Chapter 7! This one introduces an OC who sprung from the fathomless depths of my imagination back in October (I think). He was featured in my fic, "Lookin' At It This Way." It's a fic in which he develops photos in Central, and you read only his side of a conversation with Roy and Riza about photographs and the people in them (especially Edward). (Please note that I wrote that fic before it was known that Roy would go blind.) He didn't have a name then, but Fudfoodle came up with the perfect one very quickly. :D Anyway, I love that OC, and so does Fudfoodle, so we were excited at a chance to bring him into this story. XD
Review Chapter 1 to refresh yourself on what to expect. As I said in the last chapter, we're a little over a quarter of the way through now. :D Yay! Things will start getting juicy soon. Also, if you haven't checked out Fudfoodle's artwork on deviantART yet, I sincerely hope you do.
By the way, thanks for all the reviews! I can't remember anymore which ones I've responded to and which ones I haven't (the days, the weeks, they are blurring togetherrrrr!), but I'll try to figure it out, as I like to respond to each review individually. ^___^ They are greatly appreciated! :D I love knowing what people are thinking, be it good or bad.
Of course, we don't own FMA, but it eats our souls all the same. Speaking of which, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm kind of in a state of denial about Chapter 104. I hope Arakawa fixes it; I'm not sure she'd want to responsible for me dying by heart attack. :| …. Even though the whole thing did look pretty awesome. XD AHEM!! To the story.
"Well, if it ain' th'Fullmetal Alchemist, visitin' ol' Central from Raisin Pool! Sure shot up, didn' yeh?"
"Actually, it's just Ed these days," Edward smirked at the aged photo developer whose back was evidently not quite as strong as it was ten years ago, given the way he hunched. "And it's pronounced 'Resembool.' How are you, Frank? It's been a while."
"Oh, Ah'm finer'n frog hair split nine ways, thanks for askin'," Frank drawled as he shuffled away from the doorway to allow Ed, Al, Audrey, and Ruth to enter the photography shop. "What about yeh? Ever hear from that guy'n armor anymore?"
"Sometimes," Ed replied as he and Al exchanged grins. Audrey glanced back and forth between them, leaning in their direction to imply her curiosity, but they paid her no heed.
Frank bobbed his head genially and took his place behind the counter with the cash register. "Well, what can Ah do for yeh today? Been a while since yeh had any pitchers fer me to develop."
"I'm afraid it will be a little longer still, Mr. Gareth," Ruth said to him as she propped her pudgy elbow on the counter. "We actually have a proposition you might be interested in."
Eyebrows twitching with the effort of rising, Frank blinked in answer. "Ah'm all ears, Ms. Gerry."
"You're an outspoken supporter for Chief Advisor Mustang, correct?" Ruth queried, shrewdly scrutinizing the old man.
"That I am," Frank said fervently. "Recently became an official member o' MAP. It ain' right what they're doin' t'him."
"We agree about that," Ruth continued. "And that's why we're doing everything we can to raise awareness of the truth and garner support for him. It's possible that public opinion will sway the jury's verdict." At this, she leaned forward and winked. "You still got that old letterpress?"
Ed and Al's eyes widened in unison, but it was Ed who voiced their question. "You had a letterpress?"
"Have, actually." The shadows in the creases of Frank's wrinkles were deep, suggesting that he had smiled in such a manner many times throughout his life. "Late wife loved t' write an' ran a magazine fer stories when she was alive. Ah made pitchers fer it." Returning his focus to Ruth, he leaned forward against the counter, shaking slightly as his brittle bones struggled to hold up his weight. "What did yeh have in mind fer it, eh?"
"We want to start publishing an independent magazine for MAP," Ruth explained briskly as she pushed away from the counter to gesture emphatically with both hands. "Something we don't have to worry the newspapers will reject or censor. We can say anything we want and make sure the people know what we think about the trial."
Frank firmed his mouth, licking his lips for a moment. Then he turned slowly and paused, waiting for Ed, Al, and Ruth to step forward before he continued leading them toward a door in a far corner of the lobby. "She would've loved t'see th'ol' press be put t'such good use now."
"Just like that?" Al exclaimed. "You'll make dozens of magazines?"
"Not at all, my boy," Frank replied with a husky chuckle. "Ah intend to make hundreds of 'em."
"How will you do that?" Audrey breathed, absentmindedly digging in her bag for her notebook and pen. "Do you have a lot of savings?"
