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Knock/ nɒk/ verb - to strike a sounding blow with the fist, knuckles, or anything hard, especially on a door, window, or the like, as in seeking admittance, calling attention, or giving a signal.
“Bomb threat?” Mustang said incredulously. “Don’t those bastards thrive on the media attention? Why wouldn’t they just cancel the pageant entirely?”
The slender blonde major sitting on the opposite side of his desk just shook her head.
“Because they’re afraid that we might not get a warning, next time,” she explained. “And because as stupid as it sounds, this pageant is a really big deal for the local economy. It draws a lot of revenue for the city hosting it, since all the contestants and their ‘entourage’ patronize hotels and restaurants and such.”
“Ah. And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that it’s also sponsored by one of the wealthiest men in the country,” Mustang said.
“Right,” the woman replied. “He’s been insisting that we can’t give in to a terrorist. Absolutely refuses to cancel. The problem is that we don’t think it’s actually a terrorist, but we can’t exactly tell him that.”
“You think it’s someone with a personal grudge against the pageant itself? Like a former contestant or a disgruntled employee?” Mustang guessed.
“Exactly. The language used in the threatening letters seems to point that way,” she said. “And it will be easier to follow that avenue of investigation if none of the current contestants or staff knows that we suspect one of their own.”
“I see. And you don’t want this arrogant windbag to blow it by running his mouth off to the press.”
“Right. Incidentally, he already doubled the prize money, so naturally the girls are all for going on with the show, threat or no threat. So we can’t cancel it outright without everyone making a huge fuss.”
“And the Generals don’t want to risk offending him,” Mustang realized. “He’s offered to make a generous donation to the Investigations Division, hasn’t he?”
“Yup. He’s also rashly promised to pay whatever it takes to ensure the contestants’ safety,” she added, with a slight smirk.
Mustang suddenly laughed.
“I hope you bleed him for all he’s worth, Jules,” he grinned. Major Juliet O’Hara, his longtime friend and former foster-sister, smiled wryly back at him.
“If only I could, the pompous old pig. I can think of a dozen ways all those millions could be put to better use than a damn beauty contest,” she scoffed. “Oh, excuse me, scholarship program,” she amended, voice dripping in sarcasm.
“Hey, no rule that says a woman can’t be intelligent and look good in an evening gown,” Mustang reasoned. O’Hara rolled her eyes. “So, what do you intend to do?” he asked.
“The usual,” O’Hara shrugged. “Increase security measures for the hotels where the girls are staying, as well as the venue where the actual event will take place. With the extra funding, we can afford round-the-clock security, background checks, random searches, the whole shebang,” she said. “But I also need to get eyes and ears on the inside; disguised as a contestant in the pageant itself. The organizers have already agreed to let us put someone in undercover.”
Mustang was nodding slowly.
“Someone who could keep an eye on the girls while gathering intel about potential suspects. It sounds like a good plan, Juliet. What exactly did you need my help with?”
“Well…” she hesitated. “It’s actually about the undercover job itself,” she admitted, shooting him a slightly coy look from under her lashes.
Old habits die hard, Mustang supposed. Unmoved, he simply gave his ‘sister’ the same impassive stare his aunt often employed to convey her displeasure, until Juliet huffed and dropped the ingénue act.
“I need to borrow First Lieutenant Hawkeye,” she said.
“Absolutely not,” Mustang replied, without even pausing to consider.
“Roy, come on, please?” O’Hara cried. “I’m begging you!”
“And I’m refusing,” he maintained.
“But—”
“Absolutely not, Jules. You can have Fuery,” he offered, flippantly. “He’s got a pretty enough face. Stuff him in a dress, little bit of lipstick and a wig - no one will know the difference.”
O’Hara spared a quick glance at the solider Mustang had indicated, whose ‘pretty enough’ face drained of color as his jaw dropped to the floor.
“No dice,” she said. “Lose the glasses and his face is fine, but that figure?” She shook her head sadly. “It’d never work. No offence, Sergeant Major,” she added quickly, smiling apologetically at Sergeant Fuery.
“None taken, ma’am,” Fuery answered faintly.
