Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We have a confirmed report that McDougal broke into Central Prison last night. Whatever he’s up to, he’s growing bold.That means our time is short. Close off all roads. Search every square inch of the city. When you find him, shoot on sight. That is an order from the Fuehrer himself. But if I find him first, he’s mine!”

And the hunt for Isaac the Freezer was on.

It wasn’t until early evening that the State Military started picking up traces of McDougal’s trail. 5 men dead at that point and the one that Major Elias Morgenstern, the Metamorphic Alchemist, was looking down at met his end at the hands of a steam explosion. Brutal, to be sure, but nothing about what he was looking at gave him any information about where their quarry would be now.

“Hmph, McDougal’s getting sloppy,” Morgenstern said, pushing the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. “Desperate to complete his mission before the State catches up with him, I’d wager.”

“Wonder why he didn’t just go straight for Fuehrer Bradley after he got away from that FullMetal kid last night,” Sergeant Frederick Manson mused.

“I think Colonel Mustang’s report mentioned that he was drawing a transmutation circle when FullMetal and his brother came across him,” Master Sergeant Patrick Stancy suggested.

“Which is weird. He was a State Alchemist, wasn’t he?” Captain Warren Whitman added. “What would he need to do that for? He’s already got equipment that lets him transmute on the fly, doesn’t he?”

“That is a good point, Captain,” Morgenstern said.

“Maybe he was intending to go under the city into Central Command?” Stancy hypothesized.

“Possibly…” 

“Then what stopped him from just giving FullMetal the slip through the sewers?” Whitman scoffed.

“Maybe ‘cause he knew that FullMetal and his brother would just chase after him?” Manson supposed.

“What, like a grown-ass man can’t shake off a couple of punk kids or something?” Whitman snorted. “That’s sad, Freezer. Real sad.”

Morgenstern’s brow furrowed in thought before he lightly smacked the officer next to him on the arm. “Feel like chiming in, Ovechkin? You’ve been quiet as a church mouse all day.”

Warrant Officer Filipp Ovechkin was jolted out of his train of thought and dragged into the conversation. “Ah, sorry, sir!” Ovechkin said, his voice tinged ever so slightly by a soft Drachman accent. “I was thinking… Do you suppose McDougal was planning to lure Fuehrer Bradley into chasing him? Perhaps he was leaving these circles around as traps? What’s the phrase… ‘cat-and-mouse’?”

Morgenstern and the rest of his unit made noises of acknowledgement and agreement. “Makes sense,” Whitman said. “Like alchemic landmines that he can trip as soon as the Fuehrer catches up to him. Devious bastard.”

Amongst the chatter of soldiers on the street behind him, Morgenstern noticed a couple voices that didn’t belong. Glancing over his shoulder, Morgenstern spotted a teenage boy in a red coat saying something to his tall armored compatriot. “Speak of the devil…”

Morgenstern turned on his heel and quickly strode up to the pair with a chipper, “FullMetal, right?” The sudden introduction clearly took the two by surprise. “We were just talking about you! Only good things, I promise!” Morgenstern propped his knuckles on his hips and chuckled aloud, “Ah, so that explains your moniker. Having all that metal at your disposal must come in handy. Very clever.”

“...Huh? Oh, me?” The man in the suit of armor squeaked in a voice that Morgenstern did not expect to come from his ‘mouth’. “Actually, you’re thinking of my brother.”

“Hmm?” Morgenstern cocked an eyebrow and followed the finger that the man in the suit of armor pointed towards the short, scowling blond kid beside him. “Oh, you’re FullMetal? My mistake,” Morgenstern laughed.

Edward Elric responded with a loud, dramatic groan of frustration. “Oh, for the love of-” he growled. “Why does everyone keep making that mistake!?”

Having already forgotten the little snafu (or possibly just choosing to ignore it), Morgenstern gestured back towards his unit and the evidence of McDougal’s presence. “We’ve caught McDougal’s scent,” he explained. “My men and I were just discussing what he could possibly be trying to do. Did he say anything to you when you caught him last night, Major?”

Edward blinked in surprise at that. He’s only ever heard ‘FullMetal’, ‘Edward’ or the occasional ‘brat’ or ‘punk’ from Colonel Mustang. He wasn’t used to being referred to by rank. Edward cleared his throat and replied, “Not a whole lot. Something about great deeds and great sacrifices.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah.” Edward shook his head and with a gesture towards the fallen soldier against the wall, stated with determination, “Doesn’t matter what he’s trying to do. He’s a maniac and he needs to be stopped before someone else gets killed. That’s all there is to it.”

Morgenstern smiled and nodded in agreement. “No argument here, Major.” Morgenstern pressed his fists to his hips and hummed aloud pensively. “In that case… If I were a disillusioned, heavily traumatized and mentally unstable ex-State Alchemist who had it out for our illustrious Fuehrer and wanted revenge against him for the war crimes that I had to commit for the good of our nation, what would I be doing at this very moment?”

The answer to that question came crashing to earth, kicking up bits of asphalt and gravel mere inches away from the toes of the trio. The sudden action startled the Elric brothers and got them to jump backwards a step or two.

“Hmm?” Morgenstern knelt down and lifted up the object that had fallen at his feet. It was a piece of stone that was perfectly carved into a relief of Alex Louis Armstrong. “Ah, perfect!” Morgenstern turned and said aloud, alerting his unit and any soldiers that were listening, “Armstrong found him!”

Almost instantly, soldiers started charging in the direction of the commotion between McDougal and Armstong, Edward and Alphonse included. Morgenstern thrust the bust of Armstrong into Stancy’s hands and hastily explained, “Here you go, Sergeant. I’m taking a detour to make sure he doesn’t get away! Don’t wait for me!”

“Wh- Major!?” Stancy called after his superior officer as he dashed down a separate alley.

-

McDougal was just able to get away from his 3-on-1 fight against Armstrong and the Elric brothers, momentarily distracting them with another steam explosion. Ducking and weaving through the alleyways, he managed to find a clear spot to catch his breath, certain that he had evaded them for the time being.

“You’re quite popular today, aren’t you?”

McDougal snapped his head up, spotting the source of the voice, a grinning, bespectacled man he didn’t recognize. “...And you are?” McDougal asked, cautious and ready to fight again.

“Ah, of course. Of course you wouldn’t know who I am,” the man chuckled. “I got my State certification not too long after that debacle in Ishval so I’m not entirely in the know, as it were.” The man slid off his perch and dusted himself off, McDougal taking notice of the metal bracers on his arms adorned with his own unique transmutation circle. “Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Major Elias Morgenstern, the Metamorphic Alchemist,” Morgenstern said with a dramatic bow. “And you are this ‘Isaac the Freezer’ that I’ve been hearing so much about the last couple days, correct?”

Instinctively, McDougal used his alchemy to thrust a couple spears of frozen water in Morgenstern’s direction, more as a warning shot if anything. Morgenstern quickly sidestepped them and sighed, “Oh, come now. There’s no need to be like that. We’re just doing our jobs after all…”

Hearing the increasingly prominent chatter from the Alchemists he had just given the slip in the alleyway behind him, McDougal growled, “You know just as little as the rest of them what kind of snakes you serve under.”

Morgenstern’s smile developed a cold edge to it. “Oh… I know all I need to know.”

It took a moment to register exactly what Morgenstern meant by that and when it did, McDougal's eyes went wide with realization before a scowl replaced it. “So you’re one of them…”

Morgenstern gave an ambiguous shrug and said, “Mmm, I follow the first rule given to me when I got my certification. ‘Obey the Military’ and all that.”

“Like I thought. A loyal Lapdog of the Military.”

“Loyalty’s an… interesting concept,” Morgenstern said. “If you’d like, you, me and your old war buddy Kimblee can have a nice philosophical discussion about it back at Central Prison.”

McDougal threw a blast of boiling water this time, no longer warning Morgenstern of anything. Just as quickly, a slab of brick and mortar shot out in front of McDougal’s intended target, shielding Morgenstern from scalding. “...Or we could fight. That works just as well,” Morgenstern sighed from behind his shield. A loud crackling sounded, a primed alchemic reaction and Morgenstern emerged from behind his makeshift shelter, a crudely constructed warhammer rested against his shoulder.

“Water erodes stone over time, doesn’t it?” Morgenstern snickered. “Then you’d best get to it, Freezer.”

Thinking quickly, McDougal blocked off the alleyway behind him with a wall of ice to buy himself a few precious seconds and managed to duck out of the way just in time to avoid the warhammer’s swing into the wall beside him. Morgenstern was a surprisingly formidable opponent, the warhammer he created from brick and stone just light enough for him to swing around wildly but just heavy enough to cause some serious damage upon impact. 

McDougal found himself playing defense, dodging and swatting away Morgenstern’s warhammer, looking for the perfect escape route. From the sound of it, Armstrong and the Elric brothers had caught up, finding their path blocked. Time’s up. McDougal needed to end this fight and retreat ASAP. 

McDougal dodged another swing and took his opportunity to disarm his opponent. One fluid motion and McDougal had managed to freeze Morgenstern’s arm to the wall, forcing him to drop his weapon in the process. A few forceful tugs on his trapped limb proved not enough to free him.

Two hits in and Armstrong was more than halfway through the ice wall. Time to finish this. McDougal moved with the intent to add Morgenstern to his ever growing body count. Making a snap judgment call, Morgenstern tapped the toes of his boot against the ground, priming another alchemic reaction with the plate of conductive metal bolted to the soles, marked as well by his own transmutation circle. Stomping his foot back to the ground carried that alchemic reaction to the asphalt below, creating a pillar of stone that sent McDougal flying into the air, where he would no doubt land on the rooftops.

Morgenstern realized the mistake he had just made a second after. Morgenstern just barely managed to avoid being boiled alive in his own skin, but McDougal escaped, the both of them living to fight another day. Morgenstern transmuted the ice holding his arm to the wall into water just as Armstrong broke through and his fellow Alchemists poured into the alleyway.

“Morgenstern!” Armstrong called out. 

Morgenstern shot his fellows with a defeated smirk. “In hindsight, that probably wasn’t a very well thought out move,” he said with a self-derisive huff, flicking stray droplets of water from his now-free hand.

“He got away?” Alphonse spoke up.

“For now,” Morgenstern replied. He shook his head and with renewed vigor, said, “He can’t have gotten that far. We should fan out and cover as much ground as we possibly can. I’m going to double back and get in contact with Mustang to inform him of what’s going on.”

“Right!”

“Let’s go, Al!” Edward answered in kind, leading his brother in a charge down one end of the alleyway.

“Understood,” Armstrong said before following after the Elric boys.

Morgenstern sent them off with a cheery, “Happy hunting, gentlemen!”

-

As the saying goes, ‘a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime’. The alley in which the Elric brothers first discovered McDougal the night before was the first one to light up, crackling red lightning dancing across the sky. Then another alley lit up… and another… and another…

“That’s…” Morgenstern murmured to himself, astounded. Morgenstern shivered and hugged himself tightly as the moisture in the air started to freeze. Loud crashing and crackling in the distance pulled his gaze, the very edges of a massive wall of ice peeking up over the rooftops. “This man is so troublesome,” Morgenstern sighed. With a quick nod of thanks to the communications specialist he was with, Morgenstern was off again.

It wasn’t that difficult to discern where his unit would be. ‘Just follow the sound of Whitman’s shouting,’ Morgenstern chuckled to himself. Sure enough, Morgenstern caught up with his unit, having joined a company of soldiers rather confusedly taking potshots at the wall of ice that had torn through the block.

Sidling up next to Whitman, Morgenstern put on a chipper facade and announced, “Hello, boys! I’m back for a moment! Just checking in. How’s everything going?”

“Every time we take a shot at this damn thing, it just regenerates itself!” Whitman growled, pulling back down to reload.

“How the hell is McDougal doing this!?” Manson chimed in, just as frustrated.

“That is a damn good question, Manson,” Morgenstern muttered.

The sound of squelching wet leather behind him caught Morgenstern’s attention, signaling the arrival of a sodden and very angry Colonel Roy Mustang. With a teasing smirk, Morgenstern greeted Mustang, “Colonel Mustang, so nice of you to join us! I must say, you’re looking particularly miserable this evening.”

Mustang very pointedly ignored Morgenstern’s comment, marching right up to the barricade and with a snap of his fingers, used his alchemy to blast apart most of the wall. “ WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY FLAMES NOW, YOU BASTARD!? ” Roy roared, his rage clearly McDougal’s doing. 

Something must’ve occurred between his separation from his unit and now as the wall didn’t regenerate the way it had not too long before. “Impressive,” Morgenstern said with a smirk and a small golf clap.

Mustang shook excess water from his hair like a soaked dog before he finally acknowledged Morgenstern’s presence with a stiff greeting of, “Metamorphic.”

“Flame,” Morgenstern greeted in kind.

“Status report.”

“If I heard correctly, Armstrong’s on circle-breaking duty and FullMetal and his brother went charging off after Freezer,” Morgenstern answered.

“Alright,” Mustang said, stripping off the waterlogged coat of his uniform for ease of movement. “Major Armstrong will need an extra pair of hands. Between the two of us, we might be able to slow McDougal down enough for FullMetal to catch up to him.”

“Shouldn’t we send reinforcements?” Morgenstern wondered. “They are just children after all.”

Mustang scoffed, a wry smirk betraying his attempt to seem indifferent. “I’m not worried about them. They’ve been trained well and considering what the two of them have been through, a rogue Alchemist should be a cakewalk for them.”

Morgenstern’s lips curled up in a smirk that mirrored Mustang’s. “Well, if you’re certain, sir…” he chuckled. “I’ll accompany you. Surely a third pair of hands on deck wouldn’t hurt anything.”

“Agreed,” Mustang said. “I take the right half of the city, you take the left?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Morgenstern said with a quick salute as Colonel Mustang darted off, Lieutenant Hawkeye following close behind. With a pleased huff and a preparatory fiddling of the bracers on his arm, Morgenstern addressed his men. “Well, you heard the man. I’m off again. The rest of you stay put and take your frustrations out on any ice you see. Consider it extra target prac… tice…” Looking over his unit, Morgenstern stopped dead in his tracks. Something was… missing.

