Chapter Text
Central Command was a hive of activity; everywhere Miles looked he saw hopeful young officers. There were dozens of captains like himself, shipped in from their far-flung outposts for review, eager to make the leap from Captain to Major. He watched, with a pit in his stomach, as a group of blue-eyed soldiers made their way past him, laughing and talking. He was not inclined to join in their revelry. This was his second sojourn to Central in pursuit of that coveted title. The letters were always complimentary, prasing his outstanding record and referencing his rapid climb through the ranks of Eastern Command. One glance, however, at his deep red eyes and the praise dried up like Ishval’s desert.
A dry voice cut through his musing, ordering him to report to the board for his review. He hastened to comply, knowing it would not matter. “Captain Miles reporting as ordered,” he saluted crisply as he took his place before the long table.
The generals before him barely glanced up from their paperwork, waving him to be seated and murmuring "at ease." Sitting and answering their first perfunctory questions, Miles took a moment to survey the men seated before him. He was startled to see, on the far edge, in the uniform of a Brigadier General, a woman. To his knowledge, and he was very rarely misinformed on these matters, there was only one woman general in Amestrian history, but he was not expecting to see Brigadier General Olivier Mira Armstrong at his own review. Unintentionally, he made eye contact. She glared for a moment, and then her eyes widened ever so slightly. Miles expected her to look away, as so many Amestrians did, but she held his gaze steadily and a feeling of unease spread through him. He felt as though she were peering past his eyes into his very soul, and was grateful when a query from the other end of the table gave him the chance to look away.
The review board was, predictably, short and vague. He knew, even before they told him hours later, that he would not be getting the promotion. All throughout, though, only years of military training, and years of bullying before that, kept him from fidgeting to get away from the woman’s piercing stare. Her eyes did not leave him for the duration of the interview, her uncapped pen hanging above the sheet where she was meant to be recording observations. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought bitterly, it would only take her a moment to write “Ishvalan” and circle “promotion denied”. And then that would be that, no questions asked.
-
The next day Miles was preparing to board the train that would take him back to Eastern and his dead-end job as a supplies coordinator. In line with dozens of other soldiers, he almost didn’t turn around when a frantic-sounding aide ran up to him calling “Captain! Captain Miles!”
He turned, surprised. Had he forgotten something? “Captain Miles, wait! You’ve been reassigned.” She took a second to catch her breath, and handed him a folder. “These are your new orders. Please follow me.”
Bemused, he took off after her, flipping open the folder. Inside, where he was expecting a formal report, was a single piece of paper with a handwritten note:
“Miles- report to Room 302, Central Command. 0700.
Brig. Gen. Armstrong”
He glanced at his watch, it was 0647. Now he understood why the aide was so frantic and double-timed it all the way to the car she had left running just outside the station. On the way back to command, between near-death experiences as the aide rushed through crowded streets, honking at shouting pedestrians, Miles realized this was the first time a military car had been sent for him. He certainly hoped there wasn’t another Captain Miles waiting nervously at the station for a car that would never come.
“Go! Third floor!” The aide shouted at him, pulling up as close to the doors as she could get the car. “Hurry!”
Miles pelted from the car, throwing his pack over one shoulder and raced up three flights of consecutive stairs, silently thanking every training officer who had forced him to run laps with a heavily-weighted ruck sack. He skidded to a stop in front of Room 302, and checked his watch trying to calm his heart; 0700, on the dot. He raised a hand to knock when the door flung open.
“You’re late.” Startled, Miles snapped into a salute, which General Armstrong returned, irritably. “Come in, then.” She opened the door wider and Miles entered uncertainly. “At ease,” she added as an afterthought. Relaxing his stiff position, Miles glanced around. It was a temporary office, small, grey, and dreary.
“With respect, Ma’am, my orders said 0700.”
There was a whooshing sound and a cold blade pressed against his throat. “Listen well, I don’t repeat myself.” The woman snarled, “You will address me as Sir. You will be on time. You will not use the phrase ‘with respect’. I am not so foolish as to not recognize the disrespect, nor am I so petty as to be bothered by it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” Petty didn’t come close to how he would describe her; there was a gleam in her eye that frightened him.
The sword was sheathed again. “I am Brigadier General Armstrong, as I am sure you are aware.” She stepped back, surveying him. “I need a new adjutant.”
“Sir?”
“I like your record, Miles. I’ve taken a new post, and my former adjutant was a backstabber. Literally. I beheaded him.” If she noticed the shock on his face, she ignored it, pressing on in a flat, emotionless, tone. “You were top of your class at the academy, you’re excellent at communications, and you didn’t stab anyone the last time you were passed over for promotion.” There was a long pause. “Well, Captain, do you accept?”
He had the impression he didn’t have a choice, so he hesitated only a moment before replying. “Yes, Sir.”
She grinned, almost wolfishly. “Excellent. We leave immediately. Follow me.” She hefted her own rucksack onto her back and sauntered from the room. Miles fell into step behind her, wondering what on earth had just happened.
