An update at last! I said I'd be scarce, but, well, here I am. I love this fic too much to abandon it for too long. I hope you all had a lovely holiday, for those who celebrate. In light of recent events in America especially—I trust I don't need to elaborate—I want all of you to know you're valued and loved, and I'm here and on tumblr if anyone needs or wants to talk. Anyway. Enjoy the chapter! Your feedback is my lifeblood!
The shaking invades Russell's dream at first. He imagines fingers digging into his shoulders and sharp, accusatory eyes, glaring so coldly that he cowers in equal parts trepidation and shame. When he startles awake, he struggles to orient himself, half-caught in the dream still. Someone is shaking him—glowering, too—but the face is unlined, the eyes wide and dark instead of pale and narrow. Recognizing Lan Fan after a moment of confusion, Russell relaxes somewhat, if only because she looks so different from his father; her tight, angry expression still promises nothing good.
Lan Fan gives him no time to recover. "There better be a damn good reason," she says stiffly, jabbing a finger out the bedroom door, "that one of Mugear's people is coming up the drive right now."
"What?" Russell sits up, immediately alert, and stares at her. "What are they doing here?"
"You tell me," Lan Fan retorts. "For some reason, I don't think they're here for me or Grandfather."
Fletcher appears in the doorway, looking tense. "It looks like one of the mansion guards," he tells them. "Do you think we were followed, Brother?"
"That, or your little friend lied," Russell responds. The sting of betrayal is unexpected, yet sharp. He trusted Mei. Only barely, true—against his better judgment, for certain—but he still trusted her, and Fletcher did, too. Have they been deceived yet again?
"What do you mean, 'followed'?" Lan Fan says. When Russell nor Fletcher answers, fresh anger makes her mouth twist. "You didn't sneak into the mansion again, did you?"
"We—" Fletcher's panic, breaking off his sentence before it begins, is as good as any confession. Lan Fan turns livid.
"After we took you in—!"
"I know, I know, how could we?" Russell says impatiently. Already his mind has started racing. "Mugear has social and political power, true, but no actual authority; I doubt he can legally arrest us—"
"Someone can! We broke into his mansion, Russell!" Fletcher says painedly, at the same time Lan Fan snaps, "When has Mugear ever cared about what's legal?"
The knock on the door startles them all into silence.
"What should we do, Brother?" Fletcher whispers a moment later. "Leave?"
"No. They already know that we're here," Russell answers. He turns to Lan Fan, who eyes him suspiciously. "We aren't going to run off and leave you to take the heat for what we've done. I won't do that to you. You've done too much for us."
Lan Fan blinks, seeming bemused. A faint blush colors her face. "Well, good," she says, sounding notably less brusque.
"But what happens if we stay and face them?" Fletcher asks in a strained voice. "Won't they try and take us to jail?"
"We do have a defense," Russell says. "Remember, Fletcher, we aren't the real trespassers here. We'd have never broken into Mugear's mansion at all were it not for Ling and Mei—oh, don't give me that look, Fletch, please," he adds emphatically, when Fletcher immediately recoils. "What choice do we have but to turn them in? We can't afford to go to jail to protect our own identity thieves; we can't afford to go to jail, period. You know that."
"But what'll happen to Mei and Ling?" Fletcher murmurs.
Much as he wishes it were otherwise, deep in his gut, Russell knows that they aren't bad people, only misguided. Mugear turned Fu and Lan Fan into pariahs just because they got the measure of him. For deceiving him outright—what will he do to Mei and Ling? Before he can dwell on it overmuch, Russell forces himself to harden his heart.
"Nothing that they don't deserve," he responds. "I know you like that girl, Fletcher, but she and her brother should have known that their actions would have consequences. They'll reap what they've sown."
"And what about you?" Lan Fan rejoins. Odd, she almost sounds concerned. "The law isn't on your side here, Russell."
"But Mugear doesn't play by the law," Russell reminds her. "I've met people like him, Lan Fan; I know his game. We only need to make him believe he has more to gain by letting us walk free than by arresting us. Nice of you to use my name, by the way. How did I convince you?"
"How did you convi—?" Lan Fan shuts her mouth with a click, flushing indignantly pink. She recovers enough to roll her eyes just as Mugear's guard gives another louder, more insistent rap on the door, making them all jump.
"Time to face the music, then," Russell says, before he can lose his nerve, and turns sharply on his heel to exit the bedroom.
At the front door, he allows a moment to take a breath; Fletcher comes up behind him, steadying him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Russell bites the bullet and turns the knob. An austere-looking guard immediately falls over the threshold.
Russell half-expects her to lunge at him to take him in right there. Instead, once she regains her balance, she bends at the waist in a deep, formal bow, making him blink in surprise. She straightens again to bestow upon him and Fletcher a gracious smile.
"Major Russell Tringham, and you must be his brother, Fletcher," she greets them, bringing her hands together. "Oh, I'm glad to have found you."
"Glad to have—?" Russell begins, struggling to process the words, the meaning behind them.
"On behalf of my employer, Mister Mugear, please allow me to humbly apologize for the terrible inconvenience the imposters must have brought you, sir," the woman continues in a crisp voice, not missing a beat. She inclines her head. "How awful that a man of your stature should have to deal with something so troublesome! Mister Mugear is so embarrassed. If you and the younger Mister Tringham would be willing, sir, Mister Mugear would be so grateful if you'd come to his manor so that he may apologize to you personally."
