Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

More art – from the recipient of the present! Hit Photobuckets dot com and search 'Jaya Mitai.'

- x -

When Fullmetal landed on his knees, Mustang knew he'd made a miscalculation.

A pretty big one.

His next thought was to wonder what it was going to cost him.

He turned his head sharply to the right at the sound, trying to keep all three of them in his field of vision. Edward was on his hands and knees, leaning heavily on his 'automail,' and he promptly deposited the remainder of his breakfast onto the stone floor. He was paler than Roy had ever seen him, and droplets of sweat shivered on the tip of his nose and his forehead as he retched.

Almost before Fullmetal had collapsed, the weasel-like assistant had already started openly moving towards him.

So this was expected.

Mustang took a step back towards Edward as the sheet-white alchemist tried to catch his breath, laying his forehead on his right arm. He knew the other man was going down before Ed seemed to, though luckily he slipped to his left side, rather than falling face-first into the puddle of vomit.

Either the old man was playing with them, or he really was too far gone to realize he wasn't talking to Bradley anymore. Either way, it was clear the games were over.

Mustang extended his right arm, snapping his fingers. A ball of flame erupted just in front of the approaching lackey, and the startled, high-pitched cry was quickly followed by a whiff of burnt hair. The heat from the vent in the center of the floor was moving the air through the chamber relatively quickly, and the scent was almost gone before he'd detected it.

"I didn't realize you were an alchemist, Bradley."

"Bradley's dead," Mustang responded shortly. "What did you give my driver?" No reason to indicate to them just who he was -

"He's more than your driver," the other alchemist noted, in a sly voice. "Did I not say others included bore their own risk?"

Mustang glared openly at the scorched servant, but the man was now cowering against one of the inset bookshelves, and showed no signs of recovering his courage in the immediate future. Slightly reassured, Roy dropped his hand and brought his attention back to the old man.

"You will be giving him an antidote." There were a thousand compounds around the lab, and any one of them could have been a poison. Could have been a powder the servant blew into the air in the foyer after he'd passed through the door, so only Edward was exposed. Could have been anything. He'd have a hell of a time figuring it out without their help.

Mustang took a single, threatening step towards the old man, cocking his ear back towards Edward. His breathing sounded labored, and in the flickering lighting it had looked as though his already pale skin was starting to become blue. Though he'd lowered his hand, he continued to utilize the transmutation circle on the back of the glove to start displacing oxygen around the old alchemist. He then began concentrating that excess oxygen around Edward.

Two birds with one stone, as it were.

"Not necessarily," the old man replied mildly, staring at him with blank, slightly drooping eyes. "He's as useful to me in this state as he was before. An arm and a leg, yes?"

Mustang tried to ignore the odd quiver in the man's voice as he said the last, increasing the amount of oxygen he was drawing away. It would probably be easier to get the information out of the servant than the master. Whoever he was.

"You may change your appearance, but . . ." The old man trailed off, and his blind, drooping eyes suddenly seemed to get brighter. "Why, Bradley, are you trying to kill me?"

The tone wasn't at all offended. It was almost amused.

Without twitching, without drawing a circle, without any motion at all, Mustang could feel the oxygen rebuilding around the old alchemist. He couldn't even tell from where in the room the old man was drawing it. Even as he continued siphoning it off, it was being replaced almost instantly.

Which meant he had a transmutation circle hidden in the cloak.

Damn.

At least it sounded like Edward's breathing wasn't as strained. That was something.

But it wasn't much. This was about to get ugly very quickly.

"Or is this merely an incapacitation effort," the old alchemist mused. "You still need me, don't you."

And then the floor fell away.

It was instant. He'd never seen anything like it. One moment he was standing on solid rock, and the very next second it had already wound around him up to his waist.

His miscalculation was going to cost a lot.

There was no time to protect Elric. There was no time to protect himself. He reached out for the flames flickering on the ceiling, following them down to their gas fuel. When he found it, he ignited an explosion around the line, rupturing it along a seven-yard run.

The explosion was probably fairly impressive. He didn't actually see it; by the time he'd triggered the reaction he had been completely immobilized in the rock, his head forcibly pointed straight ahead. As the chamber shuddered, he had time for the fleeting thought that at least his shackles would offer him some protection. A blast of heat swatted his face, but it wasn't the searing he'd expected. More like being too close to a bonfire when a gust of wind suddenly swept the heat a different direction.

