A clock chimed on the wall as Mustang watched the two leave the office and head into the hall. He waited for the door to shut before motioning for Hawkeye to approach his desk.
"Think you can tail those two for the next few days?"
Hawkeye's only response was a raised eyebrow and a questioning look.
"Is that an order to tail them, sir?"
"Yes. While they could be telling the truth, there isn't a way to confidently prove it right now. This so-called nation they serve under could just be an undercover unit put together by the Drachmans. There hasn't been any action along Fort Briggs or the northern border, but we can't rule out something happening behind the scenes. Plus, we have yet to see these machines to validate what Fuery and Falman saw.
For now, we have no choice but to keep them close and under strict surveillance."
"Understood, sir," Hawkeye said with a nod before returning to the office and the small pile of paperwork waiting for her.
It took her about half an hour to finish the reports before placing them on Mustang's desk. They were menial tasks, as the unit hadn't seen much action since the election of President Grumman. This wasn't lost on the team; for once, they found themselves with more time to settle down and start families.
Mustang, however, was still buried in paperwork, which at times towered over him, sent from the few units still deployed on the fronts. The reports ranged from general correspondence to updates on minor skirmishes. Most were sent off to be filed away or responded to with brief remarks.
The only ones that truly held his interest were those concerning the reestablishment of the Ishvalan homeland. He had promised to help them resettle—and he wasn't about to let a few time travelers get in his way.
Now that her work was done, Hawkeye set out to begin the mission she had been given. It had been about an hour since the two left, and they were only permitted to roam between the barracks and the mess hall. If they hadn't been given directions, they were likely still eating—if they had even reached the hall yet.
A peek through the small circular window in the door confirmed her suspicions as she reached the room. The pair of brothers sat toward the back, each with a small tray of food, taking turns nibbling at the mush before commenting on it.
"Well? It looks edible, but I can't tell if it's beans or meat mush," Jason said, watching as Alex took a cautious bite.
"Edible? Yes. Nutritious? Maybe. Flavorful? Big no," I said before taking bites of the sides and returning to the main dish.
We had been given a scoop of what we assumed were beans in red sauce, but it turned out to be mystery meat covered in gravy. The sides consisted of mixed vegetables and a dry bread roll. While we'd certainly had better on deployments, this wasn't the time to be picky. Seeing that his brother was able to keep it down, Jared followed suit, though at a slower pace. He wasn't a fan of mushy foods—the texture felt off to him—but if this was all they had for now, there was nothing either of us could do about it. Not until we found a way to get money and clothes so we could walk freely and cook our own meals.
Once we had cleared our plates and glasses, we stood, placed our trays near a trash bin, and began our journey to find the barracks. Finding the mess hall had been easy once we realized all major buildings had plaques with directions, but this would soon turn out to be our downfall. There were multiple barracks nearby, none specifically named for certain units—just a number and letter to identify them.
By now, the moon was high in the night sky, and with very little exterior lighting, it was difficult to find our way in the dark. That was until we were suddenly blinded by a flashlight.
"Halt! Who goes there?" barked a commanding voice from behind the bright beam.
"We're new here and were looking for the barracks belonging to General Mustang. We weren't exactly told where to go, just to head to the barracks," Jason said, shielding his eyes.
The guard, either too trusting to question us or too tired to care, took our statement at face value before lowering the light.
"Apologies. We weren't informed of any new units arriving tonight. General Mustang's battalion is usually in the B-2 barracks. Go straight down this path and take a right."
"Thank you," we said in unison before heading down the given path, sighing in relief when we saw the sign.
The few stairs at the front were quickly traversed before we opened the door and were greeted by dim lights and a general lull in the noise. Instead of the traditional barracks we had expected—rows of beds—we found a hall lined with individual rooms. Only a few doors stood open, revealing empty spaces within, while the closed doors provided only the sound of snoring occupants or hushed conversations.
Since we hadn't been assigned a specific room, we figured the closest empty one would suffice. It was four doors down from the entrance—a bare-walled, two-bed room with a small sink in the corner and a single gas lamp on a shared desk. There appeared to be no electricity in the room, nor any heating, so whatever blankets were available would have to do for now.
Hawkeye watched as the two entered the barracks, found an empty room, and shut the door before she turned to head home. The lone guard on duty snapped a quick salute before she dismissed him to continue his rounds.
She wasn't sure of their intentions, but so far, they had shown no indication of ill will toward Amestris. At the moment, they only seemed like lost children with no way to find their way home. She couldn't help but compare them to the Elric brothers—their temperaments were similar, only with their ages seemingly reversed.
Once she arrived at her house, she made a few quick notes in a diary to compile into a formal report for Mustang in the morning. With that done, she settled down for the night.
Meanwhile, Alex lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling as he listened to his brother's soft snoring. Though he wanted to sleep, his mind was too restless.
No doubt there's a search party out right now trying to find us and our missing planes. The commander's probably getting chewed out, and ATC is being grilled about how they could just up and lose a pair of A-10 Warthogs out of the blue, he thought before pulling the covers up to just below his chin.
The material was somewhere between wool and cotton—comfortable but not quite a luxury. At the very least, it retained heat well enough. Outside, the wind blew softly, lulling Alex into drowsiness until his eyes finally shut and darkness welcomed him.
A sudden blast of a bugle jolted them both from sleep as the morning roll call began.
Jason bolted upright while Alex tumbled out of bed, dragging the covers with him. Jason groaned as he glanced at a nearby wall clock, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Who has reveille at 0600?" he grumbled to no one in particular.
