Elections [Royai, T] Chapters 11&12/14
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.
Thanks as always to mebh_me, who basically stood next to me and poked me until I finished this. And then edited it promptly.
August 8th, 1922
CENTRAL CITY- Fuhrer Oliver Mira Armstrong took office today in a public ceremony held in the rebuilt Military Headquarters on the outskirts of the city. Thousands gathered to watch as Fuhrer Armstrong took the oath of office, swearing to “uphold and defend Amestris, her people and properties.”
Fuhrer Armstrong addressed the crowd, emphasizing the need for fortitude and strong leadership. “The office of the Fuhrer will continue to be the force for stability that Amestris needs. I promise you that my leadership will be strict and uncompromising,” she said.
The Fuhrer was personally accompanied by an honor guard of men transferred from her long-time command at Fort Briggs, led by Lt. Col. Miles, who has served with Fuhrer Armstrong for over a decade. She was also accompanied by Generals Tiuna, Kentaras, Magach and Kriss along with battalions of troops from each of the five military centers of Amestris.
There were representatives from the civil government as well. Most of Parliament was on hand, including the candidates for Prime Minister. Several of the candidates made statements of support. “I will be honored to serve with Fuhrer Armstrong in any capacity,” Antony Davis (ANP) said. Roy Mustang (PAA) added, “This is truly a new era of hope for Amestris.”
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transcript, The News Hour: August 10th, 1922
JW: And now we’re going to the phones to hear what you think of the candidates. Hello, caller.
C1: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I listen to your show all the time!
JW: Thank you. That’s kind of you to say! Now, tell us- what are your thoughts on the candidates?
C1: I’m voting for Greeley. He’s always been there for the working man. Mustang talks a good talk, but he’s been in the military all these years. How does he know what the rest of us are going through?
JW: Not impressed with the rest of the bunch?
C1: Davis is too pro-military for me. And I don’t know where Parker and Shriver stand.
JW: Thank you, caller. Our next caller is from South-Central!
C2: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I just wanted to let you know that I’m voting for Davis. He’s a good man, and he has the experience that the others are lacking- especially Mustang.
JW: Thanks for your opinion! Next caller?
C3: I’m for Mustang! I don’t see how people can say he doesn’t have experience. He’s been in the military since he was a teenager! And he’s the only one with any new ideas. The rest of ‘em are just representing the same old special interests like nothing’s changed.
JW: There’s a lot of talk about Mustang, that’s for sure. Caller?
C4: Isn’t anyone else paying attention to the news? We need a strong hand to deal with these lunatics in the street. That’s Davis!
JW: Well, folks, as you can hear, there are some divided opinions! Just stay tuned for a word from our sponsor, and then we’ll be back for more about the elections- and some surprising local news as well.
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excerpt, Central Talks Magazine: August 12th, 1922
Roy Mustang and his aide-turned-fiancee Riza Hawkeye agreed to meet me in Mustang’s office in the Parliament building. It’s smaller than you would imagine for such a prominent political figure. “I joined Parliament midsession. They had to find a space for me. I think they cleared out a storage closet, frankly,” he explains, his eyes twinkling with good humor. He clears a chair off for me, and we sit down in an office filled to brimming with neat stacks of files.
We’re interrupted twice before we can start the interview. The first time is by a tall, handsome man with a cane. He’s got business to discuss with Mustang, but does so quickly and good-naturedly, and throws me a lazy salute as he leaves. I find out later that this is Jean Havoc, who served with Mustang some years ago. He’s a decorated veteran and was wounded in the line of duty.
The second interruption is from another MP, Gest Fleming. Fleming is part of Mustang’s new Progressive Alliance, and he also chats cordially with Mustang for a few minutes and then leaves. Mustang is apologetic after he goes. “This is a busy time,” he tells me. He looks to Miss Hawkeye. “Is anyone else going to show up out of the blue?” he asks.
“There shouldn’t be anyone,” she says. “Havoc and Breda should be able to manage for half an hour without you.”
They’re an understated couple. At a casual glance, you’d never know that they plan to be married later this year. “Right after the election,” Mustang tells me, with a sly smile. When I comment on how little they act like a couple, Mustang shrugs. “We were in the military for years,” he says, his voice going quiet. “I was her commanding officer.” He trails off then, like he’s not sure how to explain.