“Sir?”

“Major?”

“What is it?”

Morgenstern counted out his men. “1, 2, 3… Where is Ovechkin?”

Three heads snapped in the direction of the spot that Ovechkin was evidently supposed to be, a soldier from the company they joined up with having replaced him. “He was right there just a second ago!” Whitman sputtered in confusion.

Morgenstern gave an agitated sigh and rubbed at his temple with one hand, shooing them off with the other. “Oh, for the love of… Go find him, please, before the poor wretch gets himself court-martialed.” His unit gave him a salute and scrambled up off the ground, darting off into the alleyways looking for their lost comrade.

That has to be the 5th time this month that Ovechkin casually went AWOL on his unit and he’s certainly fortunate that he hasn’t gotten into deep trouble for it yet. Now he’s just getting a little too brazen for his own good.

‘What the hell is that idiot doing?’

-

McDougal stood on the edge of the ice floe that his web of transmutation circles created, watching as Central Command crawled ever closer. His plan had come to fruition and retribution for Ishval and whatever else Bradley had planned was close at hand. Gazing down at the building below, McDougal murmured aloud, “Fuehrer King Bradley, for your cold-blooded crimes in Ishval, I condemn you to a frozen Hell.”

“Not so fast!”

A pair of alchemically created pillars of rock lifted the Elric brothers off of the pavement so that they could confront the rogue Alchemist head-on. McDougal was so close to fulfilling his mission. He could not be stopped now. As soon as the brothers landed on the ice wall, McDougal responded with his own alchemy, intending to cut off the piece with the intruding Alchemists on it.

“Two can play that game!” Edward countered with his own alchemy. The edge that McDougal was standing on swelled and crumbled, tossing him up into the air. McDougal managed to get his footing back and grabbed a chunk of ice beside him, transmuting it into hot water to temporarily distract his opponents with.

“Brother!” Alphonse grabbed Edward and pulled his brother against him, narrowly saving him from an attack from above, too late to realize that it was really a feint.

“Too slow!” 

McDougal gripped Alphonse by the face and blasted his helmet clean off, the force of the blast knocking him off balance onto his back.

“Alphonse!”

One down, one left… or so McDougal believed. To his shock, the ‘defeated’ Alphonse threw his leg into the air, knocking McDougal backwards and used the momentum from the kick to push himself off the ground and back onto his feet, inadvertently revealing to McDougal the true nature of Alphonse’s current situation once he got back up.

“There’s no one in there,” McDougal gasped, shocked and astonished. “It’s empty!”

Edward scooped up Alphonse’s helmet and handed it back to his brother. “But that…” McDougal muttered to himself, rolling the revelation around in his mind, “That can only be true if the soul was bonded to the armor… So, you lost your arm… and your brother… he lost his entire body…”

Something in McDougal’s head clicked and a taunting grin spread across his face. “I see. It all makes sense,” McDougal sneered. “You fools committed the ultimate taboo! You attempted human transmutation, didn’t you!? Alchemy’s one and only unforgivable sin!”

The reminder of Edward and Alphonse’s greatest mistake pressed every single nerve the young teen had in his entire body. Edward’s features darkened with rage and his fists clenched, the anger rolling from his throat with one falsely-serene sentence.

“Y’know, there are some lines you really shouldn’t cro-”

BLAM!!

Edward’s heart stopped in his chest at the sudden sound. A bullet from God-knows-where ripped straight through McDougal’s knee, forcing the man to crumple to the ground with a sharp, choked cry of agony. The momentum from the shot combined with the slippery, uneven terrain he was standing on sent McDougal tumbling down the side of the ice wall back towards the ground.

Bewildered, both Elric brothers looked in the direction the bullet came from. Just barely visible in the darkness of the night was a figure on a nearby rooftop, the faint light of the alchemic lightning in the sky reflecting off of the scope of their rifle. The figure leaned up from their position, waved and gave the pair a thumbs up before they slung their rifle over their shoulder and darted off towards the fire escape.

“...Who was that?” Alphonse said.

Edward wondered that himself but cast a glance over his shoulder behind him, seeing McDougal on the ground below starting to stir. Edward shook the thought from his mind. Later. They still had work to do. “C’mon, Al! Before McDougal gets away!” Edward said, gauging a safe path to slide down after him.

-

A soft grunt escaped Ovechkin’s throat as soon as his boots hit the asphalt. Good timing on his part to run across the Elric boys when he did. Now he had to go all the way around the wall to catch up to McDougal. One quick breath and Ovechkin was off again.

Ovechkin couldn’t shake the thought from his head as he ran. How the hell was McDougal pulling this off in the first place? He was ill-experienced with alchemy to begin with but he was certain that an Alchemist had to be right there to activate a transmutation circle. How was McDougal setting them all off at once? And at this magnitude? It was just unheard of. No Alchemist Ovechkin’s ever met had been able to pull off a transmutation at this power level…

Unless…

‘HE HAS A PHILOSOPHER'S STONE!’

The revelation put some fire under Ovechkin’s heels. He needed to catch up to McDougal before anyone else did.

Eventually, Ovechkin found his prey, limping along down a rundown alley somewhere, blood trailing down his calf from the gunshot wound. Ovechkin slung the rifle off his back, back into his hands, aimed and pulled the trigger, giving him another shot to the knee perfectly perpendicular to the last.

McDougal dropped to his knees, something between a gasp and a shout of pain escaping him. Ovechkin said nothing, only stepping forward and pressing the muzzle of the rifle against the back of McDougal’s head.

“...who …who the hell are you?” McDougal wheezed.

Ovechkin said nothing. His only response was a sinister smirk and his finger beginning to tighten around the trigger.

“Good work, soldier,” a wise, jovial sounding voice from behind them said, startling Ovechkin out of his trance and forcing him to pull his finger back from the trigger. “I’ll take it from here.”

Ovechkin dropped his rifle, allowing it to dangle at his side and stepped back towards the wall at attention with a salute. “Fuehrer King Bradley,” he muttered somewhat nervously, acknowledging the presence of the highest ranking officer in the Amestrian State Military.

McDougal twisted himself around to see behind him and with a half-relieved chuckle and smirk, said, “Well, well… just the man I was looking for…” Manipulating the water in his blood, McDougal used the makeshift crutch to push himself back to his feet, plucked up the crimson spear and lunged for Bradley.

Ovechkin grabbed up his rifle again and aimed at McDougal’s back, but in the blink of an eye, Bradley’s sword went from being sheathed in its scabbard to gripped tight on the opposite side of his body, the blade dripping with blood. McDougal’s charge slowed to a stagger, all the new slashes and piercing cuts on his body pouring blood and the Freezing Alchemist collapsed to the ground dead.

‘That was… fast,’ was the first thought to come to Ovechkin’s mind. The second was the Philosopher’s Stone that McDougal had on him. Ovechkin’s feet carried him forward towards McDougal’s body and for a split second, he saw it. A scarlet pearl rolled out of the fallen Alchemist’s pocket, gently sliding forward in the puddle of his blood before it fractured, cracked, crumbled and blew away in the wind.

Ovechkin’s shoulders sagged and an unintentional sigh of disappointment left him.

“Good clean shot, Warrant Officer.” Ovechkin snapped back to reality when King Bradley spoke, Bradley tapping the tip of his sword against McDougal’s knee. “Impressive. Thank you for slowing him down for me,” Bradley said, his friendly smile still in place as he wiped McDougal’s blood off of his blade. 

Ovechkin slung his rifle back over his shoulder and with a salute, said, “No need to thank me, sir.” Exchanging glances between the dead Alchemist on the ground and the sword that killed him, the tip dug into the ground as Bradley’s hands rested on the hilt, a thought struck Ovechkin. “If I might, sir? I thought you’d be hunkered down with your family in Central Command. Why are you out here?”

Bradley casually shrugged and replied, “I’m not so old that I have you let you youngsters fight all my battles. I thought I could lend a hand. And to think that I’d be the one to catch this traitor. If nothing else, this’ll make an excellent story to tell my son.”

“...’Traitor’, sir?” For some reason, despite no change in his tone, Bradley adding that word felt quite deliberate.

“Well, of course. The man intended to kill his superior officer in his own home for some heinous crime completely fabricated by his own psychotic delusions. Would you really think that someone willing to do that would be a God-fearing patriot, Warrant Officer?” Bradley chuckled. After poking at McDougal’s body with the tip of his sword a few times, Bradley murmured loud enough for Ovechkin to hear, “Hmm. Seems he was working alone. That’s a shame.”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, it has gotten back to me that there was an incident at Fort Briggs last month.” A rueful scoff managed to slip through Bradley’s mouth. “I swear, everytime we have a ceasefire with Drachma, they find a new way to get under my skin. It’s almost as if they don’t even want the peace that we negotiated for.” Bradley glanced at Ovechkin out of the corner of his eye and explained, “The Tsar had the gall to try to plant one of his own men in Briggs and think that Major General Armstrong wouldn’t notice one of her own men acting strangely and investigate.”

“Oh? And how did that investigation go?”

“It was discovered that he was a deep cover operative and was intending to send stolen classified intel to Drachma High Command. Major General Armstrong personally saw to it that the spy was… returned to his home country.”

“Eheh, the way you say that, Sir, it sounds as if she chucked him off the roof.”

“...”

“...Did she?”

“Needless to say, that was an insult I refuse to abide by.” Bradley was no longer simply looking at Ovechkin out of the corner of his eye anymore; he was staring him down, his gaze burning straight through his soul. “This Pact of Non-Aggression was a courtesy. A privilege. And yet Drachma comes into my home and spits on my hospitality. What other outcome are they expecting as a result?”

Ovechkin’s hardened steely gray eyes connected with Bradley’s and his whole body tensed, facing down the psychological equivalent of an enraged black bear. “Perhaps it was an isolated incident?” he suggested.

“Hardly,” Bradley scoffed. “Spies are like rats. There’s never just one. That one was simply stupid enough to let himself get caught.”

If saying so rubbed Ovechkin the wrong way, his face didn’t show it. “Maybe Drachma is finally starting to take Amestris seriously,” he said. “It’s about time that they did.”

Bradley smiled a very cold smile. “I couldn’t agree more, Warrant Officer. I couldn’t agree more.”

The verbal conversation ended on a high note, but the tension between the Amestrian leader and the man of Drachman descent tightened. The hand on Ovechkin’s side facing away from Bradley slipped under his coat, his fingers quietly tightening around the grip of his sidearm. Likewise, Bradley shifted one of his hands to grip the handle of his sword. The two stayed like that for a moment, eyeing the other down, waiting for them to make the first move.

“There you are, Ovechkin!”

The silent stalemate broke as Captain Whitman burst into the alley. Ovechkin yanked his hand away from his holster and Bradley knocked the tip of his sword off of the ground with the side of his boot, allowing him to sheathe it in its scabbard. Bradley gave his subordinate a friendly greeting as he approached. “Ah, Captain Whitman.”

Somewhat frazzled, Whitman made sure to greet his commanding officer properly. “Fuehrer Bradley,” he said. “I apologize, sir. We’ve had to abandon our post to track down this idiot .” Whitman emphasized the last word by giving Ovechkin a firm smack in the arm with his dominant arm, which just so happened to also be his automail arm. Ouch.

Sergeant Manson and Master Sergeant Stancy followed in shortly after their captain, stopping to salute Fuehrer Bradley as they caught up with Whitmer. Manson elbowed Ovechkin in his uninjured arm and hissed, “What the hell, Ovechkin!? Are you trying to get court-martialed?”

Ovechkin winced, rubbing at the spot where he was clobbered by Whitmer’s automail and explained, “Snap tactical decision, Captain. I thought that I could get a bird’s-eye view of the situation and provide rooftop assistance.”

“Smart,” Bradley praised, a far cry from where the two were just moments ago. 

Ovechkin noticed that one key member of his unit hadn’t caught up yet. “Where’s the major?”

“Major Morgenstern’s breaking up transmutation circles with Major Mustang and Major Armstrong,” Stancy explained. In the meantime, Morgenstern’s unit would answer to the highest ranking officer in the room.

Captain Whitman, the second highest ranking officer present, spoke for his unit. “Orders, Fuehrer Bradley?”

Bradley hummed in thought, throwing his gaze back down to the dead man they were standing around. “I suppose we should secure the crime scene then.”

“Yes, sir!”

Just as a tarp was thrown over McDougal’s body and the section of the alley taped off, Edward and Alphonse managed to catch up after getting turned around for a while in the back alleys. Ovechkin was the first to notice them, giving them a grin and a thumbs-up, identifying himself as the sniper that assisted them earlier. Edward gravitated towards the body of the fallen Alchemist, determined to get that Philosopher’s Stone from him and gave Ovechkin a nudge on the arm as he passed with his free hand. “Thanks.”

Ovechkin noticed that one of Edward’s hands was clutching at his shoulder, with darker crimson streaks staining his coat and his glove. “Ah! Major Elric!?”

“It’s fine,” Edward grumbled. “I’ve had worse.” Edward grabbed Sergeant Manson’s arm to steady himself as he leaned over the tape, looking for some glimmer of a Philosopher’s Stone around McDougal’s body. Alphonse gripped the back of his brother’s coat to keep him steady. “McDougal had a Philosopher’s Stone…” Edward said aloud, as his visual search turned up nothing. “He should still have it…”

“If he did have one, he may have discarded or destroyed it before we caught him, I’m afraid,” Bradley explained, snapping Edward back to reality. It was a slight bending of the truth that got Ovechkin to glare at the Fuehrer out of the corner of his eye but all the same, Ovechkin elected to keep that little tidbit of information to himself.

Edward winced at the little achy jolt he received when Whitman poked the back of his shoulder. “How the hell did you get this, son?” he asked.

Irate, Edward shoved Whitman’s arm off. “McDougal transmuted his blood into a spear and bought himself some time to escape,” Alphonse said as he gently tugged on his brother’s coat to set him back upright again.

