Chapter Text
Riza skimmed over the rest of the double-page article, yet her hand kept returning to the photograph, like a boomerang circling back to its origin.
As her fingers glided over the captured faces, she scrutinized each of them with the same thoroughness she would review a platoon. From left to right then back, with no rest between each trip. So much so that the tips of her fingers absorbed the ash-colored ink, turning them sooty.
Her vision swam. Except for the Colonel's grin in grayscale, the figures on the paper dissolved into a blur. There it was, forever etched on newsprint. His flawless, lethal smile that charmed generals, statesmen, spinsters, and divorcées alike.
Riza took a deep breath before reading the article's blurb again:
Central buzzes with excitement as newly appointed Colonel Roy Mustang arrives. Renowned as Amestris's youngest State Alchemist and hero of Ishval, his visit heralds a new chapter in military leadership.
Granted, she had anticipated Roy's visit to attract the attention of the Amestrian Sentinel's Gazette, but she hadn't expected to see it featured so prominently on page three. Despite his meteoric rise through the ranks—from Major to a full Colonel in under two years—it didn't seem quite right for his story to eclipse the ongoing trade negotiations with Aerugo, or the recent skirmishes in the West. Worse, the article barely touched on the high-stakes council meetings the Colonel had been invited to, instead focusing on his dashing looks and after-hours activities. Riza's brow furrowed as she tore her gaze away from the rest of the article.
Truth be told, Roy's trip to Central had been a last-minute addition to the schedule, a near-whimsical order from Grumman, who'd had Riza secure tickets for everyone less than an hour before their train was set to depart.
Yet her surprises didn't end there.
On his way out of East Command, the General had waltzed into her office, his voice all breezy as he'd casually informed her, "I need you to stay here in East Command and hold the fort during Mustang's and my absence."
Then without another word, he'd left with a quick, purposeful stride Riza didn't know he possessed. By the time she'd caught up to him to object, his chauffeur had already locked the car doors and ignited the engine. Damn that old fox.
And just like that, Havoc and Breda had found themselves in charge of the Colonel's safety this time.
Now, three days later, with half of her team away and an ever-mounting pile of reports awaiting her attention, Riza couldn't find sleep at night. Even if the cause remained elusive, the first hours of bed-tossing-and-turning had brought forth fragments of answers as to why. She'd realized that this was the first time she and Roy had been apart for more than a weekend since she'd started working for him. As his bodyguard, the feeling was… unsettling. Perhaps unnerving, even distressing.
It was irrational, too. The Colonel's security was in no way compromised, and her teammates were the most capable soldiers she'd worked with, after all. She had nothing to worry about, she repeated to herself.
Or was it that… she missed him? Well, no; she didn't blush at the thought of him like a besotted fourteen-year-old would for her father's apprentice—not anymore. Those days were long gone, and Riza had become nothing less than a conscientious soldier.
It was just that Roy's absence was hard to ignore. The day he'd left, a pang of unease had seized her while walking down the hallways of East Command with no sight of his raven hair and three-starred epaulettes a step and a half ahead of her. The night after that, her stomach's growl had echoed across their deserted office, because Roy was usually the one who ordered Xingese takeout for both of them when they worked overtime and she was too engrossed in her tasks.
Really, a couple of days was all she needed to settle into her new routine.
Riza shut her eyes and massaged her temples in a circular motion, steeling herself not to peer at the photograph again. Slowly, she expelled all the air from her lungs. Four, three, two, one. Inhaled. Held her breath. Four, three… Exhaled again. The exercise, taught during her sniper training, had never failed her.
Bit by bit, beat after beat, the thump of her heart subsided; yet against the deluge that flooded her thoughts, the technique proved futile. In a ceaseless loop, the sickening picture from page three kept flickering behind her closed eyelids. Her eyelids squeezed harder, trying to dispel the faces and silhouettes she wished to unsee.
None of that worked.
The image had already imprinted onto her irises. Every detail. Roy's three-piece civilian suit, his crossed legs as he leaned back in a luxurious club chair with tufted upholstery…
And that silly, self-satisfied smirk of his. Which looked nothing like the gentle smile he'd given her at the station a few days ago.
