Mustang began as he always did. He said hello, apologised for taking so long to come, and gave his excuses. He thought his excuses this time were rather good—he had been preoccupied with important matters, then hospitalised. "You understand," he said. "There was no time for a long visit."

He scanned the tree line surrounding the field of identical, grey stones. "Charlie told me I shouldn't come. He said that it would send the papers into a frenzy, after your wife and I…Well." He chuckled to himself. "There's this ridiculous rumour circulating about her and me. I'm sure if you were around to hear it, I'd be dead by now."

The gravestone was mute, just like all the others. It bore a name, a date of birth and of death, a description of rank, and a quaint epitaph. "Loving husband, dear father, always missed," this one said. It was indistinguishable from all the others in their neat rows, all a testament to Amestris's indifference to the lives of its people.

That was the old Amestris, he reminded himself. The new one was still coming of age. His Amestris was not yet realised.

"Anyway, Charlie didn't want me to come." He had said as much with great passion, noting that reporters and photographers might be hiding to catch him paying respects to his new lady's late husband. Mustang had pointed out that it might give the papers a decent distraction, while Charlie insisted that the whole thing would look disingenuous and slimy. "He even made Hawkeye promise to tell him if I did." He looked over his shoulder at the cemetery entrance. "Though she seemed perfectly fine driving me here and keeping watch."

The conversation then changed to more pleasant matters. It had been some time since his last visit—more than a year—and he found himself recounting the events of his life in that time. He had moved out of a studio flat and into a proper row house. He was still unmarried, though his campaign team had suggested he change that. "You'd have laughed," he said, the familiar sadness tightening in his chest.

He continued, "They're fine, both of them. Elysia is so tall, she…" He chuckled against the tension and took a breath. "She's grown so much. And Gracia…" He trailed off as he tried to find the words to communicate the fact that she was seeing someone new. He didn't imagine his friend would take the news well, but he did imagine that Gracia might have taken it upon herself already to tell Hughes about Andy or Anthony or whatever his name was. He clicked his tongue and leaned forward slightly. The wound in his side ached, so he straightened and settled for resting his hand on top of the gravestone.

"She lost her job," he said. "Or, rather, her job lost its building. Whole thing up in flames. I did what I could but…" He sighed. "But I'll make sure she's alright. You know Gracia, though. I'll have to be sneaky about it."

"Sir."

He turned to find Hawkeye, having silently crossed the distance between the entrance and himself, waiting at his shoulder.

"We'll be late."

He flipped open his pocket watch. "Damn."

"I'll give you some privacy to finish—"

"No need," he said, straightening. Goodbye's were not his strong suit.

He turned away and walked back to the cemetery entrance, and Hawkeye fell into step just behind him. They went on in silence, and it was only when they were both tucked safely and privately into the automobile and rolling along to the train station that he said, "How many?"

"Three, Sir," she said.

He hummed. "All the same?"

"Three photographers, Sir," she clarified. "I counted eight flashes."

He smiled. She never missed a thing, even when he did. "Good." He had laid a perfect scene: the poor, romantic general visiting the grave of his old flame's late husband. "Let's see what the papers make of that." He watched her out of the corner of his eye, the way her hands rested on the steering wheel, the way her gaze darted between oncoming traffic and the mirrors. "You're going to tell Charlie?"

"Of course, Sir."

He snorted. "Traitor."

She pulled the automobile up to the station, and he got out to settle the tab for the rental while she removed their luggage from the boot.

Charlie came bounding out of the station entrance. "Thought you'd miss it," he said, taking a suitcase from Hawkeye. "Where were you two?"

"Cemetery," she said.

Charlie rounded on Mustang. "You dumb motherf—"

Inside, a whistle sounded, and a conductor called for boarding.

Charlie hurried them onto the train, and Hawkeye had only just closed the carriage door behind them when the train lurched forward, sending the three of them crashing together against a compartment door.

"Ours, thank goodness," Charlie said, righting himself and sliding the door open. "Major, would you mind finding the rest of the team? I think they're grabbing something to eat in the dining carriage."