He heard a roaring sound, but it was strangely muted. Outside of the initial light of the first explosion, he hadn't see the flash of the second. Granted, he'd been trying for a moderate blast only, to concuss them all rather than bring the chamber down around their ears, but not a single pebble on the ground . . .?

Roy Mustang eased open his eye, and took a cautious breath.

He couldn't see anything.

For a moment, he wondered if it was so silent because he was dead.

"What excellent technique!" The compliment sounded quite close, and Mustang blinked into the darkness, nonplussed.

Surely he'd knocked them out. An explosion of that magnitude –

No one could have controlled it. No one could have caught the rock as it was being blown apart and transmuted it back together again.

"So your specialty is fire, is it?" He would guess the other alchemist was no more than three feet from him. "Well done, my friend. I knew a truly excellent Flame Alchemist in my day, though I understand he's since died."

Something snakelike flicked against the insides of his trapped wrists, as if tasting them, then slipped between his skin and his gloves. It was incredibly thin; he didn't feel the fabric snagging or tearing as the cool, smooth thing wound around his fingers like a tongue. It effectively cut off his ability to utilize the transmutation circles on his ignition gloves.

Was that rock? The amount he was controlling was so thin, so fine. How was he able to manipulate it so fluidly?

Had he really transmuted a Stone at some point? Was that how he was managing all this? And if so, why hadn't he restored his own body, his sight -

Mustang's wide eye was starting to detect the faintest light, though it seemed a deep red rather than the blue of a normal alchemic reaction.

Had he managed to keep only the area around them stable? What about his manservant?

What about Edward?

"Don't look so alarmed, Bradley. I told you –"

"Bradley's gone," Roy ground out, blinking steadily and waiting to become better adjusted to the darkness. "What exactly did you make, and what did you expect to be paid for it?"

The rock wound tighter around him, and Mustang fought to remain silent. The old man didn't stop increasing the pressure until he extracted a grunt of pain.

"You're not fooling anyone," the old man growled, his voice like gravel. "You're not dealing with my sensei, Fuehrer. You're dealing with me."

Sensei? Not that identifying the man was going to do him any good now –

He barely heard the shuffling sound, but apparently it was crystal clear to the old man. "He's been restrained," the raspy voice called impatiently. "You know I don't like to listen to it."

This time, at least he saw the blue glow of alchemic energy. It crackled from some point to his right, crawling towards the ceiling of the chamber –

And then the gas chandeliers were glowing cheerily once more.

There was some evidence of the damage, but not much. Some of the ceilings of the bookshelves nearest the gas pipe showed deep black soot marks, from books too badly destroyed to repair with alchemy. All the jars had been restored, as had their contents, with the exception of those elements that had been instantly converted into heat energy and completely incinerated.

Otherwise, the chamber looked exactly as it had before. The gas line, the chandeliers themselves – everything was none the worse for the explosion he had felt deep in the rock.

It was impossible. He wasn't sure it could even be explained with a Philosopher's Stone.

But what else could explain it?

His orientation in the room had not changed, and he realized the faint red light that he'd seen in the total darkness of the room had been the hole in the floor. It must lead down to the point where the planet's core was so hot the rocks were molten.

The old man himself was still seated in his odd wheelchair, less than two feet away. His eyes were much clearer from this distance, and he could see that heavy layers of film covered them both. Where the layers overlapped had turned a fatty, spotted yellow, and only in the bottom-most corner of his right eye was there anything dark enough to indicate intact iris or pupil.

So he really couldn't see.

"Take a good look," the old man said mockingly, leaning in closer. "Soon you'll start seeing me wherever you go. Around every corner and in every home. I'm going to make sure you never forget betraying me."

Mustang tried to deepen his breathing, his chest uncomfortably compressed by the stone. "For the last time, I'm not Bradley! He's dead!"

The old man thought he'd gotten rid of all the transmutation circles.

He still had one more chance.

Of course, even assuming he was able to subdue or kill the old man, then what? He was completely trapped in stone. If the alchemist's manservant didn't release him, and Fullmetal couldn't –

He couldn't even hear Ed breathing, anymore.