"Everything will be fine, Lieutenant," he'd assured her then, before boarding the train. "Both the meetings and my safety. Don't worry."
Despite her nod, his words had done little to loosen the knot in her chest.
As the locomotive pulled away with a billowing cloud of steam, Riza couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. Yes, this was the second time she'd found herself standing on a train platform alone, watching him disappear to somewhere she couldn't follow.
The first time had been years ago, the day after she'd unveiled the secrets of Flame Alchemy to him, the week after they'd laid her father to rest. Although the years had blurred together since then, she could still picture Roy's face that day—the naïve optimism in his eyes as he spoke about the State Alchemist's examination he was about to take, the boyish roundness of his face as he thanked her, and the way his sheepish smile lit up his face when she told him she had faith in him.
Riza squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the fragments of memories that came back to her. The bustling crowd around them. The echo of a stranger's voice asking her to smile, followed by a blinding flash of light.
And a snapshot lost to time.
With a shake of her head, Riza swatted those thoughts away. It sometimes hurt to remember that the Roy—Mr Mustang—she'd known back then had died in the fires of his own making in Ishval, amidst the sand and rubble, killed by the inner demons he'd surrendered to.
When Riza opened her eyes again, the Colonel in the photograph stared back at her, his grin polished and practiced, like a stranger wearing a familiar face. Her fingers twitched with the urge to tear the newspaper to shreds, but she was unable to look away.
Two women were seated on each side of the armchair, like robins marking their territories on opposite perches. One of them rested a delicate hand, adorned with a silver bracelet, on Roy's shoulder, while the other locked her eyes with his. She held a bottle, whose contents had likely been poured into the round glass he presented to her. Judging by its slender stem and the darker graphite shade of that spot on the paper, Riza guessed it was filled with red wine. Likely with a touch of honey, just the way Roy enjoyed it.
A trio of women sat across from him, seemingly enthralled by their conversation with the Colonel. The lens had captured them bursting into laughter, covering their mouths in deliberate coyness. They were dressed like the two who flanked Roy, in shape-sculpting dresses that revealed just enough to entice and lure. The one closest to the camera, in particular, wore a backless dress which offered a captivating view of her sun-kissed shoulder blades and pristine skin. A surge of blood pounded in Riza's temples and squeezed her chest.
She glanced up, wondering if Falman, who sat two desks away, had noticed anything amiss. Despite her efforts to maintain an expressionless exterior, she could sense his curious gaze on her. She offered him a slight nod, which he returned.
Clothes possessed the power of weapons; they could further their wearer's goals or protect them—Riza knew that all too well. She, for one, had donned equally seductive dresses for undercover missions, although she favored longer gowns with a side slit (they guaranteed instant access to her thigh holster). Like her, these women employed their allure and attire to get their own jobs done.
The alcohol, the intimate atmosphere, and the sultry form-fitting dresses. It was all too clear where the photo had been taken, what Roy had come seeking, and what kind of services these women provided. Below the picture, the caption read: The Flame Alchemist discovers unexpected perks of the capital's hospitality. Riza scoffed to herself.
"Lieutenant, are you alright?"
Falman's sudden question interrupted her thoughts.
"Yes, why?"
"You've been reading that article for… quite some time," he said with a gentle smile.
"Sorry… I didn't get much sleep last night," Riza replied, hoping he wouldn't press further. "Did you want the paper?"
He nodded.
Warrant Officer Falman, a fast reader with a photographic memory, skimmed the article in less than two minutes before setting the newspaper aside.
"It seems the Colonel is enjoying his trip," he noted.
"It does seem so," she replied, barely veiling her sarcasm. She continued to scribble some notes onto the notepad before her. The air grew stuffier by the minute. "He wasn't at a hostess bar this time though, was he?" The words slipped out, raw and unguarded. "Wasn't that a brothel?"
"I—I would agree, yes." Falman didn't need a second look at the article or the photo to confirm. He continued, "Based on the Colonel's schedule, hotel location, personal preferences, and the setting of the article's second photograph, I am 86% confident that he visited The Venus's Embrace, located at 135 Azure Avenue, in Central City's Red Light District, on his first evening."
