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Roy Mustang, General Grumman will concede, makes for an exemplary protege. His popularity with the average citizen of East City is on the rise; his paperwork, despite the production that goes into it, is always prompt and precise. This doesn't even take into account the pyrotechnics, which make for a useful bonus.
But a promising protege all too often turns into a problem, and Grumman didn't claw his way to his current position by being careless. When the day comes when Mustang climbs too high for Grumman's own good, Grumman will cut him down, and those subordinates Mustang is currently recruiting, without the least bit of sentiment. No difficult task, that; the greatest vulnerability followed him like a shadow. Only--
Only the faintest dreadful suspicion has flickered across Grumman's mind, and he means to prove himself wrong. It shouldn't be difficult: now Mustang enters, for their weekly game of chess. Now he settles into his chair, with the usual cheeky pleasantries. Now his gaze darts idly across Grumman's desk as he awaits the game's first move, coming to rest on the old photograph Grumman has set out.
Mustang stills, and Grumman's heart sinks.
"Ah." Mustang coughs, the habitual smirk disappeared. "New sweetheart?"
"My late daughter," Grumman replies, and after all these years, the words grow no less bitter. An awkward, unpleasant silence follows, and under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn't begrudge Mustang the halfhearted excuse, the undignified retreat. And then he is left alone in his office, able at last to hide his face in his hands, until he hears the knock at the door he already expects.
Second Lieutenant Hawkeye is pale--also no surprise--and uncharacteristically out of breath. Mustang must have revealed what he'd seen at once, and dashed off a superfluous report to be delivered. He accepts the paper from her, studying her and wondering at his own ignorance. More families than the Grummans might have been fair-haired, more passed down eyes that particular shade of brown, but to have overlooked Victoria's smile in this strange girl's face: unacceptable.
He waves her away, already recalibrating his plans. He will never be able to act against Mustang, not anymore; the most he can hope for is to put his considerable talents and strengths to Mustang's foolish, idealistic cause, a paltry overture to the granddaughter he will never know.
Damnation, Grumman thinks without venom. The boy has the devil's own luck.
"I hope," says Olivier, "that you understand what a promising offer this is."
Her assessment is as ruthlessly honest as ever. By now, a week into their joint training, she thinks she has the measure of Riza Hawkeye. She knows the marks of a veteran of Ishval: the dread of desert heat, those quickly suppressed winces, that philosophical grappling. In these cases, Briggs can be a balm. For one thing, it's cold as a Drachman's balls; for another, there's a certain pleasant simplicity to living by the doctrine of kill or be killed.
Not that Briggs doesn't stand to gain from the transfer. Hawkeye has a steady hand, and a sharp mind, not to mention the satisfaction provided by the upstart Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's face upon being robbed of his right hand. Olivier has taken men for less.
Hawkeye's expression is serene, hands at her sides. "Indeed I do," she says. "Thank you."
That is a concession easily won--too easily won. Olivier frowns. "But?"
"But I have someone to protect," says Hawkeye, the picture of a loyal adjutant, "and I believe in keeping my promises."
A refusal to accept disappointment has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations, and naturally Olivier is no exception. She rallies. "To protect or be protected by?" she can't help but taunt.
Olivier knows the marks of a veteran of Ishval--and just as well, the reputation of the cadet thrown into the conflict to become the Hawk's Eye. Three-quarters of the military brass had expected Hawkeye to have easily made the rank of Major by now. It didn't take more than a half-dozen personal assignments from the Fuhrer, and a handful of foreign diplomats mysteriously turning up dead, to ensure a spectacularly successful career.
Against all expectations, Riza Hawkeye had accepted a post under the most grandstanding officer possible, and let her fearsome reputation fade away until she was no more than a joke about lazy colonels and their long-suffering minders, free of unwelcome attention and answerable only to her own conscience. That sort of good fortune doesn't come along by accident, or without the rock-solid trust Olivier knows better than to expect to break.
Hawkeye half-smiles. "Perhaps it's a bit of both," she allows, and Olivier fights back the urge to sigh. There's always next year, she decides, and the year after; the promise of Mustang's dismayed face will simply have to wait.
It's not so easy a life to live, that of the Fuhrer's cherished only child.
There are times Selim tires of tutors, of his so-called mother's tittering laugh, of toys and trinkets he will be scolded for breaking. The shadows can only offer so much of an escape. Then he turns his rage on Wrath, roiling and raving until his so-called father relents and invites him along to a military function.
Today is no exception. Selim's smile is wide and bright, his eyes almost feverish. Summer holidays began a week ago, and already he tires of the Presidential mansion. Even watching the latest promotion of Amestrian officers allows for some entertainment; possibilities of punishments he might have Wrath inflict upon the disobedient makes for a better distraction than skipping rope down the mansion hallways.
However, today's honorees are a spectacularly uninteresting lot. Heavy-lidded Dewoitine has never had an original idea in his life, and Saulnier lacks a spine. Seversky can be unpredictable--but, Selim understands, Wrath already has plans for him. The Cretan conflict needs a reason to resume and the locals a rallying point. Seversky's family, now sobbing with happiness at his elevation, will do nicely.
But before Selim need resign himself to boredom, Roy Mustang is called forward. The Flame Alchemist is one of Father's chosen candidates for sacrifice, of course; but even otherwise he would catch Selim's eye. It's only a matter of an extra star on his insignia, but somehow Roy Mustang's promotion invites a host of envious whispers, the odd admiring comment, and distinct dislike. Not that the newly minted Colonel seems to notice; instead his attention is fixed on his quiet adjutant. Mustang steps forward, almost shyly, and Selim is forcibly reminded of Wrath approaching his wife with a bunch of flowers, seeking her affection and praise in the most pathetic manner.
(He does not think of how he brings drawings to her in precisely the same way. He is Pride, firstborn of the homunculi, and above emotion. She is no more than a means to keep him where he might keep Wrath in check.)
Mustang bows his head to whisper to his pretty lieutenant, whose eyes flash even as her cheeks flush. Well, well, well. Wouldn't Father, and that so-clever doctor of his, make much of that?
Sel--Pride allows himself a smirk. So much, then, for the famous good fortune of the Flame Alchemist.