Elections [Royai, T] Chapters 9&10/14
Title: Elections
Artist/Author: gaia_lulia
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of the series, unfinished work
Prompt: Future story, how far in the future is up to the author. All I ask is that Roy and Riza are together. Maybe a little action/adventure if you’d like. Author’s choice is they’re both in the military still or if someone has retired.
Summary: Grumman made the country a democracy before Roy made it to the top. Now, he and his team have an election to win, and Roy and Riza have to figure out where this leaves them.
Hey! I've actually been working on this! Endings are hard. The other four chapters are written but being edited; expect them in the next couple of days.
A NATION IN MOURNING
August 3rd, 1922
CENTRAL CITY- Thousands took to the street today for the funeral of the late Fuhrer Grumman. The Fuhrer passed away in his sleep from a heart ailment on Tuesday. He is mourned by a nation grateful for his strong leadership.
Fuhrer Grumman took office in 1915, directly after the assassination of the late Fuhrer Bradley. The Fuhrer’s regime has been notable for progressive social programs and more permissive restrictions on the press and the judicial system. The Fuhrer’s crowning achievement, however, is the transfer of governmental power to the Parliament, which is due to take place after the October elections. “The time has come for the people of Amestris to determine their own fate,” Grumman was quoted as saying last month.
General Olivier Mira Armstrong, who was named as his successor in May, spoke yesterday to a crowd of mourners, saying “Fuhrer Grumman was an excellent leader, and will be missed. In his absence, I will do my best to lead Amestris through these difficult times.”
The Fuhrer is survived only by his granddaughter, Captain Riza Hawkeye (ret.).
----------------------------
The New Optain Dispatch, excerpt, editorial section.
August 2nd, 1922.
Former General Roy Mustang quietly announced his intention to run for Prime Minister this week. You may have missed it in the whirlwind of mourning surrounding the Fuhrer’s death; most people did. For those keeping track, this brings the count of PM candidates to five: Antony Davis for the Amestrian Nationalists, Franklin Greeley for the Democratic Populists, Malkus Parker and Alf Shriver as independents, and now Roy Mustang for the newly-formed Progressive Alliance.
Usually, candidates for high office seek out attention. So why has Mustang chosen to downplay his entry into the field? It may be that he is doing so in honor of the late Fuhrer who was by all accounts a close friend. However, Mustang has played a canny game so far. No one expected him to be a player in the upcoming election, but he bypassed the seat requirement by filling an empty seat by petition. He has also moved startlingly fast in forming a new party. Whatever his reasons for being quiet about the announcement, I think we can be certain that he will move quickly once the situation calls for it.
How he will move, though, is more of a question. Mustang’s Progressive Alliance is an aggregation of former DemPops, independents, and left-leaning rabble-rousers. For a man with a history that looks staunchly conservative, pro-military and downright hawkish, he has chosen surprising allies. What is more surprising, however, is that he was able to recruit long-serving MPs like Austen Chapple (Stilling), Percy Colefax (Yock) and Ellen Wilkinson (Bellin). As a junior MP, we would have expected Mustang to join their parties, and not the other way round.
The Dispatch has no intention of endorsing a candidate until it becomes clear that all of the players have arrived and declared themselves. Nonetheless, Roy Mustang will be an interesting candidate to watch.
----------------------------
----------------------------
It wasn’t fair that she didn’t have a uniform anymore. She hadn’t liked the uniform; it was wool, and too heavy, and the cavalry skirt was an idiotic relic. But at least she didn’t have to think about it. When she had attended Hughes’ funeral, she had been able to put the uniform on, with the black funeral sash, and know that she was dressed appropriately. She had been faceless in her grief, identical to dozens of other soldiers there.
Now she had choices. She was somehow expected to decide what to wear to the funeral of the former leader of her country, who had also been her last remaining relative. The press would be there, and she had to be presentable. Finally, she settled on a black skirt and blouse with sensible heels- why not be traditional, after all.
She went downstairs and waited for the car to pick her up. Roy was already there when the door opened. He held out a hand to help her into the car. She took it and stepped in, settling onto the seat next to him. “How are you?” he asked quietly as they got underway.
