Title: Fullmetal Alchemist: A Memorial for the People (Lol, so socialist. Oh well.)

Rating: PG, R later.

Pairings: Slight Roy x Riza

Warnings: Crazy. And more Crazy. Much Cackling.

Summary: AU, inspired ~ep 10. Anime-Verse; no spoilers. There are themes of death in this, both soldier and civilian. It's an action flick, but it has its heavy philosophical moments, too. More of the action, though. :)

AUHTOR'S VERY IMPORTANT NOTE(S): Sooo, after much complaining and years of mustering the courage to do so, I've gone back and fixed up this first chapter (it was written much earlier than the rest of the story). It is much better now, tolerable at least. xD Also, the first chapter is backstory and setup. The second chapter is setup to the explosions (and is short). Once you make it to the third chapter, you'll most likely be hooked. If you stay to the end, you'll probably be crying(see reviews of ch11). It only gets better and better.

+ Also: Bradley. This diverges at ep 10, so obviously Bradley was a small side character at that point. I realize that if you've read to the end of the manga, the government is entrenched very heavily in cannon verse, and prepared for the sort of coup outlined here. Please suspend your disbelief for me here. (I can't believe I'm asking people to suspend their disbelief for a fanfic of an anime about scientific magic. LOL, oh well.) Though it may be good to remember: Argentina, Germany, Poland, Great Britain in the past, France, Malaysia, and many other nations' governments have been overturned in just a few days, or over night.

+Also #2: Why anarchists, rather than some cannon character? I debated this a lot and I went with the way it was originally: anarchists fit in with the symbolism that goes along with, "the lawlessness and chaos of spirit ones goes into when overcome by grieving." Thank you for your understanding on that matter. :3

Please enjoy the read. I feel that the epilogue of this story is my masterpiece to this date, odd as that is to say. When you get there, you'll understand why.

Edward's gold eyes glinted in the light, the single sliver they had from under the door. The one arm Ed had was affixed to the wall and it was decidedly broken. He could only talk in the sound of the guard's steps as he approached, nothing more, nothing less. It had taken hours just to determine the appropriate decibel level. It accounted for about half of his bruises.

"If I don't get out of this," he said over two trips of the guard, "Find Al."

"What if neither of us get out of this?" Roy asked back an hour later, from his cloak of darkness across the narrow hall.

He smiled, a grim wickedness. "Then Al finds us."

Dead or alive.

Not an hour later, Edward and several nameless others went through the archway of feathery white that was the end of their prison. It was the way to the crucifixion; it was the way to the end.

And Mustang was left behind.

Caged, and faced with a choice: Move now, and know he died trying to save him. Or he could die later, and tell himself it was for a chance to save those behind him.

Those gold eyes were still staring, as he was swallowed by the light.

Fullmetal Alchemist:

A Memorial for the People

Chapter 1: Intro

When Mustang awoke, half the items from his desk lay scattered about the floor.

He lay with his face against the wood, eyes fixed on the clock cloaked in shadows. He could still feel where that bullet hit him, and where it had come out the other side.

He drew a gloved hand over his face. That dream always got to him on nights like this, nights alone at the office.

The night was still; nothing in his view moved. Somewhere off to the side, the heat clumsily worked up steam to disperse, a series of ominous clanks and clunks within the walls.

He closed his eyes, tuning out the noise so like the distant, bored clanking of Edward's leg against the bars.

The critical days where everything had fallen apart. . . .

No one had known what had happened to Al after they had been initially caught. Many ranking officers had been abducted separately, though within a few short hours. The story Ed told about his brother, as he lay seething and battered blue on the cold concrete of his cell, blood from his nose coloring the ground, was that the last time he saw the boy was as he was flat on the ground in an alley with a gun to his head, screaming at him to run away.

No one was aware at the time of why they were even still alive. It was a coup, carried out with bloody precision. State Alchemists were housed in their tunnel; later, groups of civilian prisoners were stuffed into the empty cells around them.

They came, and they went, and there was no food. They were underground somewhere, and at the end of a long set of stairs leading upward was The Door. It was only upon the third day, when one of the guards left the door to white light open, that they heard what was going on above ground.

The story of one of the late-arriving and quickly-leaving prisoners didn't help.

Something about it had shifted Edward's stability from the proverbial shelf. He had remained hopeful that his brother would rescue them, as all of them were tied hand and foot, unable to move, with no way to transmute. However, knowing that execution was directly outside their door wormed into Edward's heart, and his resolve crumbled over time, especially after the next set of prisoners had been marched out, never to return.

Whereas Roy's resolve hardened, by virtue of having been in such situations before, in Ishbal. Ed's fire broke down, too convinced that Al had been eliminated when Ed had been caught, and was laying dead in the street exactly where he'd last seen him, flesh and blood and all.

