Alfons opened his eyes in the dim room. He found he could not sit up, and so he collapsed back onto the pillows, his head swimming and buzzing, but pleasantly, like he was under water but not drowning, a dream state. When he raised his right hand it felt heavy, but pleasantly heavy. When he tried to speak, words stuck in his throat. He wanted to ask if anyone was there, because he felt a presence near, and yet, the proper words wouldn't form. He realized that he was heavily drugged, that he knew. He turned his head slowly to the right, and saw someone sitting in the chair next to the bed, a woman of indeterminate features in the dimmed light, her arms crossed over the curve of her chest. She was leaning back and seemed to be on the edge of sleep, her eyes closed but somehow still alert. His first thought was that it was his mother, who else would it be?
He reached out his hand to touch her starched white skirt, realizing as he did so that this was not something his mother would wear. It was a nurse, all in white, complete with apron but she did not have any little hat pinned into her hair, since he wasn't in a real hospital, as he thought he might have been at first. It was still the room, in the house, in the house where he thought it very likely that he was going to breathe his last.
The nurse started at his clumsy touch, but immediately grabbed his hand in both of hers and held it on her lap.
"There now," she said. her voice was mechanical but not unkind, as if she were an automaton of a nurse, and not a real person at all. "You're waking."
He nodded his head a bit and managed to gasp for water. She moved his hand beside him on the bed and poured a glass from the decanter on the bedside table. She held up the back of his head as she tilted him forward to drink. His throat was so dry that he choked a bit, and she rubbed his chest with her hand, mechanical and practiced, efficient, a professional.
"Where did you come from?" he managed to get out, although his throat was so sore he thought it would strangle him. It hurt even to turn his head.
"I'm the nurse," she said, gently laying his head back down. She arranged the sheet and blanket, and smoothed the hair from his brow before pressing a wet cloth to it. "You shouldn't speak, you're very ill."
"I am?" he wondered. When had this happened, and how long had he been asleep or drugged, he had no idea. His last memories were of falling asleep with Edward, after the visit from Maria's father. He had no idea whether that was just the day before this dark night, or longer ago. "Edward?" he asked.
"I don't know who that is," said the nurse, and taking his wrist into her hand she pressed her fingers to his veins and felt his pulse. She was officious, but her apparent competence was somewhat reassuring.
"My friend..." Alfons managed. The nurse was sitting again, taking a glance at the little watch pinned to the pinafore strap of her apron. She had a long sharp nose, pale skin, high color in her cheeks, sharp blue eyes, and greying brown hair piled high on her head. She looked to be a bit older than his mother.
"Your friend." She sat back and crossed one leg over the other. She possessed the same officious competence that his mother had lacked, but other women, particularly nurses, he observed, had in abundance. He didn't feel nervous around her at all, then again, there were narcotics coursing through his veins.
"My friend, my Edward," Alfons sighed, unable to censor himself. "Somewhere in this house....do you know where?" he asked dreamily.
If she had picked up on the slip, she did not betray it. "I've been nowhere in this house, I was sent right up to this room to see to you." She snapped on the lamp on the bedside table, then bent over and fussed with something, then Alfons saw her sit up again, dragging a skein of yarn onto her lap. Her fingers wrapped around a pair of knitting needles.
"What're you making?" he asked her.
The nurse started clacking her needles together, and without looking at Alfons she said, "A scarf."
"For who?" Alfons wondered, and genuinely wanted to know. He brought his hands slowly to his chest, looked at them, and rested both of them there. Heavy and weightless at the same time, so curious.
"You should go back to sleep," she said curtly. "Be still and give those bromides a chance to work, you're right on the edge of pneumonia. "
Alfons sighed through his nose, trying not to swallow. The pain in his throat was horrid, yet he cared less about it than he might, because of the drugs. These were the kind of drugs that didn't really kill the pain, they just made you not care how things felt. He was familiar with them, and he liked them.
"Am I dying?" he asked, his voice a whisper.
Her needles paused in their clacking.
"Aren't we all?" she said. She left an empty space in which Alfons could feel one heartbeat pass. "But not tonight, so go to sleep."
She stood for a moment and fussed with the collar of his shirt, spreading it wider so he could breath more easily.
"What's this?" she asked, tugging at his right hand. "Why are you holding this dirty thing?" She pried open his fingers and extracted the small stone.
"...good luck charm..." Alfons muttered. "I need it."
"Don't be silly," she said, and it was gone from him.
Ed had forgotten to wind his watch, and now he was further tormented with the inability to determine just how much time was passing in the basement chamber where he was being forced to summon a Gate. The Mustang doppelganger, far more cold and evil than Ed had first supposed, had taken his left leg, and so he was forced to spend time compensating for that. He had to hop while alternately sliding a chair in front of him, approximating steps in the most ludicrously slow manner. He made it to the long table against the wall, where Hohenheim's equipment sat, already gathering dust, waiting for him to bring it to life. All he really needed were the stones and some chalk, though, to at least repair the array for the Gate, if his father's notes were reliable. He leaned over the worktable, trying to gather his thoughts and determine the best plan of action. Open a Gate and get rid of the Director in one fell swoop? Send him in and seal it up. The problem was that Ed had no idea whether that would put an end to things. It was far from clear whether this Director was the top of the organization. It was frustrating to be so totally in the dark about even the nature of the organization. How could he take it apart when he didn't know how far it went?
One lesson he had learned over the years was that knowledge is power. The more he knew about what he was up against, the better. Unfortunately, now he knew so little, and they had him over a barrel. They had Alfons, too, and now there was little he could do about that either. He pulled the chair up to the workbench and sat heavily, pulling one of Hohenheim's notebooks into his lap. There were several variations on the array to summon the Gate without a sacrifice, six to be exact, none of which he could be sure would work. One had been reworked several times, Hohenheim had clearly spent a lot of time on this one. It was complicated; Ed brought the notebook closer to his face, squinting in the dim light.
