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

- x -

"Anything concrete?"

Alphonse Elric leaned on the doorjamb of the room, trying to acknowledge the charge nurse tapping her foot at him without actually indicating that he intended to go anywhere in the near future. She was just down the hall, and probably couldn't hear what was being said, but he doubted anything they might discuss was not for the ears of the staff entrusted with her care.

Russell Tringum was standing at the foot of the bed, and he shook his head in reply as he stooped to grab his tan jacket. Clearly they really were preparing to leave, so the charge nurse could just be patient a moment longer. Russell shrugged himself into the light coat, turning again to stare at the occupant of the bed thoughtfully.

"Not a clue," he admitted. "The recurrent swelling has stopped, and I agree all that will help now is rest, but . . . this wasn't a stomach virus. No weird proteins, no unusual substances . . ."

"Whatever it was metabolized too fast," Fletcher muttered from the edge of the mattress. He seemed reluctant to leave, though both the Winding Tree Alchemist and his brother had been the ones to inform the doctors they had done all they could.

They'd probably saved her life.

What had she been thinking when she chose those two gorillas to watch over the Prime Minister? In a building full of alchemists, they had wanted a doctor? Luckily the academy secretary had had the sense to pull the Tringums out of his class, or –

He didn't want to think about or.

What mattered was that she was going to be okay.

Probably.

"We've drained the edema. She should be fine with just rest."

"Could it have been an allergic reaction?"

"No," Russell replied, coming to stand by the door with Al. "That's different. And easy to detect. This was almost like . . ."

"Like some surface irritant caused the swelling in her throat," Fletcher finished for his older brother. "I'd almost say she swallowed something, but it would have inflamed her stomach as well, and there was nothing unusual or distended in her abdomen –"

And even if she had, she hadn't kept it down very long. Then again, if it had been an irritant going down, it probably would have been coming back up. Which could explain why her stomach seemed fine.

"And the swelling led to the breathing problems?"

Fletcher nodded, eventually getting to his feet. "Something's still causing a lingering weakness, but we can't find it without getting a little too close to human transmutation."

And without any Red Stone to 'pay' for such a thing, it was inadvisable.

They needed answers, but it looked as though they were going to have to get them the old-fashioned way.

They were going to have to wait until Colonel Riza Hawkeye woke up.

"And even if we could," he continued, joining them as all three stepped back into the hall, "by now there's not much we could do about it. Her doctors will call us the minute her condition changes . . ." He trailed off as the three passed the charge nurse, who gave them an approving sort of look as they left the critical care ward. Just through the double-doors promised to be at least one of Mustang's old team, to carry the news to the others.

The others that were spread far and wide, trying to find him.

Probably more than half-afraid he was hidden in a room somewhere, already having breathed his last.

Al was a little more confident that Mustang had somehow survived what appeared to have been an assassination attempt. That confidence sprang from the fact that Ed was also nowhere to be found. His lecture notes were in his office, demonstrating that he'd at least made it there before he'd vanished.

Both were gone without a trace.

And both of their vehicles were missing as well.

There were many explanations for this, ranging from a kidnapping attempt to Edward trying to chase down the assassins. However it had happened, it was likely their disappearances were related.

And that reassured him, somehow.

Even if it also worried him.

"Al, are you still going to get some restoration work done today?"

It was still fairly early in the afternoon, a little after two, actually. He could definitely get a few hours' construction under his belt, but the idea of being out in the street without a consistent form of communication was less than attractive. What if nii-san tried to call?

Of course, he would assume his brother was out doing the restoration work, but on the off chance he called someone –

It would probably be Mustang's folks - or the Tringums. And he could accomplish more waiting with Russ and Fletch than he could locked up in Central's HQ.

"I'm going to wait until I know where nii-san is," he answered. "Did you still want to look over the amplifier?"

Russell's lips turned up, but he didn't say anything.

Fletcher seemed oblivious. "That's not a bad idea. Looks like Falman's decided to keep an eye on her for us," he added.

They pushed through the double-doors, heading for the silver-haired, unsmiling uniform not twenty feet away.

- x -

His first thought was that he must have imbibed too much alcohol.

His head was throbbing, and his tongue was thick and sour. Furthermore, his stomach was curled in an unhappy knot, cramping to his pulse. It reminded him very much of his first hangover, which meant he must have really, really overdone it –

But when?

Blearily, he cracked open his eyes, and reality flooded back in.

It was helped along by visions of thick grey stone, forming the floor upon which he was half-laying.

