It was, the military insisted quite strenuously, most definitely not an internment camp but a refuge. A place for the young and old and infirm to flee the growing unrest in the Ishval region and seek shelter until their home was safe again.

And yet it was surrounded by chain-link fence and concertina wire, and it had more armed guards than most of the secure military facilities Olivier had been to.

The Lieutenant Colonel observed her new post with distaste. There was, officially, no civil war in Amestris, merely a few skirmishes resulting from cultural and religious tensions in the Eastern area. But anyone who had been to the Ishvalan border would not hesitate to call it the front lines. This supposed refugee camp was further proof of the true situation.

Olivier Armstrong was highly skilled, fairly young, female, and not particularly well-liked by either her superiors or her peers, which often resulted in her being assigned the least desirable commands. If the disgust she felt so strongly, with both her country and herself, only a few days in was any indication, this one would be the worst of all.

A sudden clamor jolted Olivier from her thoughts and back to her duties, and her eyes scanned the camp quickly to find the source of the noise. A fight had broken out in the main yard. She scowled and stalked over to intervene. As she drew closer to the brawl, she could see that one participant wore the loose cotton clothing and red sash of the Ishvalan refugees, while the other wore a military uniform. Her scowl deepened. She would have to teach these soldiers better discipline.

"That's enough!" she shouted as she arrived, pulling her saber from its sheath and brandishing it at the two men in front of her. They pulled away from each other quickly, and Olivier turned to the small crowd that had gathered. "All of you return to what you were doing!" she ordered, and another gesture of the sword sent them scattering. She made a note of the soldiers among them who had chosen to just stand back and watch and then returned her attention to the one in front of her. "What's your name, Sergeant?" she demanded.

The soldier flinched. "M-Michaelson, Ma'am," he answered, his voice somewhat muffled by the hand he was holding up to try and stem the flow of blood from his nose. The Ishvalan had gotten in several good hits on the man in the short amount of time the fight had lasted. Good. Pain made lessons stick.

"Get yourself cleaned up and back to your post immediately, Michaelson," she said in a growl. "We'll discuss punishment for your behavior later."

The soldier nodded and scrambled quickly away, and Olivier turned finally to the Ishvalan. As he lifted his chin to look at her, red eyes defiant, she was surprised to find she recognized him. The camp was occupied almost entirely by the young and the elderly, with few ages in between, and he was one of the oldest of the 'young' group – she put him at around 20, give or take a few years. He had apparently come in about two months ago seeking help for his very sick mother. The woman had succumbed to her illness a few weeks back, but the young man had by then appointed himself as some kind of protector for the many children living here, and he had made no attempts to leave the camp and return home. Though whether or not he would be allowed to leave so easily in the current political climate was questionable. The previous commander had pointed him out to her as a troublemaker on the day she arrived.

She took a moment to better catalogue his appearance, feeling quite confident this would not be her last interaction with him. He was tall and broad shouldered, retaining only the slightest hint of teenage lankiness in his limbs. His white hair was long enough to be pulled back in a short, messy tail, and it was partially shaved in the rather interesting style she had seen on a few other Ishvalans. He had a strong, stubborn jaw that jutted even more prominently from the way he was gritting his teeth and a long, straight nose that was similarly contorted from his snarling expression. His eyes positively burned with anger, not just the temporary fury brought on by a fight, but the constant, seething rage of one who had lived through too much injustice to be calm and complacent.

Unlike his opponent, Olivier noticed with a smirk, he did not seem to have suffered much real damage from the brief altercation. "What's your name?" she asked in a much more level tone than she had taken with the soldier.

Some of the anger faded from his face, replaced by wary confusion. He slowly straightened from his hunched, guarded stance, though his eyes flickered downward to her still unsheathed sword as he did so. "…Miles," he replied after a long silence.

It was an Amestrian name, most likely a surname based on what she knew of Ishvalan beliefs regarding their given names. Hardly unheard of, but uncommon this far east and not what she would have expected in this camp. Intriguing. "Well, Miles," she began, "would you care to explain what started this?"

Irritation immediately flooded his features once again. "The guards are assholes," he snapped. "They treat everyone here like animals, and the kids get the worst of it, because they can't fight back." His eyes widened, and his teeth clicked together loudly as he quickly shut his mouth, as though biting back a torrent of even harsher criticisms.

Olivier narrowed her eyes. She would have to confirm his allegation, of course, but it rang true to her ears. She'd suspected as much already. Situations like this were tailor-made to give weaklings and cowards an overinflated sense of power. Her predecessor had not seemed like the kind of man to keep such a thing in check. That would change. She returned her focus to Miles. "And you take it upon yourself to fight back in their place?"