She nodded once and was gone.

Charlie stepped to the side of the door. "After you."

Mustang sat on one of the benches in the compartment, and Charlie sat across from him.

"I told you going was a bad idea. Think of the press."

Mustang waved that comment away. "I"m sure Roth can handle it."

Charlie stared at Mustang for a moment. "What is it that alchemists say? You can't get something from nothing?"

Mustang shrugged. "More or less."

"And the inverse is true, isn't it?" Charlie shook his head. "Roth can't make something disappear into nothing. Some traces of the story are always left behind, and traces can grow."

Mustang hummed and reached for the first new subject he could find. "I've been thinking about my ministerial appointments, like you said."

"I'm not finished talking about this."

"Particularly the Minister to the Führer."

Charlie sighed in defeat and produced a notebook from his pocket. "I suppose you're thinking of Major Hawkeye for that?"

"No," Mustang said, though she had approached him about it, given him the legislation and information of the position to read. He had not read it because he knew that the appointment would mean a continued life of distance. Surely, he should be allowed to close that distance once he was Führer. Surely he should be allowed some joy in life. "No," he repeated. "Actually, I was thinking of you."

Charlie stared. "Did she turn it down?"

Mustang looked out the window as warehouses and tenement housing rushed by faster and faster.

"I'm shocked," Charlie said. "It seems like a natural move for her. Did she say why?"

Mustang looked back at him. "And your answer?"

Charlie crossed his arms and leaned back. "Absolutely not. I like being a kingmaker, but I'd rather avoid having to actually care about the minutiae of policy and your schedule."

Mustang crossed his own arms. "Maybe Roth, then."

"Not a chance," Charlie said. "You know what Roth wants out of this."

Indeed he did. The half-Ishvalan man had made his motives very clear when he had first joined the team.

As if summoned, Roth pushed open the compartment door and entered, followed by Kuhn, Brandt, and, of course, Neumann.

Mustang clenched his jaw and leaned back. He listened with mild interest as Kuhn expressed his desire for a telephone bank in every major city, starting with Central and East City, and as Brandt noted that there would need to be an increase in donations for such a thing to happen and listed the expenditures from their trip to Central: transportation to and from the embassy, breakfasts and dinners at the hotel, lunches around town, newspaper ads and interview publications—

"Don't forget the general's hospital bill," Neumann said. Mustang fumed.

Roth was dismayed that Mustang had visited Hughes's grave against Charlie's advice and, when Mustang pointed out that it was Roth who had first liked the notion of presenting Mustang as a romantic, Roth reminded the rest of the team that there was a fine line between romantic and predatory.

"And being secretly in love with your best friend's wife and then moving in on her after a sufficient mourning period has passed? That reads predatory," Roth said.

Neumann stayed silent until all the other men had finished, then he said, "Do you think Miss—Major Hawkeye could join us? Only, I want to make sure the schedules don't conflict."

"I'm sure you do," said Mustang, heat pooling in his gut.

Neumann smiled. "Good! I'll ask her." And he left.

Brandt stood and stretched. "Well, call me when there are cheques to cash. I'm going for a smoke."

"I'll join you," said Charlie, and the two left together. Roth was not far behind, muttering to himself about messes he would have to clean up. Kuhn all but squeaked in shock upon realising he was alone with Mustang, and he dashed away just as Neumann returned with Hawkeye in tow.

He watched the two of them look over a calendar together, as Hawkeye occasionally pointed out that no, this date wouldn't work because there was a joint training or a meeting—and he burned. His temperature rose with each smile Neumann gave her, with time she tucked her hair behind her ear. He did not realise he had been clenching his fists until the spasms began.

He lurched forward and then cried out as he aggravated the wound in his side.

"Sir!" she cried. "Sir, are you alright?"

He threw himself back against the cushion of the bench and breathed as deeply as he could while pressing his thumb into the palm of his hand and closing his eyes tight. "Aspirin."

"Yes, Sir," she said, and he heard the door slide open and click shut.

"Can I do anything?" Neumann asked.

