A/N- Let me get this out of the way: This is a fan fiction site. That means that I am a fan and not the owner of FMA. Are you shocked?

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No More! launched into the final song of the night. It was their biggest hit- Panic Attack. The fans, some of which had traveled to Bolshanya from all over Drachma, screamed as the familiar opening notes buzzed through the sound system. Roy Mustang, singer and bass guitarist, looked ghostly on the stage. His black hair and clothes faded into the dark void generated by the spotlights. His normally pale skin seemed to have faded into a nearly transparent hoarfrost, and his black nail polish starkly contrasted with his paper white hands. His eyes were dark to begin with, and the midnight black eyeliner turned them into bottomless pools of ink. In contrast, lead guitarist and other lead singer Jean Havoc's hair flickered like golden flames. He hunched his lanky body over his guitar and concentrated on his complex solo. Havoc could occasionally get lost in one of his sonic feats, but the steady rhythm of Vato Falman's drums kept everything together. Havoc began singing the opening line, and many people in the audience mouthed the words along with Jean's singing. Fists pumped the air. Panic Attack was like an anthem to many disenfranchised young people. Roy floated over to Jean's microphone to join him for the chorus; their faces were so close that they seemed to touch. They had met in their late teens where they established a strong friendship. When they shared a microphone, there was a somehow extra-charged sexual energy that they emitted. They weren't lovers- never had been and didn't want to be, but when they sang together like that, they each seemed stronger, sexier, and more magical. The crowd roared as the song ended. The three musicians thanked their audience and strode off of the stage.

The security guards cleared a path for the three men who proceeded to their dressing room and lounge. The two-and-a-half hour concert had been draining, and they had already spent the afternoon autographing photos, CDs, and almost whatever (though there were certain items that they would not sign!) for their fans. Still, they were always determined to give their audience their money's worth, so they had thrown themselves into the performance.

The three musicians flopped onto the sofa opposite four members of the Drachman press. They were only the second Amestrian band to play in Drachma, which still did not have comfortably friendly relations with Amestris. Briggs was always on alert in the north, but the problems were between the two governments and the militaries, not the music lovers. There were no borders when it came to the arts. Of course, the journalists didn't see it that way, and they asked lots of political questions. Havoc kept telling them that the band wasn't political and had no political views, but the reporter from the Drachma Daily insisted that their playing in Drachma was in itself a political act. He wasn't wrong, but they continued to deny being political and hoped that they didn't come across as coy or false. The band cooperated with the journalists for well over an hour, and if the press had been paying very close attention, they might have noticed Mustang, who had been sitting in the middle, discreetly nudge his band mates. Havoc, the most outgoing and congenial of the three grinned his big open grin and asked the reporters to take pity on them and let them clean up and rest. They obliged, and the Amestrians were alone. Jean lit a cigarette, and Vato picked up a large volume on the history of Drachma. Roy didn't change from his black outfit, but he removed his eyeliner, donned a jacket, pulled a cap over his eyes, and went out of the arena and into the night.

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Riza Hawkeye smiled enchantingly at the tall tuxedoed man as she sipped from her flute of Asti Spumante. Her spun-gold hair was in an elegant twist, and her ears sparkled with rubies that brought out the red in her lips and eyes. Her black dress was both classy and sexy, which was how just about everybody described the lady herself. The tall man was with the Cretan delegation to Drachma. Like most of the other Foreign Service people in Drachma, he was drawn to the lovely wife of the Amestrian functionary as a moth is drawn to a flame. Her intelligence and charm had made her well-known and much sought after in diplomatic circles. As she and the beguiled Cretan chatted and laughed, Heymans Breda joined them, and with a smile, he put an arm around his wife and kissed her cheek. At first glance, many thought of Heymans and Riza as the oddest possible couple. He was not a very good-looking man, and she possessed a quiet but intense beauty that men coveted and women envied. But Breda was a man of great intelligence, and anyone who spent any amount of time with the couple could tell that they were very compatible, even if they seemed to lack chemistry.

"I'm sorry to steal my lovely wife away from you, but I really must speak with her immediately. Please forgive us," Breda asked the Cretan, who smiled sadly as he bowed his acquiescence. Riza tilted her head and returned the Cretan's regretful smile. "I hope to see you again very soon," she murmured as she extended her hand, which the Cretan caught and kissed. Breda put his hand on the small of his wife's back and led her towards the doorway.

"Did the Cretan say anything interesting?" Breda asked when they were too far away to be overheard.

"Nothing that I recognized as important, but who am I to say? I'll include it in the package. Thanks for extracting me. I'd better go get it together. The courier is due in just over an hour," Riza spoke softly to Heymans. He nodded and then kissed her cheek again. "I'll join you back at our rooms later," he told her before she left through the ornate double doors of the hall.

