Fullmetal Alchemist © Hiromu Arakawa
Warning: gender!switch, AU.

Merchant Prince
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.

When you reached the rich and cultural city of Amestris, you would realize a lot of things before you stepped through the city's paved streets. One; that newcomers, tourists and immigrants were treated with kindness and love, unlike the other surrounding countries, making Amestris one of the most sought-after lands. Two; they were abundant in nearly everything, having no need to go farther than their already abundant needs. Or it may seem so.

And three; you would be so captivated by the beauty of the city—especially the wondrous Central City—that you would completely forget about the hungry eyes staring out at you from the alleyways. You'd forget about the extremely thin women and children, the entertainers with their strained smiles and painful, flashing eyes.

Indeed, even though Amestris may seem like a wonderful country, there was it's dark side. Yet, it was completely smothered by the good and loveliness of the city's outlook. How grand it was, with it's coloured glass and ornate churches! The kind, loving people who always gave and never asked for return! How they stayed away from unholy, dirtied things, strived to be the perfect follower of God Almighty. The people of Amestris were truly the perfect rolemodels.

Well, that was what Amestris wanted them to think. In fact, it was only a medium-sized chunk of Amestris that actually helped fuel that image. Roy Mustang had to snort into his glass of watered champagne as he heard the man beside him drone on and on about Central's sights, trying to charm the tourists.

His voice was so laden with passion and awe that Roy had almost forgotten for a second who he was and believed the man for a moment. But then there was a crash from the man next to him; drunk out of his mind, and it wasn't even noon yet. And he remembered where he was, exactly: at a wine house, drinking as little as possible to ease his nerves.

He was supposed to stand guard for the Fuhrer today. It was a peasant's festival, calling for the inhabitants of Central's vendor streets and shops. He knew how these things worked; he grew up around these things, knew the city inside and out like the back of his palm. But he had never stood for the Fuhrer before; he was most definitely surprised when the man had asked him to do so. He was one of the more looked upon part of the military dictatorship; the alchemists, whom kept the city in line and used as a last resort. Dangerous, but wild.

Roy wasn't one to decline; this was a once in a lifetime thing. He wasn't going to let it go. Not that he was willing to be a dog trained at the heel for the Fuhrer—he knew that the more he was intertwined in this things, the more his name would be known. And he needed that to happen.

The peasant festivals contained something along the lines of a joker prancing around, entertaining the crowd. Items were bought and sold, adding to the pleasant atmosphere of trading. Songs were sung, poets strummed their lyres, children had an essentially infallible smile on their face. It was, in the essence, a happy occasion.

If you ignored the gypsies taken in by chain and the Ishbalians taken in for just breathing. That was, of course, one thing that most Amestrians forgot to mention. The amount of racism and segregation in this one little country was enough to make one man sick for the rest of his life.

Roy adjusted his blue uniform, making sure that his head fit snugly on his mop of dark hair. The gold pins were moved slightly so, his boots shined to a mirror-like sheen, his face cleanly-shaved. He was at his best—it was the only way to make an impression, and Roy was more than aware that his looks were lust-worthy from the women (and, to his slight disgust, men).

He walked out into the open light, squinting his slanted eyes slightly, glad that the coat and cap gained him enough recognition and importance to allow people to steer clear out of his way. It wasn't something that he was proud of, being part of the military, but he wasn't about to ignore the proprieties that it gave. He scanned the crowd, pushing through the people and his eyes landing on the familiar statuette in front of the bell tower. That was where he was supposed to report, seeing as how it was right at the entrance of Central Command's entrance.

Roy pushed his way through, thankful that people had started to get out of his way just by looking at him. He was pretty sure that he was just about to make it when something knocked into him violently, roughly, and—even though he would never admit it—the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

He fell back, unable to hold on to the sudden moment of impact and velocity. He opened his bleary eyes and pressed a gloved hand to his head to calm it's throbbing. His hat was squished on the ground beside him, but all he could feel was the sudden clarity of air and the sharp intake of breath from above him.

It was a woman, he soon deducted after he gathered his wits back. A beauty, by the looks of it; she had scrambled off him in a haste, but as she crawled back, her back hit the wall of people that had circled them.

