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

- x -

When Russell hung up the phone, his expression was somber.

"Who was –"

"Alphonse." He ignored Fletcher for a moment, retuning to the bench and putting his gloves back on. "You and I are to report to Central HQ."

Obviously not the hospital, then.

Al watched the other alchemist hold up a vial of yellow fluid, carefully corking it before placing it in the wooden holder. When poured onto the table and mixed with white sand, it would hold form for a few minutes, but would then re-liquefy again pretty consistently. In a liquid form, it amplified alchemic reactions, but barely.

In a solid form, it was significantly more power. It also had a tendency to either instantly melt when used, or explode with a startling but usually non-destructive popping sound.

It needed a lot of work, but it held promise. Promise enough that they'd spent the last year working on it.

Fletcher looked between the two of them before understanding dawned. "They're going to declare martial law?"

That was a troubling turn of events. So far, the Parliament and military had hidden the Prime Minister's disappearance. Al was pretty sure the majority of the students of the Academy didn't know he was missing, though nearly all of them knew that something had happened that morning. They'd seen an ambulance and the faculty was being quiet. He had personally leaked a little rumor regarding a practical joke that went too far, and it had been enough to satisfy the less curious of the scientists.

Unfortunately, that was only a few. It was in a scientist's blood to be curious.

Either way, even if a member of the press had gotten to the Academy to ask questions, it wasn't as though they could get more information than that the Prime Minister had been in attendance, and someone had gotten hurt. Parliament was probably going to go ahead and address the people, telling them there was an attempt on the Prime Minister's life, and that he was safe and in hiding at this time until they could identify the culprit and secure the capitol. It wasn't a good story, but it was a heck of a better strategy than revealing he was missing and had been for about six hours.

Al also wasn't sure it was accurate information. However, he could respect that Parliament wanted to release some information before the press had a field day.

"He didn't say," Russell replied, cleaning his bench before pulling off his gloves. "I suspect they want us all in one place, just in case. All National Alchemists are required to report to Central HQ for orders. That's it."

"Hakuro." He didn't even need to ask. The only person who had the authority to command the National Alchemists and who would so quickly go against everything Mustang had assured them was Hakuro.

After all, Mustang won the Parliament's election for his military skills, not his political ones. It was an obvious move to try the same direction.

Russell growled. "I'll put some money down on that. But this call was put in by Parliament, not the military. For now, I think they just want their ducks lined up in a row."

Fletcher focused again on his microscope. "I didn't think he'd be gone this long," he admitted, watching a slide of a tiny piece of the solidified amplifier to see the exact moment when its cohesion broke down. "If he's really been out six hours, they could be halfway out of the country by now."

If they'd been kidnapped.

The fact that nii-san hadn't made any attempt to communicate with them was starting to worry him a bit, but it wasn't outside the scope of chasing someone down. Perhaps someone had merely kidnapped the Prime Minister, expecting Central to capitulate or see their dear Prime Minister murdered. In which case his brother could simply be waiting for an opportune moment.

Alternately, he could have already found that moment, and they could be on their way back.

If the sun rose tomorrow with no sign of either of them, then he was going to start worrying in earnest.

He had no real place to begin searching. Mustang's car had been found, empty, in an alley between the publishing house and the city press. It was an odd place for Mustang to have gone, considering he followed Parliament's policy of releasing statements only through their press secretary. Nothing in or around the car indicated a struggle.

Nii-san's car was still missing. And considering it was a Parliament vehicle just like Mustang's, Central was crawling with them. He knew the military and police were tearing the city apart looking for it, but considering Mustang's old team made up his personal security department, if they'd found Edward's car he would have gotten a call by now.

No such luck.

"Did you tell them I was here?"

Russell paused, glancing at him before narrowing his eyes slightly. "Now that was an Ed question if ever I heard one. You're not thinking of playing hooky –"

"I just didn't get the summons," Al responded innocently. "I can do more good out here than I can cooped up in HQ." Waiting for the orders to subdue the mobs as they rioted. Or to protect Central from an attack. Or to hang around in the background as a show of solidarity as Parliament made up a few lies to keep the panic off for a couple days.

"How do you figure?" Trust Russell to give him a hard time. Despite his rather questionable childhood, he had matured into a young man that, generally speaking, followed the rules. Unless Fletcher was concerned. "You don't know where they went. You have no way of following them. You don't even know what happened."

All of that was true. But for some reason, he just really wanted nothing to do with a conference room. "I don't know, I –"

Al stopped at an authoritative knock at the door.

Looked like they weren't just tracking National Alchemists down by phone, then.

That was probably not a good sign.

Al considered ducking into another room as Russell rolled his eyes and headed for the door. Then again, it could be one of Mustang's men with more information . . . He hesitated as Fletcher frowned at his microscope.