Hawkeye, who had anticipated Juliet’s request the moment she’d said ‘pageant,’ desperately cast about for an alternative.
“If I might make a suggestion, Major O’Hara, what about Second Lieutenant Maria Ross?” she said hopefully. “I’m sure Lieutenant Colonel Hughes would be happy to send her out here on a temporary assignment.”
O’Hara just shook her head, expression mournful.
“She’s out on assignment with Armstrong, and not due back until after the pageant,” she explained. “Which is a shame, because I’ve worked with her before, and I’m sure she’d have done well.”
“Well, you can’t have Hawkeye,” Mustang insisted. “I can’t do without her.”
Juliet rolled her eyes again and mumbled something that sounded like ‘lazy, spoiled idiot.’ Mustang pretended not to hear her.
“I find it hard to believe there aren’t any suitable women in your department, Juliet,” he said next.
“The only one who might have fit the bill just went out on maternity leave,” Major O’Hara sighed. “And the other two women at my disposal are, er…outside of our target demographic,” she added delicately.
“Meaning they’re a couple of trolls,” Havoc whispered to his teammates. Breda snickered, but sobered quickly when Hawkeye shot a steely glare in his direction.
“Speaking of demographic, isn’t the age cut-off for this damned pageant twenty-one?” Mustang asked. “Which makes this whole conversation pointless, because Hawkeye’s outside of your target range, as well.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Roy, she’s only twenty-six!” Juliet scolded him. “With the right hair and makeup we could make her look ten years younger and no one would suspect a thing! You know that!”
He did know that. It was one of the first things his aunt (Juliet’s former employer) taught her girls.
“Come to think of it, why haven’t you asked Chris?” Mustang wanted to know. Madame Christmas had access to at least a half a dozen suitable girls.
“I did,” Juliet said bitterly. “I was all set to send Vanessa in, but then brass caught wind of it and kicked up a fuss. They won’t allow me to employ civilian consultants for this gig.”
“What? Why not?”
“They say it’s too dangerous for someone without proper military training,” Juliet explained, disdainfully. “Never mind that Madame’s girls have twice the brains and experience as some of the idiots I work with.”
“Exactly,” Mustang agreed. Nothing against the fine men and women of the Investigations Division - Madame’s girls were just exceedingly good at what they did.
“So now I’m left scrambling to get someone to replace her,” Juliet was saying. “I’d do it myself, if I could. But…”
“They’d see through your cover in a heartbeat,” Mustang finished for her, frowning. “You’re too well-known as an investigator. And besides that, you’re too old.”
Juliet’s blue-green eyes narrowed to slits.
“It’s like you have a death wish,” she said wonderingly.
Mustang raised his hands in supplication. And then, moving so quickly that even Hawkeye blinked in surprise, he came around his desk to kneel at O’Hara’s feet, grabbing one of her hands in both of his and pressing it ostentatiously against his heart.
“‘To me, fair friend, you can never be old,’” he recited, managing to somehow be both frivolously over-dramatic and completely sincere at the same time. “‘For as you were when first your eye I eyed, such seems your beauty still,’” he finished, raising Juliet’s hand to his lips.
“Ass!” Juliet huffed. She snatched her hand back just before he could kiss it and cuffed him on the shoulder. But her lips curved slightly upwards, and her eyes danced with laughter.
“And though ‘age cannot wither her, nor custom stale,’” Mustang went on, unperturbed and still kneeling beside her chair. “No amount of makeup, however skillfully applied, will transform you into a teenage pageant contestant, Jules.”
“Of course I can’t pass for a teenager, Roy, I’m thirty-five!” Juliet cried. “Why do you think I’m here asking for your help? But thank you SO much for stating the obvious, you cold-hearted brute,” she grumbled.
Mustang had the grace to look contrite.
“I’m sorry Jules, but it’s really…I really and truly can’t spare Hawkeye. Are you sure we couldn’t do something with one of the younger men? Not even with a corset and padding?” he implored.