Mustang fought the desire to set the man alight, and he growled, "Stay away from me."

"I can do that," Neumann said, and Mustang heard him shift along the opposite bench to the farthest corner. "Is there anything else I can—"

"I said," Mustang ground out through clenched teeth, and he opened his eyes to glare, "stay the fuck away from me."

Neumann nodded. "I'm sure Riza will be back soon—"

"Major Hawkeye," said Mustang. "You will call her 'Major Hawkeye.'"

"I—yes," Neumann said. "I'm sorry. Major Hawkeye will be back—"

"What do you want from her?" Mustang demanded, working at his hand from the centre of the palm to the tips of his fingers.

"What?" Neumann asked, his eyes wide.

The pain in his hand and side began to fade, leaving behind a dull ache that was much more bearable, but his temper was raging on. "I see how you watch her. What do you want?"

"I—" Neumann looked around the compartment. "Riza is an intelligent, kind, beautiful woman! Why wouldn't—"

"You think I don't know that?" Mustang shouted, and he stood. As long as he stood and Neumann sat, Mustang towered over him, and that pleased him very well, in spite of the intense pain from his still-healing wound.

The confusion in Neumann's face melted away as his eyes widened. "Oh," he said, and he pressed a hand to his forehead in realisation. "Oh! I didn't realise…" He looked up at Mustang. "Does Charlie know?"

"I'm not talking about Charlie," Mustang said, feeling heat rising in his neck.

"Because this is exactly the sort of thing he needs to know," Neumann said.

"I'm talking about you."

But Neumann seemed preoccupied by the revelation. "Mustang, you need to tell him—"

Mustang jabbed a finger at Neumann. "I've seen you."

"—or it's all over."

Mustang clenched his jaw. "You're always where you're not supposed to be."

Neumann shook his head, "If we don't handle this correctly, it'll absolutely explode and it will ruin—"

"Why were you at the ambassador's party?" Mustang snapped.

That seemed to jerk Neumann's thoughts back to the compartment and the real issue at hand. He opened and closed his mouth, looking not unlike a fish. "What?"

"Why were you there?" Mustang repeated.

Neumann looked about as if seeking help. "I was invited—"

"And why were you with Hawkeye right before?" Mustang loomed closer to Neumann, and the other man shrank back in his seat.

"I was—"

"You tried to stop her."

Neumann held up his hands between them. "She was soaking wet—"

"You tried to stop her from doing her job!"

Neumann then ducked away from Mustang and stood in the middle of the compartment. "I've already answered all of this! Multiple times!"

Mustang would not be silenced, not when it felt so good to release all of the hot anger building within him. "You wanted to distract her. So that the ambassador would die!"

Neumann shook his head. "What are you—"

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Mustang shouted, and he glared up at the other man.

Neumann took one breath, and then another, as a more serious calm settled over his features. "No," he said at last. "No. I think you're insane." And with that, he turned and left the compartment, letting the door slam closed behind him.

But Mustang's heat and rage had not left him, and with no target left, he could only turn in the compartment and run a hand through his hair in exasperation.

Then the door slid open again, and Hawkeye said, "What did you do to poor Mr Neumann?"

He barked a laugh. "'Poor Mr Neumann,' indeed." He rounded on her. "And where the hell were you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him and held out two white tablets and a glass of water. "Getting your aspirin."

He grabbed both from her and, instead of letting the tablets dissolve in the glass, swallowed them dry.

"Sir!" she cried.

The taste was awful, and he drained the glass in one draught to wash it away. Then, because it was in his hand and the only thing he could immediately use as an outlet, he threw the glass against the compartment bench, when it bounced off the cushions and fell to the carpeted floor with a harmless thud.

"Sir!" she said again. "Calm down!"

He pointed his finger at her. "Don't tell me to calm down."

"That is my job, Sir."

He scoffed. "Who told you that?"

"You did!"