“Stabbed him with his… blood?” Manson whispered to Stancy, confused and thoroughly disgusted.

“Oh, that’s definitely going to get infected,” Stancy hissed in agreement.

“Captain Whitman.”

Whitman snapped to attention. “Yes, Fuehrer Bradley?”

“Would you be so kind as to escort FullMetal and his brother to the hospital and get that injury checked out for me?” Bradley asked. “I'll contact the MPs and make sure this scene is locked down.”

“Sir, yessir!” 

Morgenstern’s unit started hustling the Elric Brothers away, much to Edward’s everlasting annoyance. “Oh, Warrant Officer Ovechkin,” Bradley said, drawing his subordinate’s gaze over his shoulder. “One more time. Thank you for your assistance.” Bradley unhooked his sheathed sword from his belt and tapped the covered tip against his eyepatch. “I’ll be sure to keep a very close eye on you and that golden trigger finger of yours.” The tone and words were friendly but Ovechkin could hear what he was really saying underneath it all.

‘I’ll be watching you.’

-

A few days later, Edward was able to negotiate an early release from the hospital with a warning to keep his shoulder bandaged for a few more days and to please not get stabbed again. After a couple days’ delay, the trip to Reole was back on schedule. 

When their suitcases were stored away in the overhead compartment and the pair were settled in for the ride, Edward leaned against the window and noticed Major Morgenstern and his unit across the empty track beside them. In that split second, Edward and Morgenstern made eye contact and Major Morgenstern gave the brothers a grin and a wave of farewell.

“Major Morgenstern’s a pretty friendly guy,” Alphonse said, waving back.

“Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” Edward muttered.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“I can’t really put my finger on it. It just feels… fake. Like he’s trying way too hard to get on your good side.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“...I don’t know.” As far as Edward was concerned, Morgenstern was odd. Harmless, sure, but still kinda odd. Edward shrugged and settled back into his seat. It’s probably nothing. For now, Edward and Alphonse Elric had more important things to do.

Morgenstern and his unit watched as the train to Reole left the station. With a satisfied sigh, Morgenstern muttered aloud, “Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?” Morgenstern spun on his heel and regarded his men with pride. “Job well done, men! You especially, Captain Whitman. Thank you for taking over in my absence.”

“Not a problem, Major.”

“Well, I suppose we should be heading back to our office then. Our poor desks must be getting cold and lonely without us.” With that, Major Morgenstern marched off with his unit trailing behind.

Stancy buried his face in his elbow to muffle the cough that escaped him. “You okay, Pat?” Manson asked. “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Stancy said reassuringly. “I might’ve just caught a cold from last night. I’m still fit for duty.”

“Nobody is going to court-martial you for taking some occasional sick leave, Master Sergeant,” Morgenstern said.

Stancy stifled a clearing of his throat and said, “No need for that, sir.”

Whitman shrugged. “In that case, lucky you for landing a desk job. That crap wouldn’t fly on the front lines.” Manson noticed his superior rolling his automail wrist and the bitter expression that came with it. Whitman never really made it a secret that if he had the choice, he’d still be out there fighting for his country rather than being stuck behind a desk thanks to his shiny prosthetic.

“Come now, Captain. No need to be bitter,” Morgenstern said with a soothing lilt to his voice that Whitmer just found frustrating. “It’s not as if you’re completely bereft of action, yes?”

“Wouldn’t mind if we had a rogue Alchemist come by every other week. It’s boring as all hell around here,” Whitman replied.

“Oh, I’m sure the city would mind,” Morgenstern chuckled. “I think Central would prefer some time to repair all the damages first.”

Manson shrugged and laughed, “Certainly worse things than sitting on your ass and doing paperwork all day.”

“Add on top of that, you didn’t get assigned to Brigadier General Grand,” Morgenstern added with a boastful smirk. “Fortunate for you that you were stuck with a superior officer that’s easy-going and will stick up for his men regardless of their many, many quirks. Isn’t that right, Ovechkin?”

…

“Ovechkin?”

…

Morgenstern stopped in his tracks, bringing the march to a screeching halt and nearly causing a pile-up as his men crashed into him.

“The hell, Major?”

“Morgenstern, sir?”

“What’s going on?”

Morgenstern whipped around and counted his men out. “1, 2, 3…” He heaved a massive sigh. “Oh, for the love of all that’s good… we lost Ovechkin again.” 

Make that 6th .

-

Coast is clear.

Ovechkin had to wait for a little bit for the street to empty out but it should be safe now. He pulled the door to the public telephone booth behind him tight and made sure it was sealed as securely as possible. Still, if anyone passed by close enough, they could hear what he was saying through the glass. ‘Speak softly and switch to your native language.’

Ovechkin kept monitoring both sides of the booth to make sure the coast really was clear as he dug a few cens from his uniform pocket and brought the receiver to his ear. The operator didn’t take long to answer.

“Good afternoon. How may I direct your call?”

“Afternoon. Could you put me through to Abram Melnik in West City, please?”

“Certainly. Transferring you now.”

The phone rang for a few moments before a gruff voice answered in rough, choppy Amestrian.

“Melnik. What d’you want?”

Ovechkin made one more check around him and then officially switched to his native Drachman and whispered, < ”The mountains seem calm today.” >

The other end of the line fell silent for a moment. ‘Melnik’ was making sure he was alone too, no doubt. Then he returned with a whispered, < ”Which of my soldiers am I speaking to?” > Ovechkin straightened up, rested a fist against his chest and he dropped his character. 

< ”Lieutenant Rurik Volkov. Snowstrider Battalion. Reporting in, Colonel Morozov.” >

Volkov could hear Morozov’s smirk on the other end of the line. < ”I’ve been expecting your call, Lieutenant. I trust you have good news for me?” >

Volkov sighed and rested a fist against his hip. < ”The lead was good. The rogue Alchemist did have a Philosopher’s Stone…” >

< ”But?” >

< ”It must’ve been a dud. It disintegrated the second he died.” >

Morozov clicked his tongue in frustration. < ”So the Amestrians can make fake Philosopher’s Stones now? They’re not making this mission easy for us.” >

< ”I’m afraid I have more bad news, sir.” >

< ”About Sokolovsky, right?” >

< ”Exactly, sir. The incident report got back to the Fuehrer. Now he’s on high alert.” >

< ”Damn.” > There was shuffling and clunking on the other end. < ”I’ll send out an APB to the rest of the battalion. Give or take a few days, we can have you pulled out and back to HQ.” >

< ”No!” > Whoops. Too loud. Volkov made another check and brought his voice back down. < ”No need for that, sir. I’m this close to securing a Stone. I can feel it. I can stick it out for the long haul.” >

< ”Even with the Fuehrer breathing down your neck?” >

< ”Yes, sir. I’ll bring the Tsar back a Philosopher’s Stone or die trying.” >

< ”...Hmmph. Good. That’s what I like to hear. In that case, just keep up the simpering Amestrian patsy act and we’ll figure out some way to get the big man’s attention off of you.” >

Volkov opened his mouth to respond but a sudden creeping feeling up his spine made him pause, a nagging feeling that he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. He checked from side-to-side and behind him, seeing no one around. What he did find that he didn’t notice before was a spider lurking in the corner of the booth’s ceiling. Volkov narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously.

< ”Lieutenant? Talk to me. What’s going on?” >

Volkov pressed the receiver tight to his head, dropping his volume even lower and whispered, < ”I can’t be 100% sure, but I think I have eyes on me. It might be time to pull the wagon up and skip town before the State catches up with you.” >

There was an immediate sound of scrambling on the other end. < ”Understood. Appreciate the heads-up, Lieutenant. Scuttling this safehouse. Keep an ear out for that APB.” >

< ”Yessir.” >

Volkov nearly leapt right out of his skin at the sound of a knocking on the glass behind him. “I can see you, Ovechkin~” Morgenstern and company were waiting for him outside of the booth. “I’m fairly certain we’ve just had a discussion about this, Filipp,” Morgenstern said with a long-suffering smirk.

Ovechkin gave his superior officer a sheepish smile and held up a finger, mouthing ‘Just a minute,’ before he returned to the call. “Sorry, babushka . I’ve got to go now. I have to get back to work. Send Ma and Pa my best.”

< ”Keep your head down, Lieutenant. We’ll be in touch.” >

“Love you too, babushka. I’ll see you soon. Bye-bye.” With that, Ovechkin hung the receiver back on the hook and emerged from the glass box to face the rest of his unit. “Sorry about that, Major. I thought I had enough time for a quick ‘hi-bye’ but… eheh, my babushka can get quite chatty if you don’t stop her.”

“Your baboo- What?” Whitman said, looking at the Drachman man like he just spoke in hieroglyphics. “Say that again in Amestrian?”

Ovechkin sighed at the pure ignorance from his superior and rephrased himself. “My grandmother .”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that then?”

Before Ovechkin had the chance to snap back at the utter buffoon that ranked above him, Morgenstern loudly cleared his throat. “Well, now that we have everybody , we should head back to the office,” he said. “We’ve got quite the mountain of paperwork to tackle once we get back.” A quartet of dismayed sighs answered him. “I love your enthusiasm, men,” Morgenstern chuckled, gesturing for his unit to follow him. “Manson? Stancy? Do me a favor and make sure Ovechkin doesn’t get lost, would you?”

There was a bit of a laugh shared between the lower ranked men in the unit. “Yessir,” Stancy said, placing his hand on Ovechkin’s shoulder so he wouldn’t lose him.

Manson leaned over to whisper to Ovechkin, “Don’t listen to Whitman. His brain’s rusting and he doesn’t understand social graces anymore.”

“He probably took one too many rifle butts to the head back in Ishval,” Stancy added.

“Thank you. Both of you,” Ovechkin snickered. Whenever no one was looking, Ovechkin slung a suspicious glare back at the phone booth behind him. He still didn’t see anyone lurking around that could’ve overheard them. Not that they’d understand him in the first place since the entire conversation was in Drachman. Still… that presence lingered.

Once Morgenstern’s unit was well and truly out of sight, the spider in the corner of the phone booth dropped to the ground with a heavy thunk and unfurled, taking their preferred form of a tall, slender young person. They stretched their arms up to the ceiling of the phone booth and grumbled to themself, “Damn. Couldn’t understand a word he said.” With an annoyed sigh, they muttered, “Would be easier if Wrath just killed him but nooooo ~; we’ve gotta figure out where his leader and all of his other friends are first.”

Well, to be fair, not everything Volkov was talking about was unintelligible. “West City is Archer’s territory, isn’t it?” Envy said to themself, punching the number in. “Of course, we get this close to our goals and Drachma chooses to stick their nose in our business now . What a pain in the ass.” Envy’s appearance shifted, taking the form of the Fuehrer himself before the operator picked up. 

“Good afternoon. Western Command.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Envy said in Bradley’s voice. “Could you put me through to Major Frank Archer?”

“Of course, Fuehrer Bradley.”

-

The motorcar drifted to a stop outside the ramshackle house on the outskirts of the city. After a bit of asking around, most of the citizens that Archer asked pointed to this house specifically, though no one could give him an accurate description of this ‘Abram Melnik’ character. Apparently, he was something of a shut-in that was rarely ever seen outside during the day. If that wasn’t the perfect description of a spy…

From the outside, the house looked as if it hadn’t been lived in for years. The lawn reached Archer’s ankles at this point and bits of siding and roof tiles were falling off of the house. Attempting to look in through one of the windows proved fruitless. Even if the lights were on, the windows were caked with dust on the inside so Archer couldn’t see a thing.

With nothing else to go off of, Archer decided to try the polite approach first and tapped his knuckles against the door. “Mr. Melnik?” he called out through the door. “This is Major Frank Archer speaking. Are you free right now? There’s something rather urgent I’d like to discuss with you.” 

Nothing answered him. No voices, no sound of footsteps, nothing. Archer tried one more time. “Mr. Melnik? Are you home?” Yet again, nothing.

Well, he tried. Archer gave the doorknob a twist and forced his shoulder against the door with all of his strength, busting the lock open and granting him and his men entry. 

The inside of the house looked just as dismal as the outside did. There was a thick layer of dust over absolutely everything, enough for Archer to know that someone was indeed here at some point and that this person left his tracks all across the floor. Apart from the standard pieces of furniture that the house would’ve been sold with, the house’s occupant didn’t leave any kind of trace of his own. The house was completely claimed by dust and cobwebs.

Following the tracks Melnik left behind led upstairs to the only room he had inhabited. The only trace of the spy left behind was the wires he’d dug out from the wall that were once connected to something, possibly a telegraph and a note. The note was written in a script that was completely foreign to Archer.

“Jameson.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You took a foreign language elective in university, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can read Drachman, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Archer handed his subordinate the note and said, “What does this say?”

His subordinate gave it a once-over and translated, “ ‘Nice try, Amestrian pigs.’ ”

Archer clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Now they’re mocking us,” he sighed. If West City wasn’t preoccupied with their conflict with Creta, he’d have search parties combing the hills looking for this man. Fortunately, he couldn’t have gotten that far. Odds are good that Melnik went south. Archer spun on his heel and marched out of the house, back to the motorcar. He could at least send a heads-up to South HQ.

-

It was a lovely day for a walk and Izumi was feeling her best today so she was able to tag along with Sig to do a little shopping for the store. There was no rush for anything today to Sig’s relief. Just a nice walk with his wife.

On their way back, they noticed a truck parked outside a building on the corner not too far from their store. A sturdy, bearded man they didn’t recognize was pacing back and forth, carrying stuff into the building and stopped when he noticed them passing by. “Hello there!” he said with a wave and a greeting in rough sounding Amestrian.

Izumi waved back. “Hello. You must be new to the neighborhood.”

The man put the box under his arm back in the bed of his truck and extended a handshake to Izumi. “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My name is Nikolai Kartoshkin.”

“I’m Izumi Curtis. This is my husband, Sig.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir,” Nikolai said, greeting Sig in kind.

