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Reitson rubbed a hand down his face, vexed, as he stared at the prisoner chained in front of him. “Still nothing?” he asked.
“Still nothing,” Deuzman affirmed from where he leaned against the meat locker’s wall, arms crossed, outwardly unbothered by the freezing metal. Which might indeed be the case; the interrogator’s face was ruddy with exertion, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’d been working hard.
Though apparently he still had nothing to show for it.
The operation had, up until this point, gone completely smoothly. Which, frankly, had left Reitson a bit wary; no job ever went without a hitch. He had been expecting them to hit a snag sooner or later, and the longer they went without any issues, the more uneasy the information broker had become.
The family who ran the grocer’s shop they’d appropriated as a base of operations had needed barely any persuasion before caving to their whims. Reitson and his hired men had observed their target for two weeks, marking routines as well as places and people of interest. Though the target had put up more of a fight than they’d expected, the abduction had been conducted quickly and quietly, and Reitson was thankful he’d been cautious and brought more backup than he’d thought he’d need.
The grocer’s meat locker was, as Reitson had thought, excellently suited to holding their captive once the product was cleared out—there were plenty of hooks for restraints and for Deuzman’s instruments, plenty of space for the interrogator to conduct his work, the temperature helped keep the prisoner subdued, and, as an added bonus, the thick walls and insulation happened to make it essentially soundproof. Though the MPs had been out in force in the last few days, none had come near the shop, and the Resendes family had sufficiently kept up the façade that, other than a slight meat shortage— our meat locker is malfunctioning, good sir, and we can’t store any product in there at the moment, we do apologize for the inconvenience —everything at Resendes’ Meat and Grocery was just as normal.
It had all gone perfectly—until they actually tried to actually get the information they were after. That was when they’d finally hit a problem.
Their captive wasn’t talking.
Deuzman’s standard repertoire usually had subjects divulging anything and everything within twenty-four hours. When their current prisoner hadn’t shown any signs of caving after the first two days, Reitson had given Deuzman permission to use techniques that he usually prohibited the interrogator from using. It had now been nearly five, and in his entire professional tenure with the man, Reitson had never known a captive to hold out this long.
So when Deuzman had sent one of the guards to fetch him, Reitson had assumed that meant he’d finally broken her. But that was apparently not the case.
“Then what did you call me in for?” Reitson snapped, throwing his arms out as he turned towards his colleague.
“Because I doubt we’ll get anything out of her at this point.”
“You went too far?” Reitson asked sharply, turning back towards the captive.
The woman sagged against the wall, eyes closed, prevented from falling completely over only by the manacles securing her wrists above her head. Bruises, cuts and even a few burns littered her face, hands and the skin visible under her torn clothes. But none appeared overly concerning, and despite the hitch in each breath her breathing was steady. While she certainly didn't look healthy , she didn't appear to be irreparably damaged, either.
“No,” Deuzman scoffed. “Don’t insult me. None of her injuries are that dangerous on their own. But they’ve started to get infected.”
“So?”
Deuzman pushed off the wall with a sigh and crossed over. Crouching, he grabbed a fistful of the prisoner’s limp blond hair, lifting her face towards them. “Hey, sweetheart, you ready to tell us about the Latorre files now?”
First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye blinked open a single eye, the other having been swollen shut. Her gaze, glassy and unfocused, settled somewhere beyond Deuzman’s shoulder. “Miles and miles of files and trials . . .”
Reitson’s eyebrows shot up.
Deuzman gave the woman a shake. “No, the Latorre files. What did your military dog of a boss do with them?”
“Oh . . . yes. Hayate . . . needs to go for a walk. Loves walks . . .”
“Who’s Hayate?” Reitson asked.
“No idea.” Deuzman released the lieutenant, allowing her to slump back down. “But you see what I mean.”
“She’s delirious,” Reitson sighed. “Dammit, Deuzman. I can’t retrieve the files if I don’t know where they are.”