"A-apologize—to us?" Fletcher repeats.
Russell's wits slowly return to him. "So, you found out about the imposters, then?" he asks, his voice cool.
A shadow passes over the guard's face, and she nods gravely. "We are so terribly, terribly sorry for all the trouble, sir," she says again.
"What happened to them?" Fletcher blurts out.
The guard gets a small, satisfied smirk, folding her hands behind her back. She must mistake the urgency in Fletcher's voice for eagerness. "Don't you worry about that, Mister Tringham. They've been punished accordingly. Mister Mugear has them under lock and key in his cellar. We assure you, they won't be bothering you again." Then, before Russell can swallow this ominous piece of news, she says composedly, "I would hate to keep Mister Mugear waiting. Won't you follow me, Major Tringham, Mister Tringham?" What she calls a request sounds more like an order, albeit a shrewdly disguised one.
Russell glances at Fletcher, who would be staring in open-mouthed shock were it possible, and then discreetly over his shoulder at Lan Fan, who lingers in the guest bedroom doorway wearing an expression of incredulity. Meeting his gaze, she mouths, What's going on?
He shrugs as minutely as possible before settling his eyes back on the guard. The sudden turn of events has him reeling, but he refuses to let it show. "We would be honored," Russell answers calmly, and allows the guard to turn and lead them out the door.
He feels Fletcher's gaze on him throughout the car ride, possibly looking for any signs of approval or pleasure. Yet, Russell feels neither. This is what he's wanted since first meeting Ling—since first being evicted from that tavern days ago, in truth—but now that it's happened, he feels only foreboding as he wonders what Mugear wants from him to seek his good graces like this. Ling and Mei's imprisonment makes him feel equally uneasy. Punished accordingly, the guard said … whatever that means can't be good. His rivalry with Ling seems suddenly petty in light of whatever awful thing might have happened to him—possibly because of Russell, if Mugear thinks abusing Ling might help him gain Russell's favor. The thought forces Russell to swallow back bile.
From Fu's and Lan Fan's accounts, Russell expects just what he sees when he meets Mugear himself at last—a very tall, very broad man with a combover, wearing a crisp suit and a gracious smile that Russell's sharp eyes immediately read as false. Like the guard, he bows respectfully when Russell and Fletcher enter his foyer.
"Welcome, Major Tringham, Mister Tringham," Mugear says, still inclining his head. "How glad I am that you would grace this foolish old man with your presence—oh, I am just mortified at what I've let transpire here. From the bottom of my heart, let me impress upon you both how dreadfully sorry I am that I allowed those imposters to deceive me as they did." When he lifts his eyes, he catches sight of Russell's broken nose and goggles. "So much for hoping you had escaped those imposters unscathed!" he gasps.
With startling speed, he crosses over to tilt Russell's face up, examining the injury.
"Oh, dear me, dear me, how awful. I expect that young Xingese man did this to you?" He clicks his tongue, while Russell tries not to cringe at his sudden proximity. "I have an attending physician, Major Tringham, if you would like—?"
"It's healing fine on its own, but thank you, sir," Russell answers, attempting a polite smile.
Mugear releases Russell's face to press his hands dramatically over his own. "Oh, what a disaster this is. You cannot fathom the shame and embarrassment I feel, Major Tringham—or may I call you Russell?"
"You may," Russell says, watching as Mugear lowers his hands, a passably sheepish smile on his face.
"I fear I will never be able to make this up to you," he says, "but might I attempt to do so with a meal? You must be famished, forced to stay with that senile old gardener and his bad-tempered granddaughter; I imagine they fed you little more than lettuce and rice, being Xingese, no?" He chuckles at his own joke, not noticing how Russell grits his teeth behind his fake smile.
"A meal sounds lovely," Russell manages.
Mugear beams. "Then follow me, please."
Fletcher presses close to Russell's side as they walk and whispers to him as quietly as he can. "Why's he being so nice? He's gotta know we broke into his mansion, right, Brother?"
"Undoubtedly," Russell breathes back. "He wants something from us, Fletcher. We've no choice but to find out what that might be. Let me do the talking." Fletcher knows better than to argue with that.
In an elegant dining hall, Russell and Mugear sit across from one another, Fletcher at Russell's right, as a young woman serves them bowls of vegetable soup. Fletcher declines with a polite hand. "Um, no thank you, miss," he tells her.
"Special diet, you see," Russell says smoothly, as Mugear lifts his eyebrows. "Poor Fletcher here has a plethora of terrible allergies. He'd gladly partake if he could." Fletcher nods empathically—and not untruthfully, Russell realizes with a pang. He distracts himself with the soup.
Mugear spends the meal explaining the circumstances that brought Ling and Mei here. Their father, Wu Yao, had worked under him years ago, he tells them; with cunning his children must have inherited, he too tricked Mugear to get into his laboratory, pretending to know about the Philosopher's Stone to cash in on the funds the research provided. Just like with Ling and Mei, Mugear found him out eventually, and fired him at once. He disappeared shortly thereafter, likely to find a new town for his next scheme. Mugear very carefully avoids implicating himself in either scandal. His story ends just as they're finishing the main course; while Russell wipes his mouth with his napkin, Mugear sighs dramatically and leans back in his chair.
"Now, of course, I'm back at square one yet again," he says long-sufferingly. "It seems my project must once more be put on hold, until I can find another alchemist—or alchemists—willing to work for me."