Sig passed off the bag he was holding to his wife and said, “I can give you a hand bringing the rest of that inside.”

“Ah? Oh! Thank you, but you don’t have to do that,” Nikolai sputtered.

“It’s no problem,” Sig replied, heaving one of the boxes into his arms as Nikolai grabbed another.

“That’s awful kind of you,” Nikolai chuckled. “With neighbors like the two of you, I feel welcome already!”

Chapter Text

1910

The previous night, at 0030, Amestrian forces captured a Drachman outpost about several hundred klicks to the east of Fort Briggs. This outpost had been a pain in the ass for any passing Amestrian convoy traveling that close to the national border for a while now. But for all that bluster, the outpost wasn’t a match for a small squad of Amestrian soldiers sneaking up on them under cover of darkness. 

<”Fuckin’ Amestrian piece-of-shit,”> one of captured Drachman soldiers snarled from his spot on the ground.

<”Shut the hell up, Alekseev! You’re not helping!”> another hissed.

<”Don’t think you’ve won! The commander radioed HQ as soon as he saw you bastards coming!”>

<”Alekseev!>”

<”The Snowstriders are coming for you, Amestrian swine. They’ll slit your throat in your sleep!>”

“Look, whatever it is you’re barking about… tell someone who gives a shit,” the Amestrian captain sighed. Pleased with the almost full bottle of vodka he was able to pull out of the late Drachman commander’s effects, the captain said, “It’s a long drive from here to your new home with our other POWs. May as well take it easy while you still can.” With that, the captain sauntered straight out of the tent.

<”...See? Stupid bastard didn’t understand a word I said.”>

<”For god’s sake, Alekseev…”>

<”God, what I wouldn’t give to see the look on that shitbird’s face when they get here…”>

The captain returned to his squad, prize in hand. “Hey, fellas, lookit this! Commander Snowflake left us a little treat!”

“Already, Captain?” one of his subordinates joked.

“It’s 5 o'clock somewhere,” the captain said with a flippant shrug. “Besides, I’d say that finally shutting these obnoxious Drachman bastards up is something worth celebrating, ain’t it?”

One soldier smiled fondly at the crumpled photograph in his hand. “D’you think they’ll mention us by name?” he wondered. “I know my boy’s going to brag to all his little friends when they get to this part in their history books. His old man was instrumental in helping Amestris ‘come full circle.’”

“Ah, now, why’d you have to say that?” one of his squadmates teased. “You’re just inviting trouble talking like that!”

“You would say that, Hodgson, ya naysayer!” the captain chortled. “But me, I like that idea!” He lifted the bottle in his grip high into the air and made a toast. “Here’s to getting into the history books, boys! Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

Blam!

The bottle in the captain’s hand exploded in a shower of vodka and shattered glass. The captain could only gawk at the jagged end of the bottle’s neck in his hand for a moment, dumbfounded, before he looked in the direction the shot came from and before anyone had a chance to process it, another shot ripped through the air, hitting the captain right between the eyes and killing him dead on the spot.

“Oh shit! Captain!”

“Ambush!”

The Amestrian squad scrambled for cover as more shots kicked up the snow around them. The barrage was so oppressive that one couldn’t keep their head above cover for long enough to spot where the attack was coming from. The Amestrian squad took a few more casualties just trying.

One Amestrian soldier was able to find a blind spot to scope out the situation. High up on the hill, the glimmer of the afternoon sun reflecting off of a scope pointed out the position of one of their attackers, a figure dressed all in white to better blend in with the snowy cliffside.

“We’ve got cuckoos on the cliffs!” was all he was able to say before said ‘cuckoo’ spotted him and shot him dead. In response, the Amestrian squad turned their fire to the cliffs, forcing the snipers above to scuttle back. 

With their attention taken by the snipers above, no one noticed the white shapes moving in the gleam of the sun reflecting off of the snow. Not until a gloved hand popped up out of the snow, yanked the rifle out of an Amestrian soldier’s hands and plunged a trench knife into their neck. This set off a chain reaction of hooded soldiers popping up over cover to take the Amestrians by surprise and wiping out what was left of the squad, fast, brutal and oppressive. The Amestrians didn’t stand a chance.

Finally, the shouting and the gunfire dwindled to a stop and the snipers on the cliffs above were able to pull themselves forward to check the situation. Their comrades down in the outpost below were in clean-up mode now, some of the opposition needing a few extra stabs to make sure they wouldn’t get back up to cause any more trouble. One broke off from the group and waved up in the direction of the cliffs, letting the snipers know it was safe to come down.

After packing their gear up, the small squad of snipers found the smoothest curve of the hill to slide down and rejoin their unit. One in particular, Lieutenant Rurik Volkov, gravitated towards the soldier that gave them the all-clear, pushing off his hood and letting the crisp mountain air cool his face.

The other soldier did the same and threw his arm around Volkov’s shoulder. <”Nice shot, Ryuya!”> Volkov’s comrade and good friend, Lieutenant Yuri Orlov, laughed. <”Didya see the look on that Amestrian bastard’s face before you shot him? It was hilarious!”> Orlov mimicked the dumbfounded expression the Amestrian captain had on his face and the two devolved into a round of snickers.

Volkov dusted off his shoulder and proudly declared, <”Didn’t even break a sweat!”>

There was a whistle from the middle of the camp from their unit leader, Colonel Morozov. <”Alright, men! Fan out and look for survivors!”> he ordered.

<”I see one already, sir,”> one spoke up, pointing far out to the east of the camp. <”We’ve got a runner.”>

To give him credit, the only Amestrian survivor managed to scramble a good distance away despite the snow slowing him down, likely having attempted to make his escape as soon as one sniper turned into several. Hard to blame the guy. They must not cover how to fight against a force as fast and lethal as Snowstrider Battalion in boot camp.

<”Volkov.”>

<”Yes, Colonel?”>

<”We were told not to take prisoners.”>

<”Understood, Colonel.”>

Kchk!

Blam!

-

<”The enthusiasm is inspiring, Alekseev, but I don’t think the poor bastard can feel you kicking him anymore.”>

<”It sure as hell makes me feel better, Colonel.”>

The body of the Amestrian captain was the next to be tossed into the burn pit. Honestly, it was better that way. After Snowstrider Battalion was done with them, they’d be saving their families’ money by sending back a folded-up flag and condolences instead of a body that was destined for a closed casket funeral. Yes, that sounds callous but that was the way Volkov was trained to deal with the horrors of war: dissociate and dehumanize. ‘You are nothing more than a weapon for the State, as is your enemy on the battlefield. They know this full well, else they wouldn’t have signed up in the first place.’

And then somehow, in some way, something had to remind Volkov that the enemy forces were also composed of human beings with names, faces, hopes and dreams. This time, that ‘something’ was a crumpled photograph that he scraped out of the snow. A man, a woman and their young son, smiling for the camera and living their pastoral life, unaware of how the father would be ripped away from them by a single bullet. All because no one in charge could agree on where the property line was.

 Volkov grimaced to himself, pained over the idea that the poor boy will eventually forget what his father’s face looks like. Glancing up, he recognized one of the bodies that his comrades were going to throw in the pit next as the father in the photo, folded up the little slip of paper and went over to stuff it back into the Amestrian soldier’s breast pocket. When Volkov’s comrades gave him curious looks for it, he replied, <”He’d want to take that with him.”>

Volkov needed a moment of peace and quiet to get back into the ‘living weapon’ mindset so he left his comrades to the clean-up and ducked into an empty tent to decompress as best he could. He slung his rifle off of his back and left it on a nearby table, plucking off his gloves and warming his hands by the gas lamp. One of Volkov’s tried-and-true methods of getting himself back from this slip was distraction, busying his mind and hands with something else. When his hands were nice and warm, he retrieved his tools from his pack and settled in against the table he left his rifle on. Proper firearm maintenance was a necessity, anyhow. Ol’ Reliable hadn’t backfired on him yet, but the last thing Volkov wanted was her jamming on him during an operation.

While Volkov was fiddling with the sights, a burst of cold air hitting his back signaled that someone had come to join him. <”Hey, Ryuya,”> Orlov announced himself. 

<”...Hey, Yura,”> Volkov answered listlessly.

Orlov came over and sat on the edge of the table, placing one of the tin mugs of steaming black liquid he had with him next to Volkov. <”What’s the matter?”> he asked.

Volkov set his rifle down on the table, shook his head and turned to Orlov with a half-baked reassuring smile. <”It’s nothing. I’m alright.”>

<”You sure?”> Orlov asked. <”You can talk to me about stuff, y’know. I’m your friend and I worry about you sometimes.”>

<”I will.”>

<”...eventually?”>

<”Yeah. Eventually.”>

Orlov gave a defeated sigh. Volkov could be so stubborn when he wanted to be and that was the most he was sure he could get out of him for now. Oh well. He nudged Volkov on the arm and said, <”Hey. Take a break with me. Smirnova found us a little treat that the Amestrians left in their convoy.”> Orlov lifted the other mug in his hand as an indicator.

Volkov found the mug’s twin beside him. The smell was… interesting. <”What is this?”>

<”Smirnova said it’s supposed to be coffee.”>

<”’Supposed to be’?”>

<”Definitely looked like it in the bag at least. The smell though… Doesn’t smell like the stuff we get imported from Aerugo. Hmm, that’s probably why since Amestris has pissed off literally everyone around them…”>

Whatever Orlov started blabbering about turned into white noise in Volkov’s head. Yuri’s voice was nice to listen to. He let Orlov gab on for a little bit, fondly smiling and nodding before he absent-mindedly reached over and wiped off a smear of Amestrian blood that was still on Orlov’s chin. Then his mind caught up to him and he yanked his hand back with a flustered, <”Sorry… y-you had… something on your…”>

Orlov didn’t seem to think too much of it, giving Volkov a hearty pat on the back and a good-natured laugh. <”Thanks, Ma,”> he teased. Volkov softly chuckled to himself and returned the gesture. 

<”Anyway,”> Orlov spoke up, clinking his mug against Volkov’s. <”Since they had the bad manners to waste our vodka, this’ll have to do instead.”> Orlov lifted his mug and offered a toast, <”Here’s to another successful rescue mission!”>

<”Cheers.”>

The two soldiers took a celebratory swig of their drinks… only to spit them right back out.

<”What the fuck is that?”> Volkov coughed.

<”Oh, that is awful . They must save the good stuff for the Southerners,”> Orlov chuckled as he retrieved a flask from his coat. A splash of liquor usually does the trick. <”...Nope. That didn’t help.”>

A blast of cold air preceded one of their comrades, flinging the tent flap open and yanking down the warmer protecting her face from the cold. <”Hey!”> Smirnova said, <”Are you two idiots done screwing around? We need more hands out here!”>

Volkov got right to it, gathering up his tools and making sure Ol’ Reliable could at least be carried around without falling apart until later. Orlov, on the other hand, casually saluted and joked, <”At once, ma’am!”>

<”Shut up, dumbass.”>

<”Yeah, dumbass. Shut up,”> Volkov teased as he put his gloves on. <”By the way, Smirnova. That ‘coffee’ the Amestrians had?”>

<”Tastes like ass, I know,”> Smirnova scoffed. <”But you make do with what you have this far North.”>

<”Good. So it wasn’t just me.”>

<”Alright, you two quit fuckin’ around already and come out here.”>

<”Yes, Ma’am.”>

-

The new company arrived to take over the outpost for their lost soldiers the next morning, allowing Snowstrider Battalion to return to HQ by that evening.

As soon as the last soldier was off the truck and the unit prepared to call it for the night, a senior officer approached to greet them. <”Welcome back, Colonel.”>

With a sharp whistle, Morozov shouted, <”Attention!”> and all his men dropped what they were doing and saluted the officer coming to join them.

<”At ease.”> 

Morozov dropped his salute and greeted his superior with a firm handshake. <”General.”>

<”I hear there was some commotion at one of our border outposts yesterday,”> the general said.

<”Some Amestrian upstarts thought they could take it from us, but it’s safely back in Drachman hands now, sir.”>

<”Of course it is,”> the general said with pride. <”I’d expect nothing less from Snowstrider Battalion.”> He sighed and added, <”Wasn’t this Non-Aggression Pact their idea in the first place? They’re like schoolchildren, constantly changing the rules of the game when it suits them.”>

<”It’s ridiculous, sir.”>

Suddenly, the general changed the subject. <”Say, now that I’ve got you, could I steal you away for a little while?”> he asked. <”Something’s come up that’s gotten the Tsar’s attention and I was going to inform the rest of the brass. I feel like you should be included. We may need to call upon the Snowstriders for this. And just as well, I feel like your mens potential is being wasted serving as just the stick to swat Amestris on the nose when they try to reach past their border.”>

<”I’m honored you keep us in consideration, sir. Of course.”> Morozov glanced at his men over his shoulder and shouted, <”Dismissed!”>

Morozov followed the general into the main building, leaving the Snowstriders to their own devices. Some wandered off towards their bunks and some milled about chatting with each other. Orlov nudged Volkov’s arm. <”We’ve got some time before lights out,”> he said, retrieving a pack of cards from his pocket. <”Durak?”>

<”Sure. Sounds fun,”> Volkov replied.

Orlov whistled and waved at a few of their comrades. <”Hey! Smirnova! Sokolovsky! Durak in the chow hall! You in?”>

The top brass of the Drachman military were waiting further in. Very few words were spared as Morozov and the senior officers followed the general into the lift leading into the basement. <”We’ve had the chance to intercept a scouting party from North City a few weeks ago,”> the general said. <”They were tough. Most died before they could tell us anything useful. But one canary is still singing… and he had something very interesting to talk about.”>

In a room in the darkest, dingiest corner of the basement level, two junior officers stood watch over an Amestrian colonel, tied to a chair with a dampened burlap sack clinging to his face. He was far too exhausted after his last ‘talk’ with the general to attempt to escape. His wrists had accumulated bleeding rope burns from his previous attempts.

