When Roosevelt's voice spoke that word in Leo's mind, all the grand blueprints, all the historical visions, all the impassioned declarations faded in an instant, vanishing completely.
Leo's consciousness plunged from that magnificent future war against the entirety of America's ruling class, crashing heavily back into his own exhausted physical shell.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands.
They were hands made somewhat gaunt by chronic malnutrition and lack of exercise.
Knuckles protruding, skin pallid, wrists so thin they seemed they would snap at a bend.
The movements these hands knew best were typing angry words on a keyboard, or carrying plates in a café.
These were not hands that could shake the world.
His gaze then fell upon his feet.
That pair of Converse canvas shoes he had worn for three full years, their edges already frayed and cracked.
The laces filthy, the rubber soles nearly worn smooth.
These shoes couldn't even carry him on the journey to find his next minimum-wage job.
"Me?"
A dry, self-mocking laugh escaped from Leo's throat, sounding particularly harsh in the silence of the library.
"Mr. President, as you can see, the final scene of this movie is me. A loser who can barely pay his rent, who can't find a job. A keyboard warrior who gets jointly banned by the entire system for typing a few lines online."
He spread his powerless hands toward the empty space before him.
"How could I possibly accomplish everything you described?"
This was reality.
Grand revolutionary blueprints ultimately had to be executed by a specific person.
And that person, at this moment, had nothing.
The voice in his mind fell silent for a moment.
When Roosevelt spoke again, the dignity, anger, and resolve had vanished from his voice, replaced by a gentle strength.
That voice seemed to transcend time and space, returning to that moment when he sat by the fireplace in the White House, delivering his "Fireside Chat" to the American people through radio waves.
"No, child, you are wrong. What you see is only who you are now."
"What I see is the future you."
A trace of self-mocking helplessness entered Roosevelt's voice: "I possess the most brilliant political stratagems in this nation's history. I know how to deliver speeches that inspire the masses, how to negotiate to dismantle opponents, how to divide enemies, how to unite all allies that can be united... but all of this is now merely a reluctant specter, a memory trapped inside your brain."
"I cannot pick up a telephone to persuade a wavering congressman. I cannot sign a document to enact new legislation. I cannot even, like an ordinary person, extend my hand to shake yours."
"But you—you possess the ability to act." Roosevelt's tone shifted, filling with power. "Though you are poor, you are familiar with the rules and tools of this twenty-first century. In your heart burns the same never-extinguished flame as mine. You are filled with anger and ideals, yet do not know how to push open that first door."
Roosevelt's voice was filled with sincerity at this moment. He extended an invitation to Leo.
"Leo Wallace, lend me your hands and feet."
"I, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, will lend you my brain and my experience."
"Let us fight shoulder to shoulder to accomplish a cause unprecedented in history, and never to be repeated—"
"—to establish, in the very heart of capitalism, a nation that truly belongs to the people."
These words were like a lightning bolt tearing across the heavens, instantly cleaving through all the inferiority, confusion, fear, and despair in Leo's heart.
He was no longer that loser crushed by the system.
He was no longer that isolated keyboard warrior.
He was no longer that young man buried beneath debt.
He was a partner of history.
He was an executor of revolution.
He was the hands and feet chosen by Franklin Roosevelt.
Leo Wallace shot up from his chair.
His chest heaved violently, his eyes burning with a light he had never known before.
He looked around this empty library archive room, which held countless particles of historical dust.
Then, facing the empty air before him, solemnly and resolutely, he extended his right hand.
He was shaking hands with a great specter, an immortal will—a handshake unwitnessed, yet destined to shake the entire world.
Leo's extended right hand hovered in the empty air of the library archive room.
There was no physical sensation, but in his spiritual world, a large, warm, dry, powerful hand gripped his tightly.
That hand was filled with such strength that it seemed capable of holding the fate of a nation in its palm.
An alliance transcending life and death was formally established in this unwitnessed silence.
He solemnly withdrew his hand and sat back down in that cold chair.
Minutes ago, this chair had represented his hopeless life; now, it had become the command post of a voyage about to set sail.
The excitement that had surged through his body like lightning gradually subsided.
As the adrenaline faded, a cold, practical problem surfaced before him.
"We..."
He spoke, his voice still somewhat hoarse, but no longer carrying the confusion and self-mockery from before.
"How do we begin?"
Yes, how to begin? Declare war on the entire ruling class? Establish a true people's nation?
These goals were too grand—so grand they were like distant stars, visible yet offering no hint of how to embark upon the journey.
In his mind, Roosevelt's voice chuckled lightly.
That laughter was filled with the confidence of one who controlled everything.
"Of course we're not storming the White House tomorrow, child." He spoke in a cheerful tone. "Nor are we running to Wall Street to hand out flyers, reciting our Second Bill of Rights to those bankers. That is child's play, not revolution."
"Remember this, Leo: Rome was not built in a day. But just as important, it was not built starting from the Roman Forum at its very center. It began on the banks of the Tiber, from a few muddy villages."
"What we must do is start from the worst places, from the corners forgotten by the entire nation, and light the first fire—a fire bright enough for all to see."
Roosevelt's voice paused, then spoke a place name.
"Start right here, from Pittsburgh."
"A city completely wrapped in rust and despair, a place filled with unemployed workers, broken families, and abandoned factories. A perfect starting point."
Leo was stunned.
Pittsburgh?
"What can be accomplished in Pittsburgh?" His first thought was still those traditional methods of resistance. "Organize strikes by unemployed steelworkers? Or keep writing articles online to expose local problems?"
"No." Roosevelt flatly rejected his idea. "That is too slow, and too weak. Public opinion is water—it can carry a boat or capsize it. But before we possess a boat, no matter how great the water, it has nothing to do with us."
"We must seize power, even the most insignificant grassroots power. That will be our first lever, the first platform that allows us to put all these blueprints into practice."
Leo's heartbeat began to inexplicably accelerate. He vaguely sensed that a mad idea was about to appear.
"Your first target, Leo."
Roosevelt's voice carried an unquestionable authority.
"—Run for the next term as Mayor of Pittsburgh."
"Mayor of Pittsburgh?"
Leo thought he had misheard.
This idea was ten thousand times crazier than the fact that a dead president was living inside his head.
Mayor? Him? A twenty-something history dropout with $130,000 in debt who had just been laid off?
He almost immediately wanted to retort, wanted to loudly voice a hundred reasons why it was impossible.
He had no money, no connections, no political experience. He didn't even own a decent suit.
But before he could speak, Roosevelt's voice, filled with absolute confidence, had already anticipated and answered all his questions.
"Yes, mayor."
"Don't worry, child."
"From today onward, your campaign manager is Franklin Delano Roosevelt."
"We... will not lose."