft touches in private were harmless, because she did not know which was worse: being with him in only fleeting moments or not being with him at all. As long as nothing more happened, they had not broken the law, and they could deny they ever had.
What a beautiful lie she lived.
"But it doesn't say that, does it?" he said.
"No, Sir," she agreed. "It doesn't." It was such a small part of the law, a mere example of the law might be breached. Yet their general friendliness, their mutual affection, his obvious favouritism, the abundance of favours they did in and out of the office that were irrelevant to their job performance, all of those things were equal violations. Anything that could disrupt the prescribed power balance was forbidden.
"What's the exact wording?" he asked. "'Behaviour or relationship that compromises—'"
"'That appears to or may compromise the chain of command,'" she corrected. She clasped her hands behind her back and whispered, "Sir."
He nodded. "Appears." He looked through the window at the storm and said, more to himself than to her, "It doesn't matter if the chain of command isn't compromised. It can't even look like it might be."
Her shoulders tightened. They had always adhered to the chain of command, but there must have been a reason he was so concerned with appearances. "Who, Sir?" He looked at her again, and she felt her body go cold. "Oh." The reporter.
He swallowed. "We need to be above reproach."
"Yes, Sir."
He nodded and looked out the window where the rain continued to pound the glass and the pavement. "I'll drive you home." He pushed himself off the wall and walked past her and into the hall.
She followed him down the stairs. "Sir!" What was he thinking? What had they just agreed to? "Sir, please stop."
He reached the ground floor and busied himself with pulling his overcoat from the rack by the front door and searching through the pockets. "What kind of superior officer would I be if I let you get sick in this weather? And I can't afford to have you taking sick days now." He pulled his keys from the coat pocket and pointed them at her. "Believe me, my interest is purely professional."
She shook her head. "'Above reproach,' Sir."
He considered her for a moment, then dropped the keys back into the coat pocket. "I should have waited until the storm passed to have that conversation." He smiled that sad smile that weakened her knees and made her want to throw her arms around him and squeeze until he laughed. She gripped the banister harder.
His gaze dropped to her hand, and he opened his mouth to say something else, but a knock sounded at the front door. He turned away and she let out a long sigh.
The General opened the door to a handsome, hard-faced man with wavy strands of wet, dark hair plastered to his forehead.
"David," the General said, standing aside so the other man could come in. "Good to see you."
Riza watched the two men shake hands and exchange tight pleasantries. She was certain the General had never mentioned anyone named David, yet there was something familiar about this man and the way his mouth turned down at the corners. He was perhaps a little older than she was.
"Major Hawkeye," the General began, and the other man seemed to notice her for the first time. She stepped off the stairs and into the foyer while the General continued, "This is Doctor David Bauer. David, this is Major Riza Hawkeye."
Doctor Bauer shook her hand once, and she knew why he looked familiar. This was Mrs. Bauer's son, the one who picked her up every night. They had the same grey eyes and perpetual frown.
When Doctor Bauer pulled back from the brief handshake, the General said, "He's a professor at the university."
Riza wanted to ask what he taught, but Doctor Bauer looked toward the hall leading to the kitchen and shouted, "Ma!"
"Davy?" rang Mrs. Bauer's voice. "Can you come help me with this crate?"
Doctor Bauer scrunched his nose and mumbled, "Crate?" Then he looked at Hawkeye and said, "Yeah. Nice to meet you."
Riza watched him stomp down the hallway while asking his mother what crate was she talking about, then she looked at the General and asked, "Is he always so amiable?"
The General shook his head and shrugged. "Honestly, that was downright lovable."
She smiled.
He looked away and said, "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you home?"
"I'm sure," she said, because they needed to step back and be able to deny anything that came their way. "I can take a tram."
"Not in this weather," said Mrs. Bauer said as she emerged from the kitchen and marched down the hallway, her perpetual frown and tight bun immovable. "Davy can drive you."
"Oh, no," Riza said. "That's not—"
Mrs. Bauer reached her and grabbed her hand and patted the back of it. "No, dear. He'll be happy to do it."
Riza felt her ears grow hot at the thought of imposing on a complete stranger, and she was about to protest again when the General said, "Compromise."
Doctor Bauer staggered into the hallway with a cumbersome wooden box.
The General said, "You wouldn't mind driving Major Hawkeye home, would you?"
The doctor stopped, scrunched up his face, and said, "What?"