On the general’s order, one of the junior officers yanked the sack off of the Amestrian’s head. In thick Amestrian, the general ordered, “Tell them what you told us.” 

The Amestrian only gave him a defiant glare back and spat, “Fuck you, you Drachman piece-of-shit. I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.”

The general sighed and nodded at the pair of officers watching over the captured officer. One pulled a dry burlap sack over the Amestrian’s head and pulled it tight while the other retrieved a bucket of water from the corner of the room. <”Just a minute. He needs a little more persuading,”> the general said to his comrades with an apologetic grin.

The general hooked his foot under the leg of the chair and lifted it up, tilting the prisoner back at an angle. Realizing where this was going, the Amestrian officer struggled, futilely tugging on the ropes again and aggravating his burns in the process. Whatever protests he was attempting to make were muffled by the fabric pulled tight against his face. 

The officer holding the sack against his face planted a free hand against the Amestrian’s forehead and forced his head still as his comrade slowly and deliberately poured out the bucket of water over his face. Once the cloth was thoroughly saturated, after half-a-minute of ‘drowning’, the officer holding him down would lift the bag off of the prisoner’s mouth to allow for a few struggling breaths so he wouldn’t up and die before putting him back under. This process repeated until the bucket ran dry.

The general set the chair back down, granting the prisoner some reprieve from the torture. The drenched sack was yanked off of the Amestrian prisoner’s head, allowing the prisoner to steal a desperate gasp of air. The general snapped his fingers next to the prisoner’s head and pushed his head back, demanding his full attention. “Tell us about the Philosopher’s Stone.”

The prisoner’s brain was still fuzzy from being deprived of oxygen but he had just enough strength left in him to spit in the general’s face. Unimpressed, the general wiped the prisoner’s saliva from his eye. Fine. Then another round of ‘persuasion’ should get him talking. The general nodded to one of the junior officers and ordered, <”Fill another bucket.”>

-

The first operatives to cross the border were non-combat personnel, intended to infiltrate the administrative branch of Central Command and plant forged service files in the system to give some credibility to the Snowstriders that were following in after them next. A couple months later, the covers were set and a unit was piled into the back of a covered truck.

Halfway through the drive, Orlov couldn’t take the silence anymore and said, <”What do you think we’re going to get?”>

Volkov was busy staring into space and confusedly sputtered, <”Huh?”>

<”When we bring back this Philosopher’s Stone,”> Orlov said. <”What d’ya think the Tsar is going to give us as a reward?”>

<”...Not hanging us for insubordination?”> Volkov chuckled.

<”That’s it?”> Orlov shrugged and snickered. <”I want a title. ‘Duke Yuri Orlov’ has a nice ring to it, don’t ya think?”>

<”You’re insane, Orlov,”> Smirnova scoffed. <”You want a position of power with Tsar Golovin in charge? Don’t you know that his father actually killed all of his political rivals? What makes you think the current Tsar will treat you any better?”>

<”...yeah, good point,”> Orlov nervously laughed. <”In that case, ruble is just fine.”>

<”I’d rather just not die,”> Sokolovsky piped up from further into the truck.

<”That’s exactly what I said!”> Volkov said.

Orlov laughed and turned his attention back to his friend. <”Well, say for sake of argument, we get that Stone and bring it back to the big man himself. Say that he’s so grateful to us for bringing him this mysterious object of unknowable power that he can use to crush Amestris once and for all that he rewards us with a huge pile of ruble. What would you want to spend your half on?”>

<”That depends. How much are we talking here?”>

Orlov shrugged. <”Add however many zeroes you want on it.”>

<”Huh.”> Volkov slumped back into his seat and gave the concept some thought. <”...when we- if we ever get to retire… I might buy a farm. Somewhere nice and quiet, away from all this gunfire and bloodshed and chaos so I can live the rest of my life in peace… and eventually forget how to use this thing,”> he mused, patting his hand on the stock of his rifle.

<”That sounds really nice,”> Orlov said with a smile. <”You think you might need a farmhand?”>

The offer took Volkov by surprise and he bashfully shrunk further into his coat a bit to hide the sudden flush to his cheeks. <”Aha… sure, I’d really like that. The cows and goats wouldn’t make for good conversation,”> he laughed.

<”Yes!”> Orlov cheered, pumping his fist in the air and getting a couple jeers from the other Snowstriders in the back of the truck. <”I won’t let you down, Mr. Volkov.”>

<”I know you won’t,”> Volkov replied. <”Oh, how much do you charge?”>

<”...4500 ruble.”>

<”A week?”>

<”An hour preferably.”>

<”Ouch.”>

<”A man’s gotta eat.”>

<”I wouldn’t let you go hungry, Yura.”>

<”I know you wouldn’t, Ryuya,”> Orlov laughed. <”Or… what is it I’m supposed to call you now?”>

<”Oh, uh…”> Volkov dug out a hand-sized dossier of the character he would be playing until the mission was complete. He should go over it anyway. They still had quite the drive ahead of them. 

<”Warrant Officer Filipp Ovech…”> Volkov brought the dossier closer to his face to make sure he was reading that right. <”Ovechkin?”>

<”...OH!”> Orlov cackled. <”I get it! Volk … Ovechka … wolf in sheep ’s clothing…”>

If Volkov could roll his eyes any harder, they’d roll right out of his skull. <”That’s so stupid,”> he huffed, annoyed. <”Whose idea was it to make my codename a pun anyway?”>

<”Mine,”> Colonel Morozov said, sitting right across from the two with an amused smirk.

<”...thank you, Colonel. It’s very clever, sir,”> Volkov sheepishly corrected himself, to his comrades’ amusement.

Another couple hours and miles drifted by. The silence was filled up with the singing of folk songs and general chit-chat. There was quite a ways to go yet. Civilians on either side typically had to go through Fort Briggs if they wanted to cross the border but that wasn’t the only way to get in and out of Amestris. There were a handful of abandoned mining towns near the border, some whose tunnels reached up into Drachma. That was how they’d get in.

From there, Snowstrider Battalion would scatter to the winds and Volkov would effectively be on his own, tasked with obtaining a Philosopher’s Stone or the instructions to make one by any means necessary. The very idea put a world of stress on Volkov’s shoulders but Orlov didn’t allow the thought to fester for long.

<”What d’you think we should plant first? Beets are always in high demand, but we could also do potatoes or barley…”> Orlov mused aloud. <”...we could start an apple orchard.”>

<”Yeah, an apple orchard sounds nice… but Yura, this is all if we get to retire,”> Volkov said. <”Don’t get ahead of yourself, alright?”>

<”Mmm, I dunno,”> Orlov replied with a confident smirk. <”This sounds easy to me. I give it… a month, before we’re back home raking in the reward.”>

-

1914

“For the 75th time in as many days, General, I must insist that you don’t-” Whap! “-touch that.”

The general yanked his hand back from the many levers that he was looking over and held it under his arm, lest it be struck by Morgenstern’s almighty clipboard of divine retribution again. “Aghk! What the hell, Metamorphic?” he growled.

“Like the Major said, sir,” one of the researchers piped up. “We’re nowhere near ready to attempt soul-bonding trials yet. It may be months before then.”

“And we needn’t accidentally pull the trigger on a loaded firearm before we know it won’t backfire on us, yes?” Morgenstern replied with a natural condescension to his tone that the general picked up on right away. Before the general could voice his annoyance with Morgenstern’s arrogant attitude, he backpedaled with a soothing, “Patience, General. Patience. The day will come, I assure you. But a masterpiece like this takes time.”

Placated for the time being, the general responded with an indignant snort and said, “Fine. The brass wants a progress report by the end of the week and I expect promising results.”

“Understood, sir,” Morgenstern answered with a salute. “...Oh, actually, could I possibly negotiate that for next week instead?”

“What?”

“My assessment is next week. I’d much rather be able to kill two birds with one stone if at all possible.”

The general sighed and relented, “Fine. Just get it done.”

“Understood. Much obliged, General.” With that, the general turned right around and took his leave.

As the other researchers on the team milled about, discussing logistics and a need for more raw materials, Morgenstern wandered off a bit, looking up at the pale, featureless entities hanging from the ceiling whose creation he contributed to with a sinister sort of pride.

“What a joy it is to be part of a project like this.”

-

Later, leaving a few experiments to run overnight, Morgenstern and the rest of the research team split for the day, off to do their own little tasks. For Morgenstern, it was back to the office.

“...There you are, Ovechkin!”

The Drachman man was completely taken by surprise as his commanding officer thwarted his attempts to snoop without even so much as turning in his direction. “God, Major! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Got lost again, I take it?”

“No, sir… er, okay, maybe a little,” Ovechkin admitted to his superior’s amusement as he caught up with Morgenstern’s fast-paced strut. “I was combing the whole building looking for you, sir.” Ovechkin handed the clipboard he held under his arm to Morgenstern and said, “This was brought to the office for you. It’s the final report on the Freezer situation.”

“Oh, good! Let me see that!” Morgenstern stuck his face directly into the report so close that Ovechkin was afraid he’d run straight into someone with his vision obscured the way it was. He tuned out the world almost completely, casually sidestepping around things as he read until something stuck out to him and Morgenstern stopped in his tracks. “Hmm. Xingese alkahestry?”

“‘Alkahestry’, sir?” Ovechkin confusedly parroted back.

“Xing’s own particular brand of alchemy,” Morgenstern numbly explained. 

“I see. What about it, sir?”

“The running theory on how McDougal was able to pull that multi-transmutation stunt of his,” Morgenstern replied, literally looking at the report sideways in an attempt to work through this theory. “Though, the last time I read about it, alkahestry was primarily used for medicinal purposes in Xing. Remote activation of transmutation circles… not just one but multiple at once… that’s new to me. Apparently McDougal managed to cross the desert and did some soul-searching in Xing. Who would’ve thought?”

Pleased, Morgenstern handed the clipboard back to Ovechkin and said, “Seems another trip to the library is in order… after work, of course.”

The pair turned a corner and Morgenstern noticed a young officer with fluffy black hair and big innocent blue eyes confusedly glancing around, trying to remember where it is he was supposed to be going. Morgenstern took a quick glance at the officer’s rank slide. One single gold stripe, one single gold star. So that explains the lost and confused puppy dog look on the young man’s face.

Morgenstern cleared his throat and said, “Are you lost, Corporal?”

Surprised at suddenly being addressed, the corporal turned to Morgenstern with a twitchy salute and sputtered, “Ah, y-yes, sir. I think I am.”

“I can point you in the direction you want to go, if you’d like,” Morgenstern offered.

“I’d really appreciate that, sir. Thank you,” the corporal said with a relieved sigh. “I’m looking for Major Elias Morgenstern’s office. I transferred from East City HQ and I’m meant to be serving in his unit now. I’ve, uh… I’ve been walking in circles all morning and it seems like everyone else is too busy to give me directions.”

A light bulb flashed in Morgenstern’s head. “Oh, that’s right! You’re Corporal Diedrich Watson, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, look no further, Watson. You’ve found me.”

“Uh- OH! ” Watson snapped to attention and saluted his new commanding officer. “Reporting for duty, Major Morgenstern, sir!”

“Welcome to the team, Corporal,” Morgenstern replied, returning the salute with a warm chuckle before continuing on his way, gesturing for Watson to follow. “Come. Walk with us. We were on our way to the office anyway. That way you’ll get a feel for the route to take.”

“Yes, sir!”

During the walk, Morgenstern caught Ovechkin out of his peripheral vision and figured he could get that introduction out of the way right away. “Ah, yes! Since he’s already here…” he said to Watson. “This is Warrant Officer Filipp Ovechkin, our officer-in-charge.”

Ovechkin had a few years on Watson and the air of mature confidence that came with essentially being Morgenstern’s third-in-command. Shaggy platinum blond hair long enough to pull back into a bun and gun steel gray eyes gave him a distinctive Northern appearance. Such was confirmed when he grinned at the new corporal and said, “Welcome to the team, Corporal Watson.”

Watson intended to respond in just as friendly a way but the last thing he was expecting to hear was a Drachman accent and it took him by surprise for a moment. Then he realized that gawking like that probably wasn’t an appropriate reaction and timidly sputtered, “I-I’m so sorry, Warrant Officer. I didn’t mean-”

“You’re not the first, Corporal, I assure you,” Morgenstern chuckled. “The accent threw off everyone else for a moment when they first heard it as well.”

“I’ll take ‘surprise’ over how Captain Whitman handled it any day,” Ovechkin added with a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t take the Captain too seriously, Ovechkin,” Morgenstern replied. “Overt patriotism tends to do silly things to the human mind, as Whitman himself is a shining example of.”

“Tch. Don’t I know it,” Ovechkin bitterly muttered to himself.

Watson cleared his throat and determined to do it correctly this time, extended a handshake to his superior. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Warrant Officer. I look forward to working alongside you, sir.”

Ovechkin humored the handshake with a sympathetic smirk. “I wasn’t offended, Corporal.”

“I’m… I’m glad about that, sir,” Watson said with a relieved sigh. “It’s just that the village I come from… is pretty isolated and there’s not a whole lot of-”

“Take a breath, Corporal,” Ovechkin soothed, giving his subordinate a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It’s not as if you’re not on thin ice with us already. You just got here. We-” The conversation was cut short as Morgenstern stopped dead in his tracks, causing another pile-up with his subordinates.

“Ah, Flame! There you are!” Morgenstern gleefully greeted his fellow Alchemist as he passed in the hallway. “I was hoping you weren’t planning to leave without saying goodbye!”

Morgenstern’s sudden appearance in the middle of his conversation with Lieutenant Colonel Hughes threw Mustang off a bit. “Oh, Metamorphic. For a guy that wears steel plates on his boots, you sure are quiet,” he said once his miniature heart attack was over. 

“One of my many hidden talents,” Morgenstern chuckled.

With a firm handshake, Mustang continued, “Thank you again for your assistance with the McDougal situation.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Morgenstern replied. “We were just doing our jobs after all.”

Hughes welcomed Morgenstern into the conversation with a chipper, “Morgenstern! It’s about time you came out of your office to interact with the rest of the world!”