He nodded, still regarding her warily. He had spoken very bluntly and perhaps expected to be punished for it.

She allowed the silence to stretch on until he was shifting uncomfortably under her stare. "I believe you may have broken Sergeant Michaelson's nose," she observed at last. Another pause. He avoided meeting her eyes. "It was a good hit," she told him. "You're clearly not a trained fighter, but you have decent instincts."

For the first time since she'd approached, the anger in his eyes completely disappeared, replaced by an almost comedic expression of pure bafflement. "What?"

The corner of her mouth twisted up in amusement. She slid her blade smoothly into its scabbard and turned sharply on her heel. "Come with me," she ordered. There was only a momentary hesitation before she heard the crunch of footsteps following behind her.

They entered the small temporary construction building that served as her office, and she directed Miles to a chair near the door while she moved around to the other side of the cluttered desk in the center of the room. She ducked down to pull a first aid kit from the bottom drawer and placed it in front of him. "Here," she said, and when he merely blinked up at her, she added, "You're bleeding on my floor."

He looked down in surprise, evidently unaware that his knuckles had been oozing blood for the last several minutes. He frowned and delicately opened the kit to remove a roll of bandages.

"Good instincts," she repeated. "No training. It's sheer luck you didn't break any fingers." She watched as he got to work wrapping his hands, his eyes carefully focused on the task. "Despite their frequent displays of general incompetence, all of the soldiers here are trained combatants. Instinct can only get you so far; you wouldn't be as lucky trying to fight the rest of them."

He halted in his work to shoot a glare in her direction. "I didn't want to fight any of them," he said. "I did it because I had to." Looking back down, he added in an undertone, "Only the warrior priests are trained to fight."

"And you never trained with them at all?" she asked. She had heard it was quite common for young men in Ishval to spend at least some time pursuing the priesthood, even if few of them ever achieved it. The soldiers involved in the frequent skirmishes out east often complained about the almost inhuman physical strength many of the devout Ishvalans seemed to possess.

He shrugged. "I thought about it," he said, "but I just wasn't built for that path. I have trouble memorizing the holy texts, and I'm no good at teaching others." He finished with one hand and gave his fingers an experimental flex to make sure he hadn't limited his movement by too much. Then he started on his other hand. "Besides," he added, his casual tone suddenly quite forced, "my mother got sick right after I finished school, and I had to focus on taking care of her instead."

"I see," Olivier replied, logging that information away. "Have you ever considered getting training from anywhere else?"

He shook his head. "Like I said, only the priests learn to fight."

Olivier made no response to this, just watched as Miles finished with the bandage and closed the first aid kit. She took it and placed it back in the drawer, then set about clearing some of the mess scattered across the desk. The previous commander, who dropped further in her estimation with each passing day, had left many old files and personal belongings behind when he left, and she hadn't yet had the chance to organize it all.

Throughout her career, Olivier had found that the way people behaved when forced to wait could be quite revealing. Miles followed the haphazard clean up uncertainly, presumably wondering if that was all she had brought him here for and if he could leave now, but he held still in his seat. He was a bundle of unfocused anger and energy in desperate need of an outlet, but even still, he was capable of patience. More than she could say of many military officers she had worked with.

His eyes seemed to light up with particular interest as she lifted an old, heavily dinged up wooden chess set, and he visibly winced when she tossed it aside rather carelessly, the pieces inside rattling loudly as it hit the floor. She paused and fixed him with a curious look. "Something you play?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "A little, when I was younger," he said. "My grandmother taught me."

"Not a very traditional game in Ishval," she remarked.

There was an edge to his voice when he responded, "My grandmother was from Aerugo."

Even more intriguing. Olivier picked the chess set back up and placed it more gently on the corner of her desk, leaving her hand on top of it. Chess had never really held any particular interest for her. She had learned to play, of course, along with the rest of her siblings, but she much preferred the strategy of moving troops to that of moving pieces. Still, as anyone who'd spent any time working for Old Man Grumman knew, the game was often considered a good way to sharpen a soldier's mind. She considered Miles for a moment before pushing the set toward him. "Take it, then," she said.

He looked up at her in surprise. "Sorry?"

"It's a cast-off from the last commander," she explained, "and I have no need for such a thing cluttering my office. Better someone find a use for it." She gave the board another push, so he was forced to reach out quickly and grab it, rising half out of his chair in the process, in order to save it from tumbling to the floor again.