Sure enough, his slide was now a puddle of clear yellow gel, rather than the neat chunk of opaque rock it had been a moment earlier.

"It's reducing the silicone to paste," the young alchemist murmured. "All of it, the center as evenly as the surface."

"Maybe it has something to do with air," he suggested, cocking an ear back towards the front door as Russell pulled it open.

"Yeah, but if it's a reaction to air . . . then I guess all we'd need to do was find a sealant. A non-reactive one."

That wasn't such a bad idea. It would also help them pin down which component of the air was causing the reaction, whether it was nitrogen, oxygen, or one of the less common gases. Alternately, they could just put a piece of the solid into a flask containing pure forms of each of the gas –

Of course, that could be potentially quite dangerous. Physics had taught them that.

They could always use some kind of inert gas, and mix the proper percentages of atmospheric gases into the flask.

Any of the noble gases should work. Helium might be a good choice . . . "What about mixtures of helium?"

Fletcher nodded, glancing around the work area. Their benches lined a room that was nearly half the size of their flat, and it was crowded with shelves containing glassware, chemicals, and plants. Despite their current interest in the amplifier research their father had abandoned, the Tringums were, before healers, biologists. Plants had always been their first love, and their first skill set, and they continued to use them as filters, factories, and containers for all manner of substances. It just so happened that many of the properties of plants had also worked into their second interest, healing alchemy.

Incidentally, they'd also figured out a way to produce especially sweetened strawberries, so you didn't need to add sugar prior to turning them into strawberry shortcake.

Possibly nii-san's favorite result of the Tringums' work.

Al was pulled out of his musings by Fletcher's sudden interest in the front hall.

"What?" he muttered to himself, pulling off his gloves and tossing them at the bench as he hurried towards the front door.

Al followed him, in time to hear Russell's response to a question. "He was my father. I'm Russell Tringum."

Al walked into the front hall to see Fletcher come up beside his brother, effectively blocking the door. A rather high, undoubtedly old voice was replying, and he stepped closer.

"So you are, so you are. You won't remember me, I expect. When last I saw you, you were only this high."

Russell nodded politely. "You were a friend of my father's, then?"

"Indeed. We were working on something together. Where might I find him?"

Had the old man missed the word 'was' in Russell's first sentence?

Russell seemed to be thinking along the same lines, shifting in the doorway. "He died several years ago." He'd been murdered, actually, by Mugwar, possibly before the richest man in Xenotime had been found and manipulated by Lust.

"I'm surprised that was allowed. He must have already completed it, then." It was muttered, as if to another person, or as if he didn't think they could hear him. "Where might I find his research notes?"

"Who are you?" Fletcher's tone was decidedly cooler than his brother's had been.

"Terribly short of time. My apologies."

It was instant. There was no crack of alchemic energy. There was no flash of light. With no warning whatsoever, the foundation of the building sprang through the wooden floors, wrapping the Tringums up effortlessly and gathering them backwards, out of the path of the front door.

Exposing him to the 'guest' at the door.

Al had been correct on his first assumption – the speaker was old. Extremely old. He was nearly hairless, seated in a wheelchair and dressed somewhat smartly in a brown tweed suit. Despite the warmth of the late August afternoon, the rest of him was swathed in a matching brown traveling cloth.

And he wasn't alone.

Behind him, possibly his butler or attendant, was a rather young man, only slightly older than Al himself. He had dark, thin hair that hung around his face as if trying to hide it from the world, with his shoulders tensed and raised almost up to his ears. He was staring directly at the back of the old man's head, as if he'd been specifically instructed not to look around. His features were rather sharp, and his eyebrows were wide, effectively hiding his eyes from Al altogether.

Two things leapt out immediately, even as Alphonse brought his hands together. The old man, as bundled as he was, was far too small.

He was also quite obviously blind. His eyes were a swirled ivory, framed with drooping eyelids that had long ago lost their muscle tone.

Yet those empty eyes seemed to fix directly on him.

Of course. The clap. The blind had heightened senses. If he'd been silent, he might not have even given himself away.

Al crouched, intending to free the Tringums, at least to their waists. He made contact with the wood floor, but only just. Without so much as a twitch from either the old man or the figure behind him, his hands were instantly encompassed in more dirt and rock, that had shot through the sub-flooring as quickly as it had a moment ago. Dust and splinters flew into the air, and he reflexively closed his eyes, flinching back.

However, he didn't let it disrupt his own reaction. He'd been intending to transmute that material to begin with.

Alphonse immediately reshaped the rock that encompassed his hands, releasing himself and sending a column straight for the old man. He planned to use the ingredients that had surrounded the Tringums as well, but very abruptly . . . he encountered resistance. It was as though he was suddenly trying to move a mass of earth off the bottom of the ocean. It was incredibly heavy, and moved very sluggishly. Despite sharpening his concentration, it was almost impossible for him to even grasp the ingredients, let alone manipulate him.