“I don’t intend to be that much of a recluse, Lieutenant Colonel,” Morgenstern laughed, sharing that firm handshake with Hughes and then just casually dropping the dreaded ‘f-word’. “How’s the family been? All still well, I hope?”

Mustang opened his mouth to change the subject but it was too late. Hughes already had his wallet out. “They’ve been doing great! Here, look,” Hughes cheered as he dug one of his vast collection of family photos from his wallet to show off for Morgenstern. “My little Elicia learned how to ride a tricycle and she’s been following me around on it wherever I go since! Isn’t she the most adorable little thing~?”

“Oh, she is absolutely precious~” Morgenstern agreed. “I can’t believe she’s almost three years old already.”

“Me neither,” Hughes sighed despondently. “My little girl’s getting so big so fast. Feels like only yesterday that…” 

The back-and-forth took over the whole conversation, leaving Ovechkin and Watson awkwardly standing off to the side and Mustang looking on in abject horror. Wasn’t one Maes Hughes more than enough?

“Is… Is this a usual thing with the Lieutenant Colonel?” Watson whispered to Ovechkin.

“Yes. He is the most devout family man I’ve ever met,” Ovechkin replied.

Watson softly smiled to himself and said, “That’s actually kinda sweet.” Ovechkin responded with a noise of agreement.

“Corporal Watson?”

Watson instinctively responded to his former superior officer’s voice and saluted. “Colonel Mustang.”

“It’s a shame they didn’t transfer you a week earlier. You missed the party.”

“We had a rogue State Alchemist running around,” Ovechkin explained. “Tore up most of the city trying to get to Fuehrer Bradley.”

“That would certainly explain all the road construction I saw on the way up here,” Watson chuckled. “It’s just as well, I think. I doubt I would’ve been much help.”

“You didn’t get promoted to Corporal for no reason,” Mustang replied.

“By luck, mostly. I only hope I can live up to that promotion, sir.”

“Don’t overthink it, Corporal. General Grumman clearly sees something in you. He wouldn’t have recommended you for your new position otherwise.”

Watson was bolstered by that vote of confidence. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you or the Lieutenant General down,” he pledged.

Mustang smirked and answered, “I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

Morgenstern popped back into the picture, giving his new recruit a hearty pat on the shoulder and told Mustang, “You and the Lieutenant General needn’t worry. My men and I will take good care of the Corporal.”

“Appreciate it.”

“As much as I’d love to keep you here and talk your ear off, I shouldn’t keep you from catching your train back home.”

Mustang glanced at the clock and muttered, “Oh, right.”

“But I insist, don’t be a stranger, Colonel. My office door is always open if you ever find yourself in Central again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Take care, Metamorphic.”

“Safe travels, Flame,” Morgenstern said. “And a preemptive happy birthday to young Miss Elicia, as well!” With that, Morgenstern continued on his merry way with Ovechkin and Watson keeping pace behind him.

“See? Someone remembered my daughter’s birthday,” Hughes chuckled teasingly to Mustang.

“...Hughes, what’s your read on that Morgenstern guy?” 

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about Corporal Watson too.”

“Hardly,” Mustang retorted. “Watson’s a perfectly capable soldier. He can handle his own… also, I never said I was worried about FullMetal. You said that.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Roy,” Hughes replied, not believing a single word of that. “Well, Morgenstern’s certainly sociable whenever you do get to see him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He tends to keep to himself a lot. Best chance to catch him would be at his office or Central Library. Otherwise…” Hughes shrugged. 

Mustang watched Morgenstern and company disappear around a far corner, still unsure what to make of Metamorphic. He hadn’t been a State Alchemist for very long and hasn’t had the opportunity to make himself stand out the way Mustang, Armstrong, Kimblee and others have. That makes Morgenstern a wild card. Right now, Mustang didn’t know what to do with a wild card running around unchecked. Is Morgenstern an ally or a problem? Only time will tell.

“He’s harmless, Roy,” Hughes sighed good-naturedly at Mustang’s suspicion. “A little weird, sure, but ultimately harmless.”

At that, Mustang turned a knowing smirk to Hughes.

“...Yeah, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

-

“I’m tellin’ you, Cap. You should have a professional do that for you.”

“I’m managing just fine, Manson.”

“So you tune up your own automail all the time?”

“Yes.”

“And how well does that usually go for ya?”

“...Mind yer own business. I’m handling fine.”

“Thought so. Look, I know a guy back home in Dublith. He used to have a shop in Rush Valley. That’s how you know he’s good at what he does.”

“That’s also how you know the huckster charges an arm and a leg for maintenance fees. I already lost one arm. The other’s not for sale.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way, ya old cheapskate.”

“Can it, gearhead.”

Manson shrugged and rolled his chair back so he could reach down for the lunch pail he had stowed away by his feet. This was something that Manson had been looking forward to since he walked into the office this morning. He had almost made himself late for work entirely, but it was a necessary sacrifice for artistry and perfection.

Toasted brioche bread, succulent slow-roasted chicken, crispy thick-cut bacon, juicy, bright red slices of tomato, crisp lettuce and a bright, tangy sauce to pull it all together. This … this was a true masterwork of a sandwich. Quite possibly, Manson’s finest culinary achievement yet.

Just before Manson could sink his teeth into this delicacy, an ugly sounding cough from the desk behind him made him pause, set his sandwich down and roll his chair back across the aisle to check on Stancy. “Are you sure you’re okay, Pat?” he asked, concerned, giving Stancy’s back a couple helpful thumps. “That sounds pretty rough to be just a cold.”

As soon as he was able to will his cough to show him mercy, Stancy gave a miserable groan and clumsily threaded his hand under his glasses to rub at his eyes, the heel of his hand dragging the sick mask he came to work with up and down in the process. “...’m fine, Fred,” he half-yawned.

“I’m sure the Major’ll let you go back home and rest if you need it,” Manson said.

“I’m fi- koff koff ahem koff -I’m fine,” Stancy insisted. “This isn’t as severe as it sounds.”

“Sounds like something’s dying back there,” Whitman argued.

“ Aha ,” Stancy sarcastically laughed back. “That something would probably be my- head jesus christ .” Stancy’s headache sapped the strength from his body and he slumped against his desk, resting his temple against the desktop so he could still speak to Manson. “I’ll be alright. This happens all the time, y’know?” Stancy insisted, lifting his arm up to the desktop so he could drag his thermos of tea towards him.

“Seriously, Pat. You should consider actually using some of that sick leave you’re supposed to have.”

“I’ve never let my shitty immune system beat me before. No reason I should start now.”

Manson gave a defeated sigh and chuckled, “Both o’ you are nuts.”

“What does that say about you , huh?” Stancy joked back.

“Just as nutty as the rest of you, clearly.”

Manson gave Stancy one more firm thump on the back to help him through his newest coughing fit before he rolled back over to his desk. His taste buds were crying out for that sandwich. But the second he turned back around to get to eating, he could only stare at his lunch, aghast.

A crime has occurred… and in broad daylight no less!

Manson turned an accusing glare towards the only other person in the room that could possibly have committed such an atrocity and growled, “Are you serious right now?”

“...Huh? You talkin’ to me?” Whitman muttered, glancing up from his work. 

“It’s you, me and Stancy in here. Who else would I be talkin’ to?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Well, I dunno, asshole. Why don’t you tell me ?” Manson said, holding up the evidence of Whitman’s unspeakable crime: Manson’s masterpiece of a sandwich… with a whole, entire bite taken out of it.

Whitman shrugged and returned to his work with a mumbled bland reply of, “I was hungry.”

“And you didn’t think to pack your own damn lunch?”

“I did.”

Manson sputtered in outrage, “ Then eat your own damn lunch! What d’you need to put your grubby mitts all over my food for!? ”

“I’m pretty sure if I move from this spot, I’m gonna start losing pieces of my arm… like this damned screw. Stupid fuckin’ thing…”

“... Okay!? I still don’t see why this makes you feel entitled to my food! I didn’t even get to taste the damn thing yet!”

“Calm down, Manson. You’re gonna pop a blood vessel over a sandwich.”

“ You do not get to tell me to calm down. I am the injured party here!”

Stancy sighed and rubbed at his temple. ‘Those two are being so loud…’

Whitman rolled his eyes and dismissively scoffed, “Eat your lunch, Manson.”

“Oh, is it still my lunch? With your geriatric spit all over it?” Manson sneered.

“Hey, watch yer damn mouth,” Whitman snapped. “I’ll throw your punk-ass out of this window.”

“Oh yeah? You and how many arms?”

Whitman smacked the screwdriver in his good hand back down to the desktop and opened his mouth to snipe back when the door to the office burst open. “Gentlemen! Ovechkin and I are back!” Morgenstern cheerfully announced, pushing the doe-eyed new recruit trailing behind him forward into the room. “And we’ve got us some fresh meat!”

“‘ Fresh meat ’?” Watson mumbled, confused and now a touch concerned.

Whitman gave the rookie a once-over and chuckled, “How long have you been out of the academy, Private?”

“You mean ‘Corporal’ , Whitman,” Morgenstern whispered to Whitman as he passed his desk on his way to drop off some paperwork on his own desk.

“Oh? So you’ve been outta boot camp for a while now,” Whitman replied, grabbing up the screwdriver off of his desk and returning to his maintenance. “I’d get up and shake your hand properly, but then I’d be doing it with only half an arm.” As he said that, he tapped the tip of the screwdriver against the forearm of his automail left arm that was mostly disconnected from the upper arm while he was working on it.

Morgenstern spun around on his heel and answered with a chipper, “Then by all means, allow me!” Morgenstern trotted back over, clapping a hand against Whitman’s shoulder and said, “This is Captain Warren Whitman, my adjutant and second-in-command.”

Whitman was the oldest member of his unit, pushing his early-to-mid 40’s as evidenced by the wisps of silver that were sneaking into his rosewood red hair. The man was built like a tank, with the most obvious muscle to him and he had certainly seen his fair share of war, hence the automail arm.

Morgenstern extended an arm out towards the officer at the desk beside Whitman and continued, “That is our mechanics specialist, Sergeant Frederick Manson.”

Manson had physically pulled himself and his sandwich to the other side of the desk, away from Whitman, still outraged at the sheer audacity of it all. He was a very tall, very skinny man with sandy, ashen brown hair and stubble thicker and darker than Whitman’s. Manson hadn’t responded at first, hunched over his desk, hyperfocused on devouring that sandwich before Whitman could take any more from him.

“ Ahem . Do be polite now, Sergeant.”

“Hmm?” Manson glanced up from his lunch and wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Hey, welcome to the team, Corporal! Sorry, I was just trying to salvage my lunch.” He threw a glare over his shoulder at Whitman and sneered, “We’ve got a thief around here.”

“It’s just a damn sandwich. Let it go.”

“No.”

“And that is our communications specialist, Master Sergeant Patrick…” Morgenstern turned to indicate the officer at the desk behind Manson, sighing at the state of the poor man. “Oh for goodness sake, Stancy. Go home. Get some rest.”

Whatever Stancy had to say in response had to wait a moment while another round of coughing wracked his body. Compared to his friend Manson, Stancy was a man on the opposite end of the height chart, tiny and otherwise unremarkable. On his bad days, like today, the most he’d be able to do with his personal appearance is throw his shoulder-length chestnut brown hair into a loose ponytail and hope that the lenses of his glasses were thick enough to make it harder to notice the red in his eyes.

“No- koff koff -No need, sir. I’m still fit for duty,” he croaked.

“Hmm, I’m having a hard time believing that, Stancy,” Morgenstern sighed. Noticing the concern on Watson’s face, Morgenstern explained, “The poor man has such a fragile constitution.”

“That means he gets sick if anyone breathes on him wrong,” Whitman snorted.

“With- ahem koff -With all due respect, Captain, fuck you.”

“And it looks like you’ve already met Houdini up there,” Whitman chuckled, gesturing towards Ovechkin with his screwdriver.

Ovechkin welcomed that nickname with a rueful sneer. “Hmph. ‘ Houdini ’...” he snorted. “Of course, he only breaks out the politically correct nicknames when we have company.”

“Oh, here we go with this shit again,” Whitman sighed.

“You had a nickname for me for the first few months after I started serving in this unit, until I talked to the major and he forced you to stop? What was it? Oh, yes! ‘Corporal Cabbage Muncher.’ Do you remember that? Because I sure as hell do!”

Whitman let out a dramatically enduring groan. “I’m. Sorry,” he droned on with the same apology he’s been forced to give for that nickname for the last couple of years. “You were an unknown at the time and given Amestris being at war with Drachma and all-”

“We’re not at war with Drachma,” Ovechkin corrected. “Remember, the Pact of Non-Aggression?”

Whitman glanced up at Ovechkin with an incredulous look and snickered, “You don’t seriously think that a flimsy sheet of paper is going to keep us from going to war with Drachma, do you?”

Ovechkin scowled at his superior but said nothing, only dragging his chair back with his heel and getting himself settled at his desk… which was right across from Whitman too. Fantastic.  

< ”It might be the only thing keeping us from swallowing this shithole of a country up. Have you ever thought of that?” > Volkov muttered under his breath.

“...What’d you say?”

“Nothing,” Ovechkin replied.

“Look, if you have something to say about me, say it in Amestrian so I can understand you,” Whitman sneered.

“ AHEM! ” Morgenstern clapped his hands, calling for order in his office. “Let’s not fight in front of the new recruit, please! We’ll scare the poor lad off that way. And I’m certain that all this noise is not helping Stancy’s headache any.”

“It really isn’t, sir,” Stancy miserably grumbled.

“Let’s all take a breath and just… put up with each other for the rest of the day, yes? Can we do that?”

His unit droned back a reluctant, “ Yes, sir… ”

Now that all the bickering was finally over, Morgenstern took a seat at his own desk. Elias Morgenstern was a hard man to miss if you were looking for him. Auburn curls, vivid green eyes behind a pair of wireframe half-moon lenses and an ever-present Chesire cat grin made him a man that certainly looked approachable, if a little… odd. His uniform had certain minor modifications made to accommodate for the gauntlets and boots he used for combat alchemy, swallowing up more of the uniform’s sleeves than usual and adding extra protection for his shins, knees and elbows.