She was fair-skinned, her skin more a light-cream colour than tan. She had wide, almost impossible round eyes, with thick lashes. Her hair curled around her slightly, a golden-blonde shade that in his deliriousness, matched the rays of the sun. The most striking thing about her, he had to say, was not her small nose or her heart-shaped face or her plump, red lips; it was the colour of her eyes. A dark gold ring circling the pupil, turning into lighter shades as they spanned. He had to stop and stare, he had to admit, at them.

And then, she scowled, and he was thrown out of his loop.

She was scantily clothed, Roy noticed. All she had on was a shirt that rode low on her shoulders (almost purposely) and left her collarbone and neck bare, a worn-out belt with a pouch on it, and a long and flowing skirt with a large slit up the side. There was a gold anklet on her left ankle, and if Roy had to compare, she was rather curvaceous, unlike most of the other women in the city.

However, the deafening sound of drums beating brought him out of his stupor. He understood the meaning of her clothes and the large, silk headband holding back blonde locks, a few framing her face. Earrings jingled, made of thin tampered gold. He, along with everyone else, knew what she was immediately; gypsy.

Roy scurried up, grabbing his hat and dusting it off, placing it back on his head. He was lucky that he was so adequate in cleaning himself up at a short moments' notice. Roy forced himself to scowl darkly, staring down at the girl. "Careful of where you dance," he sneered. "You should know your place."

It wasn't like him to say such a thing, not like him at all. He hated all of this separation between Amestris. But he couldn't do anything about it; after all, he was not Fuhrer. The girl's hands tightened and she gave him such a ferocious glare, he was surprised that she hadn't jumped him yet. (The gypsies were known for their famous temper and teasing spirit.)

The circle closed in murmurs and loud mutterings, approving. Roy turned around and made his way back to the entrance, knowing that he was nearly latebecause of that woman.

As he got to his position, one of his military personnel eyed him out of the corner of his eye, saying amusedly, "You're late, Mustang."

"My apologies," he said stiffly, but his eyes glinted in humour.

Jean Havoc grinned. "Yeah, I heard that blondie over there got you occupied." He nodded to the blonde woman, who was desperately trying to hide herself within the crowd. At first, she wasn't succeeding, but then the trumpets sounded, and everyone quickly forgot about her.

Roy muttered, "Well you try getting through those people—it's not easy, but you have to come early, now don't you?" Jean's eyebrow twitched in sudden irritation at the man's quip, and Roy let himself smirk in spite of himself. He heard something vaguely like, "At least I wasn't ogling at a pretty woman" but Roy let that go. The Fuhrer was here, after all.

His entrance was enhanced by the fact that he was followed by the top-notch generals, a place that Roy wanted to go someday. They stood stiff straight, but there were hints of smiles on their faces. They stood in a triangular formation, obscuring his view. The Fuhrer himself was tall and impressionable; he carried himself with pride and charm, something that caused all the people of Amestris—and farther than that—to believe in his words. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he looked up one brilliant green eyes stared at them all, set in a lined face. The other was covered with an eye-patch, stringing around to the back as well.

"Hello, my proud citizens of Amestris," started Fuhrer King Bradley, smiling. "I welcome you to the Festival Des Fous, a yearly celebration—where we celebrate the joy of life and its bright character. None here is sane, and none is insane, as a philosopher once said!" He laughed, voice rich. The crowd laughed with him.

"Please, enjoy yourselves—it is, after all, a day where we shall never act like ourselves. And on that note..." A Sergeant beside him walked up to the Fuhrer, handing him a gold-threaded pillow, where an embedded pearl-white gun lay, more of a show than an actual weapon. Roy knew it was fake by the way that the Fuhrer raised it; not in offence, not at all. It was a blank, as proved by his next act: "...let's begin the commodities!" He pulled the trigger, and a blank came out. The crowd cheered.

Roy looked over them all. Bradley was open right now, and if anyone wanted to take a chance crack at him, he could. It had happened nearly every year, at some point or another, so they had always took measures (such as this one) to keep the Main Family from harm. Even the Fuhrer needed to have some fun with his family—being his wife and son—Roy recognized.

