OUR LIVES CHAPTER 21: ONE MAN'S WORDS ON A WINTER'S NIGHT

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

"The timing of all this sucks!" Ed thundered, shoving his coffee cup aside and smacking the table so hard the silver rattled. "Goddamn it, Roy, isn't there anything you can do to change the date of the Central debate?"

Nina shot her father a sympathetic look over her hot buttered waffles and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Daddy, but the League of Women Voters set the date. I seriously doubt that they were thinking about Kelley Winchell when they picked it."

"I think," Alphonse ventured carefully, "that since it's going to happen—and it's going to happen the day before that book comes out, well….couldn't you use it to your advantage?"

Roy put down his napkin. "I'm open to suggestions, Al. What do you have in mind?"

"You?"

"Hiya, Mistah President!" The Ice Cream Blonde sashayed into the Presidential office wearing a skirt so tight it must have been painted on. She lingering in Central, shooting her scenes in the film version of the musical The Fullmetal Alchemist, and Roy offered a silent prayer to gods he did not believe in, grateful that Hawkeye was on a brief medical furlough and was missing this little meeting. Roy had not been pleased to learn about the so called 'café catfight' between his colonel and the starlet and was willing to go to any length to avoid Round Two. "Alphonse said you needed me." There was something disconcerting in the way her tongue darted out and flicked her lower lip that made Roy immediately add "set fire to Al's office' to his personal to-do list for the day. "I'm always glad to lend you a…hand…or anything else you might need." Roy immediately corrected himself. He would not set Al's office on fire for this. He would set Al's trousers on fire—and Al would be in them.

"Er…Miss…Turlough. Ah…good to see you," he stammered. "I'm not…uhhh…not completely sure why Alphonse-"

She leaned in close. "—isn't he just the sweetest fellah? I could just eat him up like a sugar cookie!"

Roy stepped back a fraction. She was invading his personal space and he feared it might carbonate his hormones, for all that he'd been committed to another man for over fifteen years. There was something animal about this woman—like some demented candy-colored pantheress—who cut these hot, lazy eyes at him and every coo'ed syllable seemed dripping with obscene possibilities. Havoc, buddy—you never stood a chance against this one. She's a subtle as a charging chimera. And what the hell is that perfume she's wearing? "Alphonse has always been…er..ah…a valued member of my staff…"

Her beestung lips turned down into a luscious pout. "Wassamatta, Mistah President? You look all nervous. You're startin' to sweat." Reaching into her cleavage she pulled out a lacy handkerchief and she gently blotted Roy's forehead. "I didn't come over this morning to make you all jittery. I gotta get you all…relaxed."

"I'm fine, Miss Turlough." Did that really come out an octave higher than Roy's normal voice?

"No," she contradicted coquettishly. "You're all…stiff." Roy glanced nervously down at his own crotch. Traitor, he thought to his penis. Down, boy! "See, that's what Mistah Alphonse said. He was worried, 'cause that Samuelson is all smiles and handshakes in public. He does the glad-hand real good, ya know?" She shifted her weight forward and pressed herself lightly against him. "That's what you don't know, Mistah President. You're real smart and all, and you're really swell at your job—but you don't really know a damn thing about people."

Sweat prickled along his spine, and as soon as he could get away from this pink-lipped python of lust he would lock himself in the men's room and threaten his member with cold water, ice—even circumcision-for embarrassing him like this. It must be chemicals. Hormones…pheromones, whatever. Like a cat in heat that other cats can smell for miles. "I…beg to differ…"

"I'm gonna get right to the point, Roy," she whispered. "You ain't a baby-kisser."

He blinked nervously. "Ah…wha..what?"

"You don't' walk into a room. You march in and take no prisoners. Oh," she amended, "it's not like you're not charming and all that. But you're all serious. Samuelson knows how to get people to like him. We gotta find your style. I want you to come into that debate tonight and make 'em love you. 'Cause if they love you, they'll lissen. Samuelson, they like. They lissen to him on the radio. He shows up to open new supermarkets and stores. He goes to movie premiers and the theater. Everybody knows him. Heck, he even does commercial on the radio! Now," she was smiling up at him now, "what WE gotta do is change your style a little. Teach you the glad-hand game. I hear that Mistah Edward used to do that. That's how he got to be the 'alchemist of the people', right?"

