Disclaimer: I don't own FMA
Notes: This is another "everyone has had their say on this, now it's my turn" sort of fic from me. Luckily for you (and for me, by the look of all of the "you're evil!" and "you've scarred me forever!" comments I got on the last one), this one isn't a tragedy.
"Fuhrer" by Dailenna
"Gregory, turn the television on," called a man's voice urgently as he strode into the house, coat draped over one arm, and his briefcase in the other.
A young boy named Gregory Derving scrambled up from the table, where he had been putting together the jigsaw he received for his birthday the week before. He rushed over to the brand new television and obeyed his father's command, turning on the television.
"Is something wrong, George, dear?" Gregory's mother called as she walked in from the kitchen, looking at her husband worriedly.
"What channel, father?"
"Any," George said before looking at his wife, a smile spreading over his face. "Fred Heinsman said that they're commissioning the new Fuhrer today. It's supposed to be all over the television. I don't know how I didn't hear about it until at work today," he muttered, setting down his briefcase and giving his hat and coat to his wife.
George sat down in his comfy chair, and when Gregory went to leave the room, he beckoned the boy over. "This is our country's new leader being appointed here, now sit down and watch like a good lad, alright?"
Gregory's face fell – he had really been enjoying that puzzle, and almost had it finished. But he supposed that he could go back to it in ten minutes, provided that this program didn't take long. He sat down on the carpet, hoping that none of the pieces got misplaced while he was out of the room.
It seemed that they had tuned in halfway through the program. By the time that Mrs. Derving had put away her husband's belongings, checked on the baby and returned to the room, the new Fuhrer was standing at a podium in front of a large crowd, and giving a speech as to how he would improve the condition of Amestris.
"He looks a little young for the job," George commented on the man depicted. "Fuhrer King Bradley was doing a marvellous job before he died, considering the wars and disputes that came up. This 'Mustang' fellow had better improve on that, or we'll all be in for a rough ride."
The figure on the television was looking out into the crowd. It seemed almost as though he peered not just into the camera, but through the other end, and all around the room. "-many improvements to Amestris," he was saying gravely. "He has brought us through the Ishbal War to stand together as a stronger country on our own. I want to take the next step forwards. We can stand on our own for only so long, and eventually have the countries surrounding us pull us down to remove the threat we'll become to them. Or we can befriend the Ishballans. We can befriend the Xingese. We can befriend the Drachmans. I propose a nation of peace, providing friendship and protection to the people around us, rather than destroying their homes. If we can set the example, others will follow after us."
Fuhrer Mustang took a breath. His fingers were gripping the podium he stood behind. The camera was set up so that the whole stage was visible, and although Mustang looked relatively small and insignificant on that stage, he was by no means unsupported. Five officers sat to stage right – Mustang's left – all dressed in formal uniforms, watching their leader carefully.
George Derving tore his attention from the new Fuhrer to scrutinize the soldiers as the man paused. "I still don't understand why women were allowed into the military," he said, observing one female supporter amongst the officers on the side of the stage. "They're just distractions, really–"
"Shh, George," Mrs. Derving said as the Fuhrer began to talk again.
"There are differences that need to be made to Amestris' outlook both on other countries, and on Amestris itself," Mustang continued, his expression softening a little. "I have taken some time to look at the laws and regulations of this country, and not all of them are up to date with the standards that we as people should have today. I've made modifications that will be implemented from this day, the first and foremost of which I will announce now. Any other changes I feel need to be made, I will confer with my general about, and we will come to a decision as to what is to be done. These are the laws being amended today," he said, looking down at a sheet of paper.
He cleared his throat quickly, eyes set on the page in his hand. "One: Ishbalans will no longer be required to stay within set perimeters when inside Amestris' borders – the laws of the country will apply to them just as they apply to any Amestris-born man, woman or child. Two: When court-martialled–"
George frowned. Amestrians had fought hard to keep those Ishbalan freaks out of the country, and with one sentence this man was trying to destroy that effort? He must have been mad! George couldn't wait to get back to work the next day and speak with Fred Heinsman – the other man would be equally livid about this travesty.
"–and orphaned children. Four: The pension provided for families whose husbands and fathers died in service of the military will be increased, as it has been proved that the sum formerly agreed upon isn't enough to live on. Five: Secondary–"
Well, he understood the point being made there, even if he thought other ways could be made around it. Widowed women should get remarried if they required more money to live on. It is the job of a man to provide for his wife, after all, George thought as he looked over at his own wife where she listened avidly. He didn't know what she'd do if he was to die, but since he didn't work in the military, she wouldn't be getting one of those military-widow pension cheques. No, George Derving was a businessman, and he could be earning a businessman's wage for the next forty years if he kept on his toes and dodged death.
"–library will be open to a wider range of people, provided that identification is shown. Eight: The State Alchemists' being 'for the people' will no longer be merely a saying, but now will be put into practice. Nine: In the case of–"
George looked at the officers in the background with amusement. They hadn't changed much in expression since Fuhrer Mustang had begun his speech – five faces watched in full attention, ears pricked up and eyes alert.
"And ten: All women in the military must wear miniskirts."
The change was so quick that George let out a small bark of a laugh. The female officer's eyes widened to the size of saucers and her lips parted in surprise, and the blond officer next to her dropped forwards out of his chair onto his knees, a trail of blood dripping steadily from his nose. The other three officers didn't seem to know what to do – laugh at the fallen officer, stare at the woman, or gaze in awe at their new Fuhrer.
Fuhrer Mustang looked out at his audience, a smirk having crawled onto his face in the midst of the fuss. He rested one arm on the podium and then turned around to look at the officers behind him, his other hand resting on his hip.
Three of the uniformed soldiers grinned, one stared off dreamily, and the other closed her mouth, averting her eyes from the smirking Fuhrer. Her cheeks had started to turn red.
George Derving laughed derisively again before standing up and turning the television off. "With a Fuhrer like this one, Amestris is doomed," he said, taking up his briefcase to go and fill out one or two forms he had meant to do as soon as he got home.
When Fuhrer Mustang saw fit to return his attention to the amused crowd, and had finished his speech, Riza Hawkeye walked off the stage, still in shock.
"See you tomorrow, General Hawkeye," Breda grinned openly as he strolled by her.
"He might change it . . ." Falman said when he walked past. The misplaced emphasis in the sentence was enough that it was obvious he was lying.
"Bye, General," Feury mumbled, trying to rush past without getting hurt.
A blood-coated Havoc twirled by, his steps dancing along the floor as he left the room, whistling to himself. His eyes still hadn't come back into focus since the new 'law' was passed, and it was a miracle that he didn't bump into anything.
A moment later, one humming Fuhrer had caught up and walked alongside Hawkeye. When she looked at him sharply, he grinned. "And tomorrow, I expect that skirt to be half the length it is," he said with a wink before rushing after his men.
Hawkeye self-consciously pulled on the skirt of her formal uniform and groaned. This week was going to be hell. Maybe she should retire now.