Allen's eyes were sharp; one glance told him the bar's proprietor wasn't ordinary. Whether the horns of war blew or not, there were only two kinds of merchants who came to the front: those hoping to make a quick killing and run, and those driven by hardship to seek a way out. Either way, they shouldn't have been this calm before a pack of soldiers. Even the waitress was too composed. This was the Ishval Eastern Front's temporary command zone—home to gentlemanly senior officers and thug-like grunts alike.
The owner had slipped out the moment he heard "Special Investigator," which made it easy to guess he'd gone to tip someone off. Never mind the owner; the girl vanishing a moment later said the two of them were involved.
Allen wasn't trying to play detective. He didn't care about every little thing; his aim was to inflame ethnic hatred and trigger a string of religious massacres, laying a solid foundation for his climb. Still, he kept a mental note: the military wasn't simple—there were likely plenty who, like him, wanted the war.
It was dusk when he'd reached the temporary command; by the time he left the bar, night had fallen. The moon played hide-and-seek behind clouds, a cool breeze stirring the air—a gentle night.
The streets were lively. Soldiers in twos and threes had set their rifles aside, orbiting food stalls—or the girls. War wasn't what scared them; it was the pressure beforehand. No one could guarantee they'd leave the battlefield whole. The brass turned a blind eye to the nightly whoring.
Allen's handsome face and straight frame made him stand out like a firefly in the dark—an oversized one. The streetwalkers' gazes swept over him, many of them lingering, frankly, on the bulge in his trousers.
He felt no contempt for them and didn't engage. They were like the old doggerel: no land, no house; a bed is enough for work. They earned with their bodies rather than stealing—more decent than thieves.
His abstaining didn't mean they would. This was a trade of mutual consent; and if the man was a looker—and capable—what was a free tumble? One-night dew wasn't much worse than a prince-and-princess tale.
A very young girl, maybe twenty at most, approached under her friends' encouragement. Little paint on her face—fresh and natural; good figure; a faint flush under the weak streetlamps. Allen sighed inwardly. A girl like this—why this line of work? Even becoming a kept woman for some official or rich man would be better than letting "ten thousand lips taste the same cherry."
She got close, red lips parting—only for Allen to let a single cold word fall: "Scram." He walked on, ignoring the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes.
The girl rejoined two companions with a huff. Then a man in plain clothes stepped from the shadows. His expensive outfit couldn't hide the military air in his bones.
"Miss," he said, "the master asks you to return. It's late."
The girl—whom Allen had mistaken for a streetwalker—pouted, dabbed away tears that hadn't fallen, and nodded. She linked arms with two young society ladies dressed a touch too provocatively, and under the man's protection they melted into the crowd. Blame the misunderstanding on those corseted, low-cut dresses—and on this street crowded with prostitutes.
For the record, Allen wasn't celibate. He'd played with plenty of women, most just one-night stands. But with the Ishval War not yet lit, he had no mood for pleasure. Compared to power, women could wait.
Under cover of night, Allen walked to a small building at the command center's heart. It was special—pure steel, impossible for ordinary men to damage. An alchemist could breach it, sure, but the noise would be earthshaking.
Two sentries raised their rifles as he approached—they couldn't make out his uniform or face in the dark. "Halt! Restricted area. No unauthorized entry!"
Allen didn't rate the toy guns. He closed the distance, drew a small booklet from his breast, and said, "Central Government Special Investigator. My credentials."
At a glance from one sentry, the other took the card, checked it, and handed it back with an apology and a salute. Allen returned a crisp salute. "How is he? Anyone tried to contact him recently?"
"No. He's fine—only a bit low, not eating much." The soldier undid the lock and gestured him inside. Allen nodded and slipped in. As the door closed, a thread of near-invisible light spread low from Allen.
This was where they kept the spark of the Ishvalan unrest: the soldier who'd shot a child.
Allen sat on a steel stool welded to the floor, crossed one leg over the other, and surveyed the dark little room. In a conversational tone, he said, "Not bad. Food, water, and no one to bother you. I'm Special Investigator Allen from Central. You can call me Investigator Allen. I'm here under orders to review your case. Can you walk me through what happened that day, from the top?"