He could give no response but a low shout of frustration, and he sank into the bench and jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes until all he saw was stars. He sat in that attitude for some time, breathing in and out, letting his anger subside to dull irritation drumming at the back of his neck. He felt the rumble of the train, heard his heartbeat in his ears. He smelled light citrus and carnauba wax, a reminder that she was still with him.

When he finally sat up and blinked in the sunlight, she said, "Better?"

He did not have time to respond, as the door slammed open again and Charlie demanded, "What the hell did you do?"

Hawkeye sighed and held her head in her hands, and Mustang folded his arms across his chest. "Who says I did anything?" he asked.

Hawkeye looked up at him in admonishment. "Sir—"

Charlie pointed toward the corridor. "Neumann just found me in the dining carriage to tell me he's quitting."

"Quitting?" Hawkeye repeated while Mustang snorted and said, "Good riddance."

"No," Charlie said, and he marched to Mustang while wagging his finger. "Not good riddance. Very bad riddance. Do you even understand what he did for the campaign—"

Mustang threw up his hands. "He kept a fucking calendar!" Anyone could do it. He could manage his own calendar. "He made tedious appointments with tedious people—"

"Tedious people with money!" Charlie cried. "Loads of money! The thing you need to get telephone banks and train compartments and to pay our damn salaries!" He groaned and dropped into the seat across from Mustang. "Yes, he can keep a calendar, but we needed him because he has connections! And you just…" He heaved a deep sigh. "What did you say to him?"

Mustang did not feel he needed to disclose the nature of the argument, but Hawkeye cleared her throat in such a way that told him she would get it out of him somehow, and then she would tell Charlie, and Mustang's petulant refusal would be for naught. So he told them, and as he did, Hawkeye's expression fell into a mixture of shock and disappointment, and Charlie's fell to a vague exhaustion.

"You accused him of treason and murder!" Hawkeye said when he had finished. "Sir!"

Mustang looked at Charlie, who appeared to have taken a tired interest in the paisley pattern on the seat cushions. "So what now, Charlie?"

Charlie heaved a sigh. "I don't know." He shook his head and repeated, "I don't know. Best case, he leaves, says nothing and all that potential cash is still salvageable if we're smart."

"And the worst case?" Hawkeye asked.

"Hawkeye," Mustang said, for it was not her job to know the particulars of his campaign. They could all be in trouble if the line between his military work and his campaign blurred too heavily.

But Charlie said, "She's right to ask." He nodded. "Worst case, he takes every potential donor and delivers them to someone else. Kaufman, perhaps, or even Hauser."

Mustang rubbed at a tightness forming at the back of his neck.

"We need money," Charlie said. "And we need a scheduler. Neumann gave us both, and now we have neither."

Mustang stared out the window at passing trees and fields. He was General Roy Mustang. He had plenty of money, and he had connections in the highest and lowest of places. He had darned his own socks and cooked his own meals for years, and he could damn well keep his own schedule.

Even as he pondered his own adequacies, he knew that it wasn't enough. They would need more money for more advertisements and more travel expenses, and they would need more wealthy citizens to supply it.

Still, if Charlie expected Mustang to apologise to keep Neumann on the team—Mustang didn't know Neumann. He didn't like him, and he certainly didn't trust him.

He looked at Hawkeye, who pressed her fingers to her lips and watched him back, and it occurred to him that there was someone he could trust. Someone who had years of experience in organising schedules for a powerful man and who now, through a combination of determination and good luck, moved within very wealthy circles. And as the thought persisted, he knew it was a very good idea indeed.

He turned back to Charlie. "I might know someone who could step in."

Riza found Charlie in the next compartment, fiddling with the window latches. "Not thinking of jumping are you?"

Charlie chuckled and slid the pane up. "Not a bad idea." He jerked his head toward the wall, where the General sat just on the other side. "He's in a state."

She swallowed and smiled. "We all are." The General's trip had been far from relaxing. Alphonse's State Alchemist exam, the Führer's illness, the ambassador's murder, hunting down assassins to avoid an international conflict and losing them in the alleys of Central, getting shot himself —and all while trying to run a campaign…It was an inordinate amount of stress, and surely someone under such stress could be forgiven for lashing out.