Frank waved a gnarled hand dismissively. "Money ain' ever a problem fer me. Never needed much. Besides"—a youthful spirit shone through grin—"Ah got plenny o' silver."
At the young adults' bewildered expressions, Ruth smirked. "Silver is used for protecting film before it's processed," she said. "There's a very thin layer of it that keeps any possible sparks caused from the speed of the film inside the camera from damaging the film itself. In the bleaching process of development, the silver is removed."
"Not like runnin' a mine er anythin'," Frank grunted as he fiddled with a set of keys, trying to find the one to open the corner door. "But it's somethin'. Prob'ly enough fer our purposes. Jus' gotta give me a few days t'sell some more."
"I knew I could count on you, Mr. Gareth," Ruth beamed.
With a throaty and pleased chuckle, Frank finally stuck the correct key inside the lock and pushed the door open. He led them into a wide, dusty room sheltering a large machine with a large wheel set beneath two ledges jutting out from a jumble of cranks and levers and bulging letters. "This here's the letterpress," he said, indicating it with a spread palm and warm glance as though he were introducing houseguests to a beloved resident.
Ruth nodded at it. "Good. Small and private." Then she spotted a long table on which flatly laid crisscrossing wires fitted between differently sized wooden frames were scattered haphazardly across the surface. She lengthened her stride, hurrying to the table to study the frames, her lipsticked mouth round in awe. "You can do screen printing, too," she said. Then, clapping her hands together once, she whirled around, surprisingly light on her feet. She smiled with an amused smugness toward Audrey. "You see, my dear, this is how the press should be—simple and honest."
Audrey blinked, her face flushing a little as she nodded hesitantly. "W-Well, I—"
"Ah haven't used this ol' thing in years," Frank commented wistfully as he passed a hand over the letterpress. "Ah'm not even sure it still works." He brushed off a layer of grime and frowned at all the nuts and bolts. "May be a few days before we can print anythin'. Gotta get 'er looked at."
"I think we've got just the person for that," Ed said, suddenly rolling his shoulders back as he smiled proudly at something he saw beyond the machine while Al nodded knowingly.
"Do yeh, now?" Frank said, eyeing the boys with a smirk. "Edward, did yeh ever get with that mechanic girl o' yehrs?"
"H-Huh?" Ed's eyes widened as he took a frantically shocked step backwards, his cheeks suddenly aflame with his blood. "H-How did you—"
The aged photo developer laughed heartily. "Ah'm not that old, boy. Anyway"—he continued as he clapped Ed's shoulder—"good fer yeh. She's a real pretty one. Real nice, too."
Rubbing the back of his head, Ed gave a grunt of concession. Al playfully elbowed his brother in the ribs, which earned him a heatless glare, which only made the younger alchemist laugh. Audrey clasped her hands in front of her and watched, smiling with a wondering warmth.
"Only one thing left to do," Ruth said as she contemplatively adjusted the pearls around her plump neck. She raised an eyebrow the Elric brothers as Audrey glanced back and forth between them. "It's your boys' turn."
"It's my turn to pick the music," one of the soldiers muttered, reaching forward to change the station on the radio in the living room of the Mustang home.
"You idiot, it's Raph's turn," one of the other soldiers said as he slapped away the hand of the first.
Roy suppressed a sigh, struggling to block out the sounds of his escort squabbling a few feet away. The past few days had seen a marked change in their attitude toward him—that is, they did not feel the need to crowd him every moment since they had come to realize he would not actually try to flee—and he could not be more grateful about it, but it did not change the fact that they were still there. He reached for Riza's hand in the cushioned chair next to him, searching for the auras of his boys on the floor as they quietly played with toy vehicles, laughing as they imagined putting the drivers into horrific situations that often involved pushing the cars across the arms of the sofa and then diving and crashing in the ravine of carpet below. Riza returned the squeeze of his fingers, and he barely heard the squeak of the wood in the chair as she leaned her head back, waiting for him to speak.
"Do you think we made the right decision?" he asked her, though his lips barely moved.
His wife stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "Yes," she answered, quietly but firmly. After a moment, he heard her turn a page in the book she held in her lap. "The Elrics are probably the best suited to caring for them. Gracia struggles enough as a single mother of one young girl, and anyway, Elysia is half grown up." Her voice suddenly became lower, and he detected a hint of brokenness that she easily masked by clearing her throat. "If anything happens to us, it would be better to give the boys to someone with children around their own age, and to let Gracia just worry about her one."