Hawkeye steps in for him there. She’s a pretty woman with a taste for conservative clothes. Her blonde hair is tucked up in a large clip. It’s easy to believe that she served in the military for years. It’s a bit harder to believe that this quiet, diminutive woman is the decorated sniper known as “The Hawk’s Eye” in Ishval. “There were rules against fraternization. But we had a job to do, and we both knew that our service to Amestris was more important than our personal feelings,” she explains. She frowns, suddenly. “I could have been reassigned, I suppose. But the military was a dangerous place then, and someone had to watch his back.” She’s making reference to the military conspiracies that were unmasked in 1915.
I ask her whether it was a relief to leave the military, and she smiles. “In some ways. It took Roy all of thirty seconds to propose. But in other ways, it’s been difficult. Military life is very ordered.”
“Politics isn’t,” Mustang puts in, grinning. “It’s exciting, though. It’s a challenge, and there’s no question that this is where we can do the most good for the people of Amestris.”
That seems to genuinely be the biggest concern for both of them. It’s surprising in a politician, and I’m reminded that, despite Mustang’s years of public service, this is his first election. I ask them both why it is that they are so devoted to the public good. Their faces both get very serious, and suddenly, I can believe that they’re in love. They look at each other in a way that you usually only see when a couple’s been married for a lifetime.
Mustang speaks first. “I saw and did terrible things in the war. I felt that I had to make up for what I’d done. But more importantly, I knew that all the people of Amestris needed- deserved- more.” From someone else, it might sound like nothing more than campaign rhetoric.
Hawkeye puts a hand over his, and turns toward me. Her brown eyes are desperately solemn. “Even when we were children, Roy had a dream of a government that protected and helped its people. I have always believed that one day, he would make that dream a reality.”
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Havoc grinned as he handed over the tie he’d brought. “I know you wish I was Hawkeye,” he said, and dropped into a chair with a sigh. He leaned his cane against the wall. “She said to tell you that since she won’t be on stage with you, she’s taking security detail tonight.”
Roy sighed. “Tell her that she’s entirely too practical,” he grumbled. He looped the tie around his neck, knotting it deftly. “So, are you my minder for the evening?” he asked.
“Aw, like you need minding tonight,” Havoc said, cheerfully. “You’re going to be busy arguing with the other candidates. And you like arguing.”
Havoc had a point there. “Debating,” Mustang corrected, with mock seriousness. “It’s an ancient and noble art.”
“Which you learned at your mama’s knee,” Havoc suggested. “Your mom is great, by the way. I don’t know why you didn’t introduce us sooner.”
Roy laughed, combing his fingers through his hair. “Security, Havoc. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what Catalina might think?”
“I said I liked your mom, not your sisters,” Havoc pointed out, grinning. “I’m not suicidal.”
There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Mustang!” a female voice called.
“Wish me luck,” Roy said.
“Like hell,” Havoc told him. “Kick their asses, boss.”
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They were arranged in a loose semi-circle on the stage. Davis and Greeley were to stage right, and Parker and Shriver were to stage left. Roy was, for whatever reason, at center stage. He swallowed the now-familiar lump in his throat, and waited for the curtain to rise.
The candidates eyed each other. Davis was a handsome man in his early fifties with a touch of grey at his temples. Greeley was pot-bellied and bespectacled, but with a sense of affability about him. Parker, to his left, was a lean-looking man in his forties. Shriver was tall and lanky, with graying ginger hair and a strikingly long nose. Roy was the youngest man on the stage by at least a decade, he estimated. Roy looked down at his notes. He had been the youngest man in the room for a long time. The youngest State Alchemist on record, at least until Fullmetal had set a record that would hopefully never be broken. The youngest Colonel in the army. The youngest man ever to make General. And dammit, he was also going to be the youngest Prime Minister in Amestris’ history- and the first in a hundred years. Or he was going to try, at least.
“Nervous, Mustang?” a voice said. Roy looked up to see Davis looking at him with a gleam in his eye. “I know you don’t have much experience with this.”
Roy smiled his most predatory smile. “I’ve faced things far more frightening than the four of you,” he said. The curtain started to rise, and Roy smiled and waved for the crowd. He could hear the hum of static as their microphones went live.