Charlie shook his head. "Still." He fished a cigarette case from his pocket, pulled one out, and offered the case to Riza. "Want one?"

"No, thank you."

He held the cigarette between his teeth and produced a lighter. "Remember those cigarettes they rationed us in Ishval?"

Riza shook her head. "I always traded them away." Certain items had come standard in every weekly ration pack: cigarettes and boiled sweets, shaving soap and tooth powder, rubber prophylactics and sanitary napkins. There were never enough sanitary napkins in one pack, even if they were saved until necessary, but the men were always happy to trade for a smoke or a sweet. Any shame in asking was eclipsed by the shared desire to simply live.

"Smart," Charlie said. "They were awful." He took a long drag, exhaled, and added, "Tobacco didn't even stay in the paper."

Riza sat on the bench across from him. "I haven't smoked since the Academy. Lost the taste for it."

Charlie took another pull and exhaled out the window. "Why?"

Riza smiled at the memory. "It was Rebecca's idea—you know her, of course."

"Of course."

"And it was during the first year, and you know how the first year goes…"

"Oh, I remember," Charlie said. "They practically force you to become an ascetic."

"Exactly." Newly enlisted soldiers were expected to give up most indulgences for one year, from alcohol to parties. It was meant to install discipline, though it mostly wrought chaos as newly-minted adults invented new ways to access those pleasures they were denied. "Rebecca smuggled in two packs of cigarettes. And we found a spot, right between a storage shed and the treelike, where we could smoke out of sight. But then a sergeant found them in our bunks and—" She laughed. "He ordered us to finish off the packs in five minutes."

Charlie laughed with her. "Oh, God!"

She shook her head. "We were both horribly sick all night."

"I'll bet you were!" Charlie said, and he flicked ash out the window. "I can't believe you got in trouble at the Academy."

"Everyone does!" she smiled. The sargeants made sure every new private served some form of punishment before his second year at the Academy.

"Yes," Charlie said, "but you actually caused trouble."

Riza shook her head. "I was eighteen."

They passed a moment with light chuckles between them, and she said, "What about you?"

Charlie clicked his tongue and looked down at the floor. "Snuck out one night and went dancing. We had met these girls at the university, and…" He shrugged. "Well, we went dancing. Then we couldn't find our way back in, missed roll call in the morning—"

"No!" Riza gasped. Even with their lungs and stomachs in turmoil, she and Rebecca had dragged one another to roll call. "What did they make you do?"

"Sweep sunlight off the track." Charlie laughed. "It was a beautiful day, I remember, and we were just there sweeping the track until the sun went down. And we hadn't really slept the previous night so by the time we finished—"

"You were exhausted."

"Dead tired," he agreed. "And of course the next day they woke us up before the sun and made us go on a hike. I never snuck out, broke curfew…none of that, ever again." He nodded at Riza with a wide grin. "But I married one of those girls, so I think it was worth it."

A comfortable silence elapsed with Charlie working on his cigarette while Riza mused on the bold affection good men seemed to harbour for their spouses.

After several minutes, Charlie looked at the wall above Riza's head and said, "I'm afraid it might be my fault. His mood."

Riza tilted her head to one side. "Why?"

"Turned him down for a ministry position," Charlie said.

A hard knot twisted in her stomach, and in spite of the dread, she dared to ask, "Which one?"

"Minister to the Führer."

The knot gave way to nausea, and her chest tightened. He had offered it to someone else. "When?" she asked, clinging to a hope that the General had offered before she had brought the position to him.

"A couple of hours ago," Charlie said, and she forgot to breathe for a moment. "Why did you turn it down?"

She turned her head and stared at the windowsill. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she barely heard the words leave her mouth, "He told you that?"

"Not in so many words," Charlie said, "but it's obvious."

Obvious, and yet he had offered it to someone else.

"Of course he'd ask you first."

Had she disappointed him in some way? Did he think her incapable?

"You're ideally suited to it."