"She'll be offended you think so little of her capabilities," Roy closed his eyes, just because they felt heavy, and smirked wryly.
"She will, but it's in her best interests, and the boys'," Riza replied easily. She lifted his hand to plant a small kiss on his knuckles. "Everyone will be all right."
"You've been saying that a lot recently," Roy said, swallowing down a lump in his throat. "Do you think you and I will be all right?"
There was a pause. The sound of static electricity filled it. Then a voice—tenor, clear, and familiar.
"Testing, one, two, three...."
Roy blinked and straightened, feeling Riza do the same.
"What's happening?" one of the soldiers inquired of no one in particular, staring in consternation at the radio speakers.
"Did somebody change the station again?" asked another as he glanced up from the book he had taken from the bookshelf a couple of hours before.
"Wasn't me," mumbled the soldier who had wished to select the music out of turn just minutes earlier.
Then came the voice again.
"Testing, one, two, three...."
Despite being unable to see her, Roy jerked his head in Riza's direction, and she acknowledged his question with a touch on his forearm. They leaned forward, waiting intently. Jadon and Zach curiously turned their gaze back and forth between the radio and their parents.
"What is it, Mama?" Zach asked Riza, who was nearest him, as he pulled on her pant leg.
"Hush, please," Riza murmured.
"When is the music coming back on?" another soldier sighed irritably.
And the voice.
"Testing, one, two—"
"I think we got it, Fuery."
At the second drawling baritone voice and the sound of the name they had been waiting to hear, Roy and Riza bolted up from their chairs, continuing to grasp tightly to each other's hands as they stared in the direction of the radio, tensed. The members of the escort stared around at each other incredulously, occasionally mouthing questions that could only be answered with shrugs.
"I'm just making sure—"
"We got it, Fuery. We can't keep this up for long, you know that. Say it now."
"What? But you told me you'd say it!"
"When did I say that?"
"Just a couple of minutes ago!"
"I think you're just imagining things."
"Guys, seriously, we don't have time for this. Here, I'll say it."
"Breda, don't talk with your mouth full. Especially not on the radio."
"Well, if nobody else is going to do it—"
"Here, Falman, you do it."
"N-No, I'm no good with public speaking—"
"But you probably remember the speech word for word."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I—"
"Oh, let me do it! You pansies."
That last voice was mezzi-soprano with an edge of steel as tough as the real steel with which Roy and Riza knew its owner worked. Jadon and Zach grinned and pointed toward the speakers.
"Isn't that Mrs. Elric?" Jadon exclaimed.
"Shh," Riza motioned toward him, brows furrowing in concentration.
Winry's voice resounded in the room. "People of Central, we apologize for the interruption, but we have an important announcement to make. Don't bother changing the station, because we currently have all radio waves under our control. As you all know, tomorrow morning will be the first session of Chief Advisor Roy Mustang's trial, which will decide his fate regarding his role in the Ishbal War. We, Roy Mustang's supporters and former team members who aided in the coup d'état seven years ago—"
"Winry, you weren't there." That one was Ed.
There was a muffled clang and yelp before Winry continued.
"We know that there has been a great deal of civil unrest and suspicion surrounding his moral character and suitability as a leader of this country. As loyal friends, followers, and confidantes of his, we can give firsthand accounts as testimonies to his honesty, courage, and capabilities. Tomorrow evening, beginning at six o'clock, we will conduct an official meeting hosted by the Movement for Amnesty and Peace in the auditorium at Central Academy. There, we will open the floor for discussion and answer any and all questions pertaining to Roy Mustang's character and intentions. This is your chance to find out everything you want to know about him so that you can make an informed decision as to whether or not you support his pardon. Again, tomorrow evening, six o'clock, auditorium at Central Academy. All are welcome! Bring your friends!"
There was some shuffling around, a few metallic bumps, the distant sound of Winry and Ed exchanging quiet but heated words as Al tried to politely interject and Emily asked whether she could tell them about the kitten she and Uncle Al had fed earlier that day, Breda mumbling something around whatever was in his mouth, Havoc laughing, Falman sighing, and then there was Fuery again.
"We'll now return you to your scheduled music program. Thank you for your time and patience."