“Good evening,” the moderator said. “It’s my honor to welcome you to the first of the debates between the candidates for Prime Minister. I present to you your candidates: Mr. Antony Davis, for the Amestrian Nationalist Party. Mr. Franklin Greeley, for the Democratic Populist Party. Mr. Roy Mustang, for the Progressive Alliance for Amestris. Mr. Malkus Parker, independent. And finally, Mr. Alf Shriver, also independent.”
The moderator went on to explain the rules and format for the debate- all details that Roy had long since familiarized himself with. He let his eyes roam over the hall. Which corner, he wondered, had Riza tucked herself into? She would want someplace high; someplace with a good view of the rest of the house. Somewhere over the stage might be ideal, he mused. It would let her see whether someone else had put themselves in a sniper’s position toward the stage. Not that Roy really believed that there would be a sniper. Riza was concerned by the growing unrest- but that was civil disorder. The sort of people who took to the streets in anger were not the same sort of people who could plan and carry out an assassination.
The moderator finished, and then they were in the thick of the debate itself.
“I believe that an independent police force would be a mistake,” Davis said. “The military police have the experience. Training a new police force will mean effort and expense that Amestris can ill-afford.”
“Effort and expense, yes,” Roy argued. “But necessary effort and expense. If the civil government is truly going to have authority, then the military cannot be in the position of enforcing civil law.”
“There must be a complete break between the civil and military governments,” Shriver agreed. “The military has ruled absolutely for long enough. The peoples’ voices must be heard!”
“The Fuhrer and her predecessors have ruled with a firm hand and a single, powerful voice- exactly what this country has always needed!” Davis snapped.
“The Fuhrer is still the ruler of this country,” Roy pointed out. “We serve at her pleasure. Fuhrer Grumman had a vision of a democratic Amestris, but the government will never be completely separate from the military. It’s up to us to find the balance between the two.”
“I must agree with my opponent from the ANP,” Parker put in. “The unrest in Youswell, Pickerington and now Bellin is proof that now is not the time to make sweeping changes to our police force. Perhaps in a few years we can re-evaluate the situation.”
“The unrest is a result of the ongoing economic situation,” Greeley said. “And of the uncertainty about these elections. The former must be solved by decisive and sensitive action on the part of the government; the second must be solved by successful and democratic elections.”
“And the economic situation can be blamed on Amestris’ history of conflict,” Roy pointed out. “This election is an opportunity for us to change the cycle of expansion and war that has taken such a toll on the citizens of Amestris.”
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Walking to his dressing room afterwards, Roy felt a curious mix of exhaustion and elation. He lived for debate, but being in front of everyone, being on for so long; it was wearing. He hadn’t seen Riza since before the debate, and he wondered where she was.
He pushed open the door.
There was a stranger in his room. Roy jumped back, raising his hands to clap- “Captain Ross,” he said, finally recognizing her. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”
“Hello, General,” she said, nodding wryly. “There was a vacuum in the command structure. But thank you.”
Roy undid his tie, sighing. He really hadn’t needed that particular jolt of adrenalin. “What brings you here?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Roy could see Ross’s discomfort.
“You saved my life once,” she said, quietly. “From a conspiracy in the upper ranks of the military. I think I’m obligated to try to do the same for you.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me Armstrong is a homunculus, are you?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. Even as he joked, though, he was thinking grim thoughts. A conspiracy in the brass was bad news.
Ross shook her head. “I hear whispers,” she told him. “Or my team does. There are parts of the general staff that hate the elections. They say Armstrong is a traitor to the military, and so are you. I think they might try something.”
Roy began cleaning the stage makeup from his face, thinking. This wasn’t a surprise. They’d purged the general staff of anyone that they could prove had sided with the homunculi. Still, no one got to high rank in the military of Amestris without being an ambitious son-of-a-bitch, and he knew they were going to be pissed about some of their power being taken away. He’d just banked on the ability of Grumman to control the brass. Except, of course, Grumman wasn’t around anymore.
Ross cleared her throat. “I can assign some of my team to your security staff. You should have people you can trust.”
“Thank you,” Roy said, turning to face her. “I’d be an idiot not to take you up on that.”
“I owed you,” Ross said, simply.
---------------------------------------------------
“Are you ready?” Roy asked.
Riza frowned at the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “Do I look like a loving political wife yet?” she asked, dryly.
“God forbid,” Roy said. “You look like you. A bit more made up than usual,” he admitted. “And I’m still getting used to seeing you out of uniform.” His voice went low, and he leaned in. “I like it, though.”