She'd brought it to the General in the first place. She had handed him the legislation, told him her wishes, done everything but get on her knees and beg—

"Maybe that's all he wants," said a voice similar to Rebecca's in her head. "You on your knees." Then the voice cackled, sending waves of nausea through Riza's core. She shook her head and shut her eyes tight against the stinging behind her eyes.

"So why'd you reject it?" Charlie asked, his questioning grounding her once again in the train compartment.

Her chest shook as she inhaled. "I—" She had rejected nothing; she was rejected. She offered the little truth she could, "I'm still figuring out what my role will be after all this."

Charlie chuckled. "Aren't we all." He stubbed out his cigarette into his case. "Well, I'll be ready for the next election cycle, if this one doesn't kill me." He snapped his case closed and turned it over in his hands, before saying, "Would you do something for me?"

Riza did not feel charitable at the moment, but she still nodded.

He continued, "Talk to Neumann."

The request was another blow, sending her off-balance, though she was seated. "Why me?"

Charlie shrugged. "Because he likes you. I don't know who Mustang's thinking of pulling in, but I do know Neumann." He waved one hand between them. "We're not the closest of friends, but I know his resumé, and I know he's good at what he does. And if anyone can convince him to come back—"

"What if he won't?" she said, and she regretted the harsh edge to her voice. Charlie had done nothing to her.

"Then," he said, "maybe you can convince him not to take his people to Hauser or Kaufman."

She nodded once and took another deep breath. Then, "I think I will have one if you don't mind."

Charlie opened his case again and passed a fresh cigarette to her. "Light?"

She nodded, and she leaned forward with the cigarette between her lips while he flicked his lighter and ignited the end. She pulled back and inhaled, but she breathed too deeply. Between coughs, she assured Charlie that she was fine, that it had simply been a long time, and she was glad to have an excuse to wipe her eyes.

When she finally regained some control, Charlie stood and said, "I'm going to go find Brandt and figure out how fucked we really are." He slid the door open, and he paused to turn back and say, "Thank you."

Riza smiled at him. "Of course."

He left her alone, and she sat for a long time, letting the smoke fill her insides with its gritty warmth and dull all of her nerves. She leaned back and let her head drop against the wood panelling of the compartment wall. On the other side, probably with his own back against the same wall, sat the General, and though only a few slats separated them, the distance felt insurmountable.

Geneva tapped her pencil against her desk and flipped through her notepad. She had assumed that the problem with the census records might be solved once she and Myrtle had returned to East City, and she might have been right—except that someone had already ordered the census records from the East City archives. She had asked the archivist who, in the hopes that a fellow reporter had grabbed them for some other purpose, but they had been claimed by a man she had never heard of: Heymans Breda.

So there she was, back at her desk when most other reporters had left, hoping that her notes would unscramble themselves into an explanation of why Roy Mustang, famously raised in Central, was not in Central in 1905.

And Myrtle, though she was still upset, expected her home for dinner.

She was painting little white flowers with correction fluid and had just decided to give up and go home when someone flung himself into the chair next to hers.

"Help me out, Genny," said a boy, one she had known for too long, as he held out a piece of paper. "I need someone to give this a once-over so I can get out of here."

"There are editors for that, Richard," she sighed.

"Yes," Richard agreed, and he leaned in close, his blue eyes dancing behind his glasses. "But they're all gone, and you're my friend."

"A fact I deeply regret," she said. They had met in their university days, and though he was one year her senior, they had bonded as they worked for the university newspaper. Now, Richard had a real beat covering military news, while Geneva was stuck writing about film stars getting married and divorced and married again.

"How about this," Richard said, "Eli and I found a club downtown. There's all sorts in there. The boys dance with the boys and the girls with the girls and no one minds any which way." He smiled—a winning smile that had captured the hearts of more than one hopeless classmate.

Geneva rolled her eyes. "Another one?" Richard and Eli were skilled at sniffing out friendly clubs in East City, and it seemed new ones opened every few months.

"Yes, but this one has clean lavatories, and they don't water down their liquor." Richard leaned forward again, his blonde hair flopping over his forehead. "Liquor that I will buy you and Myrtle next weekend when you come out with us if you read this for me now."

