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Baked beans?

The uniform smells as if it hasn’t been washed in weeks, a burnt-in stink of sweat and alcohol and fatigue. Almost a bit as if the former owner had died in it, simply collapsed after a long night spent drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor and then fell asleep for eternity.

Maybe that’s just what happened. You don’t know. This thing is what your snitch was managed to get you, and you’ll have to settle for it.

It’s … maybe it’s not so bad? After all, the smell is only really noticeable when someone manages to get very close to you, and you don’t intend on letting anyone get too close. At all. No, it’s important that nobody recognizes you. It’s necessary that they think of you as just some more military personnel that enters Central Command to do their more or less honest work there until evening comes and you head home – or in the direction of the nearest bar, though let’s be real, with those military people, that’s often the same.

You’re not here to let people get close to you. You’re here to get close to the truth.

Your boss wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if he knew what you’re doing here, but the thought of this huge story and the possible fame and money just won’t let you go. Just imagine: You, a small local newspaper reporter, revealing the truth behind the Ishvalan war conspiracy! The rest of the world will grovel at your feet. You’ll be able to sell your story so expensively that you can retire to the countryside, far away from Central, from the bustle and the military.

(Maybe you’ll have to leave Amestris, maybe the military will chase you down because you’ve found out their secrets, but that’s a risk a reporter must be willing to take. The thought of the money you’ll be swimming in makes the other thoughts easier to carry, the other ideas, the mental images of death and murder and your slashed and tattered corpse lying limply in a corner.)

Slowly you straighten up and enter Central Command. The heavy doors close behind you, and you’re starting to feel a bit uneasy. What if someone finds out that you don’t belong here? What if you make a mistake and get caught snooping? What if …

With a shake of the head you banish these stupid thoughts and instead make an effort to act naturally. As if you belong here.

And indeed, nobody believes it necessary to look at you any closer. People just nod at you, as you would do with a colleague, even if you don’t even know this one colleague at all. They are polite to you … those awful hypocrites.

On the other hand, you can’t be sure which ones of them were involved in the massacre of Ishval. Perhaps they all no longer dare to look each other in the eye, to look themselves in the face at all, and that’s why they all just exchange the simplest polite gestures manageable, so that they don’t have to think about what they’ve done.

Speaking of thinking. While having been deeply in your thoughts you have arrived at your destination. Your snitch had described the exact path you needed to take to get right in front of the door to your glory.

Engraved on the small brass plaque next to the door you read: Maes Hughes, Investigations Dpt.

Investigations. That’s the place you need. Not the archive, where you first wanted to sneak into. There, everything would be stored without any sort of system, both important and unimportant documents stuffed in the furthest corners of the same place. But if you want to hide something, a secret piece of information that no one should be able to access, there is no better place than in the office of someone who is supposed to bring the truth to light. Those people are good at burying it.

Carefully, you press your ear against the wooden door and listen for a moment, until you can be sure that no one is in the room. Then you slowly push the handle down and slip inside.

The sight of crowded shelves and stacks of documents everywhere upsets you for a moment, but you force yourself to calm down. Of course, at first glance, nothing appears to be organized in any way, that would make it too easy for someone like you. Of course, there are far too many cold cases that haven’t been cleaned up. And of course you will find what you’re looking for right here.

You let your eyes wander around the room, along the shelves, over the many files, quite a few of which are unlabeled. … you will have to spend a lot of time here. Make your way through them piece after piece. Carefully, slowly. But it will be worth it, it *must* be worth it.

Your gaze falls onto a folder, left open on the desk. You skim over a few lines. Hmm. A conversation protocol between the Führer-President and Lieutenant Colonel Mustang. That sounds promising. You know who Mustang is, you know the hero of Ishval. He must certainly be one of the leaders of Ishvalan conspiracy. A clever fellow, ruthless and murderous and unyielding.

There are footsteps outside.

You curse quietly and grab the topmost sheet of the protocol, hurriedly open the window, and climb outside (thanking the heavens that the Investigations Department has decided to settle on the ground floor). And before anyone could even have guessed that you were here, you’ve already disappeared, rushing through the streets of Central until you’re sure that you haven’t been followed. Only then you dare to take a look at the page:

Führer-Pres. Bradley: You are aware that I need a full report on the so-called baked beans incident? Lieut. Col. Mustang: Yes, sir. Führer-Pres. Bradley: But please, give me the brief details first. I am very interested in knowing how all of this happened.Lieut. Col. Mustang: Well, Sir, I am saddened to say that this incident was brought upon us all by one of my men.Führer-Pres. Bradley: Ah, yes. Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda, am I correct?Lieut. Col. Mustang: I … yes, Sir. You see, the Second-Lieutenant had believed to do everyone a favour by buying spices for the canteen. Only, he had not known it wasn’t actual spices, but … Führer-Pres. Bradley: But? Lieut. Col. Mustang: … mushrooms, Sir. Hallucinogenic mushrooms. Which poorly reacted with the baked beans the canteen served that day.Führer-Pres. Bradley: I heard there were interesting reactions. Lieut. Col. Mustang: Well, Sir, to be frank, half of Central Command was high as a kite for three days, including myself, for I have mistaken First Lieutenant Hawkeye for my wife several times. It resulted in her punching me in the face repeatedly. So, yes. It was very interesting.

You stare at the sheet in disbelief, unable to process what you just read. Baked beans? What the hell? What’s that supposed to be? What is this useless piece of trash doing in the Investigations Department?

You flip the sheet, hoping you’ll see more on the back, hoping to decipher some sort of code or secret message. And indeed, you see a few messily scribbled down words. They do not help you.

To be used to bully Roy into buying drinks next time.

… Ah, wonderful. What a great start of your career.

Well. No use crying over one useless piece of intel. You just have to try again, right?