Roy frowned, recalling when Edward had schemed to use himself as bait to lure out the enemy by thrusting himself in the public eye as the charming, boyish 'alchemist of the people', stealing headlines and dashing heroically around the city in a ridiculous manner that splashed his picture over front pages nationwide. "I'm going to have to make a fool of myself? Is that what you're saying, Miss Turlough?"

The blonde curls bobbed. "Goodness, no! Nothin' like that! But we gotta…I dunno…change the brand. Spruce you up. Warm you up. Everybody knows you're brave. Everybody knows you would die for this country…and the trouble is, they've known this for ages. They're used to you. Samuelson has 'em shook up. So…we gotta do some…shakin'…of our own." To his horror, her hands darted over his buttons, so fast he didn't have a chance to protest. His uniform coat was open and she was tugging at his trousers. "Now…let's get you out of that stuffy ol' uniform…."

###

The idea was ridiculous. "That has to be the single most effective party-killer of all time."

By that, Kelley Winchell meant the exhibit of sepia-toned photographs that were now covered with white dust cloths in the private room of the gallery where her book release was going to be held tomorrow night. She shuddered, pulling her furs closer. Archer found it amusing that Kelley Winchell could co-author a book she had no intention of reading—ever. She had agreed to stand in the reception, greeting the press and posing for pictures, but she absolutely would not go into the gallery where prints from the book's photos were on display. No, she told herself, that was Archer's bailiwick, not hers.

"It's a fill-in-the-blanks no brainer, Kel, " he had told her. "You read my text and notes. You give it your spin—the punters love your writing style. Don't take it overboard. Then I edit into the story behind the photographs. We get this story of this young bunch of kids—fresh, you know? Wet behind the ears. One of them is top of the class. Mustang. Good-looking. Ambitious. Gets written up for fighting, sticking up for the underdog at school. Another classmate tries to get him written up for something that looks a lot like sodomy and fraternizing but he manages to get out of it. Then he gets ambitious and goes for the State Alchemy license, shooting fireballs and blowing things to hell. Presents himself to the army as a living weapon and the brass falls for it. Heads out to Ishbal during the Dahlia Campaign and he and Zolf Kimblee blow the place apart. Gets in a battle and he and his butt-buddy Hughes go murder their old school chum Heathcliff Arber. In the middle of this, a young rookie, a signal corps photographer named Donal Samuelson gets assigned to the campaign. He sees the slaughter, right? It's a total bloodbath. He hates it—even tries to get Mustang to stop using the alchemy to burn the cities, but it doesn't work. So he makes a vow that he's going to bring this story to daylight one day…and here's the evidence. Neat, huh?"

Neat? How could anyone use such a trivial word to describe those hideous images of charred people, broken buildings, sobbing refugees and a single terrifying image of a lone man, gloved hand upraised, coaxing a holocaust of fire with the snap of his fingers? That photograph—that chilling icon—that was what had given Kelley Winchell nightmares since that terrible afternoon when Frank Archer showed her his portfolio of rare war prints that he intended to make into a bestseller.

Now people were going to pay to see those grisly images. They were going to sip champagne and listen to high-toned music and nibble on canapés and imported Drachman caviar and chitchat and press the flesh…and then they were going to walk back into that gallery and see those damned photographs and probably vomit all over their nicely polished shoes.

Images of a man's corpse, grinning in rictus, his burned body fused to the body of the dead cart horse he had fallen against. A blistered baby desperately trying to suck milk from a dead woman's breast. A man staggering for help, his ruined eyes burst in their sockets, the entire upper part of his head completely void of flesh. The first time she had flipped through this horror show of images she had to dash to the ladies' loo and had spattered her imported leather slingbacks with her luncheon. And worse, tucked in with all the hideous images were snaps of grinning soldiers, drinking and celebrating their victory-and the pale, soot-marred face of the Hero of Ishbal himself, his long flowing coat like the wings of a great carrion crow, flying like a shadow over the streets of the dead. A pretty boy soldier with the heart of a killer, knee deep in a river of mud and gore.

Roy Mustang.

If there was a god named Ishballa—and for once Kelley Winchell hoped there was—he would damn the soul of the Flame Alchemist to a hell beyond imagining where he would confront each of the thousand souls he had murdered through his unholy alchemy and suffer what they had suffered, right down to their last, pitiful breaths….

###

With all the stress over the book, the election, and now the pile of glass negatives that Al had ordered recovered from the old greenhouse, Alphonse was in great need of a good belly laugh these days.