Morgenstern propped his chin on the back of his hands and said, “Now, Corporal Watson, why are you still standing like you're only a visitor? Please, have a seat.”

“Oh! Uh…” Confused, Watson glanced around the room, unsure of where exactly he was supposed to be, until Ovechkin tapped the corner of the desk next to him and across from Manson, quietly suggesting he take that desk. Watson took his superior’s suggestion and settled himself in with a whispered ‘thank you’.

“I must apologize for the less-than-ideal first impression,” Morgenstern said with an apologetic smile. “My men tend to get a little stir-crazy and personalities clash. It’s something you’ll get accustomed to the longer you stay with us. As soon as something happens in Central, however, you’ll get to see my unit at their best. We may bicker like a pack of old biddies at the bingo hall on our off-hours but once my unit is mobilized, we move together like a cohesive, well-oiled machine.”

…four pairs of eyes turned in the direction of the member of the unit that consistently poked a hole in that analogy.

“... ahem …A cohesive, well-oiled machine where one of the gears tends to jump off of the mechanism every five minutes but you see where I’m going with this.”

“Hence the nickname ‘Houdini’?” Watson whispered to Ovechkin.

Ovechkin gave a tired sigh. “...yeah. That’s why.”

“Now, then, Corporal! What about you? Tell us a bit about yourself,” Morgenstern said.

“Oh, of course, Major… uh, what would you like to know?”

“Well, let’s start with something basic then,” Morgenstern chuckled. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in a town about a stone’s throw from East City. Resembool, it’s called.”

“Oh, the sheep-herding town?” Morgenstern asked, dipping down behind his desktop to rifle through the drawers.

“That’s right,” Watson replied. “I enlisted a couple years ago. Following in my granddad’s footsteps.”

“Huh…” Whitman squinted at the new recruit, studying the shape of his face to the point that it was starting to make Watson uncomfortable until something clicked in his head. “Wait… Is your old man Arnulf? Lieutenant Colonel Arnulf Watson? Does he have an automail foot now?”

“Ah, yeah, that’s him exactly!”

“I did serve with him! He was my squad leader during my tour in Ishval,” Whitman said with a tinge of a nervous laugh to his voice. “Scariest sonuvabitch I’ve ever met.”

Watson blinked in confusion. “What? I mean, Granddad was always kinda rough around the edges but… scary?”

“He must’ve never told you any of his war stories,” Whitman chuckled. “You should’ve seen the body count that man racked up. He was a tactical genius. There was this one time where we were firing blind at this squad of guerrillas and the Lieutenant Colonel had the genius idea to take one of our POWs, strap a grenade to him and-”

Noticing the uncomfortable creasing in Watson’s brow, Manson decided that he had to intervene. “Cap, shut up,” he hissed.

“Seriously, Captain,” Stancy agreed. “You’re - koff koff ahem - You’re just creeping everyone out now.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is, Captain,” Ovechkin said.

Taken aback at suddenly being dropped on the losing side of this conversation, Whitman complained, “Why are the three of you ganging up on me all of a sudden?”

“The kid didn’t come here to learn all the gruesome ways his granddad killed Ishvalans,” Manson scolded his superior before regretting the less-than-subtle way he phrased it and added a quick ‘Sorry,’ for Watson.

Whitman scoffed and returned to his maintenance, muttering a bitter, “Well, he’d better get used to hearing stories like that. He’s in the army now. He’s gonna see his fair share of war sooner or later.”

“Yeah, but you could stand to be a little more tactful about it, Cap,” Manson replied.

Ovechkin turned an apologetic smile to the newbie and said, “Sorry you’re stuck with him now, too.”

“Ah, shut up.”

“Cap’s just mad that he’s been stuck here and he’s not currently being shot at,” Manson added. The bewildered expression on the rookie’s face got a laugh out of him. “Backwards, ain’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever met a man so weirdly obsessed with war as Captain Whitman here.”

“I have.”

Morgenstern had been so quiet for a while now that his sudden reappearance in the conversation took his men off guard.

“Major?”

“Found it!” Morgenstern leaned back upright in his chair and slapped a folder on his desk. “I knew I had this squirreled away somewhere. I just forgot what drawer it was in.”

“What is that, sir?” Watson asked.

“Your file.” Morgenstern flipped the folder open and read over its contents. “Your technical scores certainly speak for themselves. Not bad for someone practically fresh out of the academy.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“I’m sure having a relative in the business doesn’t hurt either, eh?”

“It doesn’t, but I didn’t rely on my granddad’s position to get to where I am, sir,” Watson insisted. “It was… more a foregone conclusion. Military service runs in my family.”

“Ah, a regular army brat, I see,” Morgenstern chuckled. He flipped a page over in Watson’s file and his smile faltered a moment. Unthinkingly stuffed in the middle of his file alongside a glowing, slightly nepotistic review from his grandfather was a newspaper clipping that must’ve seemed relevant at the time… of a Ishvalan train bombing in 1907 that destroyed everything for several blocks outward and claimed many lives, including that of one Captain Fritz Watson and his wife, Debora. Ah… how unfortunate. Perhaps that was left in to help inform about a few things marked in his psych eval. Morgenstern will save that packet for later, after everybody’s gone home.

Morgenstern flipped the page and was met with a review about last winter’s training exercise. “Hmm… ah, lookie here! A commendation from General Grumman himself about last winter’s exercise at Fort Briggs,” he said aloud. “Says here that one of your squadmates took a paint round to the back of the leg and without thinking about it, you turned right around and dragged him to safety, fully against your commander’s orders.”

Watson cast his gaze to his lap and humbly replied, “I suppose I should be honored that the General had anything kind to say about me. My commander called me a ‘stupid, suicidal dipshit’ and sentenced me to latrine duty for the rest of the week for that.”

“You’re certainly fortunate that it wasn’t a live fire exercise.”

“I… completely agree with you, sir. It’s just that…” Watson looked up, his expression set in stone along with his convictions and he said, “Paint rounds, live ammunition… no man left behind, no matter what. That’s what I believe in.”

“Enough that you’d disregard your own life in the process?”

“Yes, sir.”

Morgenstern blinked. Oh yes, this is definitely going to show up in the corporal’s psych eval. “Huh. Refreshingly honest for a change…”

“You think maybe that’s why he approved your transfer here?” Manson wondered. “Since you can’t go charging into no man’s land trying to be a hero while you’re stuck behind a desk?”

“Possibly,” Watson sighed. “It may have been for something else entirely. I don’t question my commanding officer’s judgment… a-and as far as I’m aware, that was a one-off. I don’t think it’s that prevalent of an issue.” The file begs to differ, but far be it from Morgenstern to be a naysayer. 

Morgenstern flipped the file closed and set it aside. “Heaven help me, not another unwrangleable soldier,” he jokingly sighed. “As if Ovechkin wasn’t enough…” 

Manson, Whitman and Stancy got some great amusement from the inside joke, to which Ovechkin merely responded with a dramatic roll of his eyes and a whisper to Watson. “Welcome to the club, Houdini .” That got a chuckle out of the young corporal.

“Well, let’s make this transfer official, shall we?” Morgenstern swiped a couple of forms from the tray at the corner of his desk and brought them over to Watson’s desk. “Kindly fill these out for me?”

“Yes, sir.” As soon as the forms hit the table, Watson grabbed up the fountain pen, dabbed off a glob of ink and got to work.

Morgenstern gave an impressed and amused exhale. “And he takes to it like a fish to water,” he chuckled. “I think you’ll fit in here just fine, Corporal.”

Watson grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

With that, Morgenstern looked over his unit. Watson and Ovechkin were hard at work with paperwork, Manson finally finished off his sandwich, Stancy snuck a sip of his tea and Whitman finished his maintenance work, screwing the other half of his automail arm back on and flexing the fingers, satisfied with the results. Everything seems well in hand. With a pleased nod, Morgenstern spun on his heel and returned to his desk.

Now to address the small pile of envelopes that were waiting for him. Seemed like more administrative words from Captain Focker that Morgenstern’s eyes glazed over at… a written version of the demands from the general overseeing his ‘pet project’, prior to Morgenstern’s negotiation of course… something about a pre-approval- okay, that’s just junk mail. Into the trash it goes.

Underneath that, a pink, perfumed envelope caught Morgenstern’s eye. On instinct, Morgenstern pulled the pile to his chest, concealing the envelope and glanced over his shoulder. Fortunately, everyone seemed distracted. Good. Morgenstern’s been expecting this very private, very personal message for a couple weeks now…

…and yet, he may have spoken a little too quickly, because the envelope had been pre-opened for him. Morgenstern sighed and turned away from his desk, asking the room, “Alright, which one of you has been rifling through my mail again?” The most he got back were a couple confused looks. Morgenstern folded his arms and picked through his unit, one-by-one.

“Ovechkin?” 

Ovechkin shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Manson?”

“No, sir.”

“Stancy?”

“N- koff koff wheeze - No, sir.”

“Watson?”

“...huh? I just got here, sir.”

“I know that, Corporal. I’m just messing with you. You’ll get used to that, I promise.”

“...yes, sir?”

With that, Morgenstern walked right up to Whitman’s desk and loomed over him. “That leaves you , Captain.”

Found out, Whitman chuckled, “Well, can you blame me, Major? Love letters don’t usually sneak into the mail around here.”

“Aha, the culprit reveals himself!” Morgenstern sighed, “I’m fairly certain there’s a saying about cats and curiosity, isn’t there?”

Manson shook his head. “Sandwiches and now this? Apparently, snooping and thievery suddenly becomes okay after a certain age.”

“Let it go already!”

“No.”

Whitman scoffed and waved Manson off, turning an eager grin to Morgenstern. “That Franchesca girl of yours sounds like a cutie,” he chuckled. “When’re you planning to bring her over to introduce her?”

“Never, because I don’t trust you animals with her.”

“Honestly surprised you actually wound up with a woman. I kinda suspected for a while that you were some kinda fruit ,” Whitman chortled, blissfully ignorant of the searing glare he got from Ovechkin from the other side of the desk.

“Now, is that any way to speak to your commanding officer?” Morgenstern scolded.

“Off the record, of course.”

“It’s a little late to play the ‘off the record’ card, don’t you think?”

“Ah, c’mon, Major. We’re all fellas here. I’m just curious, is all. Seriously, what’s she like? How… ‘gifted’ would you say-”

“Alright, that’s quite enough out of you,” Morgenstern said, smacking Whitman on the mouth with the envelope to shush his nonsense before he returned to his desk. “And besides, Whitman, don’t you have a wife of your own? Quite inappropriate to be asking such things about another woman with her hanging around, no?”

Whitman wilted and nervously fidgeted with his automail. “Eh… well… things aren’t going so well with the missus… or the boy…” he mumbled.

“No, the old lady threw you out? I can’t imagine why she’d do that when you’re such a catch,” Manson sneered and Stancy, Watson and Ovechkin snorted and chuckled at their captain’s expense.

“You shut up, Manson.”

< ”Took the words right out of my mouth.” >

“And you speak Amestrian!”

<“ No. ”>

Whitman threw his hands in the air, outraged at such blatant disrespect and asked his superior, “Permission to kill ‘em both, sir?”

“Permission denied. I still need them.”

-

Sometime later, Morgenstern sat back, stretched out his arms and snuck a glance at the clock. 5 o’clock. “Well, that’ll do it for today,” he said aloud, stashing away his pen and filing away the paperwork he completed. “Job well done, gentlemen. As always.”

“We barely did anything, Major.”

“And you did a bang-up job at it,” Morgenstern chuckled. He slipped the perfumed envelope out of its hiding place from under the organizer and snuck it into his lap. “I’d follow you out but I have a couple more things I need to wrap up before I leave. You boys needn’t wait up for me. Enjoy your evening, I’ll see you here, same time, bright and early.”

Manson slumped back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head and sighed, “Man, I’m starved.”

“Really? After you pitched such a fit over that damn sandwich?” Whitman scoffed.

“I have a fast metabolism! Whaddya want from me!?”

Stancy’s forehead thunked to the desk as another fit of coughing wracked his body and Manson scooted his chair backwards so he could help. “Time to go home, Pat,” he said, giving Stancy a few thumps on the back.

“Ugh, thank God…” 

“Y’know, I make a mean chicken soup and I’ve got nowhere to be for the rest of the night,” Manson offered. 

“I- ahem -appreciate that, Fred, but… I dunno. I don’t wanna pass off what I got.”

“I’ve been sitting behind you all day, Pat. If I’m getting sick, I’m getting sick,” Manson insisted. “At the very least, I wanna make sure you made it home okay. That cough sounded rough.”

Stancy gave a resigned, wheezy sigh and relented, “Alright, alright. Some of that ‘mean chicken soup’ of yours might help actually. But I’m kicking you out after. I don’t want you to suffer like I’ve been.”

“Ah, I’m not scared of a little cold,” Manson chuckled.

“Bold of you to assume it’s just a cold. My stomach’s been wanting to crawl back up my throat all day. Why d’you think I’ve been subsisting on tea and nothing else the whole day?”

“How the hell are you still alive?” Whitman teased.

Stancy polished off the last sip of tea from his thermos and whined, “ I don’t know. ”

Manson stood up and tugged on the back of Stancy’s uniform, urging him to stand up. “Good food, medicine and good rest.”

“Good food, medicine and good rest,” Stancy repeated agreeingly as he let his friend drag him up out of his chair. “At the very least, I’ll die a little quieter tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit, Pat.”

Watson caught movement out of the corner of his eye and mimicked his superior, following Ovechkin up out of his chair. Ovechkin, in turn, chuckled under his breath, amused by how Watson watched what he did like a duckling following and learning from its mother. Poor kid. 