Still, it bothered him to an extent. Shouldn't the Fuhrer take care of his life better? Oh, guess that was what he was here for. Almost unconsciously, his eyes searched the crowd for a flash of familiar blonde, but Jean recognized this and he leaned over.

He said quietly under his breath, almost morose, "Riza's not here. She said that she would stay home for the day."

A pang of disappointment, hit Roy unexpectedly. Of course, what did he expect? Riza was not in the mood to meet with him, especially not after what he had done; especially considering the terms of the situation. Every time he thought about it, he felt the wound rip open in his chest until it became a dull ache.

Jean seemed to recognize what he was going through, especially through the sharp intake of breath; minuscule, but still present. The blond man grimaced, feeling for his friend and co-worker's unfortunate situation. He placed a hand on Roy's shoulder, but the man still didn't look up. Roy was staring uncomprehendingly at the paved ground.

"It's not all that bad," he said, comforting. "She forgave you a long time ago, you know." Riza had forgiven Roy after she had learned about what had happened; it still didn't suffice, however, because she still could not look Roy in the eye. Roy would never forgive himself.

In another attempt to bring his friend out of the dampened spirit, Jean tried again, "You know—Breda said that he would pay for the meal and drink today. It's at that bar you like too." He raised an eyebrow. "Up for it?"

Roy's lips thinned, and his eyes flashed. He looked up again, and this time kept his gaze straight, making himself taller than Jean by a few centimetres. Jean followed his line of sight, but saw nothing.

"I don't feel like drinking myself silly," he replied, voice stiff. Jean inwardly winced; a new idea. Never mention Riza again. "And I certainly don't plan to watch over you guys either, so don't suggest it." At Jean's sheepish grin, he knew that was what was going through his head.

Roy appreciated the concern, but he didn't need it. Or maybe he did. He had to get his mind off Riza, and so he looked around the crowd—just for anything, anything at all to get his mind off of that woman. He found it in the next three minutes, when a fight had broken out at their left, just calling their name. Roy avoided another try of Jean's to cheer him up and nodded to the circle of people rapidly increasing; Jean's face smoothed and he nodded.

They wrought their way through the myriad of people, subconsciously bringing attention to themselves as people recognized the navy blue of their uniform and the stoic expression on their faces. They were led to the middle of the circle, where they saw an usual, rare, but not surprising sight.

A teenager, perhaps coming into his manhood, was on the ground with his arms tied behind his back. He was dark-skinned, with those bright red eyes that people loathed so. White hair spouted generously from his head, tied back messily, some spots tainted with red. Roy recognized him right away with a sick feeling in his stomach; an Ishbalian.

He was sure that his feet were stuck to the ground for a few moments, him being in a slight stunned escapade. What Ishbalian in their right mind would come here? Central City was a dangerous place, especially for an Ishbalian in plain sight. Usually, if they stayed in their righteous little corner, they would be spared. Every Ishbalian knew that. Or, at least, he thought they did.

Jean's voice broke him out of his daze; "Oi! What do you think you're doing?" he yelled, gathering the attention of their audience. Jean was one of the few people that believed that what Bradley had done to the Ishbalians was wrong, beyond wrong. He was against it, even though most of their colleagues turned a blind eye to an Ishbalian beating on many occasions.

Roy clenched his fists, the fabric of his gloves pulling tightly. He turned to the main offender, a white man with blond hair, holding down the Ishbalian and the one with a baseball bat in his hands. "Explain," he grit out.

"Oh, officers," the bat-wielding one said, relaxing minutely, thinking that if they were Bradley's men, they were on their side. "We were just having a bit of fun—" he sneered at the last word, throwing a dirty look at the Ishbalian.

"I can see that," he said impatiently, "But why do you think you're doing it in the middle of a busy intersection?"

Truthfully, he hated the way that the man was being treated. Despite his colouring, what made him so different from the rest of the Amestrians? But the only way to get through to people's head was to make sure that you were somehow agreeing with it.

The man's face paled. "Oh, sorry sir," he said dutifully, "We'll take this somewhere else."

