Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any related characters.

A/N: No beta, so please excuse the plot holes and spelling errors.

Just a little warm-up for Reverberations Chapter 20 (yes, 2016 is the year I complete it)!

And again, this is for my (spiritual) daddio, Oedipus.

-o-o-o-

"Move."

Olivier Armstrong was not a patient woman. She demanded things from life, and though privileged enough to have whatever she pleased, she always insisted on doing the work herself. That, more than anything, was why she was considered one of the true rising stars of the Amestrian Army. Command ran through her veins - though it had nothing to do with her bloodline. She did not need a pedigree. She did not need her father's name. The truth of the matter was that she she earned her soldier's respect. And she fought hard to maintain it.

Her mother called her 'fiercely independent.' Her father: 'stubbornly naive."

Tonight, as was her usual, Olivier was in no mood for frivolity. Term assessments were coming up for the third year cadets and she had more than her fair share of work to prepare for the two weeks of grueling tests. As one of the primary instructors at the academy, she had an obligation to stretch recruits to their utmost. To challenge them - prove they were better than they ever thought they could be. She took pride in making cadets sweat at the sight of her... and perhaps, on occasion, even cry. It was all part of the process. She would make men out of them (even if the soldier in question was, in fact, a woman) if it killed her.

It was no small thing to devise an Amestrian military exam. There were certain standards one had to uphold, not to mention her own (which she overheard one cadet refer to as 'impossibly high'). The tests had to be written, revised and rewritten in a shockingly short amount of time. Olivier estimated she put in well over eighty hours this week alone.

And so, after completing the final touches on the hand-to-hand combat exam, she felt she deserved a little drink - if only to ease some tension before the upper brass submitted their edits. She rarely gave herself such allowances, and tried to keep them short and sweet: in and out after one drink.

"Move." Olivier tried not to smile at how quickly soldiers shuffled out of her path as she made her way to the bar. It was already well into the evening on Friday night, and the place was packed with blue-uniformed soldiers. Most seemed at ease: shirt collars undone, drinks in hand. A disgusting display of repose.

"Major," a young sergeant acknowledged her respectfully when she finally managed to occupy a stool. Olivier gave him a wan smile and signaled the bartender. She remembered the boy vaguely from her first days as an instructor. What was his name? Curtis? Charlie? Honestly, she couldn't remember. What she could recall was that the boy was a poor shot and a sorry excuse for a soldier. He likely wouldn't climb much higher than his current rank.

"Whiskey, straight up." She turned her stool to face slightly away from the sergeant. The boy had that kind of open-faced, eager look that threatened idle conversation, and Olivier was not in the mood. The young man took the hint and quickly shuffled away with an awkward clearing of his throat. Olivier suppressed a smile, settling into her seat with ease. Before long, the barkeep set her drink in front of her with a nod and a smile.

Olivier was about to raise the drink to her lips when something loomed in the corner of her vision: A pale face framed by black hair. She spied a telltale training uniform.

"Yes?" she asked, taking a sip. "May I help you, cadet?"

"Good evening, Major Armstrong."

Olivier tipped her head to the side, just far enough to take in the boy. He was a scrawny thing, too pretty for his own good. Certainly not worth her time. "Evening," she said crispy. "Cadet - ?"

"Roy Mustang," he said, extending his hand. "I took your course in advanced applied strategy last fall."

"Ah," said Armstrong, studiously ignoring the cadet's proffered hand. "I see." She turned back to her drink - a clear signal she did not wish to be bothered. "Well… good evening then, Cadet."

The boy did not take the hint. He pressed on, unwilling or unable to recognize that his superior had no interest in talking with him. "I have to say I enjoyed your views on Geimhart Theory," he drawled, blithely sliding into the stool beside her.

Olivier took another sip of her drink without reply.

"I agree with you that some aspects of Geimhart's work can still be applied to modern warfare, though I feel with our advances in science and technology makes many of his principles obsolete."

The boy was trying to impress her, or perhaps bait her into conversation. Geimhart was quite easily the military theorist she most admired; his complex strategy, terse diction, and fastidious lifestyle appealed to her even at a young age. She made no effort to hide her obsession from her students, but this cadet had no business discussing a man too complex for his simple mind to grasp. He had a superficial understanding at best.

"I wonder…" Mustang said slowly, "if you ever considered Laughler's work might be a better choice given the widespread use of alchemy?"

Olivier snorted. "No." She was starting to remember this cadet - he was the one who asked too many questions; who consistently pushed the boundaries of authority. She recalled writing in his course assessment a warning that he needed to better respect the military hierarchy. He was they type, she warned, that could be dangerous in active war. Too independent. "Alchemy is unpredictable hocus-pocus. I place my trust in time-honored strategy and military might."