Ovechkin smiled and gave the corporal a pat on the shoulder, silently reassuring him that he did good for his first day in Central. It wasn’t very exciting but still, he did good. Watson gave a relieved exhale as the warrant officer turned and made his way to the door. He was certainly glad for that.

“Oh, I just realized I haven’t really said anything to you since you got here,” Stancy said, grabbing Watson’s attention. “Sorry about that. I was trying not to die too loud over there. It’s nice to-” Stancy initially offered an unprotected handshake before he thought better of it and yanked his sleeve down over his hand, just in case whatever he got was transmitted by touch. “It’s nice to meet you, Watson. Sorry, I might still be contagious.”

Watson accepted Stancy’s sleeve and replied, “Sorry you still had to come to work in this state, Master Sergeant.”

“Ah, I do this to myself all the time,” Stancy chuckled. “They keep telling me to actually use my sick leave but I’d start climbing the walls if I was stuck in my apartment with nothing to do.”

“You’re coming too, new kid?” Manson asked. “The more, the merrier.”

“Hey, I thought I was throwing you out after you made me that soup, wasn’t I?” Stancy argued. “I’m just gonna have to throw him out too, y’know.”

“Ah, that’s okay,” Watson declined. “I understand.”

“No? Alright, but save a day this weekend, okay?” Manson replied with a friendly grin. “I intend to drag you out to the bar with us and pick your brain a bit, now that you’re part of the team ‘n all.”

“Yes, sir, Sergeant.”

Manson laughed, “C’mon, Watson. We’re off duty now.”

Watson relaxed his salute and corrected himself, “Yes, sir, Manson,” to Stancy and Manson’s amusement.

Stancy’s laugh devolved into a wheezy, coughing mess and Manson instinctively thumped the heel of his hand against Stancy’s back in response. “We’ll work on that,” he chuckled. 

Suddenly, something loudly clattered to the floor. “What the hell?” Back at Whitman’s desk, the captain was picking up half of his automail off of the floor again, scanning the floor in annoyed bewilderment.

Manson snorted, “See, Cap? Told you you should have a professional do that for you.”

“No, I know I did it right!” Whitman protested. “ God damn it, where’d it go? Argh, if it fell through a crack in the floor… ”

“You sure you don’t want that technician guy’s info, cheapskate?”

“No! Dammit, where’d that screw go…?”

Manson rolled his eyes and chuckled, abandoning his captain to his search. “Well, I better drag this mess back home,” he said, giving Stancy a firm swat on the back. “See you tomorrow, new kid.” Stancy managed to at least wave goodbye through his newest fit of coughing.

“Right. See you tomorrow, Ser- * ahem * Manson,” Watson replied as the sergeants slipped past him.

“Get plenty of rest, Stancy,” Ovechkin added, patting Stancy on the shoulder.

“Will d- koff koff - Will do, Ove- koff hack - Dammit!”

Ovechkin watched Manson and Stancy leave down the hallway for a while before he turned his eye back to the office, lifting himself up on his toes to find Whitman still combing the floor looking for the missing screw. He aimed a mischievous grin at Watson before loudly clearing his throat, dragging Whitman back up over the desk to find out what he wanted.

Ovechkin produced a stolen hex key wrench from his pocket and flicked the screw in question off into his palm, mockingly rolling it around in his knuckles. That’s what the Captain was looking for, was it not? The look on Whitman’s face told him so. Shame that Ovechkin just tossed it right out the open window behind him. Good luck finding it now, you brainless caveman.

“ Ah! ”

The hex key went out the window with it and Ovechkin smugly blew the Captain a kiss as he sauntered away. Watson had no idea Whitman’s face could turn that shade of red-purple as he snatched up his automail arm and charged out of the room after him. “You sunovabitch! Get back here!”

“Ovechkin, Whitman, you two play nice now,” Morgenstern listlessly called after him and as he predicted, his warning went unheard, the response he received being a metallic clank, a shout of pain and the sound of arguing on the other side of the wall.

Morgenstern sighed and shook his head. “...’Hmm? What’s this about a scuffle?’” he responded to a theoretical asker. “‘I’ve neither seen nor heard of such a thing. It happened outside my office so as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen.’”

Watson stifled a laugh at the casual way Morgenstern cleared his men of any wrongdoing. Morgenstern caught the sound and chuckled aloud, “Quite the entertaining bunch, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’ll fit in just fine, Corporal,” Morgenstern reassured him. “As soon as you come out of your shell a little.”

Watson sighed and gave an agreeing nod. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Then Morgenstern caught something navy blue draped over Whitman’s chair. “Ah, the Captain forgot his coat, it seems,” he said. “Corporal, would you be so kind as to run that to him? He’s going to need it for work tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir!” Watson scurried around the block of desks and scooped the coat off of Whitman’s chair, carefully draping it over the crook of his arm as he scurried back around towards the door. 

“Have a good evening now, Corporal,” Morgenstern chuckled. “I’ll see you bright and early in the morning!”

“Y-You as well, Major. Good evening,” Watson replied with a quick wave as he hustled out the door. “Captain! Captain Whitman, sir, your coat!”

Finally, Morgenstern was alone. Good. Morgenstern stretched his arms over his head and lazily slumped back in his chair, picking the perfumed letter from his lap, removing the letter itself and tossing the envelope onto the desk. He read it, reread it, committed it to memory, tore it up into tiny pieces and fed the pieces to the room’s furnace. Morgenstern has a date tonight.

-

Central City gets rather pretty at night, despite how scarred up it currently is. Morgenstern hummed a jolly tune as he trotted along, hopping over potholes in the sidewalk and watching the gas lamps pass overhead. Same place as usual. A dingy little dive bar on the outskirts of the city. One no one would think of looking twice at. They’d have all the privacy they could want there.

The bell attached to the door announced Morgenstern’s arrival, getting the bartender to look up from the glass he was cleaning. “Ah, Joseph! Hello, old boy!” Morgenstern said with a friendly grin, fishing his State-issued pocket watch out of his coat pocket. “I’ve returned!”

“Good to see you again, Major Morgenstern,” the bartender responded, fetching a couple mugs. “Your friend’s in the same room in the back, just like you said.”

“Thank you so kindly, Joseph.” The bartender passed a couple frosty mugs of ale to Morgenstern and he went on his way down the hall towards one of the private rooms in the back. Somewhere dark and quiet where people couldn’t easily overhear their conversation. As the bartender said, Morgenstern’s companion was waiting right where he expected to find them.

Morgenstern set the mugs down on the table and in one swift motion, scooped his companion’s hand off of the table to press a gentlemanly kiss to their knuckles. “Franchesca, my dear,” Morgenstern said, an amused smile forming against their hand. “It’s been far too long.”

Major Frank Archer yanked his hand away, smearing Morgenstern’s kiss off on his knee. “Are you going to greet me like that every single time?” he huffed. “The joke’s already gotten stale.”

Morgenstern laughed, “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I could still get a few miles off of it.” With that, Morgenstern flopped into his seat and propped his chin against his knuckles. “Major Archer! Welcome back to Central City! I trust your journey up here was uneventful?”

“Quite,” Archer replied, taking a sip of his ale. “Boring, even.”

“Certainly could be worse~”

Archer folded his arms and muscled his way to the point. “I am eager to hear what kind of progress your… ‘pet project’ has made since my last visit.”

Morgenstern sighed, “Sadly, not much.”

“Ah. Well, that’s disappointing.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It feels like something’s missing from our formula no matter how we rearrange it. The placebos we get from you and the Tringham boys to the East are fine enough, I suppose but no one wants to touch anything until we know for sure.”

Morgenstern leaned over to make sure no one was out in the hall listening before he pulled the manila folder up off of his lap. “I do happen to have our latest progress report, though. I had told the general in charge that it would come straight to the brass before anyone else but… it wouldn’t hurt to have it proofread by a trusted source before then,” Morgenstern said with a mischievous smirk.

“I’m honored to be considered as such,” Archer agreed, accepting the folder from his cohort.

“Oh, of course,” Morgenstern said. “It never hurts to have the future Fuehrer on my side.”

Archer grinned to himself. “ Fuehrer Frank Archer has a nice ring to it.”

“It does, indeed!”

Morgenstern sat and waited patiently while Archer reviewed the report… Well, ‘patiently’ may not have been the right word. He caught himself zoning out, eyes unfocused at the tabletop, after a moment or two. Surely the Major could indulge his boredom and read at the same time. 

Morgenstern took a sip of his ale and asked, “So, Major. How’s that ‘Drachman spy’ situation of yours coming along?” Archer gave an annoyed hiss through his teeth. “That poorly, I take it?” Morgenstern snickered.

“I almost had him this time,” Archer huffed. “Of course, I’m sure he’s got friends… Come to think of it.” He glanced up at Morgenstern through his eyelids. “He moved pretty fast. Out the door as soon as I received the call, in fact. Maybe he has a friend in Central?”

Morgenstern blinked. “...oh. You’re referring to Ovechkin?” Archer nodded. “Now, now, let’s not point fingers at everyone that has an accent.”

“Just how much do you trust him, Morgenstern?”

“Funny you say ‘ trust. ’” Archer raised an eyebrow at the phrasing and Morgenstern replied, “He’s useful to me. And he hasn’t given me a reason to doubt his intentions.”

“Yet,” Archer said. “All the same, I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. He’s only part Amestrian and spies are a deceiving breed.”

“I’ll take the matter under advisement.”

After a moment, Archer flipped the file closed. “And?” Morgenstern asked.

“There’s a lot of ‘what not to do’s in here,” Archer said.

“And believe me, I’m just as disappointed by that as you,” Morgenstern sighed. “I’ll be doing some ‘off the record’ experiments in the meantime.” He leaned forward, excitedly tapping his hands against his knees. “On that note… I believe you have something for me?”

Archer slipped under the table and came back up with a covered basket. “A donation from Creta,” he said, placing it on the table. An excited giggle escaped Morgenstern as he pulled the basket forward, flipping the cover off and marveling at the little glass jars filled with a mysterious red liquid within.

“ Ooh, lovely~ ”

“I trust that when I return to Central that you’ll have made some progress?”

Morgenstern pulled one of the vials from the basket, admiring it in the dim lantern light. “Certainly, Major,” he said. “The second I make a breakthrough, you’ll be the first to hear it!” Fitting the vial back in the spot he pulled it from, Morgenstern sighed and grumbled, “I confess, we’d be having a much easier time of it had we not lost track of Dr. Mar-”

Klatter!

Archer and Morgenstern froze. There’s someone out in the alley beside them. The window stayed dark, so there was no telling who was eavesdropping out there. This meeting place is officially compromised. Morgenstern flipped the basket’s cover back down and polished off the last gulp of his ale. “On that note, we should probably wrap this meeting up here,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Agreed,” Archer replied.

Morgenstern stashed the folder over top of the red water samples and followed Archer back out of the room and the bar entirely. Once they hit the street and Morgenstern spotted headlights, he flagged the taxicab down. “Central Station, please and thank you.”

“Yessir. Hop on in.”

Morgenstern took a step back and let Archer climb aboard. “Safe travels, Major Archer!” he said with a grin.

Archer lifted a hand back as a goodbye. “I’ll be in touch.”

With that, the taxicab rolled away, leaving Morgenstern standing alone on the street… or was he? He turned on his heel, staring directly at the alleyway where their uninvited guest may still be hiding. Better to be paranoid than risk his and Archer’s arrangement getting out. 

The steel plates attached to the bottom of his boots clunked, loud and menacing, as he strode over to the opening of the alleyway. The shadows blurred everything for a stretch. There was no obvious sign that anyone was there… but Morgenstern could feel it. He gave a low, sinister whistle, letting that chilling sound travel down the alleyway.

“Are you still there?”

…

“I know you are~” Morgenstern’s mouth turned up into a malicious smile. “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are~”

…

“...I’d come down there and deal with you myself but…” Morgenstern faked a yawn. “I’m so very tired. I’d much rather go back home and rest.”

…

“So… can I trust you to keep what you think you’ve seen or heard to yourself?”

…

Morgenstern frowned at the lack of response and flexed his free hand, lighting up his gauntlet with alchemic energy. His hand hovered just an inch over the wall beside him, a threat he had no problem acting upon. “Shall I take that silence as a yes?” he growled.

Then, finally, something moved. An alleycat hopped down from one of the boxes that were stashed by the wall, a sardine gripped in her maw. For reasons only a cat would understand, she dropped her dinner in the middle of the alleyway and decided right then and there was a good time to give herself a bath.

“ Oh ,” Morgenstern said, dismissing the energy from his gauntlet. “Ah, just a cat!” he chuckled. “Goodness, the Major and I might be a little too jumpy for our own good.” Crisis averted. Morgenstern tipped his hat and cooed, “I beg your pardon, young lady. I thought you were someone else. Have a good evening.”

“ Meow! ”

With that, Morgenstern spun on his heel and went on his merry way. The cat watched him disappear and then returned to her bath. Cat priorities and all that. When she finished, before she did anything with her dinner, she had to thank the nice Drachman man that gave her food by rubbing up against his legs.

That was close. That was way, way too close. Volkov let out a ragged breath and cursed, “ Blyat. ” And when he prided himself on his steady hand too. Apparently, that’s the only steady thing about him.

Volkov dropped to his heels, removing a notepad from his pocket and transcribing everything that he heard. Morgenstern’s ‘pet project’, Major Archer’s interest in it, Archer’s struggles with the spy network and the vials of red water… “< Dr. Mar… >” he muttered, giving the alleycat a scritch behind the ear. “< Dammit, he didn’t get to finish. Who’s Dr. Mar? >”

-

Well into the train ride, the sun started to peek up over the horizon and Alphonse nudged Edward awake. “Brother. Hey, wake up.” With a groan, Edward’s eyes cracked open. “We’re almost there.”

Indeed they were. Over the curve of the hill, Edward could see the tower of the Church of Leto creeping up to them. “So that’s Reole, huh?” Ed muttered.

Could it be there? The key to finally getting Alphonse’s body back?

Edward grinned to himself. “The Philosopher’s Stone…”