Was this what it felt like when two alchemists tried to use the same matter? Normally speaking, the transmutation occurred so quickly it wasn't an option, and this one should have –

The column of dirt and rock had only reached half-way to the old man before it ground to a halt.

"Quite a talent you have there, young man."

Then the wood in the floor rose up around him, effectively trapping him in his crouch.

He couldn't transmute the wood without creating another circle, without doing the math in his head. The reaction in the dirt, strangled by the fighting alchemists, eventually died, and with a start he realized he was quite effectively trapped.

His column scooted to the side politely as the figure behind the old man tilted the odd wheelchair up in the front, rolling it over the doorframe and into the front hall. They passed the Tringums without acknowledging them, and the old man's blind eyes surveying the house.

"They appear to be the only three," the younger man whispered, coming to a halt as they came to the junction of the rooms. Outside of the large lab, there was a kitchen in the back of the flat, and opposite were two small bedrooms. A bathroom split off the front hall, its door cracked open.

"Speak up," the old man growled tiredly, as if he'd done it a thousand times before. "And longer. My ears are not what they once were."

"I said, they appear to be the only people here," the young man responded meekly, his voice only a hair stronger than before. "There is a laboratory to the left, and a closed door on the right –"

"Enough." The old man sounded disgusted. His head swiveled towards Fletcher, who was struggling against the rock and dirt that bound him, glaring daggers at both of the intruders.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Your father's notes, young man. Where is the library?"

"We're not going to tell you anything." Russell wasn't struggling, and his voice was dangerously low. "If you –"

Abruptly he stopped, grimacing in pain. The old man didn't so much as twitch in his direction.

It struck Al quite suddenly, now that he was staring at the man full-on.

He had no legs.

That was why he looked so small.

"I am ill-equipped to search them myself, as you can see." His voice was still oddly kind, but businesslike. "Very specifically, I would like to see what Nash was working on around 1903."

Fletcher was staring at his brother, who was beginning to turn red. Russ shook his head sharply the second he saw his brother watching him. This time Al could actually see the rock twist around the alchemist, and he hissed with the pain.

He was being crushed.

"Stop." Al was a little surprised to hear his own voice, and he deepened it to lend it more authority. If the old man was going by sound, perhaps he could throw them off? "Let my assistants go, and I'll give you what you've come for."

"No-" Fletcher's eyes were wide. It wasn't that he hadn't caught on; he obviously didn't approve of the plan.

And that was too bad. He and his brother had twice taken on the names of the Elrics, and they'd only returned the favor once, and in another world altogether. Obviously the blind man couldn't tell the difference.

"It's all right, Al," he cut Fletcher off. "I won't have you injured over my father's research."

The old man turned again, this time looking straight at him. "You're too young to have taken on apprentices." It was very disapproving.

"And you're too old for breaking and entering," he retorted. "Obviously you know my father was researching sensitive matters before his death. My time is too valuable for unannounced visitors."

The old man began to laugh. It was rather rough and wheezing, but it held a good deal of amusement. It took the elderly man a moment to catch his breath, and he turned his head back towards his shoulder, nodding. His assistant moved away from the wheelchair as if it had burned him, hurrying towards the lab without so much as a glance his way.

Russell was beet-red, but it didn't look as though the pressure being exerted on him was increasing, and he was still breathing. Fletcher was caught glancing between the two of them, still squirming in his own tube of rock.

"You've seen it too," the old man murmured, as if they were the only two people in on a scandalous secret. "Very young to have transmuted a human. Was it your father you tried to bring back?"

Al was stunned, but only for a moment. "Is that what happened to your legs?" Fletcher's lips had thinned to a gash across his mouth, but for the moment he was playing along. Another comment about their father, and Al wasn't sure that was going to remain the case.

Another barked, dry laugh. "Age . . . caught me unaware. I have a disorder of the blood and circulation."

So the old man was obviously the alchemist that had so effortlessly subdued them. But how had he transmuted without bringing his hands together . . . ? Perhaps he had a circle somewhere?

"Well, perhaps there's something my assistants can do about that," Al tried, in what he hoped was a neutral tone of voice. "That is, if you'd stop squeezing them to death."

The old man seemed to consider the request, and with a crack the rock around Russell shifted. He gasped several times before he caught his breath, glaring at the old man, but he no longer looked as though his head was going to pop off.

"Bid them to remain silent. Where are the notes?"

Al was about to comply when a timid voice spoke up. "I . . . I have them."

If blind eyes could look irritated, the alchemist's did. "When are they dated, Craege?"

The face belonging to that voice finally became visible, sticking close to the doorframe. His voice was soft and his manner of speaking hurried, as though he was both too shy to speak the words and in a huge hurry to deliver them. As if what he had to say was of no import. "1903. They were right out on the table."