Edward picked up his head slightly before realizing it had been a very bad idea. The room began spinning almost immediately, and he swallowed back a reflexive gag as his stomach responded queasily. Breathing wasn't nearly as difficult as he remembered it being before, which was probably a good sign, but the fact that he was apparently slumped against a stone wall was probably not.

Very carefully, Ed glanced around as much as he could without changing the orientation of his inner ear. He could see his legs stretched out in front of him, and a subtle wiggling of the toes told him his legs were still feeling weak, but basically intact. To his peripheral vision, his arms disconnected at his shoulders, and Edward rotated his head very slowly to his right, just far enough to see that his arm was fully extended at his shoulder. An attempt to rotate it netted him the grind of metal on metal, with the faintest chiming ring to it.

He was probably shackled to a wall, then.

Which meant he was a prisoner.

Mustang.

Edward picked his head up a little further off his chest, ignoring the way his neck protested the movement. He'd obviously been in this position for several hours, enough to work up a pretty decent crick. With every breath the dizziness was lessening, as well as the nausea.

He hadn't been that quickly or violently sick since he was six. Of all the times to come down with something debilitating –

Ed unthinkingly shifted his left arm, hissing in surprise as a blade sliced cleanly across his wrist. As soon as he glanced that way his world wobbled, and when it settled he got a better look at the manacles holding him to the wall. It was a metal cuff, of the same flavor the military used for standard prisoner shackles, seamlessly molded to a bracket of metal that held it off the wall about eight inches. It was just enough distance that he couldn't manipulate his fingers into touching the wall – preventing him from drawing a transmutation circle. The manacle itself was a thick enough cuff that a normal wrist would have been too immobilized to bend the fingers to the cuff itself, though his wrists were a little finer because –

Because his frame was a little smaller.

Of all the times for it to be a benefit . . .

But because of that wiggle room, he saw that the edge had cut into his wrist as it had been forced to suppport his unconscious weight. The pain he'd just felt had been ripping the congealed blood and scabs off the metal and his skin. The cuts were messy but very shallow, nothing to be concerned about.

His headache was slowly easing off, and he'd already given away the fact that he was conscious, so he fully raised his head and surveyed the room. The 'cell' was really more like an antechamber, and the arched entryway didn't even contain a door. If not for the shackles that secured him to the wall, he could simply have walked out of the room. Unlike the other chamber, this one did not contain bookcases and jars. In fact, given the state of the furniture that was stacked against one wall, he would probably say it was a storage room. Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

And it was currently storing him and the Prime Minister of Amestris.

Mustang was bound to the wall on Ed's left, in a very similar manner. His head was also bowed to his chest, though he'd scooted himself closer to the wall at some point so he wasn't putting as much strain on his arms and shoulders. His visible eye was closed, and his chin was touching the high collar of his uniform.

Ed found it suddenly reassuring that they were still both wearing their uniforms. After the way the old alchemist had looked at him –

But . . . then what had happened? He recalled puking and suffocating, but after that there wasn't much.

What had happened, that Mustang was a prisoner as well? Did the old man still think he was Bradley? Didn't he expect that someone would come looking for the Fuehrer?

Ed blinked. Judging by the stiffness in his neck, he'd been bound this way for hours. Hadn't Hawkeye known where they were going? Shouldn't she have already been here?

Was the fact that she – or anyone else, for that matter – wasn't bound in the room with them a good sign, or a bad one?

"Bastard." He said it softly, not sure if they could be overheard through the vaulted doorway and whether Mustang was still playing Bradley. At the very least, it would be a name he'd respond to –

Mustang's right eye slowly opened. Other than that, he didn't move.

Had the same thing happened to him? Was he wrong in thinking he'd just taken ill? Had they somehow been drugged?

"What happened?"

Mustang blinked very slowly. "They're gone." His voice was quite hoarse, and he made no attempt to whisper. "I suspect to Central, to find another alchemist."

Another alchemist? Edward waited for Mustang to continue, but he just slowly closed his eye.

His position against the wall was fairly rigid, which was telling for a man that could look casual in the most structured and formal of situations. His stiff carriage was not being caused by the manacles securing him to the wall, if Edward's own slumped position was any indication.

"Who? What other alchemist?"

Roy took a deep breath, and didn't bother opening his eye again. "He said a childhood friend." His voice was getting more ragged by the word, and on the last it cracked. "But no one in Central is old enough."

Edward watched the other man for a long time, looking him over. His uniform was black, so it hid anything telling like bloodstains. He didn't see any tears, though he noted Mustang's hands were bare. He could only see half the man; his left leg was bent rather than laying in front of him, but outside of that he appeared to be fine.