“Don’t go blaming this on me,” the interrogator snapped. “No one’s ever held out long enough for infection to become this much of a problem, before.”
Reitson didn’t bother to point out that the lieutenant holding out this long was, in fact, calling the interrogator’s skills into question. Petty bickering would get them nowhere.
"Well," Reitson said, "We still need to find those files, and we need to figure out what to do with our uncooperative guest." He glanced back at Hawkeye, a sweaty sheen to her pale skin despite the chill, and rubbed a hand down his face again. “We don’t have the time or resources to get our hands on someone else, and just killing her and dumping the body in an alley somewhere is too risky.” He sighed. “Our best bet at this point is to appeal to the next tier in the chain of command.”
“The military doesn’t negotiate with criminals,” Duezman pointed out.
“There’s no harm in a phone call,” Reitson said. “The worst that can happen is he refuses.”
Niels Reitson had been brokering under-the-table information for decades, first as a lackey for another contractor when he had barely started growing peach fuzz, and later striking out on his own, building on the reputation and contacts he’d already started to make. Depending on which method he judged would work best for a particular contract, he didn’t always call in colleagues for a job, but he had acquired a small circle of specialists he trusted, such as Gerard Deuzman. He didn’t ever care what the information he was hired to collect was, and he never asked what his clients wanted it for—nor did he speculate towards that end, either. He had no interest in anything beyond that they could and would pay the amount he’d set. His job was merely to procure the information.
And he was damn good at it.
The deadline was fast approaching, and Reitson had nothing to deliver, which disconcerted him. This had never happened before. He refused to ask his clients for more time; he had a reputation to uphold.
Colonel Roy Mustang, as far as Reitson was concerned, was nothing more than a prime example of the corruption and arrogance that was rampant in the Amestrian military in general and the state alchemists in particular. Executive Order 3066 had proven there was no God in Ishval, but the so-called Flame Alchemist’s role in the civil war had certainly been exaggerated. Reitson had had the pleasure of being in the colonel’s presence a handful of times, and the man was nothing more than a lazy, womanizing slacker who had milked his wartime fame and party-trick alchemy for all it was worth. While Reitson didn’t think Mustang’s non-existent morals would prevent him from making a deal for his adjunct, he wasn’t certain the colonel would care enough, either.
But he didn’t have a better idea.
After dialing the phone and setting it on speaker, Reitson pushed the device to the middle of the table and sat back. The line only rang twice before a chipper voice answered.
“Colonel Mustang’s office, Master Sergeant Fuery speaking.”
“Hello, Master Sergeant. I would like to speak with Colonel Mustang.” Reitson would have preferred to contact Mustang through the man’s direct line—that sort of thing went a long way towards cultivating the impression he preferred to make—but time was of the essence, and he opted not to spare any to acquire the private number when the number of the man’s office was freely available.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Someone with information on the whereabouts of his missing adjunct.”
There was a pause. “And your name?” Sergeant Fuery asked, voice pitched just slightly higher.
“You may call me Index.”
Another, slightly longer pause, after which the sounds of shuffling came over the line. “Please hold,” Fuery said, and the speaker silenced.
Reitson sat back, fingers drumming on the table. He glanced over at Hawkeye, slumped in the chair across from him, bound and gagged. She’d perked up slightly when the Sergeant had answered the phone, but her eyes were closed again, head slumped over her chest. Deuzman slouched in the chair next to her, scowling.
With a brief crackle of static, the phone came to life again. “Colonel Mustang.”
“Good afternoon, Colonel.” Reitson said. “I believe we can be of use to one another.” He eyed Hawkeye as he spoke; the lieutenant had raised her head again at Mustang’s voice, fever-bright eye opening, arms pulling weakly at her restraints—the most animated she’d been since the first day of her interrogation. Interesting.
“My sergeant says you have information on Lieutenant Hawkeye.”
“Of more interest to you, I’m sure, is that I have the lieutenant herself.” Mustang inhaled sharply, and Reitson allowed himself a small smile. “Don’t fret, she’s still in one piece. She’s here with me now, as a matter of fact.”