Riza smiled. “Don’t mess up my makeup,” she said, tartly.
“I’m glad you’re with me again,” he said, retreating.
“I wish I was on security,” she said, wistfully. “I’m concerned about the latest intel from Captain Ross. I’m useless sitting on the stage with you.” Ross’s original warning had been vague, and she had gotten no more specific. They had also sent a warning to Armstrong, who had pretty much scowled and said that any yellow-backed cowards who thought they could take her were welcome to try. Riza hoped she was right. Losing another Fuhrer would destabilize the country drastically.
“We’ve upped our security as much as we can,” Roy said. “And it’s good PR to have you on the stage. The public likes you, you know.”
Riza scowled. “The public doesn’t know me,” she pointed out.
“I do,” Roy said. He took her hand and pulled her close. “You were right, when we started this. You humanize me. They can see the way I look at you.”
Riza smiled. “You’re a fool,” she said, softly. “But I love you.”
Roy just smiled like an idiot.
Someone knocked on the door to let them know that they were needed on stage.
Riza looked out at the crowd, smiling as best she could. She and Roy were so unaccustomed to the publicity of this process. He was a born weasel, and she was a sniper. She liked to watch people from afar, but she did not like being watched in return. She particularly didn’t like the way the stage lights obscured her vision. She settled herself in her seat, trying to look relaxed.
Then Ellen Wilkinson finished her introduction (“Roy Mustang is new to politics, but not to service. He will change Amestris, but he needs our help!”) and Roy took the stage. “Hello, Central City,” he said, with what Riza had already categorized as his Politician’s Smile. It was similar to the smile he’d used in the past to charm women, but a little less leering. A little. “I’m glad to be back,” he continued. “I love all of Amestris, but there’s no place like home.”
He was still talking, but Riza’s attention was wrenched away from him. She heard it before she saw it; a sound that she knew from long practice: the crack-hiss of a rifle shot. She was already on her feet before she had completely processed it; her pistol in her hand and scanning the crowd. But the lights were in her eyes, and she couldn’t see where the shot had come from.
Then she heard Roy’s breath hitch, and her stomach rolled. She turned to see Roy crouched on the ground, his right hand clutched against his belly. He tried to stand, but his eyes rolled up and he fell back to the ground. There was blood on his shirt, the stain spreading rapidly. “Roy-” she gasped, and dropped to her knees in front of him, keeping herself between him and likely angles of fire. The shooter had to have been high, to catch his torso while he was behind the podium... in the distance, she could hear screaming.
His eyes were wild. “Riza,” he said, his voice urgent. A moment passed between them, and she understood what he needed her to do. She didn’t like it, but- She leaned down and pulled his arm across her shoulders. Then she stood, shouldering his weight. Roy clutched for the microphone.
“No,” he said, desperately, his voice hoarse with pain and frustration. He steadied himself against the podium. “No!” he repeated. The hall went quiet, every face turning to hear what he was going to say. “We can’t let this happen,” he pleaded, his eyes closing with concentration. “The riots. The violence. This election is our hope-” His voice cracked. “We have to look out for each other,” he said. Riza could feel him shaking in her arms. “We look out for the ones we love, and they look out for their people, and so on all the way down.” He gasped, leaning against the podium. “If you let them take this election away, it means another four hundred years of war, with no hope for peace. It means them using you like they’ve always done. Please- no matter what happens to me- please-”
Roy crumpled, and the hall exploded with noise. Riza lowered him gently to the ground. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on first aid, trying to stop the bleeding. It was a gut shot, and those were slow, but dirty. And the bullet had gone straight through, which was good, but it meant there was an exit wound to deal with-
“Riza...” he said, his dark eyes looking into her. “You have to finish this, if-
“I would be a terrible politician, sir,” she said. “Please don’t make me do your job.”
He smiled, his eyes wandering. “I’ll do my best,” he whispered. “For you.”
The medics arrived then, and she was left standing there, her hands covered in Roy’s blood.
“Shit,” Havoc said, somewhere off to her left.
Riza nodded, staring at her hands. “He needed to make that speech,” she said, calmly. “It was an opportunity. It’ll be hard for the military to argue that they should step in and stop the election now.”
“Hawkeye-” Havoc started, his voice choked.
“He won’t die,” Riza said. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t sure why. “He survived everything else. This can’t kill him.”