"No, Sir," Mrs. Bauer said. "He wouldn't mind at all."
Doctor Bauer took a deep breath and gave a hard smile. "Sure."
"Well, that's that," the General said while Doctor Bauer pushed between him and Riza to get to the door. "See you tomorrow, Major."
"Sir." Riza saw that the doctor was about to head into the street with his hands full and nothing to cover him, so she saluted the General, popped open her own umbrella, and ran onto the stoop.
Doctor Bauer looked up when she put the umbrella over his head and muttered, "Thanks." When they reached a black automobile parked in the street, he asked her to open the back door for him, and he hefted the crate and slid it along the back bench seat. He straightened, wiped his hands on his trousers, and said, "Where do you live?"
"Fifth ward," Riza said. It was not too far, and she needed to apologize for the imposition and to insist that she could take public transportation. "By the Red Bridge stop. But, Doctor, you don't—"
"I have a choice?" he asked with that same hard smile, then he shrugged and closed the automobile door. "I live close by. It's on my way." He pointed to the front bench seat. "Get in. They started shutting down public transportation anyway." Then he ran out from under the umbrella and around the automobile to get into the driver's seat.
Riza turned to look back at the General's home, unsure of what she had hoped to see, but the door was closed and Mrs. Bauer was descending the front steps. With an odd numbness filling her, she closed her umbrella and slid to the middle of the bench while Doctor Bauer turned his key in the ignition, slammed his foot on the starter button, and the engine sputtered to life.
"And call me David," he said.
Mrs. Bauer climbed into the automobile, wedging Riza between the two Bauers, and David said, "Ma, what is in that?"
"The grocer was having a sale on potatoes," Mrs. Bauer said, as if it were obvious.
He scoffed. "So you bought enough to feed the whole city?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Davy."
Riza pulled her hands into her lap and crossed her ankles in an attempt to be as compact as possible. The gentle, familial bickering continued and made her throat feel thick with longing for a time she never had. She watched the raindrops stream down the windows and lamplights pass in the darkness.
She needed to call the boys, she remembered. In all the madness from the radio hijacking the previous day, she had forgotten to see how they were, to see if the new baby had indeed come. She could call in the morning before work.
The automobile rolled to a stop in front of a row of low row houses. David left the engine running while he and Mrs. Bauer climbed out and wrangled the crate from the back seat.
Riza slid over on the bench and leaned her head against the window and watched the blurry scene. Two tall men, one Mrs. Bauer's age and one an older copy of David, came from one of the row houses and took the crate from David. Mrs. Bauer passed her umbrella to her son and gave him a kiss on the cheek. There were claps on shoulders and indistinct greetings and farewells, and then David ran back to the car and jumped in with a "Right. Red Bridge."
She tried to focus on the rain, the hypnotic beating of the windscreen wiper, but the absence of happy squabbles made the automobile feel cold and empty. "Do you enjoy teaching?"
He hummed. "Not at all. It's the worst part of the job. I only put up with students for the grants."
Riza looked back through the windscreen. There would be no conversation, then.
"You work for a State Alchemist, though," he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "So I can't imagine exchanging your freedom for exorbitant amounts of money is a foreign concept to you." Then he looked at her and smirked in a way that made her bristle with anger. "I assume few State Alchemists sign up because they actually believe in the program."
Riza dropped her head and closed her eyes as a memory of the General, twenty-years-old and hopeful, came to her. He had wanted to become a State Alchemist so he could help people, he had said. As many people as possible. He had believed the State Alchemist program and the military, the machines that ran the country, were the best way to accomplish that. They had both believed that. Experience had proved them wrong, but he had never lost that idealism. He still believed he could help people, and that's what drove every action at the end of the day. "You assume much," she said.
"Do I?"
She looked up at him, ready to say something in defense of the program out of habit, but he nodded and said, "Oh, I see."
Riza relaxed.
He continued, "He's an idealist and is only pretending to have a military career built on the exploitation of others. It makes perfect sense."
She took a deep breath. It made more sense than he realized, but saying so would reveal too much. Still, she needed to defend the General, so she said, "He's a good superior. He's loyal." She smiled in spite of the heat rising in her. "He takes care of those below him."
"I can tell," David said. "It was very generous of him to volunteer my services tonight."