“Lieutenant?” Mustang asked, voice urgent, as Deuzman reached behind Hawkeye’s head. He growled in frustration as she thrashed, needing to shove her shoulder back against the seat in order to still her long enough to tug the gag off.
“Colonel,” Hawkeye rasped as soon as her mouth was free.
“Lieutenant, are you all right?”
“I’ve been . . . better, sir,” she replied, visibly calming at the sound of his voice.
“I swear, this office can’t last a single day without you,” Mustang said. Was it just the quality of the phone’s speaker, or was his voice suddenly scratchy? “You should see the state it’s in now, after a couple more.”
“Couple?” Hawkeye asked, before a cough shook her frame, followed closely by another. Wrinkling his nose, Deuzman released her shoulder.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“There was that . . . lovely doctor couple during the war,” she murmured. “The Rockbells. Your sister Emilie looks just like the lady doctor, Sarah . . .”
“More of this?” Deuzman muttered under his breath. Reitson shot him a glare.
“Haven’t seen Emilie since November, December,” Hawkeye was saying, voice fading. “East is lovely at that time of year, but South would be better . . .” She trailed off into another cough, and caught her breath only to cough again.
Reitson eyed her as she slumped forward, exhausted, sweat trickling down her flushed face. He hoped the infection wasn’t getting worse; it would be incredibly awkward if she died before they finished the negotiations.
“I see,” Mustang said stiffly. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Hawkeye mumbled something that sounded like, “Of course, sir.”
Mustang’s voice was rigid as steel when he spoke next. “Just what sort of state is my subordinate in, Index? You assured me she was unharmed.”
“I believe my exact words were that she is still in one piece,” Reitson said mildly. He was enjoying this much more than he’d thought he would. “You see, we were hoping to glean the information we need from the lieutenant, but she’s been . . . surprisingly uncooperative, and time is short. That’s where you come in.”
“What do you want?”
Deuzman grunted in surprise. Reitson’s mouth worked for a moment, having expected Mustang to bluster and bargain more. “I need the files on the Latorre case.”
“The Latorre case?” There was surprise in Mustang’s tone. “Why?”
“That’s none of your concern.” Frankly, Reitson didn’t have any idea what the Latorre case even was. All he knew was that his client wanted it, the files weren’t stored in any of the typical military databases or libraries, and only select members of Eastern Command knew where they were. “I need them by tomorrow night. Bring the files to the thirteenth warehouse in the Kijera District at twenty-one hundred hours. I will bring the lieutenant, and we can conduct the exchange. You may bring one other person, but neither of you can be armed—and no gloves, either.” Reitson paused, but when Mustang voiced no argument, continued. “Any hint of a weapon or additional backup, and you’ll be bringing your adjunct home in a body bag.”
“Understood.” Mustang’s reply was clipped. “Kijera District, thirteenth warehouse, tomorrow night, twenty-one hundred hours. Latorre files, one other officer, no weapons, no backup.”
“See you then,” Reitson said, and ended the call, allowing himself another smile as he looked over at Deuzman, who appeared as surprised as he. That had gone much better than expected.
He might salvage this yet.
Heavy rain clouds descended over East City that afternoon, bringing a persistent drizzle that intensified into a constant downpour by the evening. The weather set Reitson on edge, and despite the victory of the morning’s phone call he found himself sinking back into uneasiness, snapping at his hired men and even Deuzman for minor offenses as they tiptoed around each other in the Resendes’ small upstairs apartment. The family themselves, after closing for the day, kept to themselves in the corner of the shop they had retreated to. Eventually, fed up with Reitson’s mood, Deuzman withdrew to his domain in the locker, and the guards not on duty decided to join their fellows anyway.
Left to stew by himself, Reitson found himself pacing, debating what course to take if Mustang decided not to show at the rendezvous the following night, or how to salvage his contract if the colonel broke his terms. The dreary, darkening sky seemed to mock him, the ceaseless rain outside clouding the dim streets like uncertainty clouded the next twenty-four hours.