"What else did I miss?" He rotated his left wrist, purposefully catching the raw skin against the sharp edge before shoving it through the manacle as far as he could. If he could get enough blood into the inner cuff, he could probably catch some on his forefinger, and draw a transmutation circle –

"He didn't tell me what he made." Roy's eye slitted open again as he heard the rustling, but he didn't turn his head. "He thinks it's an ingredient for something else." There was a pause. "He's using an amplifier. I don't know if it's a true Stone."

"I was referring to what happened to you," Ed growled as he fought to bend his fingers to the cuff. He could just brush it with the fingernail of his forefinger, but that wasn't going to catch enough blood to do much of anything, let alone be able to draw a decent circle.

"Your hand isn't small enough for that."

Ed started to bristle, but then replayed the comment in his head. He wasn't small enough for something. That was a first.

And Roy hadn't turned it into a joke. Mustang must be hurt worse than he'd thought.

Edward gave it another shot, but soon accepted that it just wasn't going to happen. With a quiet curse, he relaxed back against the wall, easing his aching wrist into a more comfortable position, and resumed staring at Mustang.

He'd closed his eye again, but now he'd leaned his head back against the wall. The position exposed his throat, and Ed was shocked to see what looked like a smear of blood.

"He decided to save me from early blindness," Mustang finally replied. His voice was now no more than a croak. "That was after I tried to blow him up, so I don't really blame him."

Edward digested that for a moment, noting that he didn't see the black strap that normally held on Mustang's eyepatch. Save him from early blindness . . . clearly his right eye was just fine, so –

Roy didn't look towards him, didn't move at all.

His stomach turned queasily again.

"I thought it was already gone," Ed finally ventured. Outside of a sarcastic remark or two regarding how much it reminded him of Pride, and how it affected his otherwise good looks, they'd never discussed it. He knew from asking around that Mustang had nearly died in his fight with the Homunculus Pride, and that he'd been saved by the then-lieutenant Hawkeye as Frank Archer was about to kill him. He didn't know if Pride had gotten rid of the eye as a taunt, if it had been damaged in the fire that had destroyed the Fuehrer's mansion . . . he supposed it didn't matter, he just assumed the eye had been completely gone.

Although Al had told him very soberly, one night in Southern France, that Mustang had given up alchemy for a while because he kept seeing all the atrocities he'd committed with his left eye. So perhaps there'd just been a remnant –

Had the old man just put it out?

"A portion of it," Mustang replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Leaving the remainder in made it less likely that I'd develop an infection." He didn't offer any more information, and Ed didn't ask. Probably at the time that had been a huge worry; from what Havoc had told him they weren't sure Roy was going to pull through for quite a while.

Havoc.

"Has anyone else shown up?" He didn't really know of a delicate way to ask if they'd already been slaughtered, or Roy had heard sounds of combat.

"No."

So no cavalry. Or if there was one, somehow they'd missed the huge chimney or the door that led down to the chamber. It was possible the alchemist just transmuted it away when he wasn't using it or expecting guests, in which case Hawkeye and her team might have already given up and left.

So they were going to have to get themselves out of this.

Edward shifted his arms, using them to pull himself into a more proper sitting position. His right elbow caught on an edge inside the armor, rubbing in a way he hadn't felt since Winry's beta model, the one they'd slapped on him in the hospital before Mustang had been elected to keep Hakuro off his back. Slightly alarmed, Ed continued rotating the arm. Everything still seemed to bend, though movement in his wrist was difficult.

On a whim, he picked up his left leg, rotating the ankle. It moved without difficulty, but it seemed a little loose, as though he hadn't tightened the adjusting straps all the way before he'd attached it.

Someone had been playing with the armor.

Two guesses as to who had done it.

"Did he disable your automail?"

Ed flexed all the joints as well as he could. "No, but it's out of adjustment." The idea that he might have been stripped of it at all, especially if he'd been unconscious at the time –

Who knew what else he might have done. After what the man had done to Mustang -

"How long were you out?" It was pretty safe to guess that if the old alchemist really had removed what was left of Roy's eye, that Mustang had probably passed out at some point. Science told them there were millions of nerve bundles in the human eye, making it one of the most sensitive organs in the body.

It also explained his hoarse voice. That would be enough to make anyone scream themselves mute.

Mustang just shook his head, slightly. It wasn't enough to give Ed a good look at the left side of his face.

So there really was a chance the old man had pulled off the armor, thinking it was automail.

To keep him from using it? Cripple him so it was harder for them to escape? Or -

The memory of his gnarled fingers stroking the stump of his own ancient leg was enough to make Edward's skin crawl.

