Chapter Text
“The seven year old in charge of our country,” Senator Lott repeated, as though it were a particularly amusing tabloid he had stumbled across. “It seems I’ve been away from home longer than I thought. Did the fuhrer’s grandson stage a coup over his naptime?”
“You’re a good liar,” King noted approvingly. Anyone else would have been thoroughly incapable of detecting the dishonesty in his words. “Most aren’t. I’ve always found it strange how much difficulty people have with simple dishonesty.” It wasn’t terribly surprising that Selim’s chosen political accomplices had gilded tongues, though he would be curious to know whether that was one reason for his choice or a result of their association. For that matter, he often wondered the same of himself.
“I’ll spare you the usual quip about lawyers and politicians to say it helps when dishonesty is the least of your sins.”
Was that an admission or a comment on his opinion of King’s character? He suspected he wasn’t wrong either way—what was a simple lie compared to murder, to tyranny, to the genocide of an entire species? For that was where this road ultimately led. “When was the last time you saw Pride?”
For a moment he worried the boy had used a different name with his pawns, but there was recognition in the man’s eyes. He furrowed his brow as he thought, and then, “Who the hell are you?”
That wasn’t a terribly surprising response. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that you answer my questions.” Their mutual acquaintance relished these sorts situations—dangling knowledge over another’s head, teasing and toying and conflating truth with lies, but King just wanted answers. He had no time to fool around, even if he desired to.
“There’s nothing illegal about having an adviser, even an unusual one.”
Illegal. This man had been given a peek behind the curtain, if only a glimpse, and he was concerned over the legal ramifications. He supposed when one had played by a set of rules their whole life, it could be hard to understand that they were dealing with those who did not. “I assure you, the state hasn’t picked up on the immortal child doing half your work, Senator, at least not that I’m aware of.”
“Forgive me, Lieutenant, if I say that your presence here would seem to belie that claim.”
There existed an old adage among soldiers: all anyone sees is the uniform. It was a dramatic thing after all—sharp blue cloth, gold and silver trimmings, and the full weight of the nation—dramatic enough to draw the eyes away from the face behind it. In the eyes of the public those wearing the uniform were fully interchangeable, save perhaps for some consideration afforded for rank. It could be easy to forget that they were more than peons of the military, that they had lives unto themselves.
"Forget the letter of law. You and I both know if the state thought you were conspiring with some”—what exactly did Pride claim himself to be?—“inhuman entity to seize power, you’d be cuffed to a chair right now, and we’d be having a very different conversation.”
“ ‘Seizing power’ is a tad dramatic. You make it sound as though I’ve preempted the democratic process.” He tossed the orders onto his desk, reclining and interlacing his fingers. “You know, like a soldier.”
The man had recovered admirably from his initial shock, making a show of relaxing and responding with snark. The message was clear, if entirely empty. King could string him up by his thumbs if he were so inclined. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply here for information.”
“If information were a simple thing, we wouldn’t have a department dedicated to it. Knowledge is power, and whatever knowledge you’re looking for here was worth crossing a border to find.” He took a moment to think, bringing his index fingers up to his chin thoughtfully. “Time sensitive too, else you would have simply waited a month or so until I was called back home. I’m not in the habit of handing such a thing out for free.”
“This isn’t parliament. You can give me what I need, or you can sit in a cell until you die.” The orders Envy wrote up were incredibly vague, but that was largely by design, and he was entitled to full cooperation from the embassy.
“Mmm, and when I explain to Colonel Sherman that I would be happy to extend any aid I can, save for the sorry fact I haven’t the slightest clue what you need, what do you tell him? You said this is a personal matter, so I’m assuming you would be rather reluctant to expose our little friend so.”
“I don’t need Sherman’s approval to do anything. My orders give me full authority over operations in Drachma.”
Lott scoffed. “A paper shield; its sturdiness wanes with every step you take from the man who signed them, and Sherman has a building full of loyal soldiers whose presence afford him a dissenting opinion on the matter. He has no great love for me, but he’s incredibly fond of his place here, and I don’t expect him to relinquish it to some stranger without a fight, even temporarily.”