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.
Thanks as always to mebh_me, who basically stood next to me and poked me until I finished this. And then edited it promptly.
August 8th, 1922
CENTRAL CITY- Fuhrer Oliver Mira Armstrong took office today in a public ceremony held in the rebuilt Military Headquarters on the outskirts of the city. Thousands gathered to watch as Fuhrer Armstrong took the oath of office, swearing to “uphold and defend Amestris, her people and properties.”
Fuhrer Armstrong addressed the crowd, emphasizing the need for fortitude and strong leadership. “The office of the Fuhrer will continue to be the force for stability that Amestris needs. I promise you that my leadership will be strict and uncompromising,” she said.
The Fuhrer was personally accompanied by an honor guard of men transferred from her long-time command at Fort Briggs, led by Lt. Col. Miles, who has served with Fuhrer Armstrong for over a decade. She was also accompanied by Generals Tiuna, Kentaras, Magach and Kriss along with battalions of troops from each of the five military centers of Amestris.
There were representatives from the civil government as well. Most of Parliament was on hand, including the candidates for Prime Minister. Several of the candidates made statements of support. “I will be honored to serve with Fuhrer Armstrong in any capacity,” Antony Davis (ANP) said. Roy Mustang (PAA) added, “This is truly a new era of hope for Amestris.”
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transcript, The News Hour: August 10th, 1922
JW: And now we’re going to the phones to hear what you think of the candidates. Hello, caller.
C1: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I listen to your show all the time!
JW: Thank you. That’s kind of you to say! Now, tell us- what are your thoughts on the candidates?
C1: I’m voting for Greeley. He’s always been there for the working man. Mustang talks a good talk, but he’s been in the military all these years. How does he know what the rest of us are going through?
JW: Not impressed with the rest of the bunch?
C1: Davis is too pro-military for me. And I don’t know where Parker and Shriver stand.
JW: Thank you, caller. Our next caller is from South-Central!
C2: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I just wanted to let you know that I’m voting for Davis. He’s a good man, and he has the experience that the others are lacking- especially Mustang.
JW: Thanks for your opinion! Next caller?
C3: I’m for Mustang! I don’t see how people can say he doesn’t have experience. He’s been in the military since he was a teenager! And he’s the only one with any new ideas. The rest of ‘em are just representing the same old special interests like nothing’s changed.
JW: There’s a lot of talk about Mustang, that’s for sure. Caller?
C4: Isn’t anyone else paying attention to the news? We need a strong hand to deal with these lunatics in the street. That’s Davis!
JW: Well, folks, as you can hear, there are some divided opinions! Just stay tuned for a word from our sponsor, and then we’ll be back for more about the elections- and some surprising local news as well.
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excerpt, Central Talks Magazine: August 12th, 1922
Roy Mustang and his aide-turned-fiancee Riza Hawkeye agreed to meet me in Mustang’s office in the Parliament building. It’s smaller than you would imagine for such a prominent political figure. “I joined Parliament midsession. They had to find a space for me. I think they cleared out a storage closet, frankly,” he explains, his eyes twinkling with good humor. He clears a chair off for me, and we sit down in an office filled to brimming with neat stacks of files.
We’re interrupted twice before we can start the interview. The first time is by a tall, handsome man with a cane. He’s got business to discuss with Mustang, but does so quickly and good-naturedly, and throws me a lazy salute as he leaves. I find out later that this is Jean Havoc, who served with Mustang some years ago. He’s a decorated veteran and was wounded in the line of duty.
The second interruption is from another MP, Gest Fleming. Fleming is part of Mustang’s new Progressive Alliance, and he also chats cordially with Mustang for a few minutes and then leaves. Mustang is apologetic after he goes. “This is a busy time,” he tells me. He looks to Miss Hawkeye. “Is anyone else going to show up out of the blue?” he asks.
“There shouldn’t be anyone,” she says. “Havoc and Breda should be able to manage for half an hour without you.”
They’re an understated couple. At a casual glance, you’d never know that they plan to be married later this year. “Right after the election,” Mustang tells me, with a sly smile. When I comment on how little they act like a couple, Mustang shrugs. “We were in the military for years,” he says, his voice going quiet. “I was her commanding officer.” He trails off then, like he’s not sure how to explain.