It makes sudden, perfect sense: Mugear wants Russell and Fletcher to complete his Stone since Ling and Mei couldn't. He gives Russell a very pointed look down the bridge of his nose, confirming his suspicion.
"I would hate to add insult to injury," Mugear tells him, "but I've heard so much of your talents, Russell—why, I was beside myself with joy when I believed Wu Yao's son to be you. Terrible of me to ask, I know, but, oh, an honor it would be to really work with you…"
Russell stalls by taking a sip of water. "I imagine you're asking, in addition, for me to keep this project a secret from the state," he responds, deciding it best to be frank. Mugear doesn't flinch under Russell's glance.
"I would offer you forty percent of all profits," he says, "as well as the safety of my home and my protective influence should the military come after you."
Russell hums, pretending to mull it over. Mugear watches him closely.
"You have the opportunity to help so many people here, Russell," he says after a moment. "Won't you accept it?"
The words produce a sudden thrill of anger. There he sits, planning on using the Stone for his own selfish gain, and he has the gall to bribe Russell with the promise of helping Resembool. He shuts his eyes for a moment, willing himself to remain calm.
"Something the matter?" Mugear says innocently.
"Only…" When Russell opens his eyes, he sees Mugear watching him with an almost hungry expression. "I had a look at Ling's research last night, sir," he tells him, injecting the right amount of bashfulness as he admits to the trespassing. "I must admit, I have my doubts. Even an alchemist of my caliber would find it difficult to breach the tremendous holes in their work, especially midstream."
"State Alchemist at twelve, I'm sure you could do it!" Mugear replies at once.
He clearly doesn't plan on taking no for an answer. Likewise, Russell doesn't intend to work for him—he detests him, and has nothing to gain from deserting the military, moreover. He also knows for a fact that Ling's research is dead in the water. He keeps all of this to himself.
"Well," he says, drawing the word out, "I suppose it's worth a try. I do like a challenge." Mugear beams. "Of course, I'd want to talk to Ling Yao, if you don't object," he adds politely.
"Of course, of course," Mugear agrees, waving an airy hand. "If you're finished eating, I'll escort you to the cellar to see him and his sister."
The meal ends soon after that, and Russell and Fletcher follow Mugear down a staircase at his beckoning. Once again, Fletcher pulls Russell aside. "What are you planning?" he whispers.
"I'll tell you when I find out," Russell answers.
The cellar is cool and dark, in stark contrast to the rest of the house. Mugear unbolts the heavy iron door and gestures inside.
"The far one on the right," he tells them.
"May I talk to them alone?" Russell asks, and Mugear nods agreeably, beckoning the lone guard at the end of the long row of cells with a hand. Only once the heavy door has shut behind them does Russell approach Ling and Mei, seated behind a wall of bars.
Seeing them, Mei immediately runs up. "Russell! Fletcher!"
"What happened to your face?" Fletcher cries out.
Beneath her thick black hair, coming undone from its braids and spilling over her forehead, a dark, shiny bruise is forming over her right eye. Her hands are bound in front of her in handcuffs. She ignores Fletcher's concerns with a shake of her head, gripping the bars as best as she can to look up at them beseechingly.
"He knew," Mei says desperately. "Mugear. He knew the whole time who we were, he was playing us."
"What?" Fletcher gasps, as Russell stares in shock. He looks over Mei's head at the bench behind her, where Ling sits on the floor with his back against the wall, his arms propped on his knees, his eyes downcast.
"What happened?" Russell asks him. When Ling doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge him, Mei answers instead.
"After you guys left last night," she tells them, "he came to see us, to ask about our research, we thought. Instead he started asking about the two of you. Ling's been telling him you're bandits, no real threat, nothing to worry about, but out of nowhere Mugear revealed he knew you were the real Tringham brothers all along. He knows about our father, too—and when we couldn't deny it, Ling tried to grab me and take off, but then one of the guards grabbed him, and then I tried to attack Mugear and he hit me and we couldn't get away, we were surrounded, and they caught us and threw us down here." Mei gulps, her big dark eyes glistening with tears. "Russell, Fletcher, I know it's way too late to be saying this," she says, her voice thick, "but we're sorry. We're really, really sorry. We were wrong to do what we did. We thought we were doing the right thing, but we really just messed everything up for everybody."
"No, no, you didn't," Fletcher murmurs. He tries to fit the armor's hand through the bars to pat her head when she starts to cry; he doesn't have much luck. "It's okay, Mei. We understand why you did it. We're not mad or anything, promise."
Mei looks from Fletcher to Russell, interpreting correctly that his forgiveness isn't as easily won. Her earnestness, more than the tears now pouring steadily over her cheeks, makes Russell heave a loud sigh as he softens in spite of himself.
"I hope you're not expecting me to tell you 'no harm done,' because you have done harm here," he tells her. "Both of you. You may not be to blame for the bombing or for your father's and Mugear's scams, but waiting on the Philosopher's Stone is killing this town and you've given them more reason to hold out hope for it. And you should never have allied yourselves with Mugear. He's a crook at the very least and a dangerous, masterful con artist at the most. This is what you get for thinking you could outsmart him."
In the back of the cell, Ling seems to shift a little, though he doesn't give Russell's words any more acknowledgment than that. Mei, flushing with shame, bows her head.