Myrtle might not be forgiving enough to go dancing next weekend, but Geneva still took the page from Richard.

It was his usual sort of morale-boosting article, elaborating on military conditions and an acknowledgement of recent troop movements to the Cretan border—a necessity, given recent events.

But her mind wandered from the deployment of soldiers back to the cause of it all, and from there to the general who had been shot but not killed, and further still to a missing name in a census book and a second census book, missing entirely. She put the page down.

"What's wrong?" Richard asked.

"You wouldn't happen to know the name 'Heymans Breda,' would you?"

"Know it?" Richard said. "Of course I do. Upstairs just ran an article about him the other day. Well, not about him, exactly, but he was certainly in it." He patted her shoulder with an almost maternal look of concern. "Genny, you ought to read a newspaper one day. It'll do you good."

"What did it say?" she said.

"Oh, let me get it so I get the verbiage right." He waltzed away, leaving her with her thoughts and the dim lamp lighting her desk.

She picked up Richard's article, but the anticipation made reading difficult.

When he did return, it was with that same broad smile. "I had forgotten he's from our hometown." He dropped a paper in front of her, opened to the third page and folded over. He tapped a paragraph toward the bottom of the page and read, "'The National Intelligence Bureau, recently formed by…' oh, blah, blah, here: '…and Director of Domestic Intelligence, Heymans Breda.'"

Geneva leaned forward to read along. "What would an intelligence organisation want with census records?"

"All sorts of things, I imagine," Richard said, and he sat again. "Sort of their job to know everything about everyone. Karl's writing an opinion piece on that, by the way, how having an organisation meant to spy on us all is antithetical to the new constitution—"

"Look!" Geneva cried, and she pointed to a line she had just read. "'Director Breda was until recently stationed in East City under the command of General Roy Mustang—' Richard!"

"See?" he said. "I told you. He's from right here."

"No!" Her heart thudded against her ribs. Everything kept leading back to General Mustang and that, no matter what Myrtle said, was no coincidence. "It's Mustang," she said, breathless. "It's all him."

"What's all him?"

"The census records!" Then the realisation hit her, and she gasped. "He's changing them." She was too late. She leaned back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

"Census records?" Richard asked. "Genny, what are you talking about?"

"He's changing them because he's not in them!" Geneva cried. She sat up and pointed at Director Breda's name. "And he's taken the ones here, so they can change them and put Mustang's name back in!"

Richard nodded. "You're upset that someone is correcting a mistake—"

"It's not a mistake!" Geneva leapt up and knocked over the bottle of correction fluid, splattering white all over her skirt and cardigan.

Richard righted the bottle and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. "Right," he said as she took his handkerchief and began wiping. He held up the now-stoppered bottle of correction fluid. "Have you been drinking this? Huffing, perhaps?"

"Stop it," she snapped, frustration tightening her chest. Wiping the stain seemed to be smearing the correction fluid more than removing it. It was a favourite cardigan too, and she was sure she would be up all night scrubbing it in the sink.

"The article can wait," Richard said, and he stood. "I think we should go. I'll get our coats and meet you at the door."

When he had gone, Geneva lowered herself back into her chair and groaned. While the white had started to fade from the yellow wool, it had also spread, a messy, wet web reaching and causing the fibres to stand on end. She doubted she would ever get it all out, and there would be little flecks of white paint lodged in the yarn forever. Such things always left traces.

She paused her wiping. There would always be traces, and traces could grow.

She would never find proof that General Mustang was in the East by looking at census records. He wouldn't let her. Still, he was human, and he would leave something behind.

She thought back to that day when he had been walking with his adjutant, the blonde woman, Major Hawkeye. When he had almost put his hand on her waist, when he had looked so scared over something so small. And she thought about the radio interview and mysterious girl from his childhood, and it occurred to her where such traces might still be.

She needn't look at the census records for surnames starting with 'M' at all. She needed to look at surnames starting with 'H.'

Riza returned home alone.