Riza's fingers tightened their grip on the pen. As impressive as it was, today the officer's encyclopedic knowledge felt annoying and superfluous.
"Thank you, Falman," she finally said. "Let's get back to work. We've got a lot to do since everyone else is out."
* * *
The shooting range was uncharacteristically empty, as if it awaited Riza's arrival that night. The hardwood floor greeted each of her steps along the way to her usual bay, toward the end of the firing line. It was her favorite spot, where foot traffic was the scarcest. Her rocky outcrop, where she could hide in plain sight. Her undisputed territory.
Riza took her rifle out of its case. It was an M14, the kind the military had issued to all of its snipers earlier in the year. The metallic coolness of the weapon awakened a sense of power within her.
The Hawk's Eye was the sobriquet she'd earned in Ishval, even though the pun had always rubbed her the wrong way. Roy too, had collected a number of monikers since his return from the war, and Flameheart—as quoted from The East City Times—was the latest to date.
Upon reading it, he had told her, "It's got a nice ring to it."
Though she understood what he'd left unsaid; making headlines as anything but The Hero of Ishval granted him some relief.
He embodied nicknames the way he donned three-piece suits, slipping in and out of them with remarkable ease, thoughtfully picking which one to wear on what occasion, and always exuding the same charisma regardless.
These days, he preferred to put on a philanderer's shoes than wear the cloak of a mass murderer hailed as a savior. Their unit knew this was just a masquerade, a pretense for the Colonel to openly meet with his dates—his informants, in fact. Riza didn't mind. Of course, seeing his official girlfriends waltz into their office to pick him up didn't delight her, but only because Roy used the excuse to get off of work early.
Though on certain nights, Roy wouldn't come back to East Command after his rendezvous was supposedly over. He'd ring the phone in his own office to let her know he wouldn't have time to return and debrief the intel he'd collected, and that she should head home and enjoy the night. Riza's chest clenched a little every time.
She knew she was nothing but a soldier—a right arm, a bodyguard, the watchful eye of a protective hawk. Roy never called her anything but Lieutenant, after all. But Roy was more than a colonel; he was a man. A man who embraced certain parts of his manufactured identities more than he admitted. A man who shed the deceptive layers of his suit while allowing its fabric to melt into his skin. He reveled in the allure women held for him; he was human, and who could blame him for it?
Shaking her head, Riza set the rifle on its bipod and inserted her earplugs. She then lowered herself to the floor, adopting her stance and pressing her stomach against the rigid planks covered by a thin layer of dust.
Ready… Aim… Fire.
Bullseye hit.
Particles of gunpowder settled on her brown turtleneck while a smoky whiff filled her nostrils. The sensuality of it sent shivers down her spine.
One more hit. Another one. Spotless accuracy, flawless consistency. The words her marksmanship instructor had praised her with echoed in her mind like an intoxicating mantra.
Ready—Yes, she was that good.
Aim—Didn't Roy think so too?
Fire—The bullet flew all the way to the bern behind the target line.
Riza let out a strangled groan and centered herself again. Why was she thinking of him now? What did her sharpshooting skills have anything to do with the way he felt—or more accurately, did not feel—about her? They were nothing more than commander and subordinate. Those were immutable facts. Immovable, like the targets before her.
As she continued shooting, seconds, then minutes, vanished as quickly as the bullets that flew from her gun.
Black dots gradually swam in and out of her view, and the human-shaped cardboard cutouts turned into nebulous silhouettes in the distance. Riza rubbed and ridded her eyes of gunpowder flecks before she repositioned herself and again tunneled her vision into the confines of her rifle's scope.
Suddenly, bursts of lightning-like flashes streaked across her line of sight and superimposed themselves onto the targets. The photograph from page three sprang to life; the two women stood up from the armchair and walked toward her, their wispy laughter filling the air. But before they could draw any closer, another bolt of lightning washed them away.
Known faces and familiar voices replaced their images. They were Roy's dates, Madame Christmas's girls, their features now overlaid onto the targets' figures.