He thought he would be able to tell if the array would work, once he had drawn it. At least, he'd be able to tell if it would work at home. Here, maybe if he put the stones on each point, like he would have done at home for human transmutation, perhaps that would generate enough power. His stomach quivered, though, when he thought of Hohenheim, and how he had destroyed himself by repeatedly opening the Gates. Would that happen to him? If it did, the Director was out of luck, because they certainly weren't going to find any more alchemists any time soon. However, it wouldn't do to assume that. As much as the Director and the others seemed to know, there were obvious gaps in their knowledge.
The cellar was deafening in its silence, this late at night. No one else was around, and they had locked him in. Ed laughed bitterly to himself at the thought that a Gate might be the only way out. He'd do it too, open it and go through it, and be shot of this horrible world...except for one thing. He couldn't leave him here, he couldn't and he knew it. He supposed that they knew it too.
There was no time down here in the windowless cellar. It was like being in a prison cell deep beneath the ground. He studied Hohenheim's arrays and notes until his eyes burned, until his temples throbbed. His right shoulder was aching. He longed to lie down and sleep, and again felt needled by that pathetic thought, that he would wake up at home, that this would all be a dream. It made him feel weak to think that, and he retreated from it, albeit reluctantly. There was a certain appeal to that fantasy, it tasted nice, if only for a few minutes, although it turned bitter if he indulged it too long. Besides, if this were all a dream, then Alfons would be just a dream too, and all that would never have happened; although right now, maybe that would have been for the best.
All the uncertainties of the current situation pressed on him as he nodded off to sleep in the chair, tormented by regrets and fears. It was a half sleep, punctuated with the feeling of falling off the chair and onto the floor. He tried to pull himself up but failed at the first attempt, feeling groggy and uncoordinated without his leg, and his arm not at its best level of function. If he didn't get out of here soon, he'd be a mess even without the Gate.
The Gate. He sat on the floor and contemplated the location where it had last stood. The array that his father had used was partially destroyed now, but he could recreate it. He studied the lines, the outer rim of the array only half a meter from where he sat. Hohenheim had drawn it with chalk on the stone floor. Ed scooted closer to the array and examined it, comparing it to the sketch in his father's notebook. This was the one that had done it, with the distilled stones. Although he wasn't as strong as his father, and he didn't have the serpent's remains, it still seemed possible that it might work. He could get blood for the array. All he needed was a knife and a bowl. The Director had had all sharp instruments removed from the lab, from what he could see, but he could convince him to give him one next time he came down.
He sat beside the array and began to apply himself to restoring it.
**
"I'm here." The voice came to him as in a dream. Edward's voice, close to his ear. He felt his hand on his brow, then his body next to his as he apparently climbed into the bed and pressed his stomach against Alfons's back, pressed his face into the back of his neck.
He couldn't speak, his throat was too thick and too dry, and his chest hurt when he took a breath.
A brittle voice broke into the silence, shearing into his throbbing head. "He's sick with a fever, you're a fool to do that."
"Sssh," the figure behind him him hissed and then stroked his arm with a hand--it would have to be a right hand, and it wasn't Edward's. Alfons stiffened, too delirious to turn around, he only tried to pull away slightly. "Alfons," the voice hissed, close to his ear. "Tell me the name of the world where your lover comes from. Tell me, hmm?" He stroked his arm and then ran a crooked finger down his cheek, tenderly but Alfons felt the menace, right there. He shuddered again and used all his strength to clear his mind and push himself up with his arm. He looked over his shoulder as angrily as he could.
"Good morning, sweetheart." The man behind him sat up and stretched, running a hand across his oiled hair.
"What're you doing?" Alfons asked thickly, recoiling from him. "Who are you?"
The man climbed off the bed. "I am all things to all people," he said, rather pompously. He stepped away and looked around the room. He sniffed. "Sickrooms disagree with me, so I'll thank you to just cooperate with me so I can get on with things."
The nurse gently pushed Alfons back on the pillows and arranged them so his head was raised, which was a good thing because he thought he might faint if he sat up much longer. Alfons looked at the man, tall, dark-haired, handsome, quite exotic, not the type you see about in Germany, he looked more like an Outer Mongolian, although he was dressed in Western style, a tweed suit with a vest and it was all perfectly arranged. Even his shoes shined.
"Who're you?" Alfons asked again, squinting up at the man. Even his eyes burned and it hurt to see the light in the room.
"I'm the Director." The man was wiping his hands on a handkerchief, then he pressed it back into his breast pocket.
"Oh." Alfons closed his eyes and opened them again. The room was sort of swimming before him, the tall, pale, dark-haired man almost shimmering in the room like a dream. "Where's Edward?"
"He's downstairs, working." The Director took a step closer and peered at Alfons. "He'll be allowed to come see you when he's done what we've asked."
Alfons knew what they had asked. He was more worried about what would happen if Edward did do it than what would happen if he didn't.
"I came to visit you," began the Director, "to see how you were faring. It looks like you've taken a turn for the worse."
Alfons said nothing but continued to try to look at the Director through his dry and burning eyes, his left eye closed, right eye squinting. They felt swollen and he could only imagine how bad he looked.
"I think I've been drugged," Alfons said impulsively. "Can't think straight, I can't even open my eyes."
The Director cleared his throat. "In any case, I came to see if you could tell me anything that might help us help Edward finish our little project here. Has he said anything to you? Such as, the name of the place on the other side of the gate?"
Alfons felt his head begin to swim even more, and he felt he was falling asleep right there, right in the middle of this conversation with the strange man in the tweed suit.
"Tell me..."
The last thing he heard before he passed out was, "He's fucking useless like this. Lighten up on the sedation, I need him to be conscious."
**
The lamp had gone out in the windowless chamber some time after Ed had sat down next to the ruined array. Monitoring the amount of oil in the lamp had not been on his mind, so when the light abruptly disappeared, he felt shocked for a moment, as if some unseen person had come and smacked him in the head.