The old man glared at him, somehow managing it despite the fact his eyes were all but useless, and Mustang ignored him, using the final circle to reach around the room. All he was looking for was atmospheric currents. He could sense his own, the old man's, the manservant to his right, and behind him –

The faintest brush of gas on gas. CO2 and water, mostly.

An exhalation.

That fourth had to be Edward.

So he was still breathing.

"Did you manipulate Timothy this way?" The old man thrust his face even closer to Mustang's, and with the stone cradling the back of his head, there was nowhere to go. "Time and time again he was foolish. But I'm not him. I will have it. I . . . I need it! WHERE IS IT? !"

The old alchemist shouted the last so forcefully that his voice cracked, and Mustang closed his eye reflexively against the spittle.

"I don't know!" Perhaps shouting would get the point across? "Listen to me! My name is Roy Mustang. If you tell me what 'it' is, maybe I can help you!"

"LIAR!" The alchemist suddenly seeming to loom over him. Roy's stomach lurched as he realized he had sunk several inches further into the rock.

Not that it really mattered, in the great scheme of things.

Since the alchemist was clearly not paying attention, Mustang began discreetly gathering oxygen from the unused portions of the chamber, concentrating it once again around Edward.

Maybe he should start making short innuendos. That would be enough to wake Fullmetal from death.

Several tense moments passed as the old alchemist struggled to control his temper. "I know I'm just one piece of your puzzle." The man's voice shook with rage, but the volume was much closer to normal conversation. "And I know of only one other alchemist who was advanced enough in your interests to be the other piece. We were childhood friends, you know." The ghost of a smile, making the eerily empty eyes seem even more so.

"I'll go to him, Bradley. We'll combine the pieces of your puzzle."

It was very clearly supposed to be a threat.

"Is it worth it? To watch everything you've worked for falling to dust around you? How proud will you be then?"

"Enough!" If he couldn't convince the lunatic, playing along was the only other option. " . . . it's in the boot of the car." The old man's - apprentice, he had to be, had been the one to transmute the chandeliers aflame, if not repair them. He was a coward, but an unpredictable one. If he could get him out of the room, and hold the old man as a hostage, perhaps he could convince the apprentice to let him out –

He heard quick footsteps, the apprentice's flat shoes slapping on the stone as he hurried towards the stairwell. He was a little surprised his sudden turn-around hadn't given the young man pause – he certainly hadn't fooled the old alchemist. Almost exasperatedly, the old man watched him go, then seemed to focus on something –

On Edward.

"Your man's automail is poorly made," he observed politely, as though the previous conversation had never happened. "You should pay him more handsomely for his loyalty."

Mustang held his tongue and allowed the oxygen to dissipate. Pride would probably be offended to be told he wasn't paying a worthless, untrustworthy human enough salary.

"He must mean a great deal to you, that you so determinedly try to sustain his life," the alchemist continued quietly. "Where is it?"

Mustang just met his gaze squarely.

How the hell could he tell? The amount of alchemic energy it took to perform what he was doing was so minimal he was pretty sure the circle he was using wasn't even visibly glowing. Unless the energy was resonating within an amplifier –

Did the old man really have a Stone?

This was his last chance –

No. His last chance ended when he chose to blow the gaspipe instead of incinerating the man outright. The moment he tried to concentrate oxygen around the old man he'd figure out what was about to happen. If he truly was fighting an opponent with a Stone, his only chance at victory had already come and gone.

The thin, cool tongues of rock snaked into his collar, up his sleeves, into his pant legs. They wound and coiled effortlessly around him, separating him from every stitch of clothing he had. Still the alchemist had not so much as twitched a finger.

If he did have a Stone, where the hell was it? Was he sitting on it, perhaps? Was it a pendant he wore around his neck?

"I don't know what you mean."

The old alchemist leaned closer, studying his face as if he could see every line. Then he reached a gnarled hand forward, flicking up the leather and cotton covering his left eye.

Roy would have flinched if he'd had anywhere to go.

"You could have tried to kill me again," the alchemist chided. Then he ripped the eyepatch – and its inscribed transmutation circle – off his head.