Nothing about this job had gone the way he expected—Hawkeye not giving in at all, Mustang giving in too easily—and on top of that, Reitson never had to change plans so drastically like this, and so last-minute to boot. It unnerved him.
A crash from downstairs caught his attention, followed quickly by shouts and the sound of blows. Grabbing his handgun from the nightstand, he moved towards the shop, hoping it wasn’t the MPs finally having decided to go door-to-door. That was the last thing he needed.
Halfway down the stairs, Reitson paused as the sound of a muted gunshot reached his ears, uneasiness spiking. MPs didn’t use silencers.
He peered cautiously past the overhang, and was not prepared for what he saw.
The grocer’s shop had been hit by a hurricane, limp bodies and splintered furniture thrown haphazardly through the space. A dark-haired man in military blues stood in the middle of the room, arms outstretched, white gloves standing out against the black overcoat billowing around him like smoke. It took several seconds longer than it should have for Reitson to recognize him and react. Colonel Roy Mustang’s head snapped around, an arm following, as Reitson brought his handgun to bear—
—only to drop it, swearing, as the weapon exploded in his hand. The pieces clattered to the ground from his burnt palms, glowing white hot, the scent of burnt powder wafting up.
Reitson blinked at Mustang, at a loss. That wasn’t a party trick.
“No sudden moves.” Another soldier, tall and blond, appeared out of nowhere to aim his own firearm at Reitson. “Come to the bottom of the stairs, slowly, with your hands over your head.”
Reitson stepped carefully, taking in the rest of the room as it came into view. A third soldier, a stout redhead, had his gun trained on a furious Deuzman, cradling a bleeding shoulder against the wall next to the meat locker door. Reitson’s hired guards were scattered over the floor amid streaks of ash, one with a bullet hole in his head, another curled in on himself and moaning pitifully. Two more lay unmoving, their blackened skin still smoking, collecting near the ceiling in an ashy haze. At the blond soldier’s gesture, Reitson crossed the room to stand by Deuzman, picking his way around overturned display cases, spilled groceries and shattered glass.
And in the midst of it all, the eye of the storm, Mustang stood with his gloves still trailing wisps of smoke.
The unease hovering over Reitson morphed into a dread that settled over him like a shroud.
The Flame Alchemist glanced at the family huddled in the corner, eyes flicking over their haggard faces and dirty clothes. “Go,” he said shortly. “Tell no one.”
Hesitantly at first, then more confidently when no one stopped them, the family slipped out the front door, babbling thanks. The door swung shut behind them, the friendly welcome bell trailing off into a heavy silence.
Mustang turned to the two contractors, his cold, expressionless face a far cry from the cocky officer he was known as. “Where is my lieutenant,” he growled, a demand rather than a query.
Deuzman huffed scornfully. Reitson didn’t respond either, but his eyes flicked towards the meat locker of their own accord.
Mustang lunged like a cornered wolf. Reitson flinched back, but the colonel simply shoved past him without a word into the locker.
Before Reitson could recover his wits, Mustang’s men stepped up, weapons still at the ready. The blond one jerked his head towards the locker. “You guys first.”
Reitson shivered as he followed Deuzman inside, the chill making him aware of how much he was sweating. Hawkeye was, of course, where they had left her, kneeling with her blistered wrists chained above her head. Mustang skidded to a halt in front of her, falling to his knees. “Lieutenant!”
She didn’t respond, eyes closed and head resting against one of her raised arms.
The blond soldier sucked in a breath when he caught sight of her, and the redhead swore. Rather than demanding the keys to the shackles, Mustang scribbled an alchemical array faster than Reitson would have thought possible. With a crackle of blue energy, Hawkeye’s restraints opened and she slumped forward into Mustang’s waiting arms.
Between one heartbeat and the next, the alchemist became a completely different person. Hands that had barely moments ago maimed and burned, cradled Hawkeye delicately, pulling her into his lap with a tenderness that belied the harm they could cause.
