Keeping the Peace

“Peacekeepers, you say?”

The General turned to face Hargrave with her question.  The glow of chemical lanterns created sterile shadows in the Bastion barracks, and the smell of burnt coffee and ink dominated the small office in her fortress headquarters. They had been negotiating the final contracts for the better part of a week and had finally reached a deal that they could both agree upon.  There were only a few logistical concerns left, but they were already far past curfew.  

Mustang was considered austere by most of her soldiers, keeping frivolities and trinkets to a minimum in her workspace.  She tried not to focus too much on the tracked mud that had been brought in by the mercenary’s boots, making a mental note to have the staff take out the rug for cleaning after reveille. Each piece of furniture in the office was carefully chosen, maintained, and cleaned to her exacting standards, and it would not do to give her officers the idea that such a mess would be allowed in their quarters.  Strength through discipline.

“I had thought you’d want to keep the name of ‘militia’ somewhere, Colonel.”  It had been one of the earliest points of contention.  Hargrave declined her first offer of “the Loyalist Militia”, and she had opposed tying the force to his family back in the Sequoia Wastes.  Strangely, he hadn’t wanted to keep the name “Bravado Militia” either, but she hadn’t argued that point.  He’d seem to have a bit of a grudge after the Vados had declined to fund the Militia in the recent treaty. 

Simply getting Hargrave to accept a rank of Colonel instead of his former title of General had been an early accommodation, so naming the combined military force of the San Saba was ultimately a concession she’d give up to the mercenary leader.  He’d relented on the titles since Bastion had agreed to foot the bill for the communal military force.  Ever the consummate mercenary – loyal to whoever kept the Brass flowing.

Hargrave Moss-Iverspiit grinned, clearly ready for the line of questioning.

“We both agree that names have power, General Mustang.  Titles, traditions, all of these things carry more importance than just a patch on a uniform.  It gives our soldiers a common cause, a shared banner, and a reminder that this is something new.”  He gestured to the flag, the black and red banner of the former Bravado Militia.  “We can keep the flag, but the name is how we are going to sell this to the San Saba and every town from here to Essex.”

“Peace keeping is both our mandate, and reminder of our purpose.  It’s simple, catchy, and it’s not in any way tied with the Loyalists, the Moss-Iverspiits, and especially Bravado.” He gave her another of his most charming smiles, and continued.

“Look, our troops are made up mostly of former Militia folks trying to work together with your Loyalists.  We have men that lost friends during the Battle of Waking and during the early days of the war to the very same soldiers they serve with now.  Tensions are high, and we need something new.  Something that gives both sides something to rally behind.”

Hargrave leaned back in his chair, idly throwing a small knife into the air and catching it absent mindedly, as Mustang pondered his suggestion.  At first, Mustang grimaced at the weapon, thinking back to the search her captain had done of the mercenary, but she quickly regained her composure.  Trust would need to work both ways if this arrangement was to work.  Hargrave certainly didn’t need a weapon to be dangerous. She’d seen enough of his work during the war. 

“I like it. Your reasoning is sound, Colonel. Let’s move to the last point – force reduction.”  She shuffled through the pages on her desk until she found the next set of orders to consider.

“While your… excessive… requirements for funding and scrap have been met for now, Bastion won’t be able to afford these costs forever.  There’s too much redundancy and too many soldiers for an area this small, and I certainly can’t have your former Militia outnumbering my Loyalists if I’m going to pay their salaries.  We can secure the peninsula with far less troops, and certainly less armaments.  I’d like to reduce our numbers considerably over the next quarter, by almost 50%, but we can spare your Moss-Iverspiit elites from the cuts.”  She braced for an opposition, but clearly Hargrave had considered the same problem.  He reached out his free hand at her suggestion, and took her offered list of figures and supply requisitions.

“I was contemplating the same thing before we signed the treaty, to be honest.” he said with a sigh.  “Most of our folks are farmers and craftsmen, not soldiers.  They’ve got heart, but there’s only a handful like the 103rd that ever really proved themselves beyond basic formations. People were happy to sign up during the war, but the prospect of an easy paycheck and guaranteed meals has kept the Militia bloated.  We can definitely benefit from a reduction, keeping only the best.  We’ll need to send a lot of them back home with some kind of severance, but I think we can find a path forward that reduces our costs.”  He glanced over the ledgers one last time, before handing them back.

“They said you were a quartermaster to the last Mustang in Star City.  It certainly shows in this.  I’ve got no objections to the reduction, and you’ve laid out a solid plan.  But if we reduce the numbers like this, we’ll need to reorganize the ranks a bit too. It can't be just Vados we send home.” Mustang nodded appreciatively at his compliment, but allowed him to elaborate.

“The name isn’t enough.  If we want this to work, we need to integrate the regiment completely.  Your officers, my soldiers.  My officers, your soldiers.  We make them work together, scrub latrines together, and fight raiders together. The quickest way to harmony is making sure they see the Loyalists as fellow soldiers, and vice versa.  We can keep the most obvious fight risks separated, but it’s worked every time we’ve brought in new mercs up north.”  Hargrave caught his blade after a dramatic flourish, as if punctuating his argument.

Mustang took a moment to direct her gaze at the prominent icon of the Fallow Hope mounted at her personal shrine in the office.  Mustang knew Hargrave didn’t share the faith, but he was devout in his own way. “Keeping the peace, both in name and deed. It is wise to find ways to highlight what we share. The faithful learn best by witnessing the path walked with purpose and resolve, as the tenets say.” 

Hargrave grinned triumphantly, and they both settled into discussing the finer parts of the force reduction.  

They’d be done by morning after all.