Hawkeye steps in for him there. She’s a pretty woman with a taste for conservative clothes. Her blonde hair is tucked up in a large clip. It’s easy to believe that she served in the military for years. It’s a bit harder to believe that this quiet, diminutive woman is the decorated sniper known as “The Hawk’s Eye” in Ishval. “There were rules against fraternization. But we had a job to do, and we both knew that our service to Amestris was more important than our personal feelings,” she explains. She frowns, suddenly. “I could have been reassigned, I suppose. But the military was a dangerous place then, and someone had to watch his back.” She’s making reference to the military conspiracies that were unmasked in 1915.
I ask her whether it was a relief to leave the military, and she smiles. “In some ways. It took Roy all of thirty seconds to propose. But in other ways, it’s been difficult. Military life is very ordered.”
“Politics isn’t,” Mustang puts in, grinning. “It’s exciting, though. It’s a challenge, and there’s no question that this is where we can do the most good for the people of Amestris.”
That seems to genuinely be the biggest concern for both of them. It’s surprising in a politician, and I’m reminded that, despite Mustang’s years of public service, this is his first election. I ask them both why it is that they are so devoted to the public good. Their faces both get very serious, and suddenly, I can believe that they’re in love. They look at each other in a way that you usually only see when a couple’s been married for a lifetime.
Mustang speaks first. “I saw and did terrible things in the war. I felt that I had to make up for what I’d done. But more importantly, I knew that all the people of Amestris needed- deserved- more.” From someone else, it might sound like nothing more than campaign rhetoric.
Hawkeye puts a hand over his, and turns toward me. Her brown eyes are desperately solemn. “Even when we were children, Roy had a dream of a government that protected and helped its people. I have always believed that one day, he would make that dream a reality.”
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Havoc grinned as he handed over the tie he’d brought. “I know you wish I was Hawkeye,” he said, and dropped into a chair with a sigh. He leaned his cane against the wall. “She said to tell you that since she won’t be on stage with you, she’s taking security detail tonight.”
Roy sighed. “Tell her that she’s entirely too practical,” he grumbled. He looped the tie around his neck, knotting it deftly. “So, are you my minder for the evening?” he asked.
“Aw, like you need minding tonight,” Havoc said, cheerfully. “You’re going to be busy arguing with the other candidates. And you like arguing.”
Havoc had a point there. “Debating,” Mustang corrected, with mock seriousness. “It’s an ancient and noble art.”
“Which you learned at your mama’s knee,” Havoc suggested. “Your mom is great, by the way. I don’t know why you didn’t introduce us sooner.”
Roy laughed, combing his fingers through his hair. “Security, Havoc. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what Catalina might think?”
“I said I liked your mom, not your sisters,” Havoc pointed out, grinning. “I’m not suicidal.”
There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Mustang!” a female voice called.
“Wish me luck,” Roy said.
“Like hell,” Havoc told him. “Kick their asses, boss.”
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They were arranged in a loose semi-circle on the stage. Davis and Greeley were to stage right, and Parker and Shriver were to stage left. Roy was, for whatever reason, at center stage. He swallowed the now-familiar lump in his throat, and waited for the curtain to rise.
The candidates eyed each other. Davis was a handsome man in his early fifties with a touch of grey at his temples. Greeley was pot-bellied and bespectacled, but with a sense of affability about him. Parker, to his left, was a lean-looking man in his forties. Shriver was tall and lanky, with graying ginger hair and a strikingly long nose. Roy was the youngest man on the stage by at least a decade, he estimated. Roy looked down at his notes. He had been the youngest man in the room for a long time. The youngest State Alchemist on record, at least until Fullmetal had set a record that would hopefully never be broken. The youngest Colonel in the army. The youngest man ever to make General. And dammit, he was also going to be the youngest Prime Minister in Amestris’ history- and the first in a hundred years. Or he was going to try, at least.
“Nervous, Mustang?” a voice said. Roy looked up to see Davis looking at him with a gleam in his eye. “I know you don’t have much experience with this.”
Roy smiled his most predatory smile. “I’ve faced things far more frightening than the four of you,” he said. The curtain started to rise, and Roy smiled and waved for the crowd. He could hear the hum of static as their microphones went live.