"Fucking great," he said into the darkness. The only light to be seen was at the thin crack beneath the door, a sliver of dim light from the passage beyond. He wondered if someone was stationed out there right now, or whether they had confidence that he couldn't go anywhere without his leg. They weren't off the mark if that was the case, Ed thought bitterly. He moved backwards across the floor with his hands behind him, pushing himself off on his right leg, in the direction of the worktable. When he hit one of the legs of the table with his spine, he turned around onto his knee, placed his hands over the edge of the table, and pulled himself up. Leaning over the table for balance, he reached out blindly in both directions into the pitch black to search for the lamp and the small tin of lamp oil that he had seen earlier. He had no idea if there were matches in the chamber.
Groping about, he cursed the old mansion cellar for not being electrified like the rest of the house. He managed to locate the lamp but not the oil or matches and swore elaborately into the darkness. There wasn't any hope of being able to do this alone. He got down on the floor again and travelled slowly to the door, for once hoping it was guarded.
He knocked. "Hello? Anyone out there?"
There was a kind of grunt or grumble, and Ed knew that one of the paeons was there, probably sitting on the floor and sleeping against the wall.
"What is it?" It was Roman's voice.
"Roman!" Ed tried to sound friendly and relieved. At least he knew the guy's name.
"What do you want?" He sounded irritable; Ed figured he had probably guessed correctly that he had been asleep.
"The lamp went out in here and it's pitch black. Can you open the door and help me light it?"
Roman grumbled again and waited a moment. Ed figured he was deliberating on whether it would be a breach of his orders to open the door. He'd probably been told not to open it under any circumstances until he was told.
"I don't know."
That was what he came up with after deliberating for two solid minutes? Ed slapped his forehead in frustration. The stupid were sometimes harder to work with than the intelligent. It was less fun, in any case.
"Please." Ed tried to sound as unthreatening as possible, and consciously left out following that please with idiot. "If I can't see anything I can't work, and the Director will probably be checking on me soon." He even tried to infuse his voice with a bit of fear, which really wasn't much of stretch. Since it was clear that Roman feared the Director and Jamison, he could perhaps establish a bond on this common ground. He hammered down the final nail. "Please, help me. I don't want to disappoint him."
"All right, goddammit." He heard a key in the door and scooted back away from it so that Roman wouldn't trip right over him. The dim light spilling in from the hallway cut a large arc of illumination into the room, but the workbench area was still in near total darkness. Roman pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, held it up and went over to the workbench. He found the lamp and the tin of oil, all the while glancing back at Ed frequently to make sure he wasn't moving. Ed didn't bother trying to bolt; he knew he couldn't. Roman poured the oil into the lamp and replaced the glass before lighting it.
"There," said Roman. "Can you get on with it now? I'm just as eager as you are to get out of this damn cellar."
Ed looked up at Roman from the floor, hoping he looked as small as he felt in his current condition. He hoped Roman would take pity on him.
"Can you help me get over there?" He pointed at the workbench.
Roman twisted his mouth, looking both displeased and conflicted. Finally he moved behind Ed, and roughly shoved his arms under his shoulders, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing, and brought him to the workbench. Ed pretended to struggle to remain standing as he gripped it with his left hand.
"Thanks," he said. "I'm having a really hard time here without my leg...you wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?"
Roman grunted and shuffled his feet a bit. "I can't get it back for you if that's what you're after. It's in Jamison's office."
"Oh." Well, that was easy enough, finding out where it was. However, getting there right now would be impossible.
"Sorry, kid," said Roman, clearly somewhat sorry. "Just following orders, and they're the ones who pay me."
Ed tried another tack. "You know what they want me to do, don't you? They want me to open up more gates."
"That's not my business."
"It could blow this place apart...remember when the whole house shook a couple of days ago? It could be like that again, but worse. And you saw what happened to that guy they sent in."
"As I said, not my business."
"What is your business? Just the muscle, no brain?" Ed was getting agitated now. He had to find a way to use this guy, but he was proving to be an inconveniently loyal minion. "If this house goes up, you're going with it."
Roman pressed his hands downwards. "Sssh, they'll hear you."
"I don't care if they hear me!" Ed said, letting his voice carry. "They're breaking about a hundred laws right here, and you're a part of it."
The lackey looked around nervously, then shrugged. "Look, a job's a job."
"You're getting paid to abduct people!"
Roman looked decidedly uncomfortable with these concepts, as if he had never considered them before, which confounded Ed, but he pressed on.
"Look, just get me my leg back, I need it." Ed almost pleaded. He really did want it back, if he could stand on his own two feet, this would be more bearable. "Get it back for me and the rest might not happen."
Roman blinked. "What do you mean, the rest?"
Ed pretended to be reluctant to break the news, and looked away with feigned regret before turning to look Roman square in the eye. "I heard the Director and Jamison talking yesterday about who they were going to send through as a test subject once we manage to open another gate...and they seem to have settled on you."
The man looked shocked for a moment, then skeptical. "Why would they say that in front of you?"
"Why would they think I'd care?" Ed asked coldly. "And I don't, except you can help me stop it."
"Why wouldn't I just run?"
"You could. But before you do, you might want to save a few lives, you know, for posterity."
Roman blinked again. Ed realized that the man had a lot more thinking to do than he was used to, and hoped fervently that he had appealed sufficiently to his better nature. He wasn't brilliant at reading people, but he thought he had seen, earlier that night, a flicker of decency in the man's eyes when the Director had forced him to take Ed's leg away. Grovelling with that moron was not an uplifting experience, and he hoped that it was worth it as Roman left the room and locked the door without another word.
**
Ed spent the next couple of hours going over the contours of the ruined array with chalk on the floor of the cellar. His body was beginning to ache from being on the cold stone floor for so long, and he was becoming more bitter by the minute, anxious to have Jamison or the Director come in so he could at least have some word about Alfons. He tried not to dwell upon the fact that this entire situation was all his fault, and worried that Alfons would have been better off if they had never met. Another part of him ached to be in his presence; he cursed his own lack of focus and applied himself to perfecting the array. The slightest flaw could mean failure and there wasn't time for that.