“Well…” Juliet turned to look at Fuery again, who blanched. “You know, Carlton suggested using a man,” she mused, referring to her partner. “Although he was being facetious at the time. But, maybe…I mean, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try …”
“Breda, get the door, won’t you?” Mustang said sweetly.
Fuery quailed.
Meanwhile, Edward stomped his way through the halls of Eastern Command, radiating frustration and fury and muttering insults under his breath. The so-called lead that Colonel Bastard had given him last month had been complete bullshit. He and Al had ended up smack dab in the middle of a bizarre, convoluted, and completely ridiculous conspiracy plot involving a spiritual medium who swore that she could raise the recently departed - for the right price, of course.
But she turned out to be nothing more than a cunning fraud: a con-woman who blamed the failed ‘resurrections’ on her hapless victims, claiming that the ‘spirits’ were displeased with their meagre offerings and that complete revivification was therefore impossible…even as she insinuated that more money would be necessary just to appease the angry spirits and prevent malicious haunting in the future.
In any event, she’d made clever use of smoke and mirrors and phosphorescent paint, and her ‘spirits’ had had nothing to do with the philosopher’s stone in the least. And the Colonel had to have known that before he’d sent the Elrics all that way out there, the lying scoundrel. It had been so obvious!
“That jerk probably just wanted to spare himself the boredom of such a stupid investigation,” Ed growled, turning a corner.
“He couldn’t have known, brother,” Al insisted gently. “You saw the same reports he did, right? They sounded promising, you know they did.”
“He probably made sure he only gave us the ones that sounded promising!” Ed shouted, paying no heed to the shocked looks thrown at him by passer-by. “I bet there were a dozen more we didn’t get to see that would have told us the nasty old cow was just a fake! No, he sent us there on purpose, to get us out of his hair and save himself the trip. And you know what? I’m getting really sick and tired of cleaning up everyone else’s messes!”
“But, brother,” Al tried again. “Her séance was very convincing, until we figured out the tricks, and she was extorting an awful lot of money out of those poor people…” he trailed off as they finally reached Mustang’s office.
The door was closed, which was unusual in itself, and Al heard raised voices from the other side. A curious feeling of foreboding slowed his steps, and he wondered whether they were about to interrupt something important.
“Brother, maybe we should –” Al started to say. But before he could get his warning out, his older brother flung open the door with his usual impatience.
Mustang and his men were gathered in a tight little cluster in the middle of the room, surrounding something the boys couldn’t see. An unfamiliar blonde major stood slightly off to one side with Lieutenant Hawkeye, discussing something in low, urgent voices. The Colonel seemed to be in the middle of an argument.
“...telling you, with a little more padding up top and a long black wig, he’ll look just fine!” he was insisting.
And then the door that Ed had thrown open hit the wall with a loud thump. The room fell silent as all eyes flew to the irate teenager in the doorway and the suit of armor hovering apologetically behind him.
“Er, please excuse us. I-is this a bad time?” Al squeaked, hoping to salvage the situation.
But the blonde major was staring at Ed with a mixture of hope and elation on her face.
“Oh my god, Roy. Don’t tell me this is your infamous child prodigy?” she gasped. “You never told me he was such a doll! Why didn’t anyone suggest him for this?” She whirled to face Colonel Mustang. “He’ll be even better than your Sergeant!”
And it was then that Ed and Al realized that the others had been standing around Sergeant Major Fuery - who was clad in nothing but his boxer shorts and a woman’s corset, blushing to the roots of his hair and struggling to breathe.
Behind him, Havoc and Breda had frozen in the act of tightening their unfortunate friend’s corset laces. Falman, judging from the tube of lipstick in his hand, was responsible for the bright smear of shimmery pink across poor Fuery’s frowning lips (and across one crimson cheek). Hawkeye alone retained her dignity, standing aloof from the scene as she was.
“Ah, forgive me, Major O’Hara,” Mustang said smoothly, even as Ed and Al gaped in shock. “I hadn’t even considered Fullmetal for your mission; I wasn’t expecting him back for another week at least.”
“Mission? What mission?” Ed demanded. The dark amusement in his superior’s voice was setting off all kinds of warning bells in his head. And the woman’s – Major O’Hara’s—reaction wasn’t exactly reassuring. She was practically salivating, stars in her eyes.