He got one—at the President's expense.

If he lived a hundred years—and bearing his ancestry in mind, that seemed to be pretty likely—Alphonse Elric would never forget the screams and shouts coming from the Presidential Office. He bit his lower lip. He tried to mentally recite the periodic table of elements. He tried manfully to control himself but then there would be another surprisingly high pitched yelp of protest from Roy and Alphonse would lose control, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter only to have it escape out his nose in a disgraceful snort.

Sheska had already fled and Havoc was fast behind her, his ears flaming crimson with embarrassment. Breda alone stood guard, arms crossed, his face impassive.

"He can fend her off if she gets too-" Breda made a gesture that did not require much interpretation.

"I told her we needed to get him into civilian dress," Al insisted. "I didn't say he needed her help." Al had stepped out after breakfast to consult with the President's tailor—a wasp-tongued but impeccably dressed fellow named Carson who had thrown up his hands and cried 'about damn time!', dragging Al to several shops to procure what Carson had pronounced as 'comfortable clothing—not for him, darling—something that makes everyone else feel comfortable around him.' Several ensembles were assembled, paid for and transported by taxi to the Presidential office.

"Mr. Carson will come by to give him a once over before we leave for the debate," Al told Breda. "There's also a barber named Kyan who'll get Roy a haircut and a manicure—he also said something about 'neatening up' Roy's eyebrows, but I don't think he'll go for that." There was a loud crash and a shout that sounded like 'get your hands out of my shorts, ma'am!'. "Guess I'd better go in there?" Al asked tentatively.

"Before the guards do, yeah," Breda agreed.

Before they could move, the double oak doors opened with a bang. "TAA-DAHHHHH! " Gladys Turlough shouted in triumph. "Don't he look fantastic?"

"Fantastic" was not an adjective that Alphonse would have used to describe another man, but even Breda grinned, gave his boss a thumbs-up. "Looking sharp, Sir!"

Instead of a formal suit, Carson had chosen simple dark wool trousers, a single breasted navy jacket that hinted ever so slightly of Roy's riding coat. "Everyone knows he's a horseman," Carson had suggested. "His casual clothing should reflect that he's an active man, not some spoiled dandy that spends his days drinking brandy and playing chess." The shirt was open at the neck with a simple cravat, and he wore braces and no waistcoat. "Casual and elegant. Relaxed, yet powerful. Samuelson will be wearing some dreary dark suit. They'll be expecting Mustang to dress up in the usual dreary cap and uniform. Let's throw them off guard."

Roy looked smartly turned out and absolutely furious. "Alphonse," he said in a voice that was terrifyingly calm. "Did you suggest to Miss Turlough that I am not capable of dressing myself?"

"He needed a little push to get the idea," she beamed. "Okay, maybe I took the liberty—"

"—several liberties, ma'am!"

"—but he looks so nice, I might want to steal him away for myself!"

The mental image of Edward Elric AND Riza Hawkeye racing to scratch Gladys Turlough's eyes out made the menfolk shudder. "Uhhhh….right," Alphonse stammered. "Mr. Kyan's going to give you a haircut and a manicure—"

"—I had a haircut yesterday, Al-"

'—a better haircut-and then we can spend the rest of the afternoon-"

"-teachin' you how to give 'me the glad-hand-"

Roy headed straight for the window and flung it open. If he was lucky, he'd hit the bushes on the way down and he'd be able to out-run them, reaching the safety of his car before these lunatics-

They dragged him back. Breda locked the windows and escorted Mr. Kyan in, scissors at the ready. "I can take you all on," Roy threatened, lifting his hand as if ready to snap off a rain of fire inside his own office."

Al approached his old friend and laid his hands on Roy's shoulders. "You'd do it for your country, wouldn't you, soldier?"

"She grabbed my ass, Al."

The younger alchemist nodded. "Sacrifice is demanded by the leaders of men."

Dark eyes were wide with indignation. "She pinched it."

"I'll see that you get a medal, sir." He snapped his fingers. "Miss Turlough? Mr. Kyan? Breda? I want to see a brand new man in three hours."

"YES, SIR!"

It was almost tea time when Ed was summoned in. "Doesn't he look scrumptious?"

Ed gave the Ice Cream Blonde a suspicious look, then saw the panic in his lover's eyes. Roy's virtue, Ed decided, was intact, but not without having put up one hell of a fight.