He straightened up awkwardly, holding the chess set with both hands, and attempted to look aloof despite the expression of panic that had just flitted across his face. "Um…" he mumbled. "Uh, thank you."

Olivier gave a curt nod in acknowledgement, dropped the last stack of files onto the floor, and moved around to stand in front of her desk. She planted her saber, scabbard down, against the ground, folded her hands over the hilt, and locked eyes with Miles. He self-consciously pulled himself up taller under her sudden scrutiny. "The next time you find yourself in another disagreement with the guards, you will report it to me," she told him. "I understand that sometimes actions must be taken in the moment, and I understand that perhaps the previous commander did nothing to solve the problems he was presented with. That will not be the case with me. From this moment on, nothing goes on in my fort without my knowing about it. If anyone prevents this facility from running as properly and efficiently as possible, they will dealt with or they will be removed. This applies to everyone. Do you understand?"

His eyes had grown wide as she spoke. Until now, she had been using what, from Olivier, passed for a calm and gentle voice. This was the powerful, authoritative voice of a high-ranking officer commanding her subordinate soldiers. Miles swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes," he said.

She tilted her chin. "Yes?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he corrected quickly. "I understand."

"Very good," she said. She shifted her sword to one hand and relaxed slightly from her imposing stance. The barest hint of a smile played on her face. "I look forward to speaking with you again, Miles," she said, her tone light and even once more. "You may go, now."

He nodded again, tucked the chess set under one arm, and left as quickly as he could without actually running.

Olivier let out a short huff of laughter and shook her head. The amusement only lasted for a moment. She walked back behind her desk, sat down heavily in her chair, and let out a deep sigh. This place was a damn mess, and it would take all of her effort to get it back into shape. And no doubt, as soon as she had begun to make real progress, she would be reassigned to the next mismanaged, middle-of-nowhere command on their list, leaving this one to flounder back into useless disarray. It was truly frustrating.

Still, she might be able to gain something of value on this assignment. Olivier reached down toward the papers she'd dropped and selected a slim stack with its pages held together by a metal clip. It was recruiting paperwork, meant to be filled out by a potential new soldier and submitted to the Fuhrer for approval. This was an out of date version, though. Typical of the previous commander. She would have to send for a current copy. She set the papers on her desk and leaned back in her chair. She laid her saber across her lap and tapped her fingers against the scabbard in thought.

An Ishvalan refugee with an Amestrian name and an Aerugonian grandmother. That was exactly the sort of soldier they needed in this conflict-ridden country. Someone who could understand, better than a born and bred Amestrian at least, the thoughts and feelings of those on all sides. Someone who could speak to them and for them with some measure of experience and influence. He seemed to have the right kind of temperament for it, too, passionate and outspoken, but not unreasonable. He had clashed with the guards but spoken respectfully enough to her, so his disdain seemed to be for abuses of power and not for authority in general. And he had a knack for fighting that could easily be trained up into proper, deadly skill. She would have to watch him for a while longer to be sure, but her initial judge of character was right far more often than it was wrong. The most difficult part would probably be convincing him of the good work he could do as a soldier with his unique perspective. She wouldn't be surprised if he held a serious resentment toward the military, given its extremely poor handling of the Ishval region and its people. But once she managed that…

Olivier had an acquaintance in Recruitment, a great hulking bear of a man who had laughed when she challenged him to a one-on-one fight and had laughed even harder when he'd lost. His main job was to scare the piss out of new soldiers, but he had some influence on the placement and further training of those who passed his assessments, and he'd come to trust her instincts when she hand-picked recruits to send his way. The military was notorious for taking anyone who didn't fit their very narrow image of the ideal soldier – an Ishvalan, for example – and stranding them at dead-end posts with no hope for advancement, where they could be quietly forgotten until some escalating conflict demanded more cannon fodder. Her contact could at least ensure Miles wouldn't be completely lost in the shuffle. From there it would be in his own hands, but she'd keep an eye on his progress.

He wouldn't be the only one. Olivier kept tabs on several soldiers who had caught her interest over the years, men and women from all corners of the military with a diverse selection of knowledge, talents, and circumstances. Most of them had been stuck squandering their abilities at those dead-end posts, jaded by previous commanders' disinterested treatment, and their loyalty had been hard-won on her part.

A good soldier knew the limits of her own abilities. A great soldier surrounded herself with people who compensated for those weaknesses. Olivier Mira Armstrong intended to work her way to the very top of this nest of rats they called the State Military, and she would need the best possible subordinates following her in order to one day reach that goal.

For now, though, she had a fort to get in order.