After a moment, the smooth tone of a popular singer abruptly burst forth from the speakers mid-vibrato. The escort exchanged puzzled and slightly grim glances with each other but said nothing. Roy and Riza sank back into their chairs, breaths deep and slow, while Jadon and Zach pressed on their knees as they hopped around, proclaiming their excitement that Roy had been mentioned on the radio so that everyone could hear.
"Wasn't that nice of them, Daddy?" Jadon enthused.
Roy had barely opened his mouth in a half-brained attempt to formulate a reply when a rapping at the door snapped him back into focus. He moved to rise, then settled back again, fighting a growl as he said impatiently to his escort, "Will one of you get that, please?"
Two of the soldiers wordlessly rose and ambled toward the front door, merely one room away. After only a moment, Ed, Al, Winry, and Emily entered. Emily immediately hurried toward Jadon and Zach, wasting no time in asking which tiny car she was allowed to push around, while the Elric adults took their seats in the sofa across from the chairs where Roy and Riza rested. Edward sported an immensely self-satisfied grin that Roy did not need to have his eyesight to know was there.
"You heard it, right?" Ed finally asked.
"I heard some kind of nonsense about a MAP meeting tomorrow," Roy answered, one eyebrow raised.
"Oh, that?" Ed scoffed lightly. "That was nothing. I was referring to my amazing singing voice that came right after it."
"Must've missed that part," Roy smirked, shaking his head. He felt a tremor run through Riza's hand and frowned, pulling on it inquiringly.
At that, Riza took in a sharp breath, and her voice was heavy with restraint. "You are being so kind to us. Anytime we wonder whether we'll really be all right, you give us hope. We really do thank you."
It was a simple speech, but Roy smiled at the rare display of her vulnerable sincerity, as did the Elrics.
"You don't have to wonder whether you'll really be all right, Riza," Winry said, tone warm and soft. "There's plenty of hope to be found. You will be all right."
Riza let out a long and shaky sigh. Roy tightened his grip around her fingers, though he was unable to suppress a smile.
"Nothing to be afraid of," Ed said with a combination of firmness and nonchalance unique to him. "We're getting everything figured out."
"You're safe in our hands," Al added, a note of cheeriness in his voice. "We promise."
The radio interception ended just as Audrey was washing her hands in her bathroom. She blinked blankly at the sink before glancing at her reflection to watch herself yank her hair out of its ponytail. She shook out the dark sepia locks, running her fingers through them in a halfhearted attempt to disentangle them, then chuckled lightly to herself as she tapped her heel on the floor, imagining herself in heels again. The voice of her favorite crooner wafted through the air around her, but the sound of a toothbrush being scrubbed against her teeth drowned out the best of the singer's deep vibrato strains. Not that this seemed to matter very much, really, because she quite unceremoniously switched the radio off as she left the bathroom to climb into her bed in the next room.
Before retreating into sleep, however, she grabbed the notepad on her nightstand and scribbled on the first available clean sheet of paper it held—
MAP meeting six o'clock Central Academy auditorium
Find Mustang's team for further questions private interview?
Nodding and yawning to herself, she set the notebook aside, turned off the lamp, and settled into her pillow. Her last thoughts before slipping away into unconsciousness were to wonder how often the means justified the ends.
This one feels a bit short to me for some reason, but there was only so much left to put in before the trial.
.... I also really seriously need to fix up my narratives some more. Crap. Whyyyy are there not more hours in a day?
On to random author's notes.
I once knew a man who, when asked how he was doing, would always respond, "Oh, I'm finer than frog hair split nine ways!" I don't know if he made it up or got it from somewhere else. He has since died, but the saying always stuck with me. :) And I've always thought it was a perfect greeting for Frank Gareth! :D
I learned about the silver in 35-millimeter film because of my job as a photo technician at a big retail chain. I think we probably make more money selling the silver that comes off the film than we do from actually selling photo products. XD I loved how when it came became clear that there needed to be a way to fund the MAP magazines, I was immediately able to think of Frank and what I knew about silver in film! Yay for life experience!
I also did a wee bit of research on printing presses and the like for the sake of this chapter. Sooo interesting. I'm such a nerd. :B (Hope I got it right. It was some pretty quick research.) I was having a hard time finding a decent visual reference for screen printing, so I improvised its description a bit. I should ask some of my traditional art friends about that. I've watched them do such fascinating things in their studios.
All righty…. I guess that's it. For now. Waaah, why is it 3:30 in the morning? –cries-
Next chapter's title: Of High Noon. (We get to start the trial! WHOOHOO!!)
