"I remember Ishvalans don't like alchemy. Why do you?"
Allen still asked. In the entire East, Scar's brother might be the only Ishvalan who both practiced alchemy and worshiped the Sun.
Scar's brother didn't answer. His expression dimmed, a trace of sorrow in his eyes. He forced out an ugly smile that made his otherwise handsome face look haggard.
"It's nothing. Just an interest," he said, voice tight.
"Mm."
Allen nodded. The topic was probably heavy—and not much his concern. He glanced over; under Marcoh's alchemy Scar's forehead had returned to normal. Unless you looked closely, you'd hardly notice the faint pink of new skin. Perhaps a blessing of darker complexions.
Allen picked his cap up from his knee and stood, brushing at the almost nonexistent dust on his uniform out of habit. Smiling, he said, "Scar's scar is gone. I should be going. I enjoyed our talk. If there's a chance, I think we'll meet again." There would be a chance—only, likely on a battlefield or amid a massacre.
At that, Scar's brother raised his head. His color returned. He gripped Allen's offered right hand hard and said, "We will. We definitely will."
Allen nodded, set his cap on, and left the Sun Temple under the gaze of Scar and his brother. In the car, Marcoh looked the same as ever; healing a not-quite-ill wound like this was as easy as breathing to him. The Crimson Alchemist, though, looked unsated. He kept twisting around to peer through the rear window at the receding temple, excitement sparking in his eyes. Allen knew he'd successfully piqued the man's interest in the Ishvalans. All that remained was to wait.
Back at the Eastern temporary command post, Allen shut himself in his little room. His role in Ishval was "special investigator," which meant writing a report. Only… he sat at the desk, a stack of blank pages before him, pen poised above the paper. He stared at the pristine sheet and sighed. He really couldn't write this thing.
Before coming to Ishval, he'd submitted a report—back at Intelligence. Hughes was already everyone's pick for future top brass, so the bootlickers had begun their work. Being close to Hughes, Allen had basked in some of that glow; the tedious report writing got handed to a few secretaries. He hadn't even looked it over before turning it in.
Ask Mustang? He rejected the thought. Mustang was probably like him—leaving everything to his subordinates.
Ask Riza? She could probably write an excellent report, but the two of them didn't see eye to eye. Unlikely.
"I need a secretary," Allen muttered. He leaned back, lit a cigarette, and stared at the dark ceiling. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Within a month, Ishval would likely be at war. He only hoped the military wouldn't suddenly recall him and make him miss the opportunity.
The Crimson Alchemist would have to be removed quickly once war broke out—the fewer dangers left roaming, the better. As for Marcoh, he might still be useful. The Philosopher's Stone was a fine prize; perhaps the man could actually tease something out.
He shook away the creeping daydreams, rubbed his temples, and shouldered the cap to push the door open with his arm. He couldn't write a single word.
Same hotel, same corner. A glass of hard liquor sat on Allen's table, a cigarette between his fingers, one leg crossed over the other. His cap lay on the table. All around, soldiers caroused, numbing their pressure with drink.
Allen lifted his glass and took a shallow sip. It burned. He glanced at the bar: the owner and staff had changed. He didn't care. He already knew that besides the military, quite a few businessmen had thrown themselves into the mix.
"Hey, you hear? Second Lieutenant Armstrong's supposed to transfer here in a few days. Sounds like the brass has made up its mind."
A drunk soldier caught Allen's ear. State Alchemists came in many kinds—Marcoh-types who excelled at medicine and research, human weapons like Mustang and Armstrong, and Allen himself—each with different roles.
"Really? I heard Second Lieutenant Armstrong is a monster—took out an enemy regiment alone last time at the front. Why would he come here? Besides, Captain Mustang's already around. You sure you're not just spreading hearsay?"
The drunk bristled, ignoring who might be listening. He tossed back a big glass, face red—whether from drink or temper—and bellowed, "Hearsay? Have you forgotten I'm a master sergeant in Command? I heard it with my own ears when Captain Mustang talked to Central! They said Second Lieutenant Armstrong will be in Ishval in at most a week. Hmph!"
The rowdy hotel fell silent in a snap, then erupted in cheers. The name "Armstrong" meant victory and slaughter. Wherever a member of the Armstrong family appeared, there would be war—and very likely victory. The troops shared that belief.
While the others cheered, Allen frowned. He couldn't understand why Armstrong would be assigned to Ishval before the situation was clear. Had the Führer decided to formally start the war? There was no pretext yet. Their side was still in the wrong. You might say a war needs no reason, but soldiers do. Only with a fitting cause could they fight hard and keep their minds steady.
Unless… the military intended to light the fuse itself.
All that work for nothing—that was Allen's first thought. He'd worn himself out fanning the Crimson Alchemist's restlessness, only to discover it had been pointless. Irritated, he drained his liquor, slid a few bills under the glass, and left the hotel. He was going to find Mustang and ask exactly what was going on.