The young man smiled. He was undeniably handsome in a dandy kind of way, and he knew it. "Perhaps you're right, Major."

"Perhaps?" she said stiffly. Of course she was right.

Mustang's lips pursed. "May I… buy you a drink, Major?"

Armstrong's eyebrows rose. This cadet certainly had some nerve. "I'm at least five years older than you, boy."

Roy shrugged lightly. "I'm betting closer to ten."

Olivier leaned back in her seat to take in the young man a bit more thoroughly. She had to admit, she'd never met a cadet so bold. She sighed through her nose, mulling it over. "Fine," she said.

Clearly encouraged, Mustang grinned and signaled for the barkeep. The man came straight over, seeming to recognize the young man. "Drinks for me and the lady. She'll have…"

"Whisky."

The boy gave her an appraising look.

"It will put hair on your chest, soldier." Olivier's eyes trailed downward, heavily implying he had none.

The cadet let out a single, mirthless 'ha' before he said, "Sure. I'll have the same."

There was a moment of awkward silence as they watched the tapper pour their drinks.

"Perhaps you can clear something up for me, Major," Mustang said. He slid the first drink toward her.

"What do you need cleared, Cadet?"

"Well," he said slowly, carefully considering his words. "I must admit you are the subject of much speculation among the lower ranks."

"What kind of speculation?"

"We wonder what you do in your free time."

Armstrong gestured toward her drink. "This."

Roy frowned. "Come now, there has to be more."

"Cadet," said Olivier. "My personal life is no business of yours."

The smallest of frowns tugged at the corner of Mustang's lips. He looked almost... frustrated. "But surely…" he said, "surely you find some downtime for some… fun?"

"I enjoy reading Militia Today."

"No," said Roy. "No, I meant…"

Olivier was not daft. She knew what the boy was getting at, as awkward as he was going about it. "What? You mean romance? Love?" She snorted. "A waste of time." There were other, greater things to do with her time.

"What does love have to do with anything?" Mustang said. He looked at her for a long moment as though steeling himself for something big. Then he placed his hand on her thigh, just above the knee.

Olivier stiffened. Her eyes slowly panned down to her lap. As bold as this boy was, she never would have expected he would be so stupid.

"I'm not talking about love," the boy said seriously.

The move did not go unnoticed. Armstrong heard a lilting whistle through the din of the crowd; unfortunately for her, others witnessed the boy's fumbling attempt at a come-on. This had the potential to be disastrous. The bar was almost completely populated by military personnel. If Olivier didn't do something to quell the rumors now, she would be the laughing stock of of Central Military Academy by morning. She should have suspected the cadet might step out of line. From the start, he was far too familiar, far too assuming. Indeed, Mustang's mouth relaxed into a confident smirk. His fingers tightened slightly, pressing into her inner thigh.

Armstrong knew only the most extreme of reprimands would work with such insolent boys. It was not often she had to use such methods, but she was not about to back down now. She had a reputation to uphold, after all. She would never let a cadet get the best of her. She had to act now - and quickly - if she was to maintain her carefully- cultivated renown as a merciless, hard-hearted soldier. Olivier leaned forward, hand sliding down to Mustang's crotch.

The boy let out a surprised squeak. The color slowly drained from his face.

"You forget, Cadet, that I am your superior officer."

Mustang withdrew his hand from her thigh as though burned. "I didn't - "

"And as such, I am beyond your reach."

"I wasn't -"

"You, unfortunately, don't understand this concept."

"I - I understand perfectly, Major -"

"You don't, Cadet" Olivier said with mock regret. "You really don't." Her hands tightened around his balls, eliciting another squeal. "And therefore you must be taught a lesson."

"I'm a fast learner," Mustang wheezed. "Please, don't -"

That was just the cue she was waiting for. Without a moment's hesitation, Major Armstrong squeezed. Hard. The resulting crunching sound and high pitched whimper was quite possibly the most satisfying noise she'd heard in months. Her job done, she released his junk, dusting her hand lightly over one thigh before picking up her drink once more.

Thoroughly emasculated, Mustang slid to the floor, curling into a ball of bleating misery. Unperturbed, Major Armstrong took one last swig and placed a few cenz on the bar. She rose from her stool, standing over the boy like the victor she was. "I hope you found this a useful lesson, Cadet." She stepped over his prostrate body. "Dismissed."

A reverent hush fell over the bar as she strode out. Near the exit, she spied a lanky young man wearing glasses, doubled over with barely-suppressed laughter. Ah, she thought. So there it was - the explanation. She should have known Mustang's move was the product of a misplaced bet. How unfortunate for him.

He chose the wrong woman.