“I’m not sure how I should be,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Am I expected to grieve? I hardly knew the man. I’ve only known he was related to me for the last few years, and it’s not as though he made any effort to forge a relationship. You knew him better than I did.” She subsided, calming herself.
Roy took her hand, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Appearances,” he said, wryly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I have complete faith in your ability to be appropriately solemn.”
Riza wasn’t sure why she was responding so strongly. It was true that she didn’t know Grumman well enough to grieve for him, for all that she was his sole heir- but perhaps that was it. It seemed like such a waste. if Grumman was going to claim her, surely it should have been years ago- when his only daughter had died, leaving Riza to look after her father on her own. When her father had died, leaving Riza to find her way in the world. It should have been when he could have been of some use to her.
She made herself look out the window, pursing her lips slightly. Beside her, Roy held her hand in his, and did not try to make her talk.
The service was what she expected. It was a military funeral, with pomp according to Grumman’s rank. As the only family present, Riza found herself, Roy in tow, in the front row of the assembled masses. Olivier Armstrong was to her left. Riza wondered what message that placement was meant to send, if any. Grumman’s two heirs- civil and military- seated together at his funeral.
The press were discreet, at least. There was a periodic flashing of bulbs, but otherwise they remained silent. Riza tried to keep herself composed for the cameras. When it was over, she was presented with the flag from the casket. She had already been informed that she would need to surrender it later for historical preservation, but this was her part in the ritual. She accepted the flag and tucked it neatly into her lap. With a dirge playing, the coffin was lowered into the ground. A small army of men began spading dirt over it.
“That was maudlin,” Armstrong murmured disapprovingly.
“Funerals often are,” Riza pointed out.
Armstrong harrumphed. “I suppose they’ll do this for me someday,” she said. “I hope Alex is dead by then. He can always be counted on to make a spectacle of himself.”
The earth was packed and rounded over the grave, and she stood and saluted with the rest. It was slightly irregular for Riza to offer a military farewell out of uniform, but she was a soldier, even if a retired one.
Roy turned to Armstrong as the service ended. “You’re looking as radiant as ever,” he said, as she made to file away.
Armstrong looked at him as though he were something she’d found burning in a paper bag on her stoop. “I hear you’ve become a politician,” she said.
Roy smiled. “I hear you’re about to become Fuhrer,” he said. He grinned suddenly. “She should have dinner sometime!” he exclaimed. “The two of us and my beautiful fiancée!” He wrapped an arm around Riza’s waist.
Olivier looked over at Riza. “You have unfortunate taste in men, she said. “But let me know if you ever change your mind about him. I could use someone like you on my staff.”
Riza raised and eyebrow. “I’m happy where I am,” she said, dryly. “For the moment. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Hmph,” Armstrong said, and marched away.
“Sir,” Riza said, acidly. “I prefer you not use me as part of your hobby of baiting Olivier Armstrong.”
Roy carefully removed his arm from her waist, still grinning unrepentantly. “We are going to have to develop a relationship with her,” he said.
“It would probably be better if the relationship didn’t involve her wanting to murder you,” Riza pointed out.
“I think it’s too late to change that,” Roy said. “But the more irritating I am, the more relieved she’ll be to deal with you.”
“Shifting your work off onto me again?” she said, but she wasn’t actually as annoyed as she let herself sound. Roy realized that, of course. He just smiled and offered her his arm.
As they made their way down the hill and toward the waiting cars, the press were there with their cameras again. Riza did her best to pretend that they weren’t there; Roy did his best to look supportive and empathetic to Riza. There was the female vote to think about, after all.
“What do you think this will mean?” Riza murmured, just loud enough for Roy to hear her. “Grumman’s death. It could change the entire game.”
“I don’t know,” Roy said. “I wish I had a better feel for Olivier’s stance. This was an unfortunately timed event.”
“Death is rarely fortunately timed,” Riza observed.