Stephanie's luminous smile and dainty nose.
Fire… Bullseye hit.
Isobel's slender legs, which lent her a delicate yet poised gait. Riza aimed for the kneecap; that would serve her right.
Fire… Target hit.
Petra's chiseled shoulder blades, as if carved from the purest marble by the hand of Phidias himself. Just like the bare back of the harlot who had been immortalized by the camera's lens. Unmarred, unscathed, unscarred. How unfortunate if a bullet ever found its way there.
Fire… Center hit.
Hot smoke billowed from the rifle's muzzle.
It took a moment for Riza to catch her breath, but her senses eventually returned. She reached up and rubbed her temples, wondering what had come over her. Stephanie, Isobel and Petra had helped their team countless times; they'd provided crucial information on the military brass, inching Roy and herself closer to their goals.
They were allies who'd rallied to their cause.
They were women, like herself, who might have sought a hint of pleasure and validation in the company of a man, even if only for the length of a sham date.
They were civilians, people she'd vowed to protect when she'd first donned her blue uniform. Not people she'd ever aim her rifle at—never again.
Yet she had just fantasized about shooting them all one by one. An overwhelming wave of nausea hit her; she stood up and left her bay in a hurry.
* * *
Riza stepped into the Colonel's office at 1700 sharp as usual. She found him hunched over his desk, scribbling his name at the bottom of the forms she had prepared for his return. Roy gave her a small nod before pointing his fountain pen at a small heap of documents on the corner of the table.
"That can be filed today." He unleashed a theatrical yawn. "I'm going to head home soon. I can barely keep my eyes open."
"Yes, sir."
To his credit, Roy hadn't taken a break since his return earlier that morning. While half of the unit had been away in Central, routine work had continued to pile up in East Command. And despite working evenings and weekends, Riza and Falman had barely managed to keep up.
Another casualty of this hectic schedule was the Colonel's lunchtime, which he'd spent at his desk listening to Riza's status updates. And if the briefing on the city's new aqueduct system had drawn a few yawns from him, the sight of Breda's return from the mess hall with sandwiches for everyone had rekindled his motivation.
Roy retrieved a small box from his pants pocket and placed it on his desk, sliding it beside the stack of papers Riza was reviewing.
"For you," he said, a gentle smile etched on his tired features. "I wanted to honor our tradition."
Riza half-expected this.
Whenever work required him to travel, Roy would always request her to accompany him, as his bodyguard and assistant. To her surprise, despite her constant presence by his side during those trips, he would always manage to slip away unnoticed, returning with a small souvenir solely for her.
"Thank you for accompanying me and watching my back," he had told her on their first trip together in Isparta, as he placed a carved wooden bookmark between her hands.
The collection grew over the following months: a fountain pen from Postarim, a faux-fur hat from Briggs, and a terrifying, wide-eyed cloth doll from Rezen—a lucky charm, Roy insisted. Riza ended up throwing that one into the confines of her closet, keeping the doll out of her sight but preserving the luck inside her apartment. Nevertheless, these small mementos set her heart aflutter.
The sight of the lustrous white box before her did not. It could fit in her palm—perhaps a keychain or a statuette.
"Hm? What's the matter, Lieutenant?"
Riza detected the concern in his voice.
"I wanted to talk to you about something, sir," she said, removing her eyes from the box to meet her superior's gaze instead. "I've come to know that you didn't quite stick to the itinerary we had planned, that you spent some time in certain neighborhoods… Red light districts."
The Colonel maintained an inscrutable facade.
Riza continued, "I must point out that such behavior is unseemly, especially on a trip like this."
"I see," Roy said, leaning back in his chair. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers—the same stance he took when he played chess with Grumman, or when he brainstormed a plan with the team. "Well, nothing outrageous happened. I just spent a few hours at a bar on my first night. The train ride had been exhausting."
A bar. His voice had taken on a lighter color, a near imperceptible shift from its usual tone when they were alone together. He was lying. To her.
"Still, you should have known better, sir." Her pitch deepened with each word. "This is unbecoming of your rank. You just got promoted."