“Hey,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear, as he brushed the fringe from her bruised, sweaty face.
Hawkeye blinked hazily up at him for a moment before a small smile spread slowly across her face. “You came.”
“Don’t tell me you thought otherwise.” The teasing tone was paper-thin, barely covering the emotions beneath.
“I knew you would . . . if you could.” Her fingers brushed the lapels of his coat, unable to reach any higher, and he grabbed her hand with his own. “I wasn’t sure . . . if you understood my message.”
“Of course I did. We’ve been together long enough.”
The redheaded soldier had both his gaze and his gun trained on Deuzman, but the blond’s eyes strayed towards Mustang and Hawkeye instead of staying on Reitson. With Mustang’s attention fixed entirely on his lieutenant, Reitson stepped towards the door as quietly as possible. Neither Mustang nor his men seemed to notice, so he took another step, then another. When he was an arm’s length from the door, he reached for the lintel, hardly daring to breathe—
A loud snap shattered the quiet, echoing off the metal walls. Reitson stumbled away from the door with a cry of pain, cradling his now twice-burnt hand, as flames suddenly licked the wooden outer frame. The inner metal frame glowed, molten.
The blond soldier’s attention was now firmly back on him. Mustang’s gaze was still on Hawkeye, but a single arm was outstretched, gloved fingers pointing towards the burning door. “Don’t. Move.”
In his lap, Hawkeye stirred. “Colonel . . . don’t . . .”
“Shhhh.” Mustang slipped off his overcoat and carefully wrapped it around his lieutenant, pressing his lips to her bloody hair before pulling up the hood. “It’s all right. It’s almost over.”
Without any prompting, the blond soldier holstered his gun as Mustang stood, ready and waiting when Mustang passed her into his arms with a curt "Get her outside." Hawkeye protested weakly, but Mustang simply stroked her cheek one last time, murmuring softly, before turning to the redhead. "Cover them. Close the door behind you."
The stout soldier flicked his eyes briefly towards Reitson and Deuzman, face grim, but he nodded.
The boom of the heavy door settled into Reitson’s bones as Mustang turned towards them. Though his coat no longer cloaked his frame, the writhing shadows clung to him instead, as if he stood half in a realm of nightmares.
“Which of you hurt her?” Mustang asked, deadly calm, exuding an air of command that had nothing to do with the military. Reitson shuddered. “Which of you made her bleed?”
“Deuzman handled the interrogation,” Reitson blurted.
Deuzman glanced at him, lip curling in disgust. “The decision was yours.”
“So you made her bleed.” Mustang said, thoughtful. “And you ordered it.” He turned away, hands in his pockets, gaze roving over the collection of interrogation tools scattered around the locker. “My time in Ishval made me somewhat familiar with the limits of the human body, and the different ways to push them. Some methods will eventually produce the same results, and the only difference is the time and effort required.”
Mustang skimmed his fingers over a particularly nasty-looking electrical instrument, and Reitson’s mouth went dry, but the colonel pulled his hand back as he continued.
“That’s what your line of work is based on, isn’t it? Tolerances vary, but there’s only so much pain one person can withstand. It can be invigorating, can’t it, experimenting to find someone’s breaking point?” Mustang raised a hand in front of his face, and this time even Deuzman tensed, but the flame alchemist simply scrutinized his gloved fingers clinically. “Fire is like that, too. Eventually, all things burn, but some materials ignite more easily than others.”
And then he did look over at them, and the emptiness in his eyes sent a shiver down Reitson’s spine.
“Like oxygen.”
Roy Mustang snapped his fingers.
A blue-white spark arced across the room towards Deuzman before the man could flinch. For a split second, nothing happened—
With a horrifying wheeze Deuzman’s jaw dropped open, eyes bulging, flames licking up the inside of his throat.
Reitson scrambled back in horror as the interrogator crashed to his knees, one hand going to his chest, the other his throat, though the fire was gone. Another snap, and this time Reitson saw the spark flash down Deuzman’s gaping mouth.