Amestrian doctrine prescribed isolated commanders incredible operational autonomy. Whichever general was unfortunate enough to be assigned Fort Briggs, the rare eastern outpost providing sanctuary for merchants traveling either way across the desert, the top officers of embassies located in hostile countries, which was, of course, largely all of them—they would have to fuck up extraordinarily to be held accountable for actions reasonably taken in good faith.
It would be simple to arrange an accident in so isolated a place, or at least it would be if King were an ordinary man. He knew very little of Sherman, but even if it were a bluff, he didn’t have time to throw the senator in a cell and wait. He’d hoped to overwhelm the man with a show of authority, but it was time to change tactics. “We’re on the same side here,” King said, sitting down across from him. “I know very little about you, but I know Pride chose you as his partner, and that means I have no reason to wish you anything but good. ”
“And yet with that single piece of information you have me at a disadvantage. How do I know you aren’t here to gather information on our mutual acquaintance, for the state or for yourself?”
“You don’t, but if you don’t help me anyway, he’s going to throw a massive tantrum when he returns because he’s an unreasonable little shit.”
Lott grimaced. “That does sound like him, I’ll allow. Not the most reasonable of fellows when the mood takes him.”
That the man wasn’t clamming up entirely could only be a good sign. Interrogations were far easier when the desired information wasn’t harmful to the subject, or, more importantly, wasn’t perceived by the subject to be so. Open conversation also made it easier to establish a rapport. Manipulation was as much about listening as it was saying the right things.
This sort of thing would typically be preceded by an interview, a chance to categorize the subject’s psyche and plan out how best to attack it, but King didn’t have the time. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to glance at Domestic Intelligence’s dossier on the senator before departing. Such a thing was hardly a worthy substitute, but it would have to serve.
Lott’s politics were progressive by nature, though his fiscal policies were more conservative, particularly where executive spending was concerned. He was an idealist, but in recent years had shown an increased willingness to embrace less savory methods, and small wonder what had precipitated that change. There was a definite resentment for the military brewing inside him, ostensibly along principled grounds, but probably due primarily to their greater authority and lifetime appointments. Jumping through hoops to win the public’s approval would grow tiring after a few election cycles, particularly to a man who believed himself to be acting in their best interest, one who would feel almost entitled to their support.
But who he truly was wasn’t important. What mattered for King’s purposes was how the man perceived himself, and in Lott’s eyes he was a holy martyr: equal parts victim and benevolent savior. Those were the cards to play.
“Have you considered the broader circumstances of his disappearance,” King asked, his voice calm but possessed of a certain urgency, as though they were co-conspirators. “You’re alone in enemy territory—and I don’t just mean Drachma—in the middle of negotiations, and on the tail end of an election that should serve to give your party a scant majority.”
The implication seemed to ground him. In a vacuum, he couldn’t fathom why someone might seek to remove Pride, too far removed from the homunculus’s goals to understand, but recontextualized as part of the national politics in which he’d made his career, that changed. “His radio silence has certainly been inconvenient. I had wondered…”
“It’s no coincidence. You’re a threat, and they’re trying to isolate you.” Who exactly ‘they’ were, he would allow Lott to fill in himself—a rival party perhaps, or a military contingent seeking more direct opposition to the civilian government. After a handful of years with Pride, no doubt he was seeing conspiracies behind every corner. “Under Pride’s umbrella, you’re nigh untouchable, but with him gone, for whatever duration, you and your people are vulnerable.”
‘Vulnerable’ was rather vague as well, but the senator picked up on the less than subtle implication if the sudden bout of perspiration was anything to go by. To his credit, he seemed relatively unshaken, if obviously unused to the idea of his own personal safety being in jeopardy. In no other country were the nation’s highest elected officials so unworthy of assassination. “Who?” he asked.
