At dusk a train pulled into the rear area of the Ishval eastern front. Though the station was small, nearly a hundred men had sealed it off completely. With a hiss the engine vented its excess steam and rolled to a halt; the doors rattled open.
Allen stepped down in uniform. With that sunny, handsome face, he could pass for a poster-boy soldier. He walked straight toward Roy Mustang waiting not far off, smiling as he went. The two met with perfect timing and exchanged crisp salutes. Off to one side, Riza Hawkeye shot Allen a murderous glare. He pretended not to see it, took Mustang's hand, and said, "Hello. Special Investigator Allen, under orders of the Führer, here to conduct an inquiry in Ishval. I'll be counting on Major Mustang's cooperation."
Mustang blinked, then understood at once. Even if they'd met before, they couldn't look familiar. Better to make it seem Mustang had discovered a promising talent and, unwilling to see a pearl gather dust, had joined Captain Hughes in recommending him. In politics, faction-building was dangerous—at best abuse of office, at worst conspiracy to rebel. Neither of them could afford that stain.
"Welcome," Mustang said with a smile. "I've already had a call from Captain Hughes. Please—let's talk back at camp." He stepped aside and gestured to the car. Allen thanked him and slid into a military vehicle at Mustang's shoulder. They drove toward the temporary command.
They rode in silence for a while. Mustang glanced around; no cars had pulled close. He dropped his voice. "We're among friends. How did you wind up in Intelligence? Weren't you joining the army?"
Allen took off his cap—sharp cap, perfect with the uniform; he didn't get why no one liked wearing them. He smoothed his slightly mussed hair, kept his eyes forward, and lowered his voice so only Mustang could hear. "Whether this war breaks out is still in doubt. I'm here to speed it up—to push Ishval into a wartime state ahead of schedule." He flicked a mote of dust from his cuff and set the cap on his knees, as calm as if war meant nothing.
Mustang hesitated. A man who could use tens of thousands of lives as rungs on a ladder—bringing him into the army… was that right? Mustang would climb at any cost, but he had lines. He wouldn't choose to be a catalyst for war just to earn glory. If the Ishval conflict didn't ignite, he'd request the forward edge of the eastern border and earn his name fighting another nation—not by butchering civilians.
His brows knit. After a moment he said, "Isn't that… too far? Those people's lives may not be our charge, but deliberately provoking a war will bring the Führer's hand down. You'll be staring at a court-martial."
The temporary structures rose in the distance. Allen didn't answer at once. When the car rolled inside the perimeter, he set the cap back on, straightened his collar, and, as the vehicle halted, swung the door open. Without looking back he said, "I don't care how many die. I care how much merit a war brings me. That's what matters to me—and it's what ought to matter to you."
He put on a bright, sunny smile and strolled into a nearby rec room. Mustang watched his back vanish through the door and didn't know what to call what he felt. Shock? Maybe. Mustang knew this world better than Allen did—perhaps more than anyone—but Mustang had ties here. He was born in this world. Allen treated it like a game, a way to tune his body before going home.
Yes—just a game.
Inside, the furnishings were sparse: a dozen round tables, a bar, and a back rack lined with cheap liquor. Ten or so people clustered in twos and threes, nursing big mugs and talking low. When the door creaked shut, every eye turned to the stranger.
Some soldiers were plain folk. A man in the corner raised his glass to Allen in a mock toast, then knocked back a long pull. His face was brick-red, like it had been warmed by a fire. "Hey! Pretty boy!" he bellowed, slurring. "Never seen you before. What unit you with?" He waved, stared a few seconds, then added, "Forget it—who cares! Come drink with us! Boss! Strongest stuff for the pretty boy!" He cackled.
Allen felt the bartender's look. Owners, clerks, stall-keepers—people like that came with the army by choice. Back home they'd probably had it rough and hoped to make a killing off the war. And when you made your living off war, you didn't cross soldiers. Stray rounds didn't care who you were.
The proprietor was no fool. He asked with his eyes whether Allen wanted the strong pour. Allen nodded; the man set to mixing the stiffest drink he had.
Allen crossed to the corner table, still smiling, and sat. "Special Investigator," he said lightly. "Here to look into the cause of the conflict."
The owner's face went stiff. He sent the drink over by a waitress, then, finding a pretext, slipped out the back door. In this world, spooks weren't as hated as on Earth; feudal rule hadn't been gone long. Soldiers who'd clawed up from the gutter didn't fear being checked—they were broke anyway. After Allen showed his badge, the two big men at the table only got happier. They slung arms over his slight frame and drank hard.
"By the way," Allen asked, "seen any suspicious types near the command post?"
The girl clearing a nearby table flinched. She swept a few empty glasses together, then darted through a side door into the back.
Allen didn't follow immediately. He chatted a bit more with the grunts, finished his drink, made his goodbyes, and stepped out of the hut.