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Chapter 8: Lend Me Your Hands and Feet
When Roosevelt’s voice uttered that word in Leo’s mind, all the grand blueprints, historical scenes, and impassioned declarations vanished in an instant.
Leo’s consciousness plummeted from the epic vision of a war against America's ruling class back into his own weary, battered body.
He looked down at his hands.
They were thin, worn by years of poor nutrition and lack of exercise. His knuckles protruded, his skin was pale, and his wrists seemed fragile enough to snap with a twist. These were the hands of someone who typed angry words on a keyboard or carried trays at a café—hands that could never move the world.
His gaze shifted to his feet.
The Converse sneakers he’d worn for three years were frayed at the edges, their soles nearly worn through. The laces were grimy, the rubber tread almost flattened. These shoes couldn’t even carry him to find another minimum-wage job.
"Me?"
A dry, self-mocking laugh escaped Leo’s throat, jarring in the library's silence.
"Mr. President, you saw the final scene of the movie—it’s me. A failure who can’t pay rent, can’t find work, and gets banned from systems just for typing a few angry lines online."
He held out his powerless hands toward the empty air before him.
"How could I possibly achieve what you’re talking about?"
This was reality.
Grand revolutionary plans ultimately required a specific person to execute them.
And that person—at this moment—had nothing.
The voice in his head fell silent for a moment.
When Roosevelt spoke again, the authority, anger, and resolve were gone, replaced by a gentle strength. It was as if he had returned to the days when he sat by the White House fireplace, speaking directly to the nation through radio waves during his "Fireside Chats."
"No, child, you’re wrong. What you see is only who you are now."
"What I see is who you will become."
Roosevelt’s voice carried a hint of wry resignation. "I possess some of the sharpest political cunning in this country’s history. I know how to craft speeches that inspire, negotiate to dismantle opponents, divide enemies, and unite allies. But all of that is now just an unwilling ghost, trapped as memories within your mind."
"I cannot pick up a phone to persuade a wavering senator, sign a bill into law, or even extend my hand to shake yours like any ordinary person."
"But you—you have the ability to act." Roosevelt’s tone shifted, brimming with power. "Though poor, you understand the rules and tools of the 21st century. You share the same unquenchable fire burning inside me. You harbor anger and ideals but don’t yet know how to open the first door."
At this moment, Roosevelt’s voice overflowed with sincerity as he extended an invitation.
"Leo Wallace, lend me your hands and feet."
"I, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, will lend you my mind and experience."
"Let us fight side by side to accomplish something unprecedented—and perhaps never to be repeated—"
"—to build a true people’s nation in the heart of capitalism."
These words struck like lightning across the sky, instantly shattering every ounce of insecurity, confusion, fear, and despair within Leo.
He was no longer the failed soul crushed by the system.
No longer the isolated keyboard warrior.
No longer the youth burdened by debt.
He was history’s partner.
He was the executor of revolution.
He was Franklin Roosevelt’s chosen hands and feet.
Leo Wallace stood abruptly from his chair.
His chest heaved, and his eyes burned with a light they had never known.
He surveyed the deserted library reading room, filled with countless layers of historical dust.
Then, solemnly and resolutely, he extended his right hand into the empty air before him.
He shook hands with a great spirit, an immortal will—unseen by anyone but destined to shake the world.
Leo’s outstretched hand hovered in the empty air of the library reading room.
There was no physical sensation, but in his mental realm, a warm, firm hand gripped his tightly. That hand radiated strength, as though it could hold the fate of an entire nation in its grasp.
An alliance spanning life and death was officially forged in this silent, unwitnessed moment.
He withdrew his hand solemnly and sat back down on the cold wooden chair.
Just minutes ago, this chair symbolized a hopeless existence. Now, it had become the command seat of an impending journey.
The electrifying surge of adrenaline slowly subsided.
As the rush faded, a cold, practical question surfaced in his mind.
"We…"
His voice was still hoarse but free of the earlier confusion and mockery.
"How do we begin?"
Yes, how? Declare war on the entire ruling class? Build a true people’s state?
These goals were too vast, like distant stars—visible but unreachable without knowing where to start.
In his mind, Roosevelt chuckled softly. The laughter exuded absolute confidence.
"Certainly not by storming the White House tomorrow, child," he said cheerfully. "Nor by marching to Wall Street to hand out pamphlets or recite our Second Bill of Rights to bankers—that would be child’s play, not revolution."
"Remember this, Leo: Rome wasn’t built in a day. But equally important, it wasn’t built starting from the central Roman Forum. It began on the banks of the Tiber, in a few muddy villages."
"What we must do is start from the worst places, from the forgotten corners of the nation, and ignite the first flame—a flame bright enough for everyone to see."
Roosevelt paused, then named a location.
"Start here—Pittsburgh."
"A city wrapped in rust and despair, filled with unemployed steelworkers, broken families, and abandoned factories. A perfect starting point."
Leo froze.
Pittsburgh?
"What can Pittsburgh possibly achieve?" His first reaction leaned toward traditional forms of resistance. "Organize unemployed steelworkers to strike? Or keep writing articles online to expose local issues?"
"No." Roosevelt dismissed his ideas decisively. "That’s too slow, too weak. Public opinion is water—it can float a boat or sink it. But until we have a boat, even the strongest current means nothing to us."
"We need to seize power—even the most insignificant grassroots power. That will be our first lever, the platform to bring all these blueprints to life."
Leo’s heartbeat quickened inexplicably. He sensed a mad idea forming.
"Your first target, Leo."
Roosevelt’s voice carried an unquestionable authority.
"—Run for the next mayor of Pittsburgh."
Leo thought he misheard.
This idea was ten thousand times crazier than the fact that a dead president lived in his mind.
Mayor? Him? A twenty-something history dropout buried under $130,000 in debt and freshly unemployed?
He almost immediately wanted to argue, to shout a hundred reasons why it was impossible.
He had no money, no connections, no political experience—not even a decent suit.
But before he could speak, Roosevelt’s voice—overflowing with absolute confidence—preemptively answered every objection.
"Yes, mayor."
"Don’t worry, child."
"Starting today, your campaign manager is Franklin Delano Roosevelt."
"We… will not lose."
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