Russell claps his hands and touches the bolt locking their cell. In a flash of green sparks, the bolt severs cleanly in half; the pieces fall heavily to the ground, the cell's door falling slightly ajar as it's no longer held in place.
"Make it right, then," Russell says. Mei blinks, startled. "You're good people; I see it in your faces. Prove it, then. You're smart, you're goodhearted, and you owe this town to help them now. Go out there and find a new way to do it. And stop with all the lying. Being honest, doing the right thing for its own sake—that's how you prove to yourselves and everyone else that you're better than your father. There's nothing wrong with hating who he was and what he did, but let that hate push you forward, not back."
He shoves the cell door open the rest of the way to emphasize his words. Mei approaches the gap immediately, though hesitantly, like she's waiting for it to be some kind of trick. When Russell only takes a step back and gestures out, her face splits into a grateful smile.
"Thank you," she manages through her tears, shaky but determined. Russell shakes his head.
"All I've given you is the chance I think you deserve. Don't screw it up."
Fletcher breaks off her handcuffs, and she hugs him around the waist in gratitude, then Russell, too, taking him by surprise. Dashing away the rest of her tears, Mei turns in the doorway of the cell and looks back at Ling. He still hasn't moved.
"Aren't you coming?" she asks him, as gently as Russell's ever heard her speak to him. It gets Ling's attention where Russell's brusqueness didn't.
"Go on ahead," he tells her quietly. "I'll meet up."
Though she looks unsure, Mei nods. She turns resolutely and walks down the hall between the rows of cells. Ling watches her go, then returns his gaze to the floor.
"I'll make sure she isn't seen," Fletcher mutters, and takes off after Mei, the armor clanking loudly in the sudden, heavy silence.
When the pair of them have gone, Russell leans his hip against the cell's bars.
"In case you didn't hear me," he says dryly, "you're free to go."
"I can't," Ling murmurs.
"Why is that?"
"I don't deserve freedom." Ling draws his knees up to his chest and presses his forehead against them. "I hurt too many people, directly and indirectly. I deserve to be punished. I'm staying here."
"Please tell me you're joking," Russell deadpans. When Ling doesn't respond, Russell says, with a little more heat, "So, what, you think that moping here is going to make up for it? You can't think of anything better to do with your guilt than wallow in it? What does that do for anyone, Ling? You've got to use that guilt and anger and despair to push you in a positive direction, not sit and—hell, were you listening to me at all?" He can't keep the slightest whine out of his voice; he hates more than anything talking to empty air, and he thought he'd been very eloquent just now.
"Little bit," Ling mumbles, so softly Russell has to strain to hear him. He lifts his head and says, louder now, "If you're here, that means Mugear invited you. Is that right?"
"He wants Fletcher and I to pick up where you and Mei left off," Russell tells him. A smirk twitches on his lips. "Forty percent of all profits. Talk about a slippery, conniving bastard, huh?"
"I worked with him," Ling says. It's almost a moan. "I helped him. His grip on this town was slipping when I showed up at his door and having me helped him sink his claws in further. I really thought I was smarter." Russell startles him by crossing into the cell before he can bury his head in his knees again.
"Look," he says. The word comes out harsher than he intended. He tries, diligently, to make his voice the tiniest bit gentler. "I don't like you. You don't like me."
"I never said I didn't like you," Ling disagrees, looking up to meet Russell's eyes at last.
Russell blinks. "Well—" He doesn't know how to respond to that. "Regardless. I can't stand to see you like this, Ling. You're taking too much blame for all that went on here. And, you know what, even if it were all your fault, if this is the worst thing you do in your life? You're doing pretty well, I'd say. No one dead, no one maimed, no one destitute. You haven't caused any harm you can't reverse and make up for tenfold." He perches on the edge of the bench. Ling isn't looking at him anymore, but Russell can see him processing his words, if reluctantly. Almost without meaning to, he gives a small, humorless laugh. "That's more than I can say for myself, actually."
Ling glances up again in surprise, staring at Russell intently. Russell swallows. Something in the depth of his dark eyes makes him think that, if Ling asked him to elaborate, he'd admit to trying human transmutation right here and now. Having told no one but Belsio and Colonel Mustang, it's an alarming idea. He's more than slightly relieved when Ling looks back down and doesn't press.
"Your mistakes don't define you, nor do your tragedies," Russell says. "It's how you respond to them that matters. There's no point in beating yourself up over this—believe me, I'm sure the townspeople will gladly do that for you once you show your face now that they know the truth. Take your licks, pay your dues, and move on with your life. Don't let this destroy you. I look at your face and I know that you're better than that."
"Really." Ling's face is beseeching, but the word comes out sarcastically. Realizing why that might be, Russell feels a twinge of guilt.
"Yes, really. And I'm sorry for what I said last night. It would have been shitty of me regardless, but it was especially shitty all things considered," he says.
Ling tilts his head. "What do you mean by that?" When Russell doesn't answer, chewing the inside of his cheek, Ling says, "Your father was a con artist, too?"
The drawer is open again, but Russell hesitates before he kicks it closed as violently as he usually does. He practically handed Ling the key, after all. Subconsciously, he must recognize a kindred spirit, or else he's desperate to lighten his load some.
"I actually don't know," Russell answers. "I don't know what my father did, or who he was, really. He kept his secrets close to his chest and held everyone at a distance, even my mother; by the time I could talk, she'd long since stopped trying with him. I never did, though. All the same, nothing I did or said ever convinced him to let me in. It's the sort of thing you just can't not take personally."