Flesh which had been regained just three days prior to their parting.

The thoughts unraveling Ed's mind were difficult to watch, but when Mustang found out the terrorism with which the coup holding the city, Mustang was sucked into worrying, too, because Al was their only hope.

When the commander was infected, that was when it was time to worry. And everything could only go downhill from there.

The heat came on finally with a hiss, steam leaking out through radiator caps. The whole building seemed to be shuddering with a groan against the darkness outside the mammoth windows at his back.

He still remembered Hawkeye crying over the wound he finally did achieve on Ed's behalf, rattling the guards to try to create a diversion. One that did absolutely nothing.

Ed was gone, and he was left bleeding in his cell.

And then Al had come.

He saved many lives, undoubtedly, but had come too late to prevent that sort of anguish. The day that they were to be executed and strung up in the streets in front of a crowd of several thousand captive Centralites, an explosion ripped through the crowd and plunged everything into chaos. The upset, however, along with its tiny force of resistance fighters, mustered indeed by Alphonse Elric, was not great enough to get the one thing Al wanted: the touch of his brother.

The Alchemists had been freed, but the ones already strung up were unable to be reclaimed. There was shooting that day, deaths, but it was something that they couldn't worry about at the time. All that mattered was getting out, so that they return later.

They all knew this. It was only Alphonse and Armstrong who could not accept it.

It was a decision that nearly broke the resistance, because, by the time enough regrouped force was mustered to start a second assault some days later, the Fuhrer was gone and Ed was nearly dead. For three days, by then, he had been strung up in Central's town square, on a frame high enough so that all the crowd could see, wasting away in front of their eyes when they ventured close enough to see. He had been guarded like a lion's fresh kill, and with him, the Flame, out of commission . . . He could still remember Al crying to be metal again so that he could save his brother without a hint of thought about himself.

"Bastards." The word came into his memory, possibly his, possibly Al's, anyone else's that had hid in their blown-out hovel or cursed at the circumstances in the years since. It was funny, Fullmetal, he thought, the words appearing reflexively to distance himself from what he really felt. You were just the way you always were, even tortured in front of the whole town to see.

When they hung him up there, extra ropes tied around his shoulders so that he would last longer, what did he say?: "You'll never get the best of me, you bastards; try to take Central. The people won't let you!"

In the silence that followed, the man in charge raised his long-barreled rifle and, with a bang that shook the city, put a bullet in Ed's head. The base of his skull; it slipped in the back, lodged somewhere near his spinal cord, and left him bleeding for days. He was conscious for a while, they said, and it seemed to take away his pain for the words that immortalized him in the people's minds:

"Don't let them get you, kids," he had laughed to the witless, round-faced six-year-olds of the town that had been rounded up at his feet for the next example slaughter and had his blood splattered over them. He forced himself to focus on the traumatized eyes of those children, so many feet below him, and watched a rivulet of blood come in and out of focus as it fell the distance between him and where it splashed upon a child's cheek. He smiled. "I'll save you, Central. . . ."

It was as if the whole world had seen that drop, and it was just as well: that was the last thing he had said, ever. He's been made a spectacle of by the anarchists, and was a last view for those slaughtered at his feet. By then, the pavilion stairs were running red. Though, no matter how hard he and the government resistance were hanging on to life, even the small glimmer of life he showed had ceased after so many absolutely disastrous tries to not only save him, but order as well.

When the Fuhrer was finally found and executed, it seemed as though the end was upon their tries. There was no crucifixion for him, like the others in the square and around town. No; he had been killed in what could only be called an incredibly noble and strong-willed public execution. They knew what they were doing; leaving him would have been motivating, whereas killing him broke the back of the people like nothing else could. The day after, all was quiet. Nothing moved.

Obviously, no one in the military knew what to do, and "Mustang's" group, the largest contingent of officers remaining, was the only one that could bring about any more important resistance. And it was because of Mustang that they did. After a nasty patch-job, he was barely able to breathe, barely able to stand, but he took their fears and filled them with the idea that now, now they couldn't lose; they couldn't give up, because what was the Fuhrer's sacrifice for? The terrorists could have their way, if his badgered forces wanted to hide in here forever and have everyone in Central's head on their conscience for not fighting like the fuhrer asked them to. They were all going to die eventually, so why not do it fighting for something? The group, demoralized, could hold on to nothing else. And if there's nothing else, he'd said, We're going to get Ed back.