Riza felt the anger dying as she began to understand. He had not been in the room for the conversation. How inconsiderate the General must look to him. "Your mother—"
"Is my mother," he said. "I don't work for him, and I don't appreciate his arrogance in thinking I do." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and gave her that same self-satisfied smirk. "You seem like you'd pass that along, and if you weren't planning to, please do."
If he only knew what had happened, he might change his mind. "I think you might have formed an unjust opinion," she began.
"I don't," he said, putting a halt to the rest of her argument. "This wasn't our first meeting. And even without…" He waved one hand in the air. "No one truly humble thinks they're the best person to run a country. Throwing your name into a national election takes a massive ego, believe me."
Riza leaned back and looked out the window, resigning herself to the fact that this was a man with whom one could not argue. She could pass the rest of the ride in silence, and then they would never see each other again unless—
"Where are you from?"
The question startled her and she sat upright and looked at him. She wondered why he had a sudden interest in her childhood.
He repeated, "Where are you from?"
"Amlingstadt," she said. That tiny town in the northern part of the East, where a flock of sheep was a landmark and where everyone had known who she was and, more importantly, whose daughter she was.
David shook his head.
"Do you know where Burne is?" she asked. It was another small town, but it at least had a railroad running through it.
"Really?" He cocked his head to the side. Then he said, "Your accent doesn't sound Eastern."
She swallowed. Her father had at least ensured she had a proper education by his standards. "My father was determined that I sound…" She trailed off as she remembered his words, but struggled to find one less demeaning.
"Educated?" David asked. He nodded as if he had made a fascinating discovery. "I've heard of that. New money parents wanting their kids to talk like they're from Central so people assume they're of higher stock than they are."
Riza clenched her jaw and turned her head away. In her memory, the Hawkeye estate was a carcass, rotting and infested with misery. At one point, long before her birth, it had been grand, a seat of nobility. She had grown up in that house when it was in a state of terrible disrepair and only a few rooms had been usable. Her father had never bothered to fix it. "I'd hardly say I come from money," she said to herself.
He heard her though and said, "So he was an academic. What did he do?"
She squeezed her hands in her lap until her fingertips felt numb. Her father had never bothered with anything that wasn't relevant to his research. For most of her life, that meant he hadn't bothered with her, until the day he did. How ready she had been to be noticed by that man whose acceptance she had craved for years. How willing she had been to do what he had asked because being valued as an old journal was better than not being valued at all.
That wasn't fair, though. He had loved her in his own way. He had trusted her. She repeated it to herself. He had trusted her. He had trusted her.
"That's alright," David said. "I don't mind tense silences."
The lines on her back tingled and the scars burned as if they were new.
He had trusted her.
"He was an alchemist," she said.
"And you still went military?" David asked. He braked at a stop sign and looked at her with no malice. He seemed almost curious. "It's just that alchemists, excluding the federally funded-ones, rarely have anything good to say about the military."
She swallowed and fought the desire to jump out of the automobile. "He didn't."
David hummed and the automobile rolled forward. "I see."
She was content to leave the conversation there, to watch lit windows and lamps pass in the night.
"You don't have anything good to say about him."
Heat rose behind her eyelids and her heart fluttered with the urge to show some loyalty, to prove the accusation wrong. He had trusted her. "My father was passionate and intelligent."
David nodded. "Angry and condescending. Go on."
"Much like you," she snapped.
His eyes widened even as he stared at the road, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. She should not have said that.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He shook his head. "Don't be. My entire opinion of you just changed." Then he grinned, a real, wide grin.
His good opinion was not something she had desired, but she was relieved to know he had not taken much offense. The conversation needed to shift into an area that was less emotional for her, away from childhood pain and into the calm of small talk. "What did you say you taught?"
"I didn't," he said. "Psychology."
She could not help it. She laughed, because of course he did. All of his conjecture about her life, the way he had been watching her, made sense. She had met psychologists before—every time she discharged a firearm she went through requisite screening to be recommended again for active duty—but those had been patient, less invasive, and had not made such insulting conclusions for her.
He held up a finger. "Hey, I don't do psychoanalysis. I don't care enough to do it well, so don't worry."
She shook her head and scoffed, because what had he been doing for the entire ride then?
He shrugged. "Alright, fine, but everything you've given me has been easy." He turned onto the Red Bridge over the Marl River. "Can you tell me how to go from here?"
She nodded once.
"And for the record," he continued, "I study political psychology. Fringe movements, mostly. How ideological groups form and operate."