"I never bothered with mine," Ling says. "I'm glad I didn't. That must've been awful."
Russell shrugs like it isn't any big deal. "He left like yours did, some six years ago, so it isn't as if I have to deal with him anymore."
"He's gone. Your feelings aren't." Ling huffs out an empty laugh. "I imagine you've dealt with them better than I've dealt with mine."
"I haven't dealt with them much at all," Russell tells him honestly. "I know I don't hate him, though part of me wishes I did, or could. It'd be easier. Besides that, I try to think about him as little as possible. Out of sight, out of mind, you know?"
"That doesn't sound healthy," Ling says.
"Now you sound like my brother."
Ling cracks an ironic smile.
"You're lucky you have your brother," he murmurs after a pause. "He's a good kid."
"The best," Russell agrees. "But don't sound so bereft. Chasing after your father may have led to a lot of stress and heartache, but it did result in one good thing: it brought you and Mei together. Make the most of that. It's good to have someone to rely on, and looking after someone you care about is its own reward."
"I haven't been very good to her," Ling says, sounding guilty.
"Then be better," Russell says simply. "Make it up to her. Make it up to this town. Do the right thing. Here—" he kneels in front of Ling, seizes the lock on his handcuffs, and snaps it off with his automail hand, "—is your shovel." He meets Ling's eyes. "Start digging."
For a moment, Ling looks doubtful and confused, his eyes searching as Russell rises again. Then, determination settles over his face; his eyes brighten with it. Satisfied, Russell turns on his heel and leaves.
"Ah, Russell!" He doesn't bother to smile as Mugear descends from the staircase, looking pleased. "I trust you found what you needed in the cellar?"
"Oh, absolutely," Russell answers. "I asked about their research, I asked about their father—on that subject, actually, I must admit, something's been nagging at me a bit."
"Oh?" Mugear comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs, a hand on the railing. "And what might that be?"
"Ling and Mei chased their father all over the country for quite some time, Mugear," Russell tells him. "Speaking as someone with both personal and professional experience on it, it actually isn't very easy to just disappear without a trace. Even someone as slippery as Wu Yao will leave a trail, however subtle. Yet, his trail dies in Resembool. Both Ling and Mei agree on that; it's why they stayed here, using our names to continue his research. How do you suppose he vanished like that?"
"Wu Yao was a criminal mastermind," Mugear says coolly. "Used to persecution, I'm sure he had his ways. Perhaps his children simply aren't the sleuths they think they are."
"Or he never left," Russell murmurs.
He doesn't think he imagines how Mugear's face whitens. "I beg your pardon?" he says, suddenly caustic, cold.
"Wu Yao's trail ends in Resembool because he never left," Russell repeats. He holds Mugear's gaze even when he glares fiercely. "He died here; his trail, quite simply, died with him. But you already knew that, didn't you?" He relishes in the way Mugear's tiny eyes widen in shock. "If he left here alive like you insist, why would you be using past tense?"
"You little—!" Beneath the fury, Russell hears the fear and horror plain as day in Mugear's voice.
"You're a thief, a liar, and a murderer," Russell says coldly. "I'd sooner chew broken glass than even consider helping you. The townspeople, Ling, and Mei are responsible for some of what's been going on here, but you're worse than all of them by far, and I'll see to it that you pay dearly for what you've done."
"And how will you do that, boy?" The pompous, oily man from moments ago disappears in an instant, his features now sharply drawn and dangerous. "Will you run and tell the military, hiding behind their uniforms with your tail between your legs?" From the pocket of his trousers, Mugear produces a small, shimmering red shard. Russell recognizes it as Ling's prototype Stone. "I'm not giving you the chance."
Russell's lip curls. "Why don't you see if you can stop me," he says, and claps his hands as Mugear lunges.
Russell's as quick and lithe as his frame might suggest—he bends backward instead of forward to avoid Mugear's grasping hands, balances himself with one palm splayed flat on the ground behind him, and swings his legs over his head to land in a crouch several feet back. Within seconds of steadying himself, Russell transmutes a sword from the tile under his hand; the blade whistles as he whips it through the air, deadly sharp.
"Ha!" Mugear barks. "You won't get close enough to even scratch me with that!"
Gripping Ling's shard, he slaps a large hand against the railing of the stairs. A flash of brightest, bloodiest red, and then Mugear cradles a double-barreled rifle in his hands, his lips pulled back in a snarl.
Looks like I brought a sword to a gunfight.
Russell ducks for cover as Mugear opens fire.
He quickly takes refuge behind one of the half-dozen ornamental pillars decorating the foyer. With the prototype Stone, Mugear's able to generate an endless stream of ammunition; the bullets chip at the plaster of the pillar and the tile all around it, throwing up dust and bits of debris that soon have Russell coughing. There's nowhere he can run, and no way that he can attack outright, unless he wants to be riddled with gunfire. He can hardly even think around the roar of bullets. He has no idea where Fletcher is. Russell bites out a curse as Mugear laughs.
"Tapped out already, Major? I would think that a State Alchemist would be more of a challenge!" he crows.
Russell grits his teeth, presses his hands together, and slams his palm onto the floor to split open the ground between him and Mugear. It's no use; Mugear steps easily out of the way before the fissure gets anywhere near his feet.