“Good evening,” the moderator said. “It’s my honor to welcome you to the first of the debates between the candidates for Prime Minister. I present to you your candidates: Mr. Antony Davis, for the Amestrian Nationalist Party. Mr. Franklin Greeley, for the Democratic Populist Party. Mr. Roy Mustang, for the Progressive Alliance for Amestris. Mr. Malkus Parker, independent. And finally, Mr. Alf Shriver, also independent.”
The moderator went on to explain the rules and format for the debate- all details that Roy had long since familiarized himself with. He let his eyes roam over the hall. Which corner, he wondered, had Riza tucked herself into? She would want someplace high; someplace with a good view of the rest of the house. Somewhere over the stage might be ideal, he mused. It would let her see whether someone else had put themselves in a sniper’s position toward the stage. Not that Roy really believed that there would be a sniper. Riza was concerned by the growing unrest- but that was civil disorder. The sort of people who took to the streets in anger were not the same sort of people who could plan and carry out an assassination.
The moderator finished, and then they were in the thick of the debate itself.
“I believe that an independent police force would be a mistake,” Davis said. “The military police have the experience. Training a new police force will mean effort and expense that Amestris can ill-afford.”
“Effort and expense, yes,” Roy argued. “But necessary effort and expense. If the civil government is truly going to have authority, then the military cannot be in the position of enforcing civil law.”
“There must be a complete break between the civil and military governments,” Shriver agreed. “The military has ruled absolutely for long enough. The peoples’ voices must be heard!”
“The Fuhrer and her predecessors have ruled with a firm hand and a single, powerful voice- exactly what this country has always needed!” Davis snapped.
“The Fuhrer is still the ruler of this country,” Roy pointed out. “We serve at her pleasure. Fuhrer Grumman had a vision of a democratic Amestris, but the government will never be completely separate from the military. It’s up to us to find the balance between the two.”
“I must agree with my opponent from the ANP,” Parker put in. “The unrest in Youswell, Pickerington and now Bellin is proof that now is not the time to make sweeping changes to our police force. Perhaps in a few years we can re-evaluate the situation.”
“The unrest is a result of the ongoing economic situation,” Greeley said. “And of the uncertainty about these elections. The former must be solved by decisive and sensitive action on the part of the government; the second must be solved by successful and democratic elections.”
“And the economic situation can be blamed on Amestris’ history of conflict,” Roy pointed out. “This election is an opportunity for us to change the cycle of expansion and war that has taken such a toll on the citizens of Amestris.”
--------------------------------------------
Walking to his dressing room afterwards, Roy felt a curious mix of exhaustion and elation. He lived for debate, but being in front of everyone, being on for so long; it was wearing. He hadn’t seen Riza since before the debate, and he wondered where she was.
He pushed open the door.
There was a stranger in his room. Roy jumped back, raising his hands to clap- “Captain Ross,” he said, finally recognizing her. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”
“Hello, General,” she said, nodding wryly. “There was a vacuum in the command structure. But thank you.”
Roy undid his tie, sighing. He really hadn’t needed that particular jolt of adrenalin. “What brings you here?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Roy could see Ross’s discomfort.
“You saved my life once,” she said, quietly. “From a conspiracy in the upper ranks of the military. I think I’m obligated to try to do the same for you.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me Armstrong is a homunculus, are you?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. Even as he joked, though, he was thinking grim thoughts. A conspiracy in the brass was bad news.
Ross shook her head. “I hear whispers,” she told him. “Or my team does. There are parts of the general staff that hate the elections. They say Armstrong is a traitor to the military, and so are you. I think they might try something.”
Roy began cleaning the stage makeup from his face, thinking. This wasn’t a surprise. They’d purged the general staff of anyone that they could prove had sided with the homunculi. Still, no one got to high rank in the military of Amestris without being an ambitious son-of-a-bitch, and he knew they were going to be pissed about some of their power being taken away. He’d just banked on the ability of Grumman to control the brass. Except, of course, Grumman wasn’t around anymore.
Ross cleared her throat. “I can assign some of my team to your security staff. You should have people you can trust.”
“Thank you,” Roy said, turning to face her. “I’d be an idiot not to take you up on that.”
“I owed you,” Ross said, simply.
---------------------------------------------------
“Are you ready?” Roy asked.
Riza frowned at the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “Do I look like a loving political wife yet?” she asked, dryly.
“God forbid,” Roy said. “You look like you. A bit more made up than usual,” he admitted. “And I’m still getting used to seeing you out of uniform.” His voice went low, and he leaned in. “I like it, though.”