Mr. Kyan and Mr. Carson exchanged smirks. "Would you fuck him, sweetie?" Carson inquired archly.

After several thoughtful moments, Ed nodded. "Yeah. But then, " he qualified, "I've fucked him in the stable with horse shit on his boots."

Roy's left eyebrow lifted. "You flatter me." He rounded on the two stylists. "And my private life is none of your business."

"What he means," Gladys soothed, "is he loves you no matter what. So can we get someone who's, ya know, objective?"

Five minutes later, Owen Knox, Sebastian and Ruby were ushered in. "We're going to beat Samuelson at his game," Al explained. "We wanted to make Roy more—"

"—human?" Mr. Carlson suggested.

"Something like that," Al agreed. "Opinions?"

"His Excellency is properly turned out. His appearance is casual yet conservative. Wearing his hair swept down over the forehead gives him a less regimental appearance, much as he had in his younger days. His handkerchief is folded to perfection in the breast pocket. I can find no fault," said Sebastian.

"You almost look human," growled Doctor Knox.

"Whoohooo!" grinned Ruby.

Alphonse smiled broadly. "Gentlemen—Miss Turlough? I think we're ready for the debate."

###

"My job," Donal Samuelson had informed the crowd. "is to tell you the truth and scare you half to death—and then to show you, point by point, why I have hope for Amestris. Why I believe, with all my heart, that if we work together, that we are on the precipice of a new era of freedom, prosperity and the rebirth of Amestris as the undisputed leader of the free world."

"My ass hurts," Havoc whispered to Breda in the audience. "And my ass is a pretty damn good barometer of a boring political speech."

"You're immune to him," Breda observed. "You're listening to what he's saying. You're missing how he's saying it. That's what he gets right and the Boss gets wrong. The Boss is used to addressing soldiers, not Joe Blow and the man on the street."

"Isn't that what all that crazy stuff was about this afternoon?" Havoc wanted to know.

"Shhhhh—yeah. I guess it all depends on how well the Boss was listening."

He was good, Havoc had to admit. He was damned good. Samuelson oozed believability. There was sincerity in every line. His body language, pacing…all of it was spot on perfect. "Maybe a little too perfect," Breda agreed. "He's out of his league. I think deep down he knows it and he's bluffing."

'Hate to play that son of a bitch at cards," Havoc admitted, "but then, he's never played Mustang…"

"…Amestris, we will always endure. We will always pull through. We will never give up. We are at the Great Crossroads, and together as one united people we will press on—press on against hopelessness, press on against the tyranny of the past, press on and rise above the last crumbled ruins of military dictatorship—and together we will greet the dawn of a new day. My friends, it is morning in Amestris…and I can't wait to see what promise this new day has in store for us all. Thank you," Samuelson bowed, "Madame Chairman. My thanks to you, ladies of the League of Women Voters, and to all the good people of Amestris. I yield the podium now to my esteemed opponent."

He glanced at the seat where his opponent should have occupied on the podium. It was empty.

The Madame Chairman of the League rose, looking worried. "Ladies and gentlemen…my apologies. It seems President Mustang is-"

"Right here, Ma'am."

A friendly voice lifted over the confused mumblings of the crowd. "I'm here, Ma'am." Roy Mustang rose from the middle of the crowd, where he had apparently been seated throughout Samuelson's speech. "Sorry for the confusion, " he beamed to the people around him. "Mr. Samuelson gave an excellent speech to the Amestrian people. And when you're president of a country it's very easy to forget that, first and foremost, you are one of the people. There's just a little difference in your job description," there was a chuckle from the crowd, " and maybe you have an easier time getting a parking space downtown—oh, and when you want to go camping in the woods with your children you have a half-dozen big guys with concealed weapons sneaking around in the bushes when you need a moment of privacy since there's no indoor plumbing available." He strolled easily to the podium, bowing respectfully to each of the women on the committee. "And did I mention that you have to make campaign speeches? Terrifying thought, isn't it? And occasionally getting shot at," he touched his shoulder lightly. "I bet I know what you are all thinking tonight, listening to us speak and reading about the campaign in the papers, and watching all the newsreels. You're thinking," he stepped to the edge of the stage and smiled warmly at the crowd, "you're thinking 'you've got to be out of your mind to want to do this for a living!' And who knows, you could very well be right! Or maybe," his voice lowered into that range that could raise goosebumps on any woman and many a man, "maybe….it's because you've found something you love more than your own life—more than anything. You've found that you love your homeland…you love her and want to protect and nurture her so much that you are willing to do whatever you have to do—jump through any kind of hoops, even come up on stage and risk making a fool of yourself—if that's what it takes to show people how very, very much they mean to you—and to remind them that the guy in the big black car in the uniform with the shiny gold braid is just one other Amestrian who loves his motherland.