"Damn it!" Russell snarls. He really is—much as he hates to admit it—trapped. His sword might as well be made of plastic for all the good it does him. The pillar trembles ominously behind his back as the waves of bullets eat it away—yet, before panic can set in, this gives Russell an idea, and he grips the sword firmly in his automail hand. Rising up on his haunches, he swings the blade in an arc toward the crumbling pillar. Between the awkward angle and the struggle of steel against stone, Russell can't cut all the way through, but he causes enough damage that the pillar's weight does the rest for him: he gives it a good shove in Mugear's direction for good measure, listening in grim satisfaction as Mugear screams and scrabbles to get out of the way. The pillar falls with a deafening crash.
Russell's on his feet in an instant, even as plaster dust collects in his lungs and makes it hard to breathe. He expects Mugear to be struggling to his feet in the ensuing wreckage, if the pillar didn't crush him entirely. Yet, when Russell approaches cautiously, he discovers with a thrill of horror that Mugear has recovered quickly, and now wields another rifle even larger than the last. He aims it with a sadistic grin.
"Fuck!" Russell can't escape behind another pillar before a bullet lodges in the calf of his automail leg, making him stagger. He makes sure his back is covered before he furiously assesses the damage: no pain, of course, no loss of function as far as he can tell, but the cracked plating and exposed wires don't bode well. "Fuck," Russell hisses again. If Mugear doesn't kill him, then Belsio certainly will when he sees this.
Mugear pours bullets into the pillar Russell's hiding behind. With less distance between them, the stone deteriorates even faster, leaving Russell to choke on dust as he struggles to think of an out. There's no chance of dropping this pillar on him, too; Mugear is too crafty to fall for the same trick twice. His head swims with the sounds of ricocheting bullets and Mugear's maniacal laughter so that he nearly misses it when someone calls his name: "Russell!"
"Ling?!" Russell hollers back, as Ling barrels into the room and right into the middle of the chaos. "Ling, get out of here!" Russell shouts before Mugear notices him. "Leave! Now!"
Mugear turns, his grin growing even nastier when he lays eyes on Ling. He aims a spray of bullets in his direction that Ling barely avoids, ducking, like Russell, behind a nearby pillar.
"You know, I think I've had just about enough of you!" he booms. "Why don't you go back to your own country?"
"I was born here, twat!" Ling snaps back, and then—is he insane?—runs out from behind the pillar to sprint over to Russell. Russell scrambles to transmute a wall to protect him from Mugear, which barely holds up under the gunfire; it crumbles just as Ling reaches him, pressing into his side to take shelter with him behind his pillar.
"What the hell are you doing?" Russell hisses.
"Saving your ass," Ling answers shortly. He tips his head back to shout at the ceiling. "Hey, Mugear! Keep on shooting and maybe you'll actually hit something!"
There's a reprieve in the torrent of gunfire, which makes Russell blink, his ears ringing in the sudden silence. He hears the crackle of a transmutation. Then there's an enormous explosion as something huge and heavy connects with the pillar several feet over Russell's and Ling's heads; on impulse, Russell hooks an arm around Ling's neck and yanks him down to the floor.
"Is that a fucking cannon?!" Russell yells, as Ling twists out from under his arm to get a look.
"Looks like it," he answers, his voice maddeningly casual, though there's visible tension in his eyes and shoulders. "He doesn't mess around, does he?"
Russell transmutes a thicker, sturdier wall in the split second before another cannonball hurtles at them. With a few moments to relax, he struggles to catch his breath; his heart's pounding like it's trying to break free of his chest.
"Please tell me," he pants, "you have a plan."
Ling smiles fleetingly. "Of course."
The next cannonball cracks Russell's wall right down the middle. Before Russell can scrabble to create another one, Ling twists around and touches the back of his neck. A transmutation circle glows bright blue there; Ling brings his hands forward to press his palms to the ground, where another wall sprouts up to protect them from Mugear's assault.
Russell blinks. "That's new," he says. He looks at the array drawn on Ling's neck: three lines curving upward bisected horizontally by a fourth, barely contained by the circle inscribed around them. "Irregular array," Russell comments. "Faulkner, right?"
Ling's laugh trickles down his spine like warm water.
"You can't hide from me forever!" Mugear shouts. Another cannonball slams into their protective wall; Russell hurriedly repairs it.
"He's right," he says, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. Ling, incredibly, is still smiling. "What are we going to do?"
"We," Ling says, "aren't going to do anything but keep Mugear occupied."
"What do y—?"
This time, the cannonball doesn't crack their wall, though the impact does make it tremble. As Russell tries to decide whether or not to fortify it, his mind racing as he wonders what Ling is up to, the smile fades from Ling's face; he looks over Mugear's head and mutters, "Come on, come on…"
Another shot from the cannon. It was a mistake not to fortify their wall; as the cannonball collides with the rough-hewn stone, it doesn't merely crack, but shatters into pieces, knocking both Ling and Russell several feet backward amid a shower of dust and debris. There's no time to transmute another wall, or even to gain his bearings—Russell's wind hasn't even returned to him when Mugear stalks up, slow and easy, clearly anticipating putting the two of them—the State Alchemist who outwitted him and the imposter who dared to deceive him—in their places.
In the split second before Russell resigns himself to the defeat, he hears it. Mugear lifts his head.
"What the hell?" he mutters.
Rushing water.
Ling's face splits into a grin.
