Secretary of State Mustang had finished his annual visit to the Ishvalan province and was having a drink with Colonel George Miles in Gunja.

"Are you backing Mrs Bradley in the elections?" Miles asked. "You'll be in trouble if General Armstrong wins."

"Hell, no," said Roy. "Armstrong wants my head on a platter, which is as it should be. We've got to establish the precedent that what I did here during the Civil War was a war crime - that can't be excused by the 'following orders' defense. Riza and I will just move to Creta before they arrest us. If Bradley wins, I'll have to campaign for my own trial and execution. I'd rather be tried and sentenced in absentia."

"Bradley thinks she's doing you a favor."

Roy shook his head. "A modern, bustling district you've got here in Gunja, George. You've done a great job. But it's the only one that's been built up in the past five years. The others are just as empty as they've been since I killed that old man in Daliha. There just aren't enough Ishvalans."

Miles nodded. Mustang saw all the missing people, just like every Ishvalan above a certain age did. But he didn't see relatives and countrymen; he saw people he'd killed.

"Hmm, maybe I should support Bradley then," he said. "I'd hate to see you all settled down in Creta."

"You do that, George. I'll save you a front row seat at my hanging," he quipped.


Originally published in LiveJournal Community FMA_fic_contest for prompt 103, Quip, Feb 21, 2011