Façade

1. Tempest, a Legend

3rd POV

"Tempest." A voice called, with no answer.

"Tempest!" Still no answer.

"TEMPEST!!" The boy jerked out of dead sleep so fast his chair was knocked over backward, hitting with a loud thud.

He popped to attention. Eyes forward, standing tall, straight feet and a salute glued to his pale forehead. "Sir Yes Sir! I was not sleeping on the job, sir! I was merely giving this table top a meticulous inspection, Sir!"

Somebody quietly sniggered. This caused Tempest to double take. He blinked, absorbing his surroundings.

Central headquarters' cafeteria. People roaming their way to their cliques, who were obliviously chatting away at tables.

A barrage of blue uniforms flitting in and about carrying those dull, dull green trays full of slop - food, that is.

That god-awful coffee, he could smell its repugnant sugarlessness from where he stood.

Mr. I'm-a-smug-little-blond-immature-ass-who-thinks-every-mistake-tempest-makes-is-something-to-laugh-at, complete with his signature hair braid and expressionless tincan brother.

But most especially, the superior officer who'd called him out of a wicked dream.

"You're not Bradley.." Tempest visibly relaxed and frowned; how foolish he had seemed when screaming at the top of his lungs. "I was dreaming, about the um, State Alchemist test. At which Bradley was present. Haha. Not that I'd give a fellow dog like you two cenz of respect, Mustang."

"That's Führer Bradley to you, Storm Alchemist."

My POV (first person. I, me, my.)

Führer Bradley stepped forward with an air of authority to meet my gaze. The whole cafeteria stilled. It's not every day the Führer pays a personal visit to a mere alchemist.

"Fuhrer, sir, I wasn't expecting to see you. I- " I remembered etiquette. "Greetings, führer Bradley. What fortune I should be met by our president in person. Something you wanted sir?" Gradually, normal chatter resumed.

"I simply wished to meet the alchemist Cl. Mustang speaks of so fondly."

Guess this is it, then. The day I finally get fired. I suppose I should be honored, that I'm deemed so fucking special that I get booted by old Brad himself.

I, the soon to be ex-state alchemist, chewed my lip. I gave an almost imperceptible glance to Mustang, assuring the Colonel that yes, he would indeed be receiving hell once the president left.

In an unusually calm voice, comparable to the eye of a storm, I spoke. "Why colonel Mustang," I politely nodded, "I'm honored. Thank you for putting in a good word for me. Did I tell you? Granny turns 61 next week." I paused.

"...I was planning on getting her a present."

I can't get her a present if I'm dead. I'll be nice, I promise. I'll be a good little boy and respond to Mustang's beck and call like a damn mutt.