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Roy tells himself it’s only coincidence that she’s here on the battlefield of Ishval. He hasn’t seen her in oh, three years? Maybe less, maybe more. He does a brief mental calculation. She can’t be more than twenty-one, if even that, and she already has the eyes of a killer. Eyes like his , he thinks. A piece of him dies, seeing her there, rifle in hand. And here he thought Ishval could take nothing more from him save for his own life.
“Do you still remember me?”
Of course he does. How can he not? The quiet daughter of his reclusive alchemy teacher, Riza had been his friend through much of his years training in the art of alchemy. Once upon a time, she had been his childhood crush. And now she stood there, self assured and broken from the horrors of war. She was so young. It had to be happenstance, her presence here. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. He had nothing to do with her decision to join the military and inevitable deployment to Ishval. He can’t be responsible for what would certainly be the death of another ally and friend. Roy always expected his friends to die, here. That way when someone did, he didn’t feel the shock and sadness of another loss, but the inevitability of war.
The truth of the matter is, as it almost always is, far more nuanced than her following in Mustang’s footsteps. In all reality, he did inspire the young woman that day. After her father’s funeral (of which they were the only attendees) she found herself feeling empty and restless. The past few years had involved nothing but taking care of her sick and dying father and finishing her education.
“Can I trust you with my father’s research?”
Roy’s hand clenches into a fist. In that one moment, ten different emotions flashed through him all at once. A blush he refused to let sneak up his face as she carefully removed her shirt in the most demure way she could think of, the fury at realizing what Berthold Hawkeye had done to his own daughter, and the intense curiosity of finally seeing the full composition of his research. No wonder he had asked Roy to look after his daughter.
He grasps the pencil tightly in hand as he rapidly takes notes. She stands there for what feels like and may have actually been hours. He drapes a blanket around her shoulders.
“I think that’s enough for one day,” he says. “Thank you for trusting me, Miss Hawkeye.” And softly, unspoken, “I hope I don’t let you down.”
The image of every Ishvallan he’s killed with that research flashes through his mind. Every look of terror and agony, every scream, every silence, every cry of a child. Every scent of charred flesh and the dust on his face -- dust of blood-soaked earth and human remains. He’s already let her down time and time again with what he’s done with this research and the war isn’t even over yet. History books will see them as heroes, and yet the truth is this: he’s a fool. An idealistic, naive boy who joined the military to save the world and in the process, burned it all down.
Her restlessness, his ideals. She spent six months taking care of her father’s estate before enlisting. There was never much, but it took time to make sure everything was in order. Six whole months spent thinking about what her father would have wanted for her life. Six months realizing that no matter what she does, she would always be a disappointment to her late father. Six months to mourn and grieve and hate him for everything he did to her. Six months to find the infectious idealism Roy Mustang had when they last spoke: a desire to fix their bleeding nation and make things better, easier. And in one last act of spite and hope, she marched down to the enrollment office and enlisted. She never followed Mustang into Ishval, but she certainly didn’t forget the impact he had in that decision.
His idealism was and still is contagious. The world is broken and tragic, and joining the service was her way of expressing that civic duty of protecting the world around her. It takes only six months of basic training for her superiors to realize that Riza Hawkeye has a natural precision to her work: she’s a natural sniper. She works hard to harness that skill. While she may be a natural, she knows it isn’t talent that will help her survive on the battlefield: it’s hard work, knowing the gun so well that firing feels like breathing. She spends plenty of time alone both during training and during her free time taking her rifle apart and putting it back together, learning the way it works from the inside out. She is only as good as her weapon. A weapon in good condition means she is more likely to survive the war.
It’s easy to forget yourself on the battlefield, she thinks. Dissociate from the killing and pretend you’re just...doing someone else’s job. But it’s that first kill that hits her the hardest. She watches from her perch, keeping her fellow soldiers safe, noticing things they don’t. She’s careful. One missed shot can mean life or death from her fellow soldiers.
She kills. And then she kills again. And again. She doesn’t sleep for the first few months of her time in Ishval. And then the novelty of killing wears off. She sleeps long enough to keep her focus clear and her vision sharp. She does her job. She sleeps, she wakes up, she eats, she goes to work. And she’s good at it. So surely, it can’t be a coincidence that she saves Mustang and Hughes. She’s too good at what she does for anything to be a coincidence.
“He was with us in training. We were friends once,” says Mustang, staring at the now dead body of the Ishvallan. His eyes betray the rest of his face. He’s suffering just as much as any of the bodies now lying still.
“And now he’s dead. Come on, Roy, let’s go get some lunch.” Hughes pats Roy on the back.
Roy pulls away from his friend. “How can you be so calm about all of this!” An outburst.
“How can you not be? We’re doing what we have to in order to survive. Right now that means following orders and doing what we signed up for. If I’m not calm and cracking jokes over here that means I’m dead, if all else from the sheer terror of living every day in a war zone! We’re soldiers, Roy. We don’t get to grieve what we do.”
Riza can’t disagree with that logic. She walks and talks with them, but mostly listens. Gunshots fill the moments of silence as they walk back to camp.
“Miss Hawkeye, why did you join the military? Surely someone as young and lovely as yourself has other, better prospects than spending every day on the battlefield,” Hughes asks.
Mustang wonders the same thing but stays silent.
“Because I wanted to protect people. I wanted to join and fight in order to build a better tomorrow. But how can I do that when today looks like a living nightmare?” She shakes her head. “My father would have hated me for it. And I can’t say that wasn’t part of my reasoning.”
Mustang hides a smile. Berthold Hawkeye had been a brilliant alchemist, but a horrible man. He cared for his daughter less than he cared about his precious research. And sure, maybe his sense of humor had darkened in Ishval, but Roy can’t help but laugh at the dead man’s expense.
“He was furious when I joined. I’m almost surprised to see you here, Hawkeye. Still, it’s nice to see a friendly face here. That doesn’t happen very often. Or if it does, it’s usually not for long.” They’re all accustomed to their own mortality by now.
There are moments in every war that keeps a soldier from dying, that keeps them sane for a moment longer, that gives them a little extra bit of strength to make it through one more day. They had all seen too many friends die both on and off the battlefield, from enemy soldiers, from their injuries, and some even from suicide. Seeing a friend again after years, even after so many things had changed,and making a new friend: it gives the soul hope. And hope is something invaluable during times of war. It keeps soldier and civilian alike alive.
And perhaps after all it is just coincidence. Perhaps it is fate. Perhaps Riza just wanted to piss off her father one last time, or perhaps, deep down, she really is an idealist like Major Mustang. Either way, it didn’t matter. He would recruit her for his goals. He briefly feels guilty at the prospect of using her, but after second thought it hits him: they aren’t teenagers anymore. They’re both adults capable of horrible things. She can make decisions for herself. He’d give her the opportunity to both join him and shoot him in the head. It was a heavy burden to put on her, but it was also a heavy burden for him to bear. And perhaps in bearing it together they might be able to save the very nation they’ve damned here: their Amestris.