The General had offered to pay for a cab to take them both, first to her flat and then to his home, but she had declined. They were going in nearly opposite directions, she had explained, and it didn't make sense.

It had been partially true, her excuse, but the deeper truth was that she didn't want to be near him. If she were to be alone with him for even a moment, there would be a tear-stricken confrontation and anger and such a mess, she was sure. She would be better able to have a more sensible conversation if she had a night to think.

He had made a vague comment about her stubborn practicality that she had only half heard, and then he had gotten into his own cab and was gone.

She had looked around for Mr Neumann on the platform, hoping to catch him and make good on her promise to Charlie, but he was gone. The rest of the campaign team left with family or spouses who had arrived for them.

Riza had no family, no husband, and Rebecca was still in Central. A ridiculous thought occurred to her that she might call David Bauer, but she laughed it off. She had no idea if he was back in the East, and even with the unspoken peace between them, any ride with him would still be as awkward as it was long.

So in the end, she had hailed her own cab, driven by a talkative man who chatted at her about the loveliness of the night and the sudden chill that had set into the city. She made polite responses when necessary, but she was glad when her building came into view and she could get out and grab her case.

Her flat was quiet, unnervingly so, and it occurred to her that she had for years come home to Black Hayate. In later years, when he had been too old to accompany her to the office, he had waited for her, facing the door, sitting upright as if at attention.

Now she arrived home in solitude.

Her chest and throat constricted, and the stinging behind her eyes was back. She swallowed hard and shrugged off her coat, but before she could start on her shoes, a knock sounded at her door.

She opened it and found herself looking at the bright smile of Havoc's wife. "Mellie," she said, pushing down the tightness.

"Oh, good, you're home," Mellie said, and she smiled even wider. "I didn't want to leave this in the hall." She held out a large paper bag, which Riza took from her without much thought. "Jean told me you were back tonight," Mellie continued, seemingly without stopping to breathe, "and I thought the general has a housekeeper, so there's probably something waiting for him at home. But you don't, and a month is a terribly long time to be gone, and anything you had been keeping is probably spoiled by now. So I figured I might bring you something."

Riza peeled open the bag and looked inside as Mellie continued, "It's not much. Some vegetables, a can of broth. There is bread, though. And cheese! So at least you'll have cheese sandwiches, and that's something. I wasn't sure what you like to eat, so—"

"Mellie," Riza said. "This is so kind. You…" She looked up and noticed Mellie's stomach, which was larger than it had been the last time Riza had seen her. But surely if Mellie were pregnant, Havoc would have said something. And Riza couldn't ask, because that would be terribly rude, and after the great kindness Mellie had just done her—"Would you like to come in?" Riza asked.

"Oh, no!" Mellie said. "I should get home."

"Should I call you a cab?"

"I drove." Mellie pressed her palms together. "So, I had best go. I do hope the trip wasn't too difficult."

"Not at all," Riza said, all politeness. Then, "Would you remind me, how far along…" She let the question hang, hoping Mellie would finish it in whatever manner she chose.

Mellie beamed and placed a hand on her stomach. "Twenty-four weeks!"

Riza smiled back. "Wonderful." Oh, Havoc. He had so much explaining to do.

A few stilted pleasantries and waves later, Riza closed her door again, toed off her shoes and made her way to the darkened kitchen. She set the bag on her counter, then went to turn on the light, but she stumbled over something that skidded with a metallic bang across the floor.

By the faintest bit of moonlight she could make out the size and shape and the silver glint that reflected off the offending object, and she realised it was Black Hayate's water dish.

All at once the heaviness of loss surged over her, pulling at her arms and filling her with an incredible exhaustion.

She should throw it out. She knew that, but doing so felt impossible and cruel. She pushed the dish back under the cupboards with her toe, where she would not have to look at it or make the decision to dispose of it.

Then, she left the gift of groceries on the counter, trudged to her bedroom, and, still fully uniformed, fell into bed and let sleep take her.

A/N: Well, at least you didn't have to wait as long for this one as you did for the last one.