----------------------------
Riza and Breda were checking over the security precautions again. Breda slouched amiably in a chair, while Riza bent over the table in between them. “This is a bad setup,” she said. “There are too many angles of fire to the stage.”
She would know, of course. “It’s in a city,” Roy argued. “There are buildings around. Short of evacuating the block, which won’t win us any friends, there’s nothing we can do about that.
She sighed. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, skeptically.
Breda grinned. “We could put you up in your own nest. I’m sure you could snipe the snipers.”
Riza looked a little wistful at that, but Roy shook his head. “No, she’s going to be on stage with me, holding my hand so I don’t die of stage fright.”
Riza rolled her eyes. “If we get reports of rioting, though, I want you to reconsider the event.”
Roy knew she was worried. It was even reasonable for her to be worried. Everything was... unsettled, since Grumman’s death. There’d been rumors that Armstrong intended to cancel the elections, and rumors that she wouldn’t, and both were frightening prospects for the Amestrian people. There’d been riots in Youswell and Pickerington- they’d been restored to order fairly quickly, but there was a palpable tension in the air, even here in New Optain. Roy shook his head. “No, I won’t. People need to know that we’re continuing, no matter what. If I cancel an event, I show a lack of faith.” He smiled, just slightly. “And a lack of spine.”
He could tell that she wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t worth his life. But they’d both done that calculation long ago. She’d fight to protect his life, but his goals came first. “Just be cautious,” she advised, sharply. “This was all for nothing if you’re dead.”
“On that note,” Breda said, “I’ll leave you to work on your speech. I should get these changes to the security team.”
“Thank you, Heymans,” Riza said. With a backwards wave, Breda sauntered out of the room.
“My speech,” Roy groaned, dramatically. “Contrary to popular belief, I hate speaking in front of crowds.”
“Don’t whine,” Riza told him. “You knew what you were getting into when you decided to do this.” But she still sat down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. He smiled and relaxed into her touch.
Roy was only partially joking about stage fright. He knew theater. The hall, the heavy velvet curtains, the bright lights- they were all familiar from the cabaret and dance shows he’d grown up with. But he’d only ever been stage crew. The prospect of walking out in front of the lights was strangely unnerving. “You’re not the one who has to get up in front of everyone,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I am,” she said, calmly. “I’ll be right there at your side, won’t I?”
-----------------------------------
Roy stood at the podium, the lights shining bright in his eyes. The hall was loud with talking. In the distance, he could see signs waving. This can’t be worse than a firefight, he told himself, though he was a little dubious on that point. He made himself smile and pull his voice up from his diaphragm. “Hello,” he said, and heard the sound amplified out into the noisy hall. They quieted slowly. Roy gripped the sides of the podium. “It’s a pleasure to be in New Optain,” he said. “It’s been too long since I was here.” They cheered, and he waited for the noise to die down again.
“There are moments,” he said, “where we stand at the edge of the unknown. Where there is a choice to be made, and it will determine the future courses of our lives. These moments are frightening and dangerous, but full of opportunity. And we, as a nation, stand on the edge of one such moment now.”
It wasn’t bad once he got going. The crowd responded to him, and the lights put distance between him and them. And once he started- well, he had other things to think about. He was caught up in the flow of words.
“These have been difficult years for Amestris,” he told them. “We have all felt the impact of the wars in Aerugo and Ishval. None of us have emerged from those conflicts unscarred. All of us have lost friends and family- fathers and sisters and brothers. But we have before us the opportunity to change the course of our country. To choose to be done with damaging and expensive wars. To choose peace for the first time in generations.”
They were quiet now, rapt, listening. He liked this, he realized suddenly.
“I cannot say that I am the best man for the job,” he continued. “That’s not my choice to make- it’s yours now. But I will say that I’ve given my life to the service of Amestris. I have served this nation as best I could. Now that my dream of a truly democratic Amestris is about to come true, I hope that you’ll allow me to serve as her Prime Minister.” He paused, smiling. “Thank you. Good night.”
Riza was waiting for him as he stepped off the podium. “That was a good first try,” she allowed, her eyes sparkling.
Roy’s hands were steady. “It’ll get better,” he assured her, grinning.