Riza smiled. “Don’t mess up my makeup,” she said, tartly.
“I’m glad you’re with me again,” he said, retreating.
“I wish I was on security,” she said, wistfully. “I’m concerned about the latest intel from Captain Ross. I’m useless sitting on the stage with you.” Ross’s original warning had been vague, and she had gotten no more specific. They had also sent a warning to Armstrong, who had pretty much scowled and said that any yellow-backed cowards who thought they could take her were welcome to try. Riza hoped she was right. Losing another Fuhrer would destabilize the country drastically.
“We’ve upped our security as much as we can,” Roy said. “And it’s good PR to have you on the stage. The public likes you, you know.”
Riza scowled. “The public doesn’t know me,” she pointed out.
“I do,” Roy said. He took her hand and pulled her close. “You were right, when we started this. You humanize me. They can see the way I look at you.”
Riza smiled. “You’re a fool,” she said, softly. “But I love you.”
Roy just smiled like an idiot.
Someone knocked on the door to let them know that they were needed on stage.
Riza looked out at the crowd, smiling as best she could. She and Roy were so unaccustomed to the publicity of this process. He was a born weasel, and she was a sniper. She liked to watch people from afar, but she did not like being watched in return. She particularly didn’t like the way the stage lights obscured her vision. She settled herself in her seat, trying to look relaxed.
Then Ellen Wilkinson finished her introduction (“Roy Mustang is new to politics, but not to service. He will change Amestris, but he needs our help!”) and Roy took the stage. “Hello, Central City,” he said, with what Riza had already categorized as his Politician’s Smile. It was similar to the smile he’d used in the past to charm women, but a little less leering. A little. “I’m glad to be back,” he continued. “I love all of Amestris, but there’s no place like home.”
He was still talking, but Riza’s attention was wrenched away from him. She heard it before she saw it; a sound that she knew from long practice: the crack-hiss of a rifle shot. She was already on her feet before she had completely processed it; her pistol in her hand and scanning the crowd. But the lights were in her eyes, and she couldn’t see where the shot had come from.
Then she heard Roy’s breath hitch, and her stomach rolled. She turned to see Roy crouched on the ground, his right hand clutched against his belly. He tried to stand, but his eyes rolled up and he fell back to the ground. There was blood on his shirt, the stain spreading rapidly. “Roy-” she gasped, and dropped to her knees in front of him, keeping herself between him and likely angles of fire. The shooter had to have been high, to catch his torso while he was behind the podium... in the distance, she could hear screaming.
His eyes were wild. “Riza,” he said, his voice urgent. A moment passed between them, and she understood what he needed her to do. She didn’t like it, but- She leaned down and pulled his arm across her shoulders. Then she stood, shouldering his weight. Roy clutched for the microphone.
“No,” he said, desperately, his voice hoarse with pain and frustration. He steadied himself against the podium. “No!” he repeated. The hall went quiet, every face turning to hear what he was going to say. “We can’t let this happen,” he pleaded, his eyes closing with concentration. “The riots. The violence. This election is our hope-” His voice cracked. “We have to look out for each other,” he said. Riza could feel him shaking in her arms. “We look out for the ones we love, and they look out for their people, and so on all the way down.” He gasped, leaning against the podium. “If you let them take this election away, it means another four hundred years of war, with no hope for peace. It means them using you like they’ve always done. Please- no matter what happens to me- please-”
Roy crumpled, and the hall exploded with noise. Riza lowered him gently to the ground. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on first aid, trying to stop the bleeding. It was a gut shot, and those were slow, but dirty. And the bullet had gone straight through, which was good, but it meant there was an exit wound to deal with-
“Riza...” he said, his dark eyes looking into her. “You have to finish this, if-
“I would be a terrible politician, sir,” she said. “Please don’t make me do your job.”
He smiled, his eyes wandering. “I’ll do my best,” he whispered. “For you.”
The medics arrived then, and she was left standing there, her hands covered in Roy’s blood.
“Shit,” Havoc said, somewhere off to her left.
Riza nodded, staring at her hands. “He needed to make that speech,” she said, calmly. “It was an opportunity. It’ll be hard for the military to argue that they should step in and stop the election now.”
“Hawkeye-” Havoc started, his voice choked.
“He won’t die,” Riza said. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t sure why. “He survived everything else. This can’t kill him.”