By that point, the Fullmetal Alchemist's presence was something the terrorists had practically forgotten about, aware of the effect his prostrated form was having on the city, and therefore not desiring to do anything else about it. He may have been dead, for all anyone knew, but corpse or not, Colonel Mustang made him his rallying point. Sure, Armstrong and Al each felt the urge and the ability to take the whole army themselves, but it was proving harder with each passing day. Maybe Mustang had commanded this final effort because they all held the unvoiced hope that if he, Roy, could be more than barely conscious for five minutes, or if they had Ed's foolhardy invincibility, they could do something that would turn the takeover around, in one long charge. Yet, perhaps it was because he felt personally guilty for not being able to save Edward beforehand. Maybe, it was that they had put too many losses into his rescue to turn back now, and if they managed to get Ed down, he could go home and die in peace. In any event, there was a truth: He couldn't die yet, because he couldn't leave his men behind.

. . . And poor Alphonse.

The fourth day. . . . That was when it happened. Their hiding place was found out, all of those remaining alchemists with him. It had been set up that way, to draw forces and attention away from Ed. Mustang had barely been well enough to attempt anything more than moving, propped up over Hawkeye's capable shoulders, but that was all he had been waiting for, those past three days of hell.

So easily it was, that everything could fall apart. The world was already nothing but piles of rubble for them to fight meaninglessly over.

So they went, in different directions, different groups, with all the strength they had, to rally the people, and they did. But it had been the most gruesome close-quarters, civilian-combat battle Mustang had ever seen.

And in the middle of it all, Al had found his brother. Through a hailstorm of bullets he scribbled on the ground until a transmutation that the people still remembered brought his brother into his arms.

He's still warm!

That golden spiral that rallied the reinforcements also showed the militants where to fire through the debris cloud. Mustang, waiting in the wings, giving orders from a nearby blasted building, had over-compensated the difference to deflect a bomb and exploded a building straight onto Ed and Al. If it hadn't been for that, though, there wouldn't have been anything left of them, at all.

The heightened hell that ensued did not stop him, however, and he led a charge that finally forced the terrorists back. Bleeding freely, he led a ring of people to dig frantically through the rubble to find where the brothers' bodies might be. Yet, all he could remember thinking, half-delirious from blood loss as he was, was what would happen if he lost all of what he cared about.

He never wondered when it was that they had become so much more important than himself.

A boulder of concrete was thrown over, and in a ray of sunshine like no one had seen in days, they were there, in a pocket, shimmering in gold, untouched but by a pallor of grime and concrete dust. As light sparkled off the dust settling in the air, no one breathed, unwilling to disturb the sight of Al hunched over Ed, and even unconscious, Ed's arms around him.

Horribly transfixed on Ed as he had been, Mustang was never sure if he had ever noticed Al opening his eyes happily, through the haze of pain, or if he was simply filling in gaps.

"Colonel, he's alive."

He would remember that moment for the rest of his life, like most people did, through one rumor or another.

But was it worth it? Al hadn't let himself notice the sticky blood that coated his hand as he held the back of Ed's head next to his, he was so relieved to have him back; he even had this martyred, "I can die happy now" look as he passed out again.

But fate wouldn't be so kind. Lifting his head, Roy looked toward the note he had received yesterday. It anonymous, small, red. He swept it into his hand, considered it, and started twirling the thick paper over his fingers. It had been six years now, six years tomorrow, since Al had practically left with Edward in his arms, the Edward that had been unconscious for weeks before that. No one knew where they went, where he ended up, not Risembool, not the east, not Ishbal; all had been searched for any last terrorist, and, surely, any sign of them would've appeared.

No, he sighed, the Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People and stubborn as a mule, and his brother, the most strong-willed and pacifistic person he had ever met, both disappeared, and no one here let the idea that they were both dead or disposed rule over anything else. The people just wanted to believe, after such heroism, that he was still alive; there could be no other way, they said, and every year around this time, because of the collective memory of that heroism they all experienced one way or another, the people would try to find him, bring in frauds of him, and even hold ceremonies in his honor.

Someday, they all expected him to come back, their idol.

Mustang's eyes softened as he held up the small rectangle. They called Ed their idol, Al their savior, and him their leader. Yet, for all the responsibility that had been placed on him to debunk the frauds, he wanted to believe, too, that Ed and Al were still alive; he really did, and he had the feeling that nothing could ever kill those boys, after what they'd been through. Still, on lesser days, he wondered: was it because of some pre-determined fate, some equivalent exchange that Ed was meant to die, but was just too stubborn to and so ended up a body without a living, breathing soul? He had no information to go off of, so he could only conjecture upon his own feelings, and the pessimistic ones told him that a lot could happen in six years—a lot of people could die in six years' time.

He sighed, resting his cheek against the heel of his palm and frowning at the white lilies on his desk. It was all so sad. He was distanced from it, and yet it had power like it was yesterday.

You weren't supposed to die before me, and yet you still went and did it.