Artist/Author: gaia_lulia
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of the series, unfinished work
Prompt: Future story, how far in the future is up to the author. All I ask is that Roy and Riza are together. Maybe a little action/adventure if you’d like. Author’s choice is they’re both in the military still or if someone has retired.
Summary: Grumman made the country a democracy before Roy made it to the top. Now, he and his team have an election to win, and Roy and Riza have to figure out where this leaves them.
Hey! I've actually been working on this! Endings are hard. The other four chapters are written but being edited; expect them in the next couple of days.
A NATION IN MOURNING
August 3rd, 1922
CENTRAL CITY- Thousands took to the street today for the funeral of the late Fuhrer Grumman. The Fuhrer passed away in his sleep from a heart ailment on Tuesday. He is mourned by a nation grateful for his strong leadership.
Fuhrer Grumman took office in 1915, directly after the assassination of the late Fuhrer Bradley. The Fuhrer’s regime has been notable for progressive social programs and more permissive restrictions on the press and the judicial system. The Fuhrer’s crowning achievement, however, is the transfer of governmental power to the Parliament, which is due to take place after the October elections. “The time has come for the people of Amestris to determine their own fate,” Grumman was quoted as saying last month.
General Olivier Mira Armstrong, who was named as his successor in May, spoke yesterday to a crowd of mourners, saying “Fuhrer Grumman was an excellent leader, and will be missed. In his absence, I will do my best to lead Amestris through these difficult times.”
The Fuhrer is survived only by his granddaughter, Captain Riza Hawkeye (ret.).
----------------------------
The New Optain Dispatch, excerpt, editorial section.
August 2nd, 1922.
Former General Roy Mustang quietly announced his intention to run for Prime Minister this week. You may have missed it in the whirlwind of mourning surrounding the Fuhrer’s death; most people did. For those keeping track, this brings the count of PM candidates to five: Antony Davis for the Amestrian Nationalists, Franklin Greeley for the Democratic Populists, Malkus Parker and Alf Shriver as independents, and now Roy Mustang for the newly-formed Progressive Alliance.
Usually, candidates for high office seek out attention. So why has Mustang chosen to downplay his entry into the field? It may be that he is doing so in honor of the late Fuhrer who was by all accounts a close friend. However, Mustang has played a canny game so far. No one expected him to be a player in the upcoming election, but he bypassed the seat requirement by filling an empty seat by petition. He has also moved startlingly fast in forming a new party. Whatever his reasons for being quiet about the announcement, I think we can be certain that he will move quickly once the situation calls for it.
How he will move, though, is more of a question. Mustang’s Progressive Alliance is an aggregation of former DemPops, independents, and left-leaning rabble-rousers. For a man with a history that looks staunchly conservative, pro-military and downright hawkish, he has chosen surprising allies. What is more surprising, however, is that he was able to recruit long-serving MPs like Austen Chapple (Stilling), Percy Colefax (Yock) and Ellen Wilkinson (Bellin). As a junior MP, we would have expected Mustang to join their parties, and not the other way round.
The Dispatch has no intention of endorsing a candidate until it becomes clear that all of the players have arrived and declared themselves. Nonetheless, Roy Mustang will be an interesting candidate to watch.
----------------------------
----------------------------
It wasn’t fair that she didn’t have a uniform anymore. She hadn’t liked the uniform; it was wool, and too heavy, and the cavalry skirt was an idiotic relic. But at least she didn’t have to think about it. When she had attended Hughes’ funeral, she had been able to put the uniform on, with the black funeral sash, and know that she was dressed appropriately. She had been faceless in her grief, identical to dozens of other soldiers there.
Now she had choices. She was somehow expected to decide what to wear to the funeral of the former leader of her country, who had also been her last remaining relative. The press would be there, and she had to be presentable. Finally, she settled on a black skirt and blouse with sensible heels- why not be traditional, after all.
She went downstairs and waited for the car to pick her up. Roy was already there when the door opened. He held out a hand to help her into the car. She took it and stepped in, settling onto the seat next to him. “How are you?” he asked quietly as they got underway.