Mugear can't recover before the wall nearest the stairwell suddenly disintegrates, admitting a flood of water that spills into the foyer. For being so large, the room fills quickly: by the time Russell stands and hauls Ling to his feet, it's up to Russell's knees and Ling's thighs. Mugear staggers. The torrent wets the gunpowder in his cannon, rendering it useless, and carries Ling's Stone away.
"No!"
As Mugear lunges for the red shard, Ling seizes Russell's wrist and pulls him toward the exit. At the same time, Russell hears a very familiar clanking of bronze. Fletcher emerges, sloshing through the flood and wielding a heavy rod, possibly transmuted from the now-ruined staircase. With one solid whack to the temple, he knocks Mugear right out; he slumps over like a sack of bricks.
Russell stares, caught between shock and relief. There's motion inside Fletcher's chest, and a small hand pokes out to undo the leather fastenings and unhook his breastplate. When it opens, Mei beams at them from inside Fletcher's armor. "Hi," she says cheerfully.
Russell huffs out a startled laugh. Ling smiles warmly at his sister.
"You're an evil genius," he tells her.
"We transmuted the pipes, Brother," Fletcher explains, hoisting Mei up to his shoulder; the water nearly reaches her shoulders now. "It was Mei's idea. Don't worry, we got all the servants and other people out already."
"Incidentally," Ling says, "we should probably leave, too."
Russell looks down. Mugear's head is nearly covered; hurriedly, he leans down, gets an arm under his shoulders, and hoists him in a half-upright position, though he nearly buckles under his weight. "A little help?" he says to Ling, who looks dubious.
"Do we have to?" It's almost a whine.
"Yes," Russell bites out. "We have to." Besides, the idea of Mugear locked away, defeated and destitute in a lonely jail cell, appeals to him much more than Mugear drowning in his own mansion. Sighing dramatically, Ling comes over and supports Mugear's other side. The five of them—Russell, Ling, Mei, Fletcher, and the unconscious Mugear—rush for the exit.
Outside, the overflowing water has turned the once-neat gardens around the manor to thick, sopping mud. Mei and Fletcher overlooked nothing: no sooner than Russell wonders if they'll inadvertently flood the town does he notice the deep ditch around the property, carved right where the hill starts to slope down to the rest of Resembool. The signature of alchemy is obvious. Russell glances up at Mei, still sitting on Fletcher's shoulders with her legs around his neck.
"Well, I'll be," he murmurs.
"You didn't think Ling got all the alchemy talent, did you?" she asks him. She tries to sound annoyed, but Russell can see her fighting a smile.
"That's right," Ling says, grunting a little under Mugear's dead weight. "Mei here got the natural gift for alchemy—and the cleverness—and I got the devastating good looks."
Mei snorts.
It's no mean feat traipsing downhill with Mugear's body slung over Russell's and Ling's shoulders. Halfway to town, Fletcher lends a hand, Mei hanging on tight to his helmet so she doesn't fall off. Russell drops to his knees the moment they reach the outskirts, clutching an awful stitch in his side; Fletcher gently puts Mei down, and Ling stares down at Russell with his hands on his hips, panting heavily, but still looking expectant.
"I'm waiting," he says.
"Are you now." Russell looks behind him. "Thank you, Fletcher, Mei." When he doesn't add on, a smirk tugging at his lips, Ling makes an exaggeratedly indignant noise.
"No thanks for me?"
"Did you actually do anything?" Russell asks, tilting his head in an imitation of Ling. "Our siblings took care of Mugear and the mansion and I lugged most of his weight down here, so—no, I think not. No thanks for you." He smiles sweetly.
"Ugh! You really are a child," Ling grumbles.
"What did you just call me, imposter?"
It continues like that all the way to the police station: Ling and Russell trading insults, Fletcher sighing long-sufferingly, and Mei skipping ahead of them, a clear weight off her shoulders.
At Kaumafy's train station, Russell finishes tipping the carriage driver and joins Fletcher, Ling, Mei, and Lan Fan at the platform. He can see the lights of the train in the distance; strange, he almost feels wistful as he watches it pull in, then turns his gaze to the small group come to see them off. So used to relying on Fletcher alone, putting him above all else, Russell isn't used to having friends. It's a sad thought to think he's finally made some only to leave them immediately. Mei insists it doesn't have to be a permanent goodbye.
"You'll write us, won't you?" she says. "You can even come visit. Next time you do, Resembool will be flourishing, I promise; you won't even recognize it."
"It might not happen that quickly," Lan Fan tells her. Still, she doesn't look too stern. She didn't object to working with the imposters as much as Russell thought she might. Keen to expand their livelihood, more relieved than their pride will let on that the truth is out at last, both she and her grandfather accepted Ling's and Mei's offers of help pretty quickly, if still cautiously. Lan Fan and Fu are brusque, but fair; they'll give Ling and Mei the penance they deserve without being downright nasty, like the rest of Resembool right now, eager to blame anyone for their misfortune but themselves. Lan Fan is right—it's going to be a slow process getting the town on its feet again, even with Mugear in prison and all hope for a Philosopher's Stone down the drain. Luckily, Ling and Mei seem more than up for the task. Russell looks forward to seeing the change they'll bring to this place.
While Mei and Lan Fan compare their alchemy skills, Fletcher chiming in here and there when each of them tries to sell herself short, Ling taps on Russell's shoulder. "Can we talk?" he asks. "Alone?"