He kept his shudder to himself, reaching his thumb around inside the joint till he found the lever. Slightly surprised it was still intact, he pushed it to is strongest setting, and gave an experimental tug on the shackle.

A sharp crack, but the manacle held without so much as a tremor.

"Amplifier or no, he's not too good with mechanical apparatus," Ed noted, pulling his feet under him so that he was standing in a deep crouch. Bracing the armor's elbow joint against the wall, he pulled his forearm towards him. The metal began an aching creak that seemed to echo through the small room, and he could see that he wasn't just fighting a weld.

The shackles had been transmuted. It was a single piece of metal.

So he shouldn't be trying to break the manacle off the metal column. He should be putting the most strain on where the metal met the stone.

Changing his position as best be could with the other arm all but tied behind him, Edward braced his elbow at a different fulcrum, and tried again. This time he got less metal creak. With a quick hiss, half an inch of the metal column pulled lose of the stone wall. Edward paused a moment, getting a few good lungfuls of air, and tried again, this time working it back and forth as he applied force.

Only a few moments into his efforts, Ed heard a loud, difficult-sounding swallow, and it was another several seconds before he realized that someone was standing in the doorway.

Edward froze, staring at the vaulted archway as the slim figure hurried away. He'd gotten a glimpse of long, straight brown hair that fell down past her waist, and a simple, sleeveless ivory dress. She didn't immediately return, nor did she shout or raise any alarm, and he risked a glance towards Mustang. Roy had noticed her also, and for the first time he turned his head enough for Ed to see his face.

The old man had tried to patch up his impromptu surgery with a thick square of gauze, taped around the socket. It hadn't been nearly enough to stop the blood, which had soaked the bottom edge of the cotton and tape black before leaving wide tracks down Mustang's face. The blood had run down his jaw to drip on his throat and collar, and Edward suspected if the uniform wasn't black, he'd have seen it all the way to the left breast of the jacket.

He'd lost a fair amount of blood. They'd need to get him to a hospital, immediately, or the aforementioned infection would be almost a certainty –

Ed redoubled his efforts, bracing his armored leg against one of the uneven stones for additional leverage. So someone had been left behind to watch them.

And they'd wasted all that time talking.

Shit.

He had pulled the column of metal about two inches from the wall before he caught motion in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see the girl advancing towards him. She was neither hurried nor did she seem frightened; she merely looked at him expressionlessly, her brown eyes steady. In her right hand, she held a small paring knife, such as his mother had used to peel apples, and as the blade flashed in the light, he could see it had an odd, greenish tinge to it.

Whatever was on that blade, he knew he didn't want anything to do with it.

Maybe something like that was what had made him sick in the first place.

Though he wondered if perhaps it had been meant to make him dead. If the old alchemist truly thought Mustang was Bradley, there's be value in holding him.

There was no value in his life, now. Particularly if the old alchemist knew his leg and arm were intact.

"Stop." Mustang's voice cracked across the room as sharply as a whip. "One more step and I'll burn you to charcoal."

It was an empty threat; he could tell Mustang hadn't been able to draw a transmutation circle, though he was holding his right hand at an odd angle, as though he was able to touch the back of the manacle that held his fingers. It was enough to stop the girl; her eyes never so much as widened but she froze, staring at him impassively. She opened and closed her mouth awkwardly several times, almost like a fish, and then she swallowed again.

So she was a mute?

Edward gave a tremendous heave, using his aching left wrist for additional leverage as he pulled with all his strength. The metal was coming easier now; it tapered toward the end, but was also rougher-made, with more jagged edges. At the same moment he managed to extract it completely from the wall, he saw the girl call Mustang's bluff, and lunge towards him.

But his hand was free. It was still connected to the manacle, and he swung the entire contraption in front of him as he brought his right hand in contact with his left.

Then he touched the shackle that was binding his left hand to the wall with his right.

Nothing happened.

He had enough time to stare at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before he realized he was in deep trouble. He immediately flung his right arm in a wide arc, luckily catching the knife as it was swung in a quick upward motion. It would have passed across his face; as it was, she lost her grip on the paring knife as the top of her hand came in contact with the armor, and the knife jumped briefly into the air before slipping harmless down the front of his vest to the ground.

When he'd turned to fend off her attack, his left thumb had brushed the right edge of the manacle, and the transmutation he'd intended finally occurred. Surprised at the sudden change in his support, Edward stumbled back against the wall, accidentally kicking the knife.

Luckily, it didn't puncture his right boot, but he all but knocked it right back to his attacker. She didn't seem to notice; she was rubbing her hand where she'd been struck, staring at him dispassionately.