"Hm," Jean started tapping his chin thoughtfully, playing the part of a racist military personnel, "I think we'll take the Ishbalian in for ourselves." And since Jean couldn't, for the life of him, play his facial cards right, Roy took it upon himself to smile coldly. He could practically hear the satisfied smiles.

It was all about to go down well (they would do their usual routine—get him out of sight and then release him) before a shrill, frustrated grunt met the air, following by a scream. Roy followed it to the blonde gypsy from earlier, snarling dangerously. Her eyes flashed.

"He did nothing!" she screeched, with a voice that would've sounded musical if it wasn't being used in such loathe terms. "Nothing at all! He helped a poor child on the street and you dare raise a hand and hit him like he's a piece of meat, not human at all! You monsters! Beating an innocent man for nothing—" her rant was quickly cut off as something grabbed her by the arm, pushing her down hard.

"Shut up, bitch!" a voice from the crowd crooned. Laughter broke out, but the woman's face didn't even burn in humiliation. Instead, she grit her teeth and rose from her place on the ground.

"Aren't all of you smitten with your God? What did he say; that all men under his eyes are equal? Is he not a man? What, are you now too good for your Lord's words—" Someone pushed her again, or was about to, but she grabbed the hand on her shoulder with intense force and clutched it. A yelp of pain came from the man that dared to reach out. "Don't touch me," she hissed. "Your God will damn you all to hell!"

Her fingers dug so hard into the man's hand that bloodied crescents formed. She shoved the limb away, red staining the tips of her fingers. There was an outraged murmur, and more people started to close in, the woman flinging herself over the beaten man. Roy could only gape for a moment at the blonde's gall; he had never seen such advisory. And one that used their own terms against them, even.

"Stop!" Jean roared first, walking to the middle and bringing out his gun. His eyes glinted dangerously. "Another move, and we will not hesitate to take the situation under control. The Fuhrer doesn't like riots." He nodded toward Roy, who stepped forward.

"We'll be taking them both in," he announced, causing the woman to glare like there was no tomorrow and gnash her teeth. "Now please, go your way. Or we'll make you." Ah, the way of the Amestrians—when not being heeded, use force. It always worked.

With a few dirty glares, the citizens went their own way. Some stayed behind to see what would happen to the two outcasts; Jean acted first, grabbing the Ishbalian man none-too-easily by the hands and jerking him upward. Before the gypsy woman could escape, Roy had gotten a hold of her as well. He used his handcuffs, pinning them behind her back and moving away slightly, but not before hissing in her ear; "Play along."

She shot him an odd, incredulous look, but then saw that Jean had done the same for the Ishbalian man. They shared one glance and started to walk back to Headquarters, where they would set them free with some rations and a warning not to get themselves in the middle of things again. Many people stared their way, turning to look at the commotion that happened moments before, but then turned away when they disappeared behind the back entrance past the security walls.

"Goddamn," Jean said, impressed. He unlocked the cuffs from the Ishbalian man immediately, just as Roy was doing for the blonde woman. "They sure did a number on ya', man." He peered closer to the Ishbalian's face, taking in the damage. The Ishbalian took it the wrong way and stumbled back.

"I-I don't understand," the blonde gypsy said, frowning thoughtfully, her brows furrowing. "I thought that you were arresting us."

Roy rolled his eyes. "I told you to play along, didn't I?" It was then that he realized that maybe she hadn't heard him and passed it off as some sort of curse her way.

Instead, her frown became deeper. "I thought I heard wrong," she offered. Then, eyeing them carefully, continued, "Are you...letting us go?"

"The system is complete bull," Roy said breezily. "Oh, let Jean take care of that. He's an approved medic...of some sort." Jean shot him a dirty look, but was thankful when the Ishbalian man calmed and let the blond touch him. "What were you doing, calling attention to yourself? You're lucky that it was him and me that caught you, not some other brainless guard."

She scowled. "Miles wasn't even doing anything wrong! One of the Catholic kids had tripped and dropped everything in his basket, and Miles went up and helped him. But the mum came by and slapped him, yelling some sort of obscured thing. I think she expected Miles to capture the brat and sell his limbs in the underground."