For a moment, the old man just toyed with it, then he seemed to deflate, just slightly. "You're really not him, are you." It was . . . disappointed. Heavily, heavily disappointed.

Mustang masked his relief with effort. If he'd known that was all it was going to take - "My name is Roy Mustang," he repeated. "I'm the Flame Alchemist." The idea of a Prime Minister would just seem ridiculous to this hermit. He didn't need to confuse the old man any more than he already was.

The old alchemist was rubbing the eyepatch between his thumb and forefinger, apparently feeling the design of the circle he kept hidden there. "It's exactly the same," he murmured softly. "He was your sensei, then. A whole new generation of alchemists, and here I remain. There aren't many of us left, are there."

"Few as old as you are." Or as crazy. He was careful not to fight the paper-thin rock that nestled around him like a second skin. It probably had edges like razors, and while it was unlikely he could do anything with physical strength alone, he didn't want to break this sudden, fragile understanding. "You need to tell me what he asked you to transmute."

"A piece of something far greater," he replied, focusing again on Roy's face. He reached out again, more slowly, and traced a curled finger along one of the now-exposed scars.

"No tattoos," he noted, almost to himself. "But scars. You fought him, didn't you. Bradley."

Mustang couldn't turn away from the touch, though he closed what remained of the left eyelid as the wandering fingertip brushed too close. He had once dated a blind girl, and was familiar with the way the blind 'felt' a face to picture it in their mind, but this man seemed to see without it.

He also seemed a little preoccupied with physical imperfections. Was the old alchemist able to feel the scars Pride had given him through the way the rock had formed around his body?

Mustang wasn't sure if the old man had lapsed into calling him after Pride again, or was just defining his pronouns. "I did."

"I wondered why you didn't bring your sword." The old man tucked the patch into the folds of his faded cloak, leaning back to study Mustang once again. He was beginning to get the feeling whatever brief moment of sanity the man had experienced was quickly passing.

"This was the last one," he confirmed to himself. "I always detested alchemists that tattooed themselves with circles. Such arrogance, that their initial designs were the most efficient."

Kimblee came instantly to his mind, and Mustang carefully cleared his throat. "We meant you no harm. Please, my driver –"

"Oh, dear me! Of course, of course." The old man shook himself, as though rousing from a nap. "And I should let you up, then, shouldn't I. Afterwards though, I think would be best."

Afterwards? "I'm –"

"The badness," the old man murmured. "Yes, before Craege returns. Is there actually anything in your boot?"

Roy tried to wrap his brain around the jumbled statements. "I don't know. It isn't my vehicle."

The old man chuckled slyly. "Ah, why you were so concerned for the young man." Again, the odd look crossed the old man's face, and the tip of his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. "His automail is really quite clanky, isn't it? I never cared for it, myself. Too cold, too inhuman."

That, at least, made it sound as though he was going to let Edward live, at any rate.

Quite suddenly, his attention refocused on the trapped alchemist in front of him. "It will spread to your other eye," he breathed, as if suddenly letting Roy in on a secret. "Just as it did with me. You're too young to lose your sight just yet."

The badness . . .

"I lost my left eye in battle," he said clearly. Most of it, at least. The optic nerve was still present in the socket, along with a portion of the vitreous humor and retina. "It won't affect my other eye." Surely he wasn't saying –

Whatever clarity the old man had had was gone.

The old alchemist reached trembling, bent hands towards Mustang's face, and this time Roy did everything he could to turn away. The rock reshaped behind him, a finger of it wrapping around his forehead, completely immobilizing him.

"I thought the same," the old man assured him, gently stroking the scars on the left side of his face with those clawlike fingers. "But it's best to get it all out in the beginning."

With something akin to relish, the old alchemist unhesitatingly pressed his thumbnail into the exposed socket.

- x -

Author's Note: Yes, it's a day late. It wasn't my fault! But now you see, last chapter would have been ridiculously long if I'd not split it up. As always, I read through for typos but they're quite possibly still in there. The plot will start moving next chapter, I promise. After all, we still don't know what the old man transmuted, if he has a Philosopher's Stone, whether he's going to remember Mustang isn't Bradley in ten minutes . . . If I were really nice, I'd post it tonight, but I think maybe it's more fun to torture Silverfox . . . ; )