Chapter Text
Olivier Mira Armstrong has never been keen on liking Central City. Specifically, the Military Command Headquarters at Central City.
Or the Fuhrer’s office, if she has to be exactly particular.
Despite not being a frequent visitor thanks to her being stationed in the far North, she is no stranger to the Fuhrer’s inner office, being the high-ranked officer she is. In fact, she has been eyeing the very position since she graduated with honor from Central Military Academy.
Although, if she could form her own opinion, she does not really fancy the memories of the time she had spent there.
For instance, that one night when she was summoned to Bradley’s office after putting that loose-mouthed General—Raven, if she remembers correctly—in his place, that is, under the base of Fort Briggs, just as the fool deserved.
She has little concept of fear—she thought, at that time, if she died there and then in Bradley’s hand, she was simply too weak to survive. It was quite straightforward. But she’d be lying through her teeth if she said she didn’t feel unnerved, at least, standing in front of a basically supernatural being that can’t be killed even by a tank.
Then there was Grumman’s administration.
It’s not like she despises the old man—at least not before the Promised Day thing. But in her opinion, the positive sentiments he got from those who know the real story was mostly because Grumman didn’t try to pull out whatever ominous plan Bradley along with the other homunculi and their ‘father’ devised. And that was for obvious reasons. The comparison bar had been too low.
And for those who do not know what actually happened that day and only heard the version fabricated by the Amestrian Military, he was hailed as a hero for stopping a coup d'état she led for her own gain.
That goddamn opportunist.
Although he did not demote her nor give her any sort of punishment to serve publicity’s sake—of course he did not, that old man wouldn’t dare, although Olivier wished he would’ve at least tried, so that she can vindicate a retaliation and give the sly fox a taste of his own medicine—her career progression has not been as smooth as she would like during Grumman’s administration.
Likewise, she did not really enjoy the time she spent there each time she was summoned by Fuhrer Grumman, either. Besides, the man is known for his eclectic taste—his office was decorated with various things and mementos that she found rather aesthetically questionable, at best. Not up to her taste, but the decorations were obviously not the worst choice Grumman had made during his tenure. In Olivier’s opinion, he definitely had made far worse decisions.
Like giving the green-lit for Roy fucking Mustang to becoming his successor, for example.
Despite being controversially young for her position, she has no problem answering to someone quite younger than herself, given said person actually has the competence and aptitude to earn an even higher rank than hers (which, taking the three stars on her shoulders into consideration, is already a stellar achievement in itself). Olivier, of all people, is a woman of conduct, after all.
But Mustang?
Olivier finds more fortitude in those pesky icicles hanging from the ceilings of Fort Briggs compared to the Flame Alchemist and his languid attitude.
Which explains why she finds it hard to hold herself back, standing in front of the door to the Fuhrer’s office, waiting for his approval before she can enter a room she doesn’t even like (she externally winces at this particular thought). Major Conrad, her loyal aide, stands dutifully to her left, exactly two steps behind. His left hand is occupied by a pile of documents.
Her loyalty to the State Military of Amestris and its entailing codes of conduct are currently the only thing preventing her from snapping right here and now.
After several minutes that stretch like forever, finally the door clicks open. The Head of Staff of the Fuhrer, Heymans Breda—already promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, it seems—emerges from behind the door and gives her a crisp salute.
“Lieutenant General Armstrong, Ma’am. His Excellency is ready for you.”
Olivier Armstrong regards him with a nod, before taking deliberate strides through the door as it opens wider, revealing the inner office of the Fuhrer. Her aide follows closely behind.
There he is, the source of her disdain, sitting behind the desk, seemingly working on some sort of paperworks.
Roy Mustang looks up from whatever he was doing before as he hears her footsteps.
“General Armstrong,” his face turns into a smug grin that makes her want to smother him even more, “to what do I owe the pleasure? Please, have a se–”
Major Conrad doesn’t give out as much as a wince when his commanding officer basically snatches the piles of documents he was holding. If anything, beside their survival of the fittest jargon, what his tenure in the North has taught him is that nothing (and by that, he means nothing) can stop Olivier Mira Armstrong when she already puts her mind on something.
So when the female General slams said documents onto the desk of literally the highest-ranked person in the entire Amestris right in front of him himself, Conrad acts like it was the most normal thing to do and feigns ignorance.
“You owe me this one for saving your arse yet again,”
The Fuhrer looks down onto the documents, brows furrowed.
Diplomat.
…information leakage…
Drachma.
“Leave the two of us alone,” he commands after a brief moment.
Breda doesn’t need to be told twice before he ushers the remaining security personnels out and makes an exit himself.
Conrad lingers for a split second longer until General Armstrong gives him a slight nod. Just then, the Major joins the others exiting the inner office, closing the door from the outside.