The door opened, as he knew it would at some point, although for now he couldn't judge whether he had been down here six hours or twenty. The Director and Jamison entered the room, along with a lackey, not Roman, and another person. The lackey was dragging the fourth person, who was stumbling behind, and it took Ed a moment to register who it was. His heart climbed to his throat; Alfons was standing there, shakily, his eyes barely open. His hair was sticking up in all directions, his cheeks flushed bright red, and his mouth looked red and sore as well. Clearly he had a fever. His eyelids struggled to stay open and it looked like he was struggling to focus as he squinted and tried to train his view on the floor.
"Alfons!" Unable to spring forward, Ed sat on the floor and looked up at the Director and Jamison challengingly. If they did something to hurt Alfons, he would hurt them, badly, somehow.
"We thought it might help if you saw him, so here he is," said Jamison smoothly.
"Alfons, are you all right? Say something," Ed nearly begged.
"Edward?" Alfons appeared delirious, peering down at the floor. Finally hitting his mark, his eyes widened a bit. "Where's your leg?"
"They took it," Ed said. "To keep me here. But don't worry, I'm all right. How are you doing?"
Alfons nodded and his knees buckled, only to be helped up again by the henchman, or whatever he was. Did they have an endless supply of these? Ed wondered bitterly. It occurred to him that Roman could be halfway back to Munich by now, for all he knew, and his gamble will have failed to pay off.
Ed turned to Jamison and the Director again. "Bastards! Can't you see how sick he is? Take him to a hospital!"
"He'll be fine," said the Director. "We just thought you'd like a reminder that the sooner you do what we want, the better for you, and for him."
Ed glared at the Director, despising him. At this moment it was easy to forget who he looked like--Mustang would never have treated him this way. Ever. It was a welcome reminder, because it suddenly steeled his resolve. He looked up at the Director and held his gaze.
"I need a sharp knife and a bowl, and the purest stone you have. Give me two hours and I'll open your gate for you."
The Director nodded. "Good boy. No need to waste any more time. I'm glad you've seen reason."
"Let's just get this over with," Ed scowled. He spared one more glance for Alfons, his eyes were closed and his skin looked white and clammy. "Just get him back to bed." He paused before resorting to begging, but he would do it for Alfons. "Please."
The Director motioned to the lackeys and led them from the room, and the door clicked and latched behind them. Ed's stomach was in knots; having seen Alfons like that upset him more as the minutes wore on. This wasn't just a bluff; he had to get Alfons out of here as quickly as possible, and if opening a gate was the only way, he would have to do it. It was what he did when it was open that was most important.
There was no god he served, and he had no one to pray to, so he could only finish the array and will that moron Roman to come back with his leg.
The Director had followed them back to the room upstairs. Alfons could only vaguely make out his muttering to Sukhova, who had suddenly joined them. The two of them seemed to be arguing back and forth, her higher voice and his deeper one. She sounded as if she was pleading, and he was turning her down. He was literally being dragged, his feet barely touching the floor, between two unknown men. When they reached his room he recognized it mainly by the heat and the sickroom smell--the fire had been lit and it was much warmer than the rest of the house. The nurse had demanded that he sweat out his fever, and sweating it he was. He felt his soaked shirt and trousers clinging to his skin as they tossed him back onto the bed. The room spun as he lay on his back across the bed. Someone was unbuttoning his trousers. He didn't remember how they had gotten on him and he pushed feebly at the hands working on him.
"More awake now are we?" It was the Director again, his face only inches from his, he could feel his breath against his face. His face burned, and his eyes, and he struggled to open them. The hands finished unbuttoning his trousers and he felt them touch him, and he blinked in surprise. The hand--he was pretty certain that it belonged to the Director--wrapped around him and pulled gently, up and down, as if he intended to pleasure him. It was entirely confusing. Alfons closed his eyes again, getting aroused in spite of his confusion and sickness.
"What're you doing?" His own voice came out as sort of a gasping whine, unfamiliar. "Stop...."
"Don't you like this?" The Director's face came closer, then his other hand pushed the wet fringe of hair from his brow. "I'm trying to make you more comfortable, I promised your dear Edward, didn't I?"
"Stop," Alfons moaned, too weak to push him away.
"Oh, you're lovely, I see why he likes you," purred the Director, still working on him, gently and sensually, with a tinge of cruelty. His other hand roamed over Alfons's face, traced his nose and his lips. "What a beauty you must be in full bloom. Let's get you well, shall we?" The Director stroked his eyebrow with his thumb. "Tell me the name of the world on the other side of the gate, I want to help him, and you, but to do that I need to know."
Alfons swallowed as the Director's hand cupped and stroked his balls. It felt good, and horrible, at the same time. He knew he was terribly aroused and his stomach twisted with guilty desire.
"...ask him yourself."
"Tell me now, Alfons," the Director said. "I know he won't tell me, like his father before him. They don't understand that we're trying to help."
"No." The hand on his crotch was warm and soft, and now it pressed against him, just hard enough.
"You're sure?"
Alfons swallowed and nodded. Lying on his back was finally getting to him; he felt the beginning of a coughing fit start to coil in his chest. He raised his head slightly, trying to fend it off, but a hand suddenly slapped him across the cheek. He started to cough and could see nothing, before he felt a hand clamp over his crotch, beginning to squeeze. He lost his breath, twisting to try to face downwards, as the man's hand clamped on him.
"Tell me now or you're dead before dawn."
And so he choked it out, feeling blood trickled over his lip. He heard a gasp and someone protesting, a woman's voice, the nurse or Sukhova, probably, but he just reeled back, the room spinning again. The hands were gone from him and he pushed himself over onto his stomach to cover his exposed crotch and to cough fitfully into the bed. He couldn't hear what anyone else was saying after that, but he did hear footsteps, and the door slammed. Eventually he pushed himself onto his elbow and saw the blood on the white sheet. Exhausted, he let his head fall again.
He struggled against oblivion, this time, aware that his one hope my still be in the room. Still on his front, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, wiping the blood from his mouth. She was still there, Sukhova, standing by the door, looking small and shocked and maybe even angry.