“I’m not sure how I should be,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Am I expected to grieve? I hardly knew the man. I’ve only known he was related to me for the last few years, and it’s not as though he made any effort to forge a relationship. You knew him better than I did.” She subsided, calming herself.
Roy took her hand, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Appearances,” he said, wryly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I have complete faith in your ability to be appropriately solemn.”
Riza wasn’t sure why she was responding so strongly. It was true that she didn’t know Grumman well enough to grieve for him, for all that she was his sole heir- but perhaps that was it. It seemed like such a waste. if Grumman was going to claim her, surely it should have been years ago- when his only daughter had died, leaving Riza to look after her father on her own. When her father had died, leaving Riza to find her way in the world. It should have been when he could have been of some use to her.
She made herself look out the window, pursing her lips slightly. Beside her, Roy held her hand in his, and did not try to make her talk.
The service was what she expected. It was a military funeral, with pomp according to Grumman’s rank. As the only family present, Riza found herself, Roy in tow, in the front row of the assembled masses. Olivier Armstrong was to her left. Riza wondered what message that placement was meant to send, if any. Grumman’s two heirs- civil and military- seated together at his funeral.
The press were discreet, at least. There was a periodic flashing of bulbs, but otherwise they remained silent. Riza tried to keep herself composed for the cameras. When it was over, she was presented with the flag from the casket. She had already been informed that she would need to surrender it later for historical preservation, but this was her part in the ritual. She accepted the flag and tucked it neatly into her lap. With a dirge playing, the coffin was lowered into the ground. A small army of men began spading dirt over it.
“That was maudlin,” Armstrong murmured disapprovingly.
“Funerals often are,” Riza pointed out.
Armstrong harrumphed. “I suppose they’ll do this for me someday,” she said. “I hope Alex is dead by then. He can always be counted on to make a spectacle of himself.”
The earth was packed and rounded over the grave, and she stood and saluted with the rest. It was slightly irregular for Riza to offer a military farewell out of uniform, but she was a soldier, even if a retired one.
Roy turned to Armstrong as the service ended. “You’re looking as radiant as ever,” he said, as she made to file away.
Armstrong looked at him as though he were something she’d found burning in a paper bag on her stoop. “I hear you’ve become a politician,” she said.
Roy smiled. “I hear you’re about to become Fuhrer,” he said. He grinned suddenly. “She should have dinner sometime!” he exclaimed. “The two of us and my beautiful fiancée!” He wrapped an arm around Riza’s waist.
Olivier looked over at Riza. “You have unfortunate taste in men, she said. “But let me know if you ever change your mind about him. I could use someone like you on my staff.”
Riza raised and eyebrow. “I’m happy where I am,” she said, dryly. “For the moment. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Hmph,” Armstrong said, and marched away.
“Sir,” Riza said, acidly. “I prefer you not use me as part of your hobby of baiting Olivier Armstrong.”
Roy carefully removed his arm from her waist, still grinning unrepentantly. “We are going to have to develop a relationship with her,” he said.
“It would probably be better if the relationship didn’t involve her wanting to murder you,” Riza pointed out.
“I think it’s too late to change that,” Roy said. “But the more irritating I am, the more relieved she’ll be to deal with you.”
“Shifting your work off onto me again?” she said, but she wasn’t actually as annoyed as she let herself sound. Roy realized that, of course. He just smiled and offered her his arm.
As they made their way down the hill and toward the waiting cars, the press were there with their cameras again. Riza did her best to pretend that they weren’t there; Roy did his best to look supportive and empathetic to Riza. There was the female vote to think about, after all.
“What do you think this will mean?” Riza murmured, just loud enough for Roy to hear her. “Grumman’s death. It could change the entire game.”
“I don’t know,” Roy said. “I wish I had a better feel for Olivier’s stance. This was an unfortunately timed event.”
“Death is rarely fortunately timed,” Riza observed.
----------------------------
Riza and Breda were checking over the security precautions again. Breda slouched amiably in a chair, while Riza bent over the table in between them. “This is a bad setup,” she said. “There are too many angles of fire to the stage.”