That was the golden question, but it was probably best not to be entirely truthful about who might be interested in opposing him and his siblings. “Pride has made his fair share of enemies: most of yours I would imagine, certain elements in the military, that one truancy officer who keeps happening upon him during school hours. As for which one’s responsible”—he spread his hands helplessly—“that’s what I’m here to find out, why I need your help.”
“Probably not the truancy officer.”
As much as he would love to return home and find the boy had simply been held up in arithmetic, not least of all for the boundless teasing that would follow, he had a feeling that wasn’t the case. “I was hoping to narrow it down a little further.”
Asking rather than demanding was having a beneficial effect on the senator’s cooperative spirit, but he didn’t seem entirely convinced. “You said the military was unaware of our mutual friend.”
“As an institution, it’s not, but it also happens to be a collection of the most powerful men in this country.” Lies and half-truths were often necessary during this sort of thing, but one so closely related to the topic at hand might serve to taint whatever information he could glean. “I’m not ruling anyone out at this point.”
He was close. He could see it in the man’s eyes. All he needed was a little push. “You don’t know me, but you know Pride, chose to work at his side. Loyalty might not mean much to the others in your line of work, but he always told me you were different.” Selim had said no such thing. He enjoyed ‘talking shop’ in a conceptual sense, but he took far too much pride in his self sufficiency to involve others in his work except when absolutely necessary, and liked to fancy his dealings as being too expansive and intricate to be understood by any other mind. Some of it was even true.
But few people were immune to flattery, and King had reduced the decision to a dichotomy: cooperate and be the self-sacrificing hero the man told himself he was every time he looked in the mirror, or refuse and be no different than the counterparts he so despised. Selim’s preferred puppets were sharp enough to keep him entertained, but manipulable and naive as well, so as to keep them dependent on him to navigate the tangled web that was politics. Hopefully this man was no different.
Lott was quiet for a while, considering. Then, “He’s told me nothing of his recent dealings. You know how he is.”
“But you’ve been in contact?” There was little reason to call home while undercover in Aerugo, and plenty of risk. Lott’s information would be more recent than his.
“Not for some weeks.”
“Over the embassy phone lines?”
“Yes.” Lott frowned. “Typically he gives me his payphone’s number and insists I call him back from another, but wandering Drachma outside of scheduled diplomatic trips would be… inadvisable. Here we trade privacy for discretion; he is my nephew, and we speak in code.”
King would wager everything he owned that no other phone lines were as thoroughly tapped as those connecting Amestris to it’s Drachman embassy. Every single call going back ten years would be recorded and transcribed by both nations. “That will be all, Senator,” he said as he retrieved his orders off the man’s desk. “Who do I see about requisitioning some phone records?”
Pride awoke to the sound of the outer door opening. Somewhere along the way he had dozed off, but how long he couldn’t say. He could scarcely measure the passage of time while awake these days, let alone while he slept. Minutes, hours, days—they blended together much like the room around him, reduced from concrete terms to unquantifiable conceptions. His resolution to remain awake as long as it took was meaningless in the face of his body’s limitations, and his stone was too empty to stave of the need for rest.
There was no time to waste. Pride lifted his hand to his mouth and spat on the object clutched within, thankful his salivary glands had not dried out again while he slumbered. It took several attempts to coat the crusted blood clinging to the fabric with enough moisture, but when he finished, it was stickier than any glue. He lurched clumsily to his feet as the second door opened and threw himself toward the unseen gap on tired aching legs.
Something—someone, rather—blocked his path, but the man seemed surprised at his unprecedented bid for freedom, and Pride squeezed past as he lowered a shoulder and pushed off the doorframe with one hand. There had been little to do but pace aimlessly back when he’d the energy to commit to such a thing, and by now the layout of his own cell was more instinct than memory, but this adjoining room was a different story. He groped blindly through the darkness until his hand slapped a heavy door, and he grasped at its handle desperately. Locked.