"I would never do such a thing," the Ishbalian, now identified as Miles, said indignantly, his voice muffled by his swollen lip. "It's against my morals."

"It's not like they know that," she replied quietly, visibly deflating. After a moment of silence, the woman seemed to breathe in deeply and gather her wits. She turned to Roy and said quite evenly, "Thank you for getting us out of there."

"Don't mention it," Roy quipped back. "And I mean it quite literally."

To his surprise, the gypsy woman grinned. "You know, the military isn't all that bad...if you ignore about seventy-five percent of it."

"More like ninety," Jean snorted, placing bandages on Miles' bicep. "Most of the people who actually believe in the whole 'men are equal' thing like you said, miss, are long gone. Deemed traitor or binned." he shrugged. "It's a shame."

"Edward," the woman said. When both Roy and Jean turned to stare at her, she flushed slightly and said defiantly, "My name is Edward. Don't call me 'miss'—I'm too young for that."

"Edward?" Roy repeated, the syllables rolling around on his tongue. "Isn't that a name for a..."

"Male? Yes. Do I care? No." She crossed her arms. "My dad named me. My mum never said anything against it..." she trailed off, looking a bit pissed at her own predicament. "...well, if she could. She'd rather not talk to me as a kid." There was an added grumbling at the end, and Roy and Jean shared a look. Better not to pry.

"All good," Jean announced a moment after ward, stepping back and appreciating his work. "Let that heal for a few weeks before you go out and save another kid, alright?" Miles nodded wordlessly.

"Thank you for that," Roy said, feeling as though he should add to the conversation. "I know that the child's mother might not have appreciated it, but I bet the child himself did. Kids are too small to understand the difference between race. Not that there is any, really."

Edward snorted. "Nice save," she muttered under her breath, and despite himself, Roy grinned slightly.

"Thanks," Miles said, his voice tinted with hesitant warmth. Jean helped Miles up, slinging the man's arm around his neck. Roy checked Edward (god it was weird to call a woman that) for any bruising, but she was made of tougher stuff than that, it seemed. She also flinched a little at his touch, but Roy didn't call her out on it.

"We'll lead you through one of the escape canals behind the waterways," Roy informed them. Amestris was made up of some water roads, the Kapital River running through the middle of Central up towards Briggs and down towards Reinheim as well. It was one of the greatest methods of smuggling transportation ever. "And you can get back to your homes."

"Don't worry about the rower kidnapping you or anything," Jean said for comfort. "He's a personal friend of mine."

Edward gave a nod, looking down at her bare feet. Roy noticed that many gold bangles adorned them as well. "Thanks for your help," she said, and it was obvious by the way she forced it out that she wasn't used to giving out 'thanks' and other pleasantries. "It was...needed. Can we go now?"

Jean and Roy shared a look. They already knew what she was trying to say; they had translated much less from other generals and military officials.

"Follow me this way," Roy said, and he could swear that when his back turned, a relieved smile lit up her face. He had a feeling that it wasn't the last time he would see the blonde-haired, odd-named gypsy woman.

...I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "What the fuck, Summer? Why'd you promise a rewrite of Merchant Prince and give us some RoyEd shit?" Well, considering the first MP was Edward/Winry and even though I love that pairing to death, I really can't feel like I can do anything to it. Their fate is sealed through the canon, and I can't do anything about it. I just don't want to change it.

But...Roy/Feminine!Ed? Ah, too good to be true. Way too good.

This version of Merchant Prince is somewhat inspired by Disney movies (well, the darkest Disney movie of them all—yes, I am talking about The Hunchback of Notre Dame) and somewhat inspired by Faust, somewhat inspired by the K-pop song "I'm a Loner" by C.N. Blue. Don't judge where I get my inspiration from, okay? It makes up for this in the end. No, really, it does.

Anyway, I'm sorry for changing this. I'm sorry, all my fans, who expected something different. I promise to post something ED/WIN sometime soon. Maybe more of A Peculiar Type of Madness? Yeah, look for that. I love you all. (Review, review...)

.:.

to be continued.
12.17.11