Russell fights a thrill of foreboding. Old habits die hard; though they're cordial now, half his interactions with Ling have been violent. Still, he shrugs his agreement and follows Ling to the relative privacy behind the ticket booth.
"What is it?" he asks, when Ling doesn't talk at once. He looks more uncomfortable—and more contemplative—than Russell has ever seen him, eyes downcast and teeth worrying at his lower lip. Yet, when he raises his face, all the tension is gone. He looks almost startlingly genuine. It's quite a change of pace.
"I wanted to thank you, for what you said in that cellar," he tells him. "For what you shared with me. It really helped, and you didn't have to do it. It's something I'll carry with me as I start fresh here."
"Oh" is all Russell can say. He wasn't expecting that. Against his will, his face gets a little warm. "Um. Thanks, I guess. I mean—it was no problem."
"I really admire you, you know," Ling continues. "Always have. Ever since I first read about you. Of course, I don't have the skill to be a State Alchemist like you—"
"Trust me, that's a good thing," Russell can't help but mutter. Ling huffs out a laugh.
"—but even so … you're kind of inspirational, Russell. You're proof that talent and hard work can get you places no matter your circumstances. And if you've screwed up really bad in the past like you say, well, that kind of makes you even better. Because you've overcome it now, haven't you?"
He can't resist a glance at Fletcher, chatting amiably with Lan Fan and Mei still. He should be smiling, bright-eyed and laughing and talking with his hands, a habit he picked up from their mother. Instead, though he sounds happy, a tinny echo clings to his voice; the armor cuts a stark, lonely figure against the setting sun.
"I'm getting there," Russell says.
Ling smiles. "I look at you, and I think I can get there, too," he says. "I think there's more to me, to all of us. I think I can do anything I set my mind to."
For some reason, it's hard to act smug; the praise flusters him instead, so that Russell looks down at his shoes and hopes the dying light hides the color in his cheeks. He half-wishes Ling would just attack him again, eager to kill whatever strange thing he's feeling now.
"And I'm sorry," Ling adds. "For stealing your name. And, uh." He gestures to Russell's face. "Breaking your nose."
"It's fine, it's fine," Russell says, the awkwardness driving him to irritation. He puffs his hair out of his face. "What, did you want to kiss it and make it better?"
He doesn't snipe back like Russell expects. He doesn't even lose that soft look to his face. They're very close, Russell realizes, feet overlapping, sharing breaths of warm summer air. He doesn't know what to make of it. He feels so incredibly awkward, so impossibly wrong-footed. Yet, neither does he want to pull away.
"Something like that," Ling murmurs, and leans in.
One-upped again, Russell thinks.
"You're quiet," Fletcher tells him, an hour later.
"Mm?" Russell, glancing out the window, turns and looks at him. "Oh. Sure, I suppose."
"What are you thinking about? You're thinking when you're quiet like that."
Russell gives a noncommittal shrug, twisting in his seat and drawing his knees up to his chest. Sitting across from him, Fletcher tilts his head.
"You think they'll be okay, Brother?" Fletcher asks quietly. "Mei, Ling, Lan Fan—and the rest of them, too?"
"Oh, definitely." His belief in this is such that Russell manages to smile through the numb shock that's clouding him. The numb shock coming from—well. That. "Absolutely. They'll be fine."
Fletcher hums happily. Russell returns his gaze out the window.
"What did Ling want to talk to you about?" he asks after a moment, and Russell startles.
"Nothing," he says.
"Nothing," Fletcher repeats. Russell muffles a curse, annoyed with himself. Nothing is the least convincing false response to any question, ever—he knows this, so why did he say it? He really is shell-shocked.
"Nothing that concerns you, I should say," Russell corrects himself. "There's a reason he wanted to talk alone. 'Alone' denoting Ling and myself, not Ling, myself, and you."
The intensity of Fletcher's stare makes him blush.
"What are you hiding from me?" Fletcher asks, growing sly.
"Nothing!" Russell bites out, and curses himself again. When Fletcher only continues to stare at him, Russell trying not to squirm in discomfort, he snaps, "Let it go, will you? It was nothing. We talked about alchemy and he told me he admired me, that's a—"
"He admires you?" Fletcher repeats.
"You know, Fletcher, I'm something of a public figure, it shouldn't be surprising that—"
"Does that mean he likes you?" Fletcher asks.
Russell blinks. He takes a moment to absorb his meaning. Then he balks, horrified. "No, it does not!"
Fletcher puts a hand to his helmet. "It does," he says. "It totally does."
"You're twelve years old. You don't know anything."
"I know that Ling likes you," Fletcher says.
"And I know that you had best shut your mouth, proverbially speaking, before I shut it for you."
"I don't have a mouth for you to shut for me," Fletcher tells him cheerfully. "I can't be silenced. And you're blushing."
"I'm no longer listening to you," Russell says. He lies down in his seat, his back to his brother. "I'm taking a nap."
"Do you like Ling, Russell?" Fletcher asks.
"Goodnight, Fletcher," he says pointedly.
"You do!" Fletcher's practically bouncing in his seat, the little traitor. "You do!"
"You're absolutely ridiculous," he mutters.
"Russell has a crush!"
"Shut up, Fletcher!" he snaps.
It could be worse, Russell thinks, as Fletcher continues to pick on him, as he presses his hands over his face, which feels very warm under his fingers. Heavy in his breast pocket is the slip of paper Ling gave him, containing Lan Fan's phone number and address so that they can keep in touch.
Things are looking up.