Under the starlight, Allen finally fell into a deep sleep. Days of scheming had drained him. Rousing a nation's hatred for a people wasn't simple—not even Hitler had done it in a vacuum. In Germany's peculiar pre-war collapse, you needed a wheelbarrow of near fifty kilos of marks to buy less than a kilo of bread; the Jews—seen as shaking the economy—were already fixed in German resentment. The people starved while the Jews glittered in gold; the whole country needed a war to pull out of freefall. So Hitler could awaken anti-Jewish hatred and ride public backing to power.
But this world was different. The citizens of this country had no direct conflict of interest with the Ishvalans. Under Central's rule, religion sat far from the oil-rich lords; there wasn't a deep ethnic hatred, and the nation didn't need a war to rouse its people. That made kindling war far harder—and explained Allen's exhaustion.
Whether war came or not, he would do everything he could.
At first light, Allen rose. Too much waited for him; he had no time to luxuriate in sleep. He threw on his uniform and stepped into the street. Morning in Ishval bit with a thin chill; the night's roar was gone, the dawn air clean and still. Now and then a patrol passed; whenever they saw Allen, they saluted.
Today's plan: find Mustang, swing past Ishval's neighborhoods to gauge the heat of their faith, then find a way to let war break out "naturally"—without exposing himself.
He knocked on Mustang's door. A moment later Mustang opened it, rubbing sleep from his eyes, a little dazed. They stared at each other—one hand on the knob, one hand scrubbing his face.
"Not inviting me in? Or is Riza in there?" Allen quipped. The easy grin wiped the sleep from Mustang's face. Soldiers might be iron men, but they could gossip like anyone. A throwaway line like that could sprint through the ranks in days.
Mustang shot him a flat look; confusion gone, a touch of annoyance showing. "Come in. The room's a mess. I was up half the night with the other commanders. Find a spot. I'm catching a little more sleep." He stepped aside and all but dove back under the covers. Allen chuckled, found the least cluttered perch, lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl, and asked, "So—what did you talk about last night?"
"Nothing much. If it starts—how to deploy, how to attack. Pointless before the shooting begins." Mustang muffled his head under a pillow, determined to sleep.
Allen nodded anyway. "I want the roster of State Alchemists deployed here. Can you get it?"
Before coming, he'd sketched the Ishvalan faith. God is lord of all; God created mankind; human souls are God's servants. In their eyes, alchemy profanes God—alchemists steal God's power to trick mortals. Ishval had "alchemy," but incomplete—no synthesis; the transmutation circle itself was their totem.
After several days' thought, Allen chose to strike at their creed—engineer a direct clash between State Alchemists and Ishval's religion. A soldier—like the one in custody—might kill one person. A short-tempered State Alchemist, once he snapped, killed tens, hundreds, thousands.
If State Alchemists slaughtered a few hundred Ishvalans now, Ishval wouldn't wait for orders. They'd declare war.
It was a clean plan: faith in flames plus deliberate killing would ignite zealots who adored their God. Thieves of God's power, using stolen power to butcher God's children—that was sacrilege. An affront to God.
"Mm," Mustang grunted. He fished in the uniform piled atop the covers, dragged out a wrinkled stack of papers, and tossed it to the floor before pulling the blanket over his head again. A faint light flickered low; a broad palm of packed earth rose silently from the floor to lift the files and float them to Allen's hands. Not a whisper of sound. Allen had just reached for them when Mustang sat up, eyes narrowed. "I'm curious: how are you using alchemy without a transmutation circle?"
Allen flinched—forgetting that alchemy pulsed when used, a vibration any competent alchemist could sense.
He just gave Mustang a mysterious smile, looked away, and took the papers from the earthen hand to read. As he read, his face tightened. The roster listed not only combat alchemists but several with special talents—like Dr. Marcoh.
In Intelligence, Marcoh had his own file. An alchemist only earned a dedicated file two ways: holding a critical post (e.g., Mustang), or a long string of bad incidents (e.g., the Crimson Alchemist, butcher of civilians). There was a third way too—special contributions—known to few; Allen knew it through Hughes and Mustang.
Marcoh's file—Allen had skimmed it before—said he was researching a special amplifier. Reports claimed that if successful, alchemists could shed the law of Equivalent Exchange. And now he was being sent to the front. Was this war meant to field-test those new amplifiers?
Mustang caught the change in Allen's face. "What? Something off?"
"Yeah," Allen said. "Way off."