“Were you curious how many blows it would take until she broke?” Mustang snarled, his former composure gone, stepping closer to the thrashing man. “How much abuse until she fell apart under your hands?”
Deuzman’s jaw worked, but no sound came out other than a dry wheeze. His eyes, white and wide, were fixed on Mustang.
“I’m curious too.”
The interrogator’s chest constricted, then expanded, and the colonel timed another snap to his inhale.
“I wonder how many breaths until your lungs catch fire.”
Reitson couldn't look away. Deuzman crashed forward onto his arms, eyes rolling back in his head. Smoke billowed from his gaping mouth. He shuddered, chest seizing.
Mustang snapped again. He was nearly standing on top of Deuzman now.
The interrogator finally collapsed fully to the floor, entire body convulsing. Fire bled from his slack jaw, brushing Mustang’s boots, his lips cracking and bleeding from the heat. A glow lit his shirt from beneath.
The stench made Reitson want to vomit, the smoke watered his eyes, but every muscle was locked in place.
Gradually, the spasms lessened to tremors, until even those stilled, and the only movement from Reitson’s colleague was the flicker of the flames consuming him from within. Mustang finally dropped his hand, the hunger on his face still not satisfied.
And still Reitson stared, unable to tear his eyes away, unable to fathom the nightmare before him.
Mustang turned to face him, hands held stiffly at his sides. The hem of the colonel's uniform jacket glowed, trailing fading embers. Every tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief in the firelight. His eyes narrowed to slits, hollow as a hearse, dark as death.
But there was a flicker in the void; a flame raging deep, deep in the depths, a blaze that could burn empires to ash and raze the heavens themselves to the blood-soaked sands.
And Reitson finally understood.
There had been a god in Ishval during the war. A god of fire and blood.
A god of suffering.
A god of death.
Mustang raised a hand, fingers poised to snap.
Something was burning. She could smell it, hear it, taste it.
She tried to lift her head, to raise her hands to push back the hood covering her face, but her muscles refused to cooperate. She shuddered in frustration, gasping past the pain that had been her constant companion for days now. She could feel the heat on her calves, the sweat sticking her shirt to her skin, but still the chills racked her frame. The arms around her were restrictive, the voice in her ears familiar but not right.
Her colonel had been here, but now he wasn’t, and something was burning.
Then he was back, strong arms pulling her from the foreign grip to rest against his own chest, gentle hands stroking her shoulders through the thick coat. She twisted weakly, trying to see, but the one eye she could open refused to focus.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s me. It’s okay, Hawkeye, relax.”
"No," she rasped. The smoke stung her eyes, her nose. She choked on the stench of burning bodies. Blood soaked her boots, splattered her pants, stained her hands. "Wrong, something's . . . wrong."
"It's all right, everything's all right.” His lips brushed her sweaty forehead. "I've got you. Everything's all right, now."
Every step he took sent pain stabbing through her, but she was too tired to react. She turned her face into his chest, trying to replace the scent of death with his. "Promise?"
"I promise." At a slight shake, she opened eyes she hadn’t realized had closed. "Just stay awake for me, okay?"
She was tired, so tired . . . but for him, anything. "Okay."
Raindrops dripped from his hair and rolled off the coat she was wrapped in, but even the gentle rain couldn't wash away the desert that clung to them both, that always followed them home. Must she always leave nothing but death in her wake?
Of course she would. She was weak, and cowardly, and selfish.
She was so, so selfish.
Her abductors had thought they hadn’t broken her, but she had given in, just not the way they’d wanted. She’d known what would happen if she reached out to her colonel, the inevitable fate she’d be condemning them to—and even worse, the acts her loyal, protective Roy would commit in his anger.
And yet she’d called for him anyway.
She said she'd follow him to hell, but she kept leading him there instead.
I hope you can forgive me.
The words hung in the air between them, suspended between the raindrops, but she couldn't be sure which of them had spoken.