It took a lot of effort on his part to make sure his eyes locked with hers, to make sure that she registered his disappointment and disgust. She was a good person, he could tell. He held her gaze until her own fell. She looked away, then back again, then she nodded once, sharply, quickly, before leaving the room.
Then he buried his burning face into the bed and prayed that she was really on his side.
In the cellar, the lamp threatened to go out again. Ed's heart hammered as he fussed with the array one last time. Hohenheim had done all the work. He glanced at the sketch in the notebook again and again, trying to think of anything he could do to alter it to get the result he wanted, which was to open it, let the Director get in, and seal it up. His father had gotten closer to controlling the gate than anyone ever had. He shivered a little, from the lack of warmth in the room and the idea of the task before him. He was not as talented as Hohenheim and he knew it. The gate could easily get out of control, but he had to try.
What the Director claimed was the purest stone they had, manufactured at the lowest possible temperature, was in the middle of the array. Smaller, less pure stones were set in the seven points. Even in this cold, dark place the stones seemed to glow slightly, and hum, and when Ed touched them, they had that strange warmth, like the one that he had left with Alfons. He had forgotten to check on whether he had it with him when they were down there, and that caused him worry too. He was fairly certain that the stone was helping Alfons somehow, and if that were true, maybe they could use that to cure him of his illness. His mind circled this thought, grasping at ideas.
Roman had silently brought him the bowl and knife not long before. If he planned to bring him his leg, he had not indicated as much. Ed scraped at the array with the knife, perfecting it. All it needed was polish, he thought, and he could frame it. He felt nauseated with anxiety, worrying that the gate would bring the house down before he could get to Alfons and get him out of there. He pulled his arm across his stomach, sat on the floor by the array, and waited.
There was a hiss in his ear. "Ssssh. Wake up...sssh."
The feminine voice pulled him from sleep. He couldn't remember dreaming but it was difficult to surface.
"Be quiet," the voice admonished. As he woke, he realized it was Sukhova. He struggled to open his eyes and she was there, kneeling by the bed. "The nurse asked me to watch you for a bit, so..." She bit her lip and looked toward the closed door. "I'm giving this to you. Know how to use it?"
Alfons felt her take his hand and wrap his fingers around something hard and heavy, wooden and metal. He knew instantly that it was a gun and his eyes widened.
"No," he admitted. It was a smallish pistol but it was still much heavier than he would have thought when he raised his hand.
"Here." Sukhova put her hand over his and raised the gun. She opened the chamber to show that it was full, six bullets. "Six shots, that's all you get, so aim true."
Now there was an admonition...he'd never aimed a gun in his life.
"You have to cock the barrel, here," she showed him. "Then pull the trigger, that's all there is to it."
He blinked and stared at the gun, pushed himself up onto his elbow to contemplate it.
"So there you go. You have to get out of here." Sukhova's mouth was a thin, straight line, and her eyes looked strained. Now she looked small and birdlike, her usually neat hair a bit wild, hairs straying from the hairpins.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked. "I thought...you believed?"
She swallowed. "I don't know," she said. "All I know is, you and your friend need to leave, and I don't want to feel like I didn't do anything to help." She pushed herself up and stepped back from the bed, composing herself to appear more businesslike again. "Put it away for now."
Alfons looked around himself and settled on placing it between the mattress and the bedspring. His head felt much more clear than it had for a while, and he sat up and drank some of the water sitting on the bedside table. Feeling his own cheek, he felt that his fever must have subsided, or mostly so. His eyes still felt swollen and ached, but generally he did feel a lot better.
Sukhova was watching him. "They were drugging you," she said. "I think that was making you sicker."
"Oh." Alfons looked at his hands, which still shook a bit from the illness...or was that the drug? Now he didn't know. He had a vague memory of the Director grabbing at him and felt his cheeks burn once more. Then the distinct memory of himself saying the word, Amestris. He covered his face with his hands.
"You were drugged," Sukhova whispered gently. "Don't blame yourself."
Behind his hands Alfons cherished the darkness for his aching eyes. Suddenly killing the Director with that gun did not seem like a bad idea at all.
The door to the cellar chamber opened as Edward was beginning to consider the unlikely prospect that he had been forgotten. His heart pounded against his chest as Roman came through the door, but something about his bearing was unnatural, as if he were being pushed, and Ed's heart sank immediately. Jamison and the Director were behind him, with another one of those lackeys from before. Under the Director's arm, Ed saw his prosthetic leg, tucked casually like a rolled up newspaper.
"Well done," said the Director, addressing Ed as he sat on the floor. "You managed to develop a confederate. I am surprised that you were willing to risk yet another person to your selfish plans, you seemed so put out by Peters taking pains on your behalf, but here we are again. Jamison caught this cretin creeping out of his office with this." He held the leg up. "I'm not going to say I am disappointed; your father was the same, trying to the end."
He dropped the leg onto the stone floor and it clattered. Ed moved onto his hands and knee to reach for it.
"No." The Director put his foot on the leg, considered it a moment, then raised his foot and stamped on the knee joint. It obediently snapped in half after the second go, the exposed wires breaking free.
"Bastard!" Ed exploded. Helplessness washed over him and he struggled to push it away.
"I prefer you this way, to be honest," the Director said. "You're much more humble now, aren't you? In Amestris you were someone, I'll bet. But here, you are nothing. Not even your father's son, not anymore." The Director's voice flattened, but he smiled at having said the name, his surprise.
"Who are you?" Ed choked out.
"I'm just a man with ambitions, but I'm not evil if that's how you choose to see things. That's all you need to know."
"But..." Ed looked pointlessly at the space the serpent had previously occupied. He had never felt that he had to struggle much with what was good and what was bad; he felt like he knew, that actions spoke louder than words. "You made my father kill his own child," he said finally. "I think you knew."
The Director kicked at the ruined leg; it moved closer to him but there was no point in putting it on now, it was smashed. His face was inscrutable. "Do you mean that monster? What do you expect me to say? Something villainous and dramatic? The best part was getting him to bathe in its blood? How was that?" He paused and looked at Ed as if he were amusing himself. "Regrettably messy, but it had to be done."
"You're insane."
