The soldier's face twisted with terror. He curled up and tried to press himself into the corner, palms flattened on both walls as if he could shove his body through them. He shrieked, voice cracked with panic: "No—don't hand me over. I didn't do it! I was ordered—someone else told me to! I don't know anything!"
In a few sentences, Allen understood why the soldier who'd sparked the Ishval uprising hadn't been sent to Central for trial but was being held in the East, locked inside a steel cage almost impossible to reach. Just as Allen had guessed at the start, someone else was even more eager to start this war than he was. But something didn't add up: war could grant some men the chance at glory and promotion, sure, but to deliberately ignite one wasn't a burden ordinary people could bear—and no one would dare without the Führer's approval. Which led to the obvious, chilling inference: was the President himself behind this so-called Ishvalan "riot"?
At the thought, Allen's back went damp. An invisible black hand was moving every piece. And twenty-plus State Alchemists had been committed—enough to raise gooseflesh. Even against the eastern neighbor, the battlefield rarely saw more than five alchemists at once. But for this "little" disturbance, over twenty had come—never mind the ones kept off the books. A wave of frustration passed through Allen. So that was it—everything had been decided long before he arrived.
He wasn't one to give up. In an instant he chose a new path: if the war didn't need his push to break out, then he would squeeze it for every advantage. The thought loosened something inside him. At least he himself was undying. Dorian's alchemy notes had been clear: a Homunculus's fatal weakness was its original remains—its bones. Unfortunately, Allen's bones were still in another world, and this body here was an alchemical construct, a flawless piece—born from Dorian's transgression, his soul offered up as the price. No defects. Likewise undying. The thought steadied him. If nothing else, he had time.
He let his shoulders drop, wiped the cold sweat from his brow. "Right—I haven't asked your name. What do they call you?"
"Dawson." The soldier's hysteria had ebbed a notch.
"Well then, Dawson, how many years have you been in uniform? Don't treat me like an investigator—I don't even like this job. Let's just talk. I'll report you as confused and unfit to answer questions. You'll stay here in peace, and I'll get to go back to Central early. How's that sound?"
Dawson eyed him warily for a long while. This Chu—this "investigator"—wasn't like the others, who'd been rigid to the point of cruelty, even using private torture to pry something out of him. If not for his family being held, Dawson would have ended it long ago.
"Fine. But I won't tell you anything. Not a word."
Allen didn't mind. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one for himself, then flicked another onto the floor. Dawson's eyes went hungry. He glanced from Allen to the cigarette and, as if making a decision, dove for it, snatched it up, and scuttled back to his corner. Allen blinked, then laughed. "You don't have a light. How are you going to smoke?" Dawson's face fell at once. Allen tossed him the lighter and smoked in silence.
After a while, Allen asked, "So—what year did you enlist?"
Maybe it was the cigarette, maybe a sliver of trust, or maybe Allen's question sat far from anything sensitive; Dawson answered without thinking. "Another month and it'll be five years. Guess I'm an old hand." He fell quiet again.
Allen feigned surprise. "Oh? Then why no promotion? Still just a staff sergeant?" He glanced, as if idly, at the grease-stained rank on Dawson's shoulder.
Dawson gave a bitter smile, the edge of his caution gone. "Old hand? Sure. The army's not like your Intelligence people. You lot catch some official with his mistress and get promotions. We bleed on the front if we want to move up. If the Armstrongs—father and son—hadn't led our unit to the line last year, I'd still be a corporal."
Armstrong. Every generation served in the military under Central, each one a powerful engine of slaughter on the field. After the elder Armstrong stepped down, his son took his place, a second lieutenant already at the eastern front stacking merit for future rank. The family was old. Before the last regime fell they were a prominent alchemical house; at founding, they threw in with the Central military and built a sprawling network.
Those notes on Armstrong slid into place in Allen's mind, and he smiled inwardly. If Dawson fell under Armstrong's chain of command—and Armstrong was a loyal hound of the state—then Dawson's case likely ran through their hands. With a line like that, there was no need to force anything. He let the conversation wander.
In time, the lights outside dimmed and the street noise died. Allen dusted off his trousers and rose to leave.
"Could you leave the cigarettes?"
Allen smiled, took two more packs and the lighter from his pocket, and set them on the table. In the moment he did, the silver pocket watch—the State Alchemist's badge—flashed into view. Terror jolted back into Dawson's eyes. Allen only gave him a cryptic smile and strode out of the cramped steel cell.