“You’re serious? I can really borrow him?” she asked, all but jumping up and down with undisguised glee.
“If you think he’ll do, then I’ve no objections,” Mustang replied cheerfully.
“Yes! Absolutely he’ll do,” she said, elated. “Lieutenant Hawkeye had the advantage of prior undercover work, but the age requirement would have been a little bit tricky. But this will be MUCH better!”
“Wha-?” Ed managed, taken aback. “What do you mean? What will be better?”
Major O’Hara ignored his questions, as did Colonel Mustang.
“The age is perfect! And look at that gorgeous, long blonde hair,” O’Hara gushed, advancing on him.
Ed, too surprised to move away, could only squawk indignantly when O’Hara deftly untied his braid and fluffed the hair so that it framed his face.
“Good skin, no facial hair to worry about, and we can get the brows in shape easily enough,” she mused, half to herself, as she prodded at the eyebrows in question. “And the unusual eye color is a nice bonus!” she chirped, without seeming to notice the murderous expression therein.
“And what about his automail? That won’t be a problem?” Mustang asked, frowning a little.
“Oh, no, not at all! If anything, it’ll increase his chances,” O’Hara assured him. “The judges love a good hard-luck story; we can invent some sort of childhood accident to explain it. They’ll eat it up.”
“What are you talking about?!” Ed demanded to know.
Al was still hesitating near the doorway. He twitched slightly when O’Hara unceremoniously yanked Ed’s coat off his shoulders, unsure whether or not he ought to rush to his brother’s defense. But just as he took a step forward, Lieutenant Hawkeye laid a gentle hand on his vambrace, and shook her head when he caught her eye. Obediently, Al stilled his heavy metal limbs and bit his tongue (so to speak).
Whatever was going on, he knew that Lieutenant Hawkeye wouldn’t let his brother come to any actual harm. But he had a feeling Ed was not going to like where this was headed.
Meanwhile, Major O’Hara circled his older brother with a calculating look in her eye.
“Nice and slender, not too much muscle definition,” she said approvingly.
“Hey! Just what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?” Ed snapped, bristling.
“I should warn you, Juliet, he’s not the most docile of my subordinates, and he has a hair-trigger temper,” Mustang cautioned, still acting as though Ed hadn’t spoken at all.
“Don’t you worry about that, Roy. I have my methods for keeping men in line,” Juliet replied, confidently.
Ed shivered and took an involuntary step backwards.
“All right, then Jules,” Mustang chuckled. “He’s all yours. I’ll have Lieutenant Hawkeye get the appropriate forms to you first thing tomorrow.”
“Forms?” Ed echoed. “What forms?”
Mustang finally looked over at his unfortunate subordinate, with a devilish grin. But his attention quickly returned to his other men, as Fuery’s patience finally ran out.
“For the love of all things holy,” Fuery wheezed. “Someone get me out of this thing!”
“Ah, right, sorry,” Breda said, releasing his grip on the corset’s laces. Havoc quickly bent down to help him loosen them enough to remove the offending garment.
“Looks like your luck has changed, Kain!” he grinned.
“A narrow escape,” Falman agreed solemnly, holding out the clothes they’d stripped off of him a short time earlier.
“Escape?” Ed echoed, hoping against hope that his growing suspicions were wrong.
“Sorry, Edward,” Fuery gasped, rubbing at his ribs where the whalebone had been digging into his flesh. “But…better you than me.”
Behind him, Hawkeye nodded gravely.
“Lucky for you Fullmetal hasn’t got any manners to speak of, Sergeant Major,” Mustang observed. “If he hadn’t barged in here, I’d never have considered him…”
“And here I thought you were just holding out on me,” Juliet laughed, offering her handkerchief to Fuery, who accepted it gratefully and began scrubbing at the lipstick on his face.
“Isn’t anyone gonna explain to me what the hell you’re all talking about?!” Ed demanded.
Havoc turned to the bewildered teen.
“You really oughta learn to knock, boss,” he said, smirking.