Some of her long hair had swung behind her shoulder in the struggle, and a dangling earring came into view –

A round one.

She was an alchemist too.

That was all the warning he had before a thin black arm reached around from behind, wrapping around his chest.

Edward stared in shock as it was joined with another, this one coiling around his left arm. Had she –

Had she opened the Gate?

"MOVE!"

The grating shout had come from Mustang. Who he could still see, leaning as far out as his bonds would allow, trying unsuccessfully to reach the girl as she knelt to retrieve her knife. He could still see the walls, too, and the floor –

The Gate had never appeared behind him before.

Edward chanced a glance a behind him, even as a third arm appeared from the wall, wrapping around his right ankle. Its little fingers were grabbing at his pant leg, and it appeared to be coming directly out of the stone.

There was no Gate.

These were just normally transmuted arms.

And either way, they were made of the same stuff.

Edward twisted, fighting the pressure on his chest, and clapped his hands again. This time he was merely attempting decomposition of carbon, and he caught the one that had coiled around his left arm with his right hand.

Nothing happened.

The one around his chest was exerting a lot of pressure, and it tossed him to his left, yanking his right ankle out from under him at the same time. Completely unbalanced, he flew towards the ground. She was stepping in again, going for a downward approach this time.

She was going to sink the knife into his back.

The manacle and its bracket were still attached to his right wrist, extending the reach of his arm. He would have only one chance to defend himself, and only one angle. But with the metal there, he was going to knock her arm aside, not stop its momentum. If he deflected her attack, she was going to end up stabbing herself in the thigh.

If that really was a poison –

It would kill her.

Or it would kill him.

"DO IT!"

No more time.

He swung the column of metal high to his right. She'd seen him preparing; at the same time he moved, the arm wrapped around his left yanked him down faster, trying to turn him so he couldn't complete the counterattack. He felt the metal graze something solid but couldn't tell what it was, and he tried to curl into the yank, hoping it would drag him out of range.

He hit the stones hard, his head bouncing sharply against the joint of the wall and floor, and for a moment he lay still, stunned. It was hard to catch his breath; the black arm was still constricting him. With difficulty he pushed himself off the floor, his eyes darting over his shoulder –

To see the young woman standing there, staring at him. The knife was at her side, and the hand holding it wore several drops of blood.

There was more blood, staining the front of her ivory dress near a small tear. Not very much. It wasn't even a bad cut; it looked like she'd grazed the outside of her leg rather than sinking the knife deeply into flesh –

The black arms weren't loosening. In fact, they were tightening.

Edward felt a rib crack under the pressure, and he tried to twist again, just able to brush his left hand to his right. This time, he used his uncovered hand to touch the carbon arm that felt as though it was trying to tear his arm off at the socket. It immediately disintegrated into simple powder. A second brush with his hand removed the coil around his chest, and Edward coughed, rolling onto his back.

She was already falling, the knife extended in front of her –

Reflexively, he grabbed the blade with his armored hand.

She crashed to her knees, still clinging to the knife, and stared at him.

"Where's the antidote?" It was gasped, but he was certain she understood. Her mouth opened again, in that odd, gaping motion, and then her grip on the knife faltered. He ripped it out of her hand, tossing it at the pile of furniture in the far corner, and tried to catch her as she toppled forward.

"Tell me where!" It wasn't too late, he could get it and give it to her, all they had to do was take her earrings –

But she couldn't tell him.

Her eyes were glazed, and she continued opening and closing her mouth, her throat bobbing oddly before –

Before she stopped.

Edward stared at her, trying to juggle her in his arms as she slumped. He managed to lay her on her back, his left hand going to her neck to find a pulse. Maybe she'd just fallen unconscious – he could find the container with the green liquid, maybe it was labeled –

Something hard met his fingers, rather than the soft flesh he expected. But there was no doubt he'd found a blood vessel as well, he could feel it clearly beneath her thin, pale skin.

There was no pulse.

He stared at her a moment more, then raised stunned eyes to see Mustang, watching him.

The other man was silent.

- x -

Author's Notes: So, I promised plot, but I realized I couldn't deliver because this chapter would have been unusually long as well. I apologize for not posting as I promised – the Daylight Savings patch has caused me to work a boatload of overtime, most of it not at home near the fic. I changed the plot slightly, and haven't actually quite finished it yet :ashamed ducking of head: but a pretty substantial portion will be posted tomorrow, after I get some sleep. I just wanted to make sure if Silverfox was looking for fic this evening, at least she'd get a little!

As usual, I have looked for typos, but there are bound to be plenty more in there. Thank you for being so patient!