---
On the northbound train, Miles kept a close eye as stealthily as he could, on his new commander. She moved stiffly, and seemed to be favoring her right side. She had shot down his offer to carry her pack, though, seeming angry at the very suggestion. He had begun to wonder if he would survive the journey all the way to...Well, she hadn’t said where they were going. He assumed it was North City, but he couldn’t be sure.
Several hours into their voyage, the General spoke. “I hope you like the cold, Captain.”
“Sorry, Sir?” He had been staring out the window, absently.
“It’s very cold where we’re going.” She looked at him, and he realized she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, well, her left eye anyway. Under the veil of hair covering the right side of her face he assumed there was another dark circle.
“Where would that be, Sir?”
“Fort Briggs.” She grinned again, that wild wolfish smile, but this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
They passed another few hours in silence, and Miles realized moments before his stomach rumbled, loudly, that he was starving. The general pulled her gaze away from the passing landscape, to smirk at him. “Hungry, Miles?”
“Yes, Sir.” He replied, stiffly.
“I have something in my pack,” She told him reaching above the seat into her bag. “It’s not much, but-aah.” She stifled a noise of pain and clutched her side.
Miles leapt to his feet. “Sir? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” She snapped, grabbing at her pack again. “Here.” She thrust a leather wallet at him. “Go buy us lunch on the mess car.” He hastened to obey.
They didn’t speak again until the train pulled into the North City Station. It was growing dark, and a definitive chill had settled in. Disembarking, Miles shivered, it was freezing and it was only August. “Get used to it, Captain.” The general didn’t seem fazed by the cold at all. “Look for our car.” She instructed, “A Sgt. Karley is meant to be picking us up.” A sudden gust of icy wind blew her hair away from her face, and as she swatted it back into place irritably Miles caught a glimpse of a dark blue and purple bruise on the side of her face. The arrival of their ride provided a welcome distraction and they carried on without Armstrong realizing he had seen it.
---
Fort Briggs was the coldest place Miles had ever been. Even in the new coat the army had supplied him, Miles felt like he was in a freezer. Following the retiring General Handler through the icy halls, he realized he was in over his head. General Armstrong, he noted, seemed perfectly at ease taking in the fort with practiced eyes.
“This is your new office,” Handler was saying when Miles focused again, “I’m sorry I haven’t finished clearing it out, yet. We’ve been quite busy.”
“Not at all,” Armstrong surveyed the room, “I like to see how my predecessor conducts business. You’ll be out by tomorrow?” It wasn’t really a question, though, and Handler looked annoyed.
“Of course.”
“Excellent.”
There was an awkward pause, and then Handler spoke again. “I’ll have someone show you to your quarters now. You must be tired after such a long journey.”
Miles expected her to protest, but she acquiesced readily. “Certainly.” She rounded on Miles. “I’ll expect you at my door at 0500 tomorrow. You know how I feel about tardiness.”
“Yes, Sir.”
At 0445, Miles stationed himself outside the General’s door. It was early, and he was tired, but he was not eager to feel her blade again.
“Good morning, Sir.” Sgt Karley appeared beside him with a salute. “Good morning,” Miles returned, stifling a yawn.
“I have been instructed to show you and General Armstrong down to the mess, Sir.”
“We were shown there last night.” Miles remembered. “It’s two floors down, one hall over, three doors on the left, yes?”
“Yes, Sir.” Karley gaped. “If I may say, Sir, you have an excellent memory. Most new soldiers take weeks to learn their way entirely.” Miles shrugged, uncomfortably. It wasn't that he'd never encountered a junior soldier who was willing to exaggerate to curry favor, but he always found it supremely awkward.
The door before him flew open and both men snapped to attention, saluting an angry General Armstrong. “If you two loudmouths are finished yakking, there’s work to be done.” She snapped, saluting them swiftly and brushing past them into the hall.
“Yes, Ma’am.” At Karley’s response, Miles cringed internally, waiting for the whoosh of her blade.
“Miles, inform our sergeant here what happens to people who use that term. I’ll hold you personally responsible if it happens again.” Armstrong took off down the hall, and Miles hastened to fall into step, glaring at the shocked sergeant. It was perhaps unfair to scowl at him, when he didn't know any better, but it was Miles' own head on the chopping block.
After a hastily consumed breakfast, they made their way up onto the roof where anyone who could be spared was assembled. Standing behind Armstrong Miles surveyed the rows of men waiting at attention. There were hundreds, standing, staring, completely silent. It was unnerving to be on this end, he realized.
General Handler droned on for what felt hours, reciting a lengthy and rambling speech about his time at Briggs, filled with political drabble. Miles felt himself losing focus, and snapping back to attention when Armstrong took her place at the podium.
“This fort,” she began without preamble, “is all that stands between Drachma and the total destruction of Amestris. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to see that it remains standing. I will not tolerate laziness, division, or carelessness. Every life, every soldier, here has one goal: protect this fort. If you cannot or will not devote yourself singlemindedly to that cause, then-” she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a deadly hiss, “-get out of my fort.” She let the words hang in the icy air a moment. “Back to work, all of you! Dismissed!”