Riza's breath hitched. If that was his focus, then regardless of his politics or bearing, the General might find him useful, especially in light of their new adversaries fighting for "an Amestrian future for an Amestrian people."
He smiled and leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Go on. Ask me. You're dying to."
She clenched her jaw when he guessed her thoughts. Had he been directing the whole conversation to boast about how much he could deduce and how much she could not? She did not want to give him the satisfaction of asking, but she said, "I'm sure you're dying to tell me."
He leaned back. "I heard it. The whole country did, which I'm sure you already know. It was a smart time to broadcast. Everyone is huddled around the wireless, eating breakfast, running morning errands in shops, making their way into the office while the news plays…" He nodded as if impressed. "I would have done the same if I were trying to disseminate propaganda."
She squinted at him as a sneaking suspicion took root in her mind. It would be too easy. Surely the so-called "Amestrian Freedom Army" would not go around praising themselves if they wished to remain undetected by law enforcement. She saw they were approaching a particular cross street and said, "Turn left here."
"It's not great for your boss though," he said.
"Now right."
"Not that I was planning to vote for him anyway," he continued.
Riza continued to watch him, even as she remembered what Neumann had said. "Crazy won't convince anyone."
David hummed and dropped his head to the side. "You're wrong. But whatever helps you sleep at night."
She huffed and said, "I can walk from here." They were on her street, and suspicions or no suspicions, useful or useless, she had no desire to hear any more from Doctor David Bauer, even if she did rather like his mother.
"Oh, no," he said. "I can't let you do that." She thought he would mention the rain or the flooding storm drains, but he said, "General Mustang might dock my pay."
Her skin prickled and heated and she tasted bile. "Two blocks up."
"And I'm not totally heartless," he said, though she did not believe him. "I'm not happy with the handling of this, but I wouldn't expect you to walk in this. I would have offered myself, in the end."
She had every confidence he would not have. She tapped the window as her building came into view and said, "Here."
He slowed the automobile and popped open the glove box as they came to a stop. He pulled out a stack of business cards and held one out to her. "Here's my card. Give me a call if you ever need a ride again." When she made no move to take it, he gave it a little wave. "As I said, I'm just unhappy with how this went down, not with the actual driving you home part."
She pressed her lips together as she stared at the card. "I don't think so." She would rather walk home in a blizzard than share a ride with him again.
He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Look, if you're worried I'm trying to pick you up, that's not the case. I promise. I have a girlfriend."
She let out a breathy laugh, because the thought had not entered her mind.
"I know," he said. "How is it possible?"
She opened the automobile door and popped her umbrella.
"Really," he said, proffering the card again. "We got off on the wrong foot, and that's my fault. I want to make it up to you if I can."
A different thought, one less related to starting anew and more related to radios and political psychology, returned, and she did reach out and take the card. He smiled like he had won something, and before he could say anything more, she slammed the door, turned on her heel, and marched through the front door of her apartment building.
She was lucky. When she had moved after her promotion to major two years earlier, she had found a flat on the ground floor of a building with a covered patio. She usually took Black Hayate out there when she got home from work, and she needed to, judging by the way he whined from inside before she had put the key into her lock. She didn't leash him to take him out. He was getting old and sick, and he could no longer run as far or as far as he once could. He also would not try to run in the rain.
When she opened the door off of her tiny kitchen, he pushed between her legs and padded to a corner where some potted plants grew. She sat on the door sill and told herself she would take care of his business in the morning, even though she knew she would be outside with a bag in case another tenant woke before she did.
She slipped her boots off and rolled her ankles, and Black Hayate came to her and pressed himself against her leg. She pulled him into her lap and rubbed her hands over his face and soft ears. His muzzle had been greying of late, and there was a cataract in his left eye and those lumps on his belly about which the veterinarian hold told her nothing could be done. "Just keep him comfortable," he had said. "Comfortable and happy."
Riza looked at him with all the earnestness she could muster after two stressful days. "You're a good boy." She smiled at a joke she had once made: of all the men in her life, he was the best one. With a heavy sigh, she buried her face in his side and repeated what she had said. His small body shook with excitement and he licked the side of her face.
After a few more minutes of sitting and hugging her dog, she would go back inside, and he would wait at the bedroom door until she was ready to sleep. But not yet. She scratched behind one of his ears. No, not yet.