That was no surprise, but his heart sank all the same. He pulled once more, as though it might be persuaded to change its mind, and then began pounding with all his might on the cold hard metal. “Help! Help!” The sound of his own voice filled him with rage, the pathetic whining quality a grating sound, but all the better. This was an act, one that needed to be as distracting as possible, and he’d been thrust into infantilizing situations before. His pride would survive.
A hand grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the door, off his feet, and back toward the center of the darkness. “Let me go!” he demanded as felt himself sliding over rough concrete, kicking and screaming all the way. “Letmegoletmegoletmego!” The more of the doctor’s attention he demanded for himself, the less could be paid to the environment around them.
“You’re a s-small thing,” the doctor said as he tossed him to the floor of his cell. “Barely more than a child when everything else is stripped away.” His stutter was almost gone, and that could only be a good sign. It seemed to disappear when he believed himself firmly in control, and contentedness was the death of vigilance.
“What does that make you?” Pride asked, too tired from the exertion to pick himself up off the ground. “Barely more than a child murderer?”
“I don’t care.” The growl of a small engine starting up softened to a purr. “I am not concerned with the morality of m-my actions. I just want you dead.” The purr became an angry buzz, and Pride recognized the sound from the contractors who trimmed the hedges outside Central Command.
It was a goddamn chainsaw.
All in all, it was a rather halfhearted attempt, if unpleasant, and the man called it quits scarcely fifteen minutes into the world’s clumsiest vivisection. Perhaps the accusation of child murder had affected him more than he let on. Still, it was an unfortunate choice, so destructive as to deplete nearly all Pride’s reserves in the recovery. A few more minutes, and…
There was no time for such thoughts. The doctor was retreating, and Pride channeled his frustration into a wordless scream as the inner door swung shut, as loud as he could muster. If the sound of the door had been appreciably different than before, his captor failed to notice.
He was alone again, but there was a hope inside him that couldn’t be quenched even as a deep anxiety grew alongside it. So violent a death was a boon in one sense. His vessel was remade whole, and the aches, bruises, and lethargy that had long plagued him in this damnable hole were gone. The game was at an end, one way or the other, and he would face it with all his wits about him. When he pushed himself off the ground, most of his clothes fell away, but the newfound energy was so intoxicating, he wanted nothing more than to run and jump and dance, to use it as a child might: pointlessly.
But he needed this energy, to run if his plan worked, or to fight as desperately and fiercely as this body could if it hadn’t. The walk to the door seemed to take ages, and his nerves built as the moment of truth approached. It fit inside, but was it too small? Did it fall out? I didn’t have time to ensure it stuck, not with the doctor beside me. As he walked, the more convinced he became that he had failed, that he would fight a valiant last stand here in the darkness.
The metal knob was cool beneath his touch, and he hesitated for a long while. Until he pulled, until he verified his success or failure, there was hope, and he was terrified to lose it. It was several minutes before his anxiety overtook that fear, and he gripped the knob firmly and pulled gently.
It didn’t budge.
His heart sank, and he wanted to cry until he remembered that he was very small, and the door solid metal. He pulled harder, leaning backward with his feet planted against the foot of the wall to enlist the aid of gravity. Slowly, as though moving through molasses, the door began to swing toward him. The latch slid against his smooth metal tie clip, held in place by congealed blood and a wad of his tie stuffed inside the bore, and he stuck a foot inside the gap as soon as it was large enough to accommodate his shoe.
With his body as a wedge, it was simple enough to squeeze through, and he eased the door shut as slowly as he could manage in case the man was still within earshot. The outer door was still locked, but that was no more surprising now than it was twenty minutes ago, and he sat down beside it to wait. If there was one thing he had learned in this pit, it was how to wait.
“Most of the senator’s phone calls are to and from Central,” said the bored looking soldier sitting in Records as he handed King a transcript, “but the last one from his nephew came from outside the city… payphone 151.”
151. King turned to the large map hanging on the wall, and his eyes found the number almost instantly. Almire.