"Alright, point taken," he muttered under his breath. "Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"Then you're dismissed."
Riza didn't budge. Roy quickly appended one more signature before recapping his pen.
"Alright, Lieutenant. Say what you want to say," he ordered then leaned back again, despite the visible stiffness in his shoulders.
"Please tell me incidents like that won't happen again." Riza applied herself to even her voice, as if she was offering him professional advice.
Roy looked away, arms folded across his chest. An amateurish giveaway of unease—every soldier learned that in Body Language Interpretation 101.
"I—I can't," he finally blurted out and shook his head. "I'll be more careful next time, yes. But that night, I needed that. I've been working non-stop lately, I just needed a short break."
"I know that, sir. I've been working alongside you," Riza replied, each word sharpening the blade of her tongue more. "But you don't see me in less-than-desirable places picking up the first stranger who walks by."
"And if you did, I definitely wouldn't want to see that." A scowl of disgust flashed across Roy's face. "I mean, wh—what do you want me to say? I'm not gonna apologize for blowing off some steam."
He rose from his seat and began pacing toward the window behind his chair, hands clasped behind his back.
"I couldn't care less about how you choose to relieve your stress, sir. But I do care about your reputation, about our team's reputation," Riza retorted in crescendo, as if her voice's strength could force him to turn around.
"If anything, what happened that night reinforces the image we've curated for the public." Roy's knuckles turned white. "I may be exhausted, but your mind seems even more muddled, Lieutenant," he spat out as he turned around.
"No, it's not, sir. That night was different, and you know it," Riza snapped with a venomous anger she rarely allowed to surface. "There is a difference between being known as a womanizer and… This."
The Colonel exhaled a weighty sigh, brimming with contempt, before returning to his desk. There was nothing else to add, but Riza remained rooted in her spot, unwavering in her resolve, unwilling to let go.
"Please. Those prostitutes were not informants, they were your entertainment for the night," she let it all come out in a rush. "And you thought the best time to indulge in that kind of distraction was on such a politically critical trip? Don't you have any regard for our long-term goals, for what we've been working so hard toward?"
The Colonel sank his palms onto the desk's mahogany.
"For God's sakes, it's going to take more than a few drinks and some company to derail me." His words erupted like molten lava from a smoldering volcano. "Cut the high and mighty act, Lieutenant. You're starting to sound like the controlling mother I never had," he hissed.
"And you, sir, are turning into a spoiled brat. This is not the leader our team needs…" Riza paused for a half second, lowering her voice as if to deliver the final blow: "This is certainly not the president our country needs."
"Watch your tone, Lieutenant!" Roy barked, closing the gap between them over his desk. "I'm the commanding officer here. Do I need to remind you of it?"
He'd never pulled rank on her before. Not like this. Of course, he had the final say in most matters, but they'd always worked as partners. He'd valued her advice, actively seeking it, consistently adjusting his plans around it. And now, of all times, he played the insubordination card? This was the battle he chose? He was willing to jeopardize their working relationship over this?
Riza never needed more than a single look, nod, or tilt of the head to read his mind. But all she saw now was his hatred-filled eyes, onyx irises guarding his thoughts with impenetrable darkness.
"No sir, you don't," she replied in a weak, enervated breath.
The Colonel retreated before he slumped into his chair and picked up his pen again.
"Let's put this behind us, Lieutenant," he said in a resigned voice, empty eyes cast on the report before him. "I need to get back to work… You're dismissed."
Riza gave him a silent salute and collected her papers on her way out. The gift remained untouched on his desk.
None of the tokens he'd gotten her held any significance in his eyes; she was certain of it now. The mere thought of that ivory box churned a pit of revulsion in her stomach. What else could it be but a sly attempt to quell her insecurities, her jealousy, with material gifts? What had she become?
A mistress meant to stay in the shadow of a powerful man, silently imploring him to become hers behind closed doors, yearning for him to disavow the public life he had meticulously crafted. But of course, that would never happen, not even in a thousand lifetimes.
Cut the high and mighty act, Lieutenant… You are the real whore here.