She would know, of course. “It’s in a city,” Roy argued. “There are buildings around. Short of evacuating the block, which won’t win us any friends, there’s nothing we can do about that.
She sighed. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, skeptically.
Breda grinned. “We could put you up in your own nest. I’m sure you could snipe the snipers.”
Riza looked a little wistful at that, but Roy shook his head. “No, she’s going to be on stage with me, holding my hand so I don’t die of stage fright.”
Riza rolled her eyes. “If we get reports of rioting, though, I want you to reconsider the event.”
Roy knew she was worried. It was even reasonable for her to be worried. Everything was... unsettled, since Grumman’s death. There’d been rumors that Armstrong intended to cancel the elections, and rumors that she wouldn’t, and both were frightening prospects for the Amestrian people. There’d been riots in Youswell and Pickerington- they’d been restored to order fairly quickly, but there was a palpable tension in the air, even here in New Optain. Roy shook his head. “No, I won’t. People need to know that we’re continuing, no matter what. If I cancel an event, I show a lack of faith.” He smiled, just slightly. “And a lack of spine.”
He could tell that she wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t worth his life. But they’d both done that calculation long ago. She’d fight to protect his life, but his goals came first. “Just be cautious,” she advised, sharply. “This was all for nothing if you’re dead.”
“On that note,” Breda said, “I’ll leave you to work on your speech. I should get these changes to the security team.”
“Thank you, Heymans,” Riza said. With a backwards wave, Breda sauntered out of the room.
“My speech,” Roy groaned, dramatically. “Contrary to popular belief, I hate speaking in front of crowds.”
“Don’t whine,” Riza told him. “You knew what you were getting into when you decided to do this.” But she still sat down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. He smiled and relaxed into her touch.
Roy was only partially joking about stage fright. He knew theater. The hall, the heavy velvet curtains, the bright lights- they were all familiar from the cabaret and dance shows he’d grown up with. But he’d only ever been stage crew. The prospect of walking out in front of the lights was strangely unnerving. “You’re not the one who has to get up in front of everyone,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I am,” she said, calmly. “I’ll be right there at your side, won’t I?”
-----------------------------------
Roy stood at the podium, the lights shining bright in his eyes. The hall was loud with talking. In the distance, he could see signs waving. This can’t be worse than a firefight, he told himself, though he was a little dubious on that point. He made himself smile and pull his voice up from his diaphragm. “Hello,” he said, and heard the sound amplified out into the noisy hall. They quieted slowly. Roy gripped the sides of the podium. “It’s a pleasure to be in New Optain,” he said. “It’s been too long since I was here.” They cheered, and he waited for the noise to die down again.
“There are moments,” he said, “where we stand at the edge of the unknown. Where there is a choice to be made, and it will determine the future courses of our lives. These moments are frightening and dangerous, but full of opportunity. And we, as a nation, stand on the edge of one such moment now.”
It wasn’t bad once he got going. The crowd responded to him, and the lights put distance between him and them. And once he started- well, he had other things to think about. He was caught up in the flow of words.
“These have been difficult years for Amestris,” he told them. “We have all felt the impact of the wars in Aerugo and Ishval. None of us have emerged from those conflicts unscarred. All of us have lost friends and family- fathers and sisters and brothers. But we have before us the opportunity to change the course of our country. To choose to be done with damaging and expensive wars. To choose peace for the first time in generations.”
They were quiet now, rapt, listening. He liked this, he realized suddenly.
“I cannot say that I am the best man for the job,” he continued. “That’s not my choice to make- it’s yours now. But I will say that I’ve given my life to the service of Amestris. I have served this nation as best I could. Now that my dream of a truly democratic Amestris is about to come true, I hope that you’ll allow me to serve as her Prime Minister.” He paused, smiling. “Thank you. Good night.”
Riza was waiting for him as he stepped off the podium. “That was a good first try,” she allowed, her eyes sparkling.
Roy’s hands were steady. “It’ll get better,” he assured her, grinning.