"Don't get sentimental, kid. It's just business, and you have an opportunity to play a part in history. Now how about the gate?"
Ed's head was beginning to swim. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why do you look like him?"
The Director paused, still looking thoughtfully amused. "People have asked me that before." He pulled the lone chair in the room closer to Ed and sat down. This time he was not menacing, he seemed to take on a air of nostalgia, his eyes unfocused. He looked at Ed but did not see him, only reached up to unself-consciously stroke away the hair from his face.
"The best I can tell is, it seems to be an uncontrollable side effect."
"Of what?" Ed asked, breathless for the answer.
The Director withdrew his hand and laced his fingers together. "Of touching the Gate...the first time I did it, nearly two years ago, I lost my mind for a while." He crossed his legs carefully, as if to preserve the crispness of his suit.
"Who opened it for you?" Ed had almost forgotten to be afraid now. He was so curious...and then he realized who it had to have been.
The Director nodded. "He was working for us on his own volition, back then. Before he changed his mind and got squeamish about our methods. He lacked the nerve, he only did it once before he swore off it...unfortunate collateral damage, or associated costs, if you will. It took us long enough to track him down after he ran off. "
"You mean, you used people." Ed did not dare to take his eyes from the Director's face.
"The energy required to summon the gate was tremendous, before we had stones, before we really understood about Hohenheim's nature, before we had the serpent..." He trailed off, his eyes dilated in the dark, deep, inky pools, almost lost. "It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever seen. Ever since, I seem to take on the physical properties of other people, people I assume exist on the other side of the gate, and it shifts occasionally, when I come into contact with someone who will be important, or someone who has connection to the other side of the gate. Isn't that amazing? It has led me to consider some interesting ideas about how to control the gates."
"It's so amazing and you can only think about how to make money off it." Ed's tone became sharp again.
The Director shook his head. "You misunderstand our mission. We will become rich, yes, but we will end all war."
"No you won't," Ed said. "Trust me."
"Why should I trust your prognostication on this? You're only a child."
Ed felt weary. Why should he indeed? Why would anyone listen to a kid? It didn't matter what he said, when people had ambitious plans, whether they were evil or good, sane or insane, there was no way to stop them aside from force.
He swallowed, his throat felt sore and dry. He was tired and he couldn't last down here much longer without some action. He glanced over at his leg again, his stomach twisted and then rose to his throat. He couldn't bring the house down now, he'd never be able to get out of here fast enough, not if he had to get Alfons out too.
"So, let's summon a Gate," he said, rubbing his hands together.
"Yes, let's." The Director rose to his feet, put his fists on his hips and admired the transmutation circle.
He couldn't do it, he couldn't. But then he did. He had used to gun to lead the nurse into the bathroom, then wedged a chair under the doorknob from the outside. He apologized the entire time, but she had drugged him, he told himself, over and over. His head became more clear with each second that he acted. The fever had broken and now he had such clarity compared to that fog he'd been in for how long? A day or two? He had no idea. He could only vaguely recall the visit to the cellar, and Edward on the floor, his prosthetic leg gone, and that was it. He was going to save him.
He had hastily dressed and grabbed the stone the nurse had taken from him and placed on a table. He was about to flee the room when Sukhova had appeared. Regrettably. He did battle with himself for just a moment before holding the gun up. She nodded and left the room quickly, he let a few heartbeats pass before opening the door. The guard was there, a man in a suit with cuffs too short at his ankles and sleeves, he was just a man, not a beast like that Director, like Jamison. He steadied his hand as he held the gun at his side, determined not to raise it unless the man tried to stop him.
Unfortunately, he did.
"Don't, please." The man's voice quavered as he raised his hands. "I'm just doing my job."
Another voice came from behind him. "You're not a fighter, Heiderich. You're a scientist. You search for answers, you don't kill."
It was Jamison, coming up the stairs, his voice cool and calm as if he was certain that Alfons would not fire the gun.
"What about you, Jamison?" Alfons asked, his voice shaking. He held the gun on the guard. "What are you?"
"Really, Heiderich, you are proving to be more trouble than you're worth." Jamison seemed impatient. He pulled out his watch and snapped it open. "They're nearly ready for the Gate. Get back in your room, now."
"NO!" Alfons turned impulsively from the guard and trained the weapon at Jamison, still standing at the top of the stairs. "I'm not going back to that room, I'm leaving and I'm taking Edward with me."
He felt movement behind him and whipped around, smashing the guard in the side of the face with the gun, by accident. He stepped back and pointed the gun at him again.
"Don't come any closer."
Jamison's voice came from behind now. "Roberts, please put him out of commission, we don't have time for this."
Alfons met the guard's, Roberts's, eyes. The man's hands were raised again, and he was less than two feet away. If he shot him, he could easily kill him, he realized. He wouldn't miss anything important at this range. His hand felt more steady now, feeling the power that came with holding a deadly weapon. He stood up taller.
In a flash, the guard lunged for the gun. Alfons didn't think before pulling the trigger. His own heart nearly stopped as the report from the gun threw his hand back. He stood, holding it, his heart pounding, and the sound of static rushed in his ears. He had had no idea how it felt to fire a gun and he shook for a moment, surrounded by the smell of burnt chemicals. The bullet had hit the man in the foot, and Alfons did cherish a feeling of relief that he hadn't killed him. But the man was down, curled over himself and cursing.
Alfons turned to see Jamison looking at him, surprised.
Alfons didn't give him time to react. He cocked the pistol and held it to Jamison's temple.
"Take me to the cellar. Now."
"Are you sure?" asked Jamison. "There will be others there, you won't get far. Maybe you should just run now, I'll let you go if you put down that gun. Go ahead, I'll open the door for you, and you run. As easy as that."
"No. Not without Edward."
"He's too important to this project, they won't let him go."
"It doesn't matter what they want. I'm taking him." Alfons had never heard his own voice so steely and certain. For the moment, he was convinced he would not, could not fail. He had just shot someone in the foot. His hand was steady now. He would have felt bad about killing the guard--he was just a lackey--but he wouldn't regret, he realized, if he had to kill Jamison to save Edward.