That was why he was forced to make an observance—no one else could let go of their unavenged griefs, either, be it the large following of Edward and Alphonse or people who simply had lost too many children to the insurgents. So now there was a holiday, the People's Memorial, starting tomorrow; a three-day memorial for Ed, for Al, and everyone else, symbolically: the first day for the wounded, those still afflicted; the second, for survivors, those taking care; and the third for the remembered, the ones left behind, those who lost their lives. This was also known as Fuhrer's Day, to remember the late Fuhrer Bradley. Roy let himself smile quietly. And maybe, just maybe, his own valor, too. . . .

He traced his eyes up the curve of the light pink vase that held the flowers, memories playing before his eyes. If only he could reclaim the good days.

He placed one gloved finger atop the red message and slid it across his desk to flip it over.

Don't forget.

That was all it said.

He glared at it. He was probably the one that carried around the most guilt about the whole event in the entire country. He and Al both. He could still remember that boy crying, partly because his new body still hurt; partly because his world was falling apart. . . .

For an instant, there was the faint blue flare in the crack below the door, and then heavy footfall in the hallway beyond his chambers. The energy tingled through his spine unconsciously.

Roy slid the note away and hid one of his hands behind his desk, like he always did when edgy. There was a knock at the door, so far across the room, to the side.

"Yes? Come in."

It felt overdone to be so wary, but this time of year, and this late at night. . . . The guards were out there, of course, but . . .

"Hello," a tall figure in uniform purred, coming in the room and saluting gently. When Mustang waved him down, his arm fell to the side, and he tilted his head to the side.

Roy narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about the voice, but the room was so dark that his face was covered in shadow. Damn, he should've turned some kind of light on rather than just relying on the street lamps outside the grand window behind him again. Hawkeye always told him off about that. "You'll ruin your eyes!" was her favorite scold.

Still, the young man was wearing an officer's uniform, so it couldn't have been anything too bad. Unless it was extremely bad.

He stopped a foot in front of Mustang's desk, then slammed his hands down. Roy's eyes were diverted until the youth pushed his face into the light, directly in front of his superior's. His eyes were wide and glinting, and he hissed as his shadow overtook the man.

"Remember me, Fuhrer Mustang?"

"Al?"

"That's right!" He launched himself at Mustang with a maniacal look in his eyes and in a flash of red, the sound of shattering glass accompanied the sensation of flying through the air.

With a sharp blow of pain cutting through the burning streaks of glass-shard cuts, he lost his air and his eyes spun; more than one thing cracked loudly. Before he could catch his senses back, someone heavier was on top of him, fingers locked in between his own and holding his hands down by his ears. Mustang's brain screamed at him to move, but the messages were muddled; with horror, he found himself was completely pinned.

"Do you remember me, too, Colonel Mustang?" the man cried, flexing his hands as he put more pressure on Roy's broken bones. Mustang sucked in a sharp breath, moaning.

"Look!" his attacker growled violently. "Look at what you've done to me! It's because of you that I still have this bullet in my brain!"

He snarled and dug his teeth into Mustang's shoulder, his long hair flying everywhere as his head came down. A thin, hot spray of blood speckled Mustang's neck and he tipped his head back with gritted teeth, his ringing cry raw and strained.

A shot went off behind him. The high-pitched whine of a bullet grazed his attacker's head, flinging his thick ponytail back. The man darted from him, growling and then dodging two more bullets.

"Die, dammit!" Hawkeye yelled.

"No, stop firing!" he cried, sitting up and throwing his arm out to stop them, even though he fell right back down in doing so.

"Tomorrow, Mustang! Tomorrow!" yelled the man as he darted around the corner, cackling.

"After him!" Hawkeye ordered, and then rushed to her Fuhrer's side as several sets of military-issue boots went the other.

Mustang held the back of his head absentmindedly as he stared twenty feet up at the broken window, while Hawkeye frantically put her arms around him. That should have killed him, he should have hit his head and had it splattered on the pavement. He may have just been imagining it, but had that man brushed the back of his head to keep it from hitting the ground?

Hawkeye was saying something. What did he look like? She hadn't been able to see. He was wearing a military uniform—did he know who it was?

"Blond hair . . ." he began before he could stop himself, shaking terribly. "All the way down his back, in a ponytail, and his arm . . ." He touched his hand, remembering what it had felt like. Slowly, he turned his shocked gaze up to the woman. ". . . Elrics . . . ?" he muttered wonderously.

Hawkeye only stared at him, and then looked down the alley. "It can't be. . . ."

A/N: Lol, crazy. I told you there'd be cackling. And biting. Didn't I mention the biting? No? Well, now you've seen it. And you can't unsee it!

Don't take the mellowdramatic parts too seriously. They are mello-drama, after all. XD

Thanks for reading. Keep going, you can do it! ^_^