Neither of them knew exactly what time they had gotten back the previous night, but one thing was certain—the sleep had been anything but fulfilling.
Alex glanced over at his brother as he picked himself up off the ground, brushing off any dirt from the blanket.
"It could be worse. They could have it at 0500 like some units did."
Another groan. "Don't remind me. The team I was attached to in Iran used to get up at 0530 every morning, even when the threat level was low. I was so glad when I switched to the National Guard."
Alex chuckled at his brother's rant, though he had a valid point. This country didn't seem to be engaged in any conflicts at the moment, given its small military force and stable economic status. The people seemed happy, and goods were flowing in and out freely. So why were they so adamant about maintaining a wartime routine?
Instead of dwelling on it, the two decided to straighten up their room before heading to the chow hall for breakfast. The aroma wafting from the kitchen was infinitely better than what they had experienced just a few hours prior. It was the unmistakable scent of bacon, sausage, and possibly eggs.
When they stepped inside, they were relieved to find only a short line—a small mercy they silently thanked any listening god for. Each grabbed two plates and loaded them up with sausage, bacon, biscuits, and a few pieces of toast. It was the first thing so far that truly reminded them of home, and they savored every second of it.
As the pair dug into their meals, they failed to notice the small group that had sat next to them.
"You two must be pretty hungry," Fuery said with a smile as he watched them.
Alex paused mid-bite, looking as though he might have done something wrong before recognizing the speaker. It was one of the men from General Mustang's office the day before.
"A bit. Dinner last night wasn't exactly great," he admitted.
"Yeah, that was the chef's specialty," Fuery said, using exaggerated finger quotes. "He calls it the Late-Night Surprise—basically, he takes whatever meat scraps and fat weren't used throughout the day and throws it all together into a slop."
Jason gave Fuery an incredulous look before shaking his head and returning to his plate, finishing it within minutes.
"Mom used to make this all the time before we headed off to school," he said. "Except she used turkey bacon instead of pork and made handmade biscuits. I wouldn't mind another plate, but we probably don't have much time before we need to see the General."
This time, it was Breda's turn to speak. He had been silent so far, simply listening to the conversation. Like the others, he had been present during the meeting with Mustang the day before, so everyone was up to date on the situation.
"So, what do you guys plan to do here?" he asked. "I know General Mustang has his own plans for you, but what about outside of the unit? You speak our language well enough, but surely you want to get home. What happens if you can't find a way back?"
Alex and Jason exchanged a concerned look at his last statement. There was always the looming possibility of a worst-case scenario.
While neither of them was married or had kids back home, they still had parents and other relatives. If they never returned, they would be deemed MIA—or worse, KIA. The headlines would tell a story of a training mission gone horribly wrong. A fake crash site might be staged to explain their disappearance, or officials could claim they had gone down in a nearby river, their bodies and wreckage lost to the currents.
Meanwhile, here in this unfamiliar world, they would have to build a new life from scratch. No one knew who they were, they had no idea if their skills would translate, and none of their technology worked. It was as if they had been thrown back into the early 1900s, forced to adapt to an era far removed from their own.
Alex was the one to speak up this time, while Jason remained quiet, letting his younger brother take the lead.
"We don't know yet," Alex admitted. "If all goes well with your commander, then we intend to continue our military careers. Our aircraft don't necessarily need all the technology inside them, but they do need fuel. As long as we have access to that and are needed, we'll help. The barracks are comfortable enough for now, and they'll do for now until we're forced out or offered a better option. Hopefully, we can find a way home. But if we can't, then we'll repay the hospitality given to us tenfold."
Breda nodded while chewing on a piece of buttered toast.
"What you're going through sounds like something straight out of a book," he said. "It'd be cool to see these flying machines of yours, but like you said, they need fuel. We can produce fuel, but not in large quantities. Most of our factories were shut down during the coup a few years ago, and getting them up and running again has been a slow process. That said, it might be possible to get you some before long."
Alex shook his head slightly. "While we'd appreciate the effort, we're not sure if you even have the right kind of fuel. Your cars seem similar to what we have back home, but if they run on an unleaded ethanol-based fuel, that definitely won't work for us. Our engines—jet turbine engines—run on something more refined, basically a high-grade form of kerosene. We'd need our own refinery to produce enough to get airborne for even a few missions."
Breda listened closely, nodding every so often.
"Hm, I see. That's definitely a problem, and something we'll need to bring up with the General. There are a few abandoned factories around town—maybe we could repurpose one and start refining fuel. But it'd be expensive and time-consuming, not to mention we'd need the proper formula to even attempt it. We have kerosene here, but we've never tried refining it to that level."
"Shit. Alright. Well, we can wait for now," Jason said, exhaling sharply. "Everything just happened, so it's best to take things slow instead of running around like chickens with their heads cut off." He stood and grabbed their empty trays, stacking them before carrying them away.
"Let's start making our way to the General's office. It should be just about 0900 when we get there, and being punctual might help our case."
Alex nodded in agreement and followed his brother out, while the rest of the group silently observed them.
Falman was already taking mental notes, planning to write everything down later. Fuery was intrigued by how quickly their attitudes had shifted, while Breda simply went along with everything, taking it all in stride.
Mustang seemed to trust them—but only sparingly. It was clear they were to be kept at a reasonable distance, just in case. Yet, so far, they appeared to be nothing more than a pair of lost brothers trying to find their way home.
The only difference? Their aircraft had a cannon built into the nose.