Jamison began to move slowly down the stairs as Alfons poked the gun into his back. He was a slight man, much smaller, and for the moment he held no fear that he could overpower him. Blindsiding the guard had been a happy accident, but he was empowered now, and animated by something well beyond physical strength.
As they made their way down the hallways towards the cellar, Jamison began to visibly shake with nerves, a fact that was not lost on Alfons. He was pleased.
"So what's your plan for when we get down there?" asked Jamison as they crossed the courtyard.
Alfons declined to answer, deciding that it was more ominous and seemed much more threatening than his actual answer, which would have been, he had no idea.
"This is interesting," Jamison said conversationally. He looked back over his shoulder. "We didn't think much of you, we counted you out as a weakling."
"Looks like you were mistaken," said Alfons. He pushed the gun into Jamison's back and moved him toward the door to the hallway that led to the cellars. At this moment he felt no fear, and was vaguely thrilled with himself. "Come on, let's go."
The door to the chamber was open, and Edward sat on the floor on one knee, crouched over it, seemed to be refining it with an awl. Alfons pushed Jamison into the cell. The Director was there, standing over Edward. Peters was here now, too, positively white and shaking, and holding a glass jar with several stones in it, shuddering so hard that the stones rattled against the glass. A few others he didn't recognize, and Sukhova, small and nearly hidden in the small group, standing on her toes to peer between two of the men. Another lackey had the guard Roman pressed up against a wall, and Roman looked terrified. Surveying the floor, he saw Edward's smashed leg--disappointed that that hadn't been a hallucination--and a large earthen bowl and knife laid on the floor beside Edward. When they entered Edward looked up, his eyes blurry and tired. When he spotted Alfons he caught his eyes. Alfons nodded almost imperceptibly but their eyes met. They exchanged information: Edward was ready to do something, Alfons was all right. For good measure he shoved Jamison a bit farther into the room with the end of the gun, then removed it, but still held it in his hand. He saw Edward take that in, saw the slightest flicker of a smile pass his pale lips, as he bent again over the array.
"Are you almost ready, Elric?" demanded the Director.
"Yes." Edward sat back and looked at it, then pulled the bowl toward him and began to roll up his shirtsleeve. Everyone just stood at watched.
"Good." The Director looked at Jamison. "Give me the bag."
Jamison gave the Director a look that suggested he wasn't at liberty. "It's in my office, I--"
"What the hell did you come down here for without it?" the Director asked irritably. He was impatient now, like a caged animal wanting to get out.
"I wasn't at liberty," said Jamison coolly, although Alfons could tell he was a bit humiliated. "Heiderich had a gun to my head."
The Director frowned. "Did he?" He spared a glance for Alfons. "And what exactly were you hoping to accomplish by that?"
Alfons held up the gun and pointed it at him. "Edward and I are leaving."
The Director blinked. "Are you? Well, then, maybe you are. We'll see. First, Edward has to open the Gate. Then we'll see what happens next."
Edward stirred again, Alfons could see him struggling with the instinct to stand but he was stuck on the floor. He said to the Director, "You have no idea what's going to happen, do you? I don't either."
"Oh, I've made some preparations." The Director looked at the lackey by the door. "Go up to Jamison's office. There's a cloth bag on his desk, bring it here at once."
The man disappeared at a run, and the rest of them looked down at Ed and the array.
"What are you planning?" Ed asked.
"You'll see." The Director put his hands in his pockets and walked idly around the array. "So intricate, beautiful. I've never seen such work. Is it time for the blood?"
"First the stones." Peters brought Edward the jar and wordlessly handed it over, and Edward placed several stones on the array at what appeared to be symmetrical points, and readjusting some stones that had already been there. He examined and discarded two, tossing them aside like so much dross. Then, Edward looked down at the bowl beside him and reached for the knife with his artificial hand. It closed clumsily around it and Alfons could see beads of sweat begin to stand out on Edward's face as he tried to get a tight, steady grip. He held out his left arm and Alfons saw his gaze turn to steel as he drew the knife across the upper part of his forearm. Blood began to drip, and he held it over the bowl. Alfons admonished Edward in his mind to be careful, to not weaken himself, and his hand squeezed the gun more tightly, appreciated its weight as he held it against his leg.
The errand boy returned with a small sack of almond-colored roughspun cloth, and presented it to the Director. Without saying thank you, the Director undid the tie on the sack and looked inside. Then he closed it again and jangled it next to his head, as if listening for it to speak.
"What's in there?" Ed asked, still holding his dripping arm over the bowl.
"I shall tell you." The Director enjoyed his oracular flourishes, Alfons noticed. He was getting excited, however, preparing himself for the adrenaline rush that would allow him to flee, with Edward...in his arms? He didn't know, but they would be going soon, he was sure of that.
The Director fondled the bag but did not open it again. "This contains things from Amestris," he announced, and Alfons saw Ed wince at the sound of his homeland's name on the man's tongue.
Edward regarded the bag with curiosity, and, Alfons thought, some fear. "Things like what?"
"My theory is that the Gate may lead to different exit points, or that it is possible to get stuck inside it. It is also possible to be killed inside it, as we witnessed several days ago. I thought perhaps having some items that would draw me to Amestris would help me to get through the Gate, attracting me to it."
Edward grunted as if he thought that it might not be such a bad idea. "But--what's in it?"
"Some bones...of Hohenheim, and the serpant. Peters, give me some of the best stones..." He took several and placed them in the bag" "Even though they were made here, Hohenheim made it clear that they amplify alchemic power, perhaps it will help protect me. And..." Here the Director stepped over and crouched down by the bowl, now filled at the bottom with Edward's blood. He stuck his index finger into the blood, then brought it to his face, where he drew a line down his nose, and then across the bridge of his nose and each cheek, then daubed his lips with it, before wiping it on his immaculate suit. "And now, Amestrian blood."
Alfons watched Edward regard the Director with a mixture of horror and contempt. He scowled and shook his head.