She proceeded out of the Cretan Embassy and into the night where the wind loosened her hair. It was chillier than she had anticipated, so she was relieved when her limousine driver immediately appeared at the bottom of the steps. He began to run up the steps to help her down, but she waived him to stop. As she finished descending the stairs, the driver returned to the limo and eased it up to the foot of the steps. He opened the limo's rear door, and Riza slid gracefully into the vehicle. The driver was well trained, and the limo was gently warm. He slipped back into the driver's seat, and without speaking drove her to the Amestrian Embassy where her husband and she had a suite. The chauffeur, who also had several other valuable skills, accompanied her through the halls of the embassy to her rooms. He opened the door and pulled a device from his pocket. After sweeping the rooms with his device, he nodded at Riza who thanked and dismissed him. She toed off her four-inch heels, sat down at her vanity, and opened her makeup drawer. She reached in, and with a practiced tap of one of her immaculately polished scarlet fingernails, she unlocked and slid open a nearly undetectable compartment. She withdrew a small silicon chip and a couple of papers that, after adding coded notes about the night's conversations, she wrapped around the chip. She tucked these into a small manila envelope.

She stood, slipped off the black dress, and carefully hung it up. After unclasping and rolling down her silk hose, she wrapped herself in a silk Xingese robe and matching slippers. Riza placed the envelope with the papers and the chip in the robe's left hand pocket and a pistol into the right. She had done this many times, but one could never be too careful. She flung a light blanket over her shoulders before walking out onto the balcony where she lithely sat herself on the rocking chair and waited.

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Mustang, who in person looked smaller and younger than he did on stage or in photos, especially when not wearing eyeliner, easily blended into the crowd of young adults leaving the concert. He needed the cover of the small crowd that had lingered after the concert, but he was concerned that he might be late for his rendezvous. Well, his contact would just have to be patient. If anyone in the group recognized him as No More's bassist, he'd be mobbed. He hoped to avoid that, but it would be better than being caught sneaking off alone in this harsh country. He boarded one of the buses that were still waiting outside to take people away from the arena, and he rode it for a couple of miles to his stop. Several concertgoers got off with him, and they all waved goodbye to each other. They didn't all know each other, but they had shared a dynamic experience, a collective euphoria. Roy crossed the street with a wave of his own and disappeared into the small park.

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Riza plopped onto the bed with uncharacteristic abandon. The hand off to the courier had gone smoothly, but that particular courier really irked her. There must not have been any reported issues with him, because the chiefs continued to use him, but she neither liked nor trusted him. She disliked how he looked at her with raking eyes, but it was more than that. Well, it might be her problem, because he knew who she was and therefore had power over her, but she had no authority to do anything about it.

She lay back in bed and closed her eyes. It had been a long, tiring, and boring day. Riza may have played the part of the delightfully witty beauty very well, but that's what it was to her- a role to be played. She was really a woman of action, not acting, and the social whirl of the diplomats did not appeal to her. The pistol that she had slipped into her robe pocket had been no idle threat. She was an expert markswoman, and she was well trained in multiple martial arts. However, the powers-that-be had determined that she was more valuable flirting tidbits of information from the foreign dignitaries than playing spy versus spy. The government had, she had learned long ago, kept tabs on her from her time at the university. They had liked that she was a polyglot as well as cool under pressure, and her looks didn't hurt. She knew that "they" had manipulated her into a relationship with Heymans, then a rising star in the diplomatic corps, but that had worked out well enough. He was a good man, intelligent and kind. There had never been any sparks between them, but she believed herself to be a rational woman and Heymans to be a sound choice as a husband. She certainly did not believe in love. Heymans wasn't back from the party, yet, and that disappointed her a little. He would have told her that what she was doing was important, and then he would have made her laugh. He would have warmed her with his portly but cuddly body. They really did get along. His only flaw was his insane and inexplicable fear of dogs. Oh, how she would love to have a puppy. She chuckled as she imagined herself kicking an evil-looking foe in the face as her dog bit his leg. What a team they'd be! Her little fantasy ushered her into the land of dreams.

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A/N- Yeah. I think that Breda might be cuddly. I see the band as kind a cross between Green Day and Nirvana but with super virtuoso guitar like in the old Cream or Jimi Hendrix Experience. The band is LOUD! The thing with Havoc and Mustang sharing the microphone is from having watched Joe Perry and Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. I'm not really into Yaoi, but Steven and Joe at the same microphone was one of the hottest things I've ever seen. Riza is loosely modeled after Valerie Plame, the diplomat's wife who was outed as a spy by the Bush administration in retaliation for her husband's unfavorable reports. Many thanks for reading. Puleeze review.