"It's that simple. It really is that simple." He sat down on the edge of the stage and spoke to every man and woman in the crowd, eye to eye, one at a time. "What were the options for serving your country back in the 1800's—back when some of us were kids? We were a military state, remember? If you wanted to serve, you joined the military. That was it—oh, unless you were a woman. Then they told you, "go home, raise a family and keep your mouth shut.' Let me tell you, as father of a grown daughter I know what you ladies must have been thinking when you were told that. And as mothers it must have broken your hearts to send generation after generation to war after war.

"My esteemed opponent talks about corruption in the military regime—and he would be right…if he's talking about the past he would be right. I know what it means to be one of those sons who wanted to serve his country and found himself sent off to kill his fellow man for reasons that made no sense whatsoever. I fought on the Eastern Front, and I am willing to bet that those men and women who served on the other fronts could agree with me. We were young and naïve and we followed orders. And in my case, I began to question them the day I found one of my best friends on the battlefield…and he shot me….and our mutual friend had to shoot him to save my life."

His voice was soft and mesmerizing now. "Does that make sense to you? Someone-a people-that had nothing my country needed, had lived in peace with us for generations…one day those people became my enemies and yours. And you'd say, "Roy, they rose up and rebelled! They attacked first!'. And you'd be right-because someone from our military killed one of their children. And as a father…if it were my son or my daughter…I may not condone that…but I can understand where that anger comes from. And that's how it was from border to border, nation to nation—not always a child but there was some tipping point that pushed things to the breaking point and lo and behold, Amestris was at war again.

"And on one spectacularly blood-soaked day, the day I faced my friend in battle, I…woke…up." Roy made an emphatic gesture.

The auditorium was silent.

"I said, 'no more'. I told my best friend, Brigadier General Maes Hughes, that I would do everything in my power to help stop this insanity.

"And…we did." His voice was barely a whisper but it carried to every corner of a room filled with men and women hanging onto his every word.

"WE did…the men and women who swore to protect this country and protect you, her people. Military…civilians…allies from beyond our borders who fought side by side with us…alchemists and housewives—" Edward and Alphonse grinned at each other, both thinking of Izumi. "—we worked together, not counting the cost because it was worth it. YOU are worth it.

He let the thoughtful silence linger. "And now we have peace." He searched their faces. "And you have grown used to peace and prosperity. We are in the 20th century now and we have a sense of goodwill that is unprecedented in the history of this country. And the next step is democracy…placing the government into the hands of the people. It is your right and you are ready for it. Mr. Samuelson and his supporters believe that the only way the country can move forward is to dismiss the military from the government…and that means me. I am one of the last appointed government leaders in this nation. Yes…I am a general. Yes, I wear the uniform and follow the military code I was raised to follow, like my father and his father before him. Mr. Samuelson says you should not trust me. I can't make that call for you.

"But instead of making a campaign speech tonight…I want you to do the talking. This isn't about me or Donal Samuelson. It's about you. You and your children and the children yet to come." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, I've been talking for ten minutes. We've got twenty more minutes. I'm going to be quiet now—I want you to talk to me. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help."

After a long silence, a factory worker stood up, cap in hand, and began to speak. He was followed by a teacher, a mechanic, an alchemist, a woman who had lost her job.

He sat on the edge of the stage, coat off, shirt sleeves now rolled up, and he listened. He asked questions. Nina and Maes darted back and forth with microphones so every speaker could be heard. When the unemployed woman began to weep, Nina hugged her and began making notes. When one man began to shout angrily, Roy let him speak, listening intensely to the man's frustrations.

When it was done, when the all to brief half hour was up, Roy bowed and quietly thanked them, the people of Amestris, slung on his coat and walked out into the cold with his family.

As they headed for the car that waited for them, Roy glanced worriedly at Edward. "Did it make a difference? Do you think they heard me?"

Ed paused and stooped to pick up something from the rain gutter along the curb. It was a Samuelson campaign flyer. It had been torn in half and discarded.

"You did to someone," he told his lover. "Somebody heard you tonight…."

….TO BE CONTINUED….