"You'll end up dead, you idiot," he said. He lifted the bowl of blood and dipped in his own fingers, moving around the array he placed daubs of it in certain places. He certainly looked like he knew what he was doing. His face was set in weary concentration, his mouth working what Alfons assumed were silent curses against the Director and his foolishness.
The room remained quiet, aside from the occasional whimper from Roman, still pressed against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back. There was a scuffle as he tried to pull away, but was immediately subdued by a punch to the head. He reeled back toward the wall, slid down it and sat, panting. Edward glanced at him and looked away again, and Alfons was sure he caught a flash of regret that time, which puzzled him. Edward began to work more furiously, precise but forceful, as he placed the blood at special points on the array and adjusted the positions of the stones once again. Alfons felt his heart beating in his head, losing some of the clarity he had achieved before. He had no idea what was going to happen, and a flood of terror washed over him. He stopped himself from shaking by gripping the gun even tighter. He wasn't sure what he was going to do next, but if the Director attempted to pull Edward through the gate--that was his greatest fear--he would not hesitate to shoot him.
Edward sat back on his bottom and looked up at the Director.
"It's ready."
The Director, now, looked almost frightened, then thrilled. He stepped forward and stood next to where Edward sat.
"Activate it then." He looked around at the others in the room, and motioned for the guard by the wall to bring Roman forward. "Our guinea pig," he said, sparing Roman not a glance. Alfons felt ill as Edward looked up and caught his eyes. He saw Edward swallow, and tilt his head slightly toward him and Roman, as if to say, Don't let him. Alfons nodded back and twitched the gun a bit, to show that he was ready for whatever was about to happen.
Edward got onto his knee, leaned forward and placed his hands on the array. The first thing Alfons thought of was that design carved into the tabletop of their flat, the one that did nothing and had made him worry that Edward was insane. This time, however, the huge array began to buzz with static, and blue light glowed within its lines, faintly at first, as if it were electrified and being turned on, then more strongly, as some kind of energy began to leap from it. The pattern glowed and danced with light, and gave off a smell like burning and ozone. Alfons stood transfixed, and no one in the room moved. Except Edward...he moved back, crawling backwards away from it to end two meters away, his hand still on the floor as he looked up at it.
The Gate. It appeared with a sound like a meteor hitting the earth, a metallic boom as it seemed to spring from the cellar floor. It seemed to be made of a dense metal and its contours were wrought with designs and shapes that it took Alfons a while to parse in the darkness. It did not glow, it almost seemed to suck light in, what little there was of it in the cellar.
The door, which seemed to have no opening, suddenly split in two and parted, revealing only darkness. Alfons shuddered, transfixed. He felt that if he had the choice, he would not choose to go through there in a million years. It wasn't heaven, was it? If it was a gate to anything, it had to be hell. This still seemed more plausible to him than a portal between worlds. Yet the Director approached it, motioning for the guard to bring Roman closer. Roman was kicking and screaming and begging as the Director held on to his other arm. Together he and the guard dragged him closer. Alfons stepped forward, pushing Jamison and someone else he didn't recognize out of the way, he held the gun trained on the Director.
"Let him go."
The Director turned to look at him, surprised. "You're wasting our time, stop this."
"Let him go or I shoot you." Alfons's heard his voice crack but his hand did not shake.
The Director seemed frozen in indecision for a moment. He looked back at the doors, no doubt trying to calculate how long they would stay open. Alfons knew there was no way of knowing.
"Go yourself, you coward," Alfons said.
The doors did not close, but the gate seemed to shimmer for a moment, as if threatening to lose substance. They waited, everyone breathless. Alfons could see Edward on the floor beside the gate, sitting on his bent knee, his hands on the floor. He looked not afraid but in awe, his lips slightly parted, still, as if he were listening to something. Then Alfons saw his lips move, and heard, although it was almost a whisper, it reached across the room and the sound vibrated at the gate as if he had said it aloud.
"Al."
The Director looked at the gate longingly, clutching the bag to his chest again. He pushed Roman aside roughly, letting him go. He looked at Jamison.
"I'm going. I'll get them to send me back, and then our work can really begin."
"Godspeed," said Jamison, and Alfons thought he detected a note of cool irony in his voice.
The Director stepped forward into the gate, and stood within the doorway, peering into the darkness within. Alfons could now detect some movement inside, although it was dark against darkness. Alfons looked at Edward, and his hands were now in fists pushed against his eyes. He wanted to call out to him but he didn't want to move until that thing was gone, he couldn't move while it was here, it prohibited him. He still had his gun trained at it.
The doors closed with an impressively loud creak and were shut, yet the gate stayed, looming, reaching the low ceiling and seeming almost to go beyond that, although Alfons knew it was physically impossible. He heard someone fall and looked down to see Peters having fallen to his knees. There was some murmuring.
"This is what happened last time." This was Peters, his voice shuddering with worry. "Before it spit him out again."
Edward was frozen to the spot, his eyes still covered, and Alfons was worried. He willed it to go away. Go away, go away, he begged in his head. It was causing an existential crisis, this monstrosity, and he felt himself on the edge of panic. He remembered the gun and faintly considered the possibility of using it, just to make something new happen and end this horror.
Then, the doors parted again, a small amount, and there was that creak that filled the room and drove terror into his heart, and Alfons waited for some bloody remains to be regurgitated on the floor. Still he kept the gun aimed at it, his hand beginning to shake. The doors opened wider, and a figure appeared...whole, moving, not chewed up and mangled. The figure stepped out of the gate, looked around, its eyes wide and surprised, wondering.
It was a boy, wearing a long red coat and with long, honey-colored hair in a familiar-looking ponytail, and he stepped from the gate looking perplexed. The gate swung shut behind him, and in a moment it had disappeared, swallowed by the earth, shaking the walls around them with a tremor that rocked the foundation and brought dust and bits of rock and brick showering down on them, then it stilled. The boy stood, then looked up and squinted as some dust fell into his eye. He wiped it away and looked around, then his eyes locked on the figure still kneeling on the floor.
He fell to his knees as well, and said nothing for quite some time.