1903 . . . was that really when the amplifier notes were dated?

Russell's eyes were wide, and he stared intently at Al, trying without making any noise to communicate how unhappy he was with this development.

But the amplifier was hardly finished . . it wasn't as if the old man could get more use of it than he already had. Clearly, as fast and as controlled as the previous reactions had been, he was probably already using an amplifier –

Al didn't think it was a Philosopher's Stone, but if the man had seen the Gate at some point, and knew immediately that he'd attempted human transmutation –

"My father's amplification theory? It's hardly of note. He gave up that research over a decade ago for something more promising."

Fletcher was gaping at him, but Al warned both Tringums silent with his expression. The moment anyone tried to use the amplifier, it either melted or exploded. If the old alchemist tried to transmute the entire vial of it, amplifier or no, it was likely to blow up in his face.

If nothing else, at least it would prevent the old man from leaving with the notes. They only needed to delay for a little while; HQ was expecting Russell. When he didn't show, with the paranoia already surrounding Mustang's disappearance, someone would be sent to investigate.

Hopefully they could delay the old man until then.

"Amplifier, you say?" The old alchemist was staring at him more intently, as if he could actually see him. Abruptly he withdrew his arms from his traveling cloak, revealing gnarled old hands, mottled with age spots. Still, he manipulated the chair fairly nimbly even as his assistant half-rushed, half-scuttled to assist his master.

Was it possible the mousy man was actually an apprentice? If they could both transmute, taking out the old man was not going to be sufficient.

Al watched them enter the lab, following them with his eyes until they were out of sight. A grunt from Fletcher brought his gaze back to the main hall, and he was surprised to see that the youngest of the Tringums was still struggling in the rock.

Surely he knew he couldn't get anywhere with brute strength. It was rock.

Yes, Al growled at his brain, clearly Fletcher wasn't that stupid. Did he have enough wiggle room to get his hands free? Or possibly together? Their imprisonment had happened fast, but it had looked like Russell had been the first, so perhaps Fletcher had gotten his hands closer, or drawn them nearer to his body in preparation for the same treatment . . .?

Are you insane? Russell mouthed at him, obviously agitated. He's already powerful enough!

Al frowned. It's unstable, he mouthed back, careful not to let his lips or tongue make any noise. It's better than letting him get the notes –

He'll blow the place up! Russell looked pointedly at the front door, which the servant had foolishly left ajar. The moment a passerby was sighted, they could yell for help –

And possibly endanger that person as well. Al shook his head, not caring if the old man's ears heard. He said they weren't what they once were, but it had seemed as though he was using his man's voice bouncing off the walls to determine the landscape, almost like sonar. He had no doubt their conversation was not going unnoticed, even if the old man couldn't make out what they were saying.

Russell caught Fletcher's eye, but the younger man shook his head. Whatever he was trying to do, he wasn't there yet.

There were sounds of papers being shuffled, and the soft, low hum of the servant's voice. He was probably reading the notes to the old man.

Al craned his neck over the wood that covered him to the shoulders, eyeing it. The old man had had to thin it out a little bit to make it stretch, so there was also a possibility he could get some room to maneuver. Experimentally, he tried to straighten his legs. They were partially caught in stone, so he didn't get the strength he wanted, but he was able to push the wood around his shoulders almost half an inch.

But he didn't just need to bend it. He needed to break it. Once he could get his elbows room, he could withdraw his hands from the rock that surrounded them up to his forearms –

They heard the tap of glass on the workbench.

The vial of amplifier? Or something else?

Fletcher took a deep breath, then held it, his face vibrating slightly with the tension of his muscles. He was trying to compress himself, which meant his hands had to have been very close. Probably touching at the wrists or even the forearms would do it, the concept was to complete a circle, not necessarily with your palms –

There was a sound of a paper parcel being unwrapped.

Russell looked past his brother, catching Al's attention. Can you get free?

Al grimaced, trying to find a good place to brace his upper body. The edges of the wood were fairly thin, thus fairly sharp, and if he braced his chest he was going to end up slicing his own neck. He was already doing that to a point, but much more and he was going to puncture his own skin. I'm trying.

The wood around him was creaking, and he rotated his head, trying to use his throat to break the thin wood around it to the point it was going to be too thick to cut him. He picked up several splinters for his efforts, but the sharpest edges eventually bent.

The tinkling of glass on glass reached them, very rhythmically. They were using a glass agitator to stir the vial?

Or had they added something to it?

Al didn't remember any paper being on the bench, mostly because the Tringums had little use for it. Most of the stuff they worked with was in liquid form, and what was dried was usually in a cake or a powder, almost always kept in tins or flasks.

An odd odor began to drift from the lab, one Al recognized almost immediately as ozone. It smelled very much as if there had just been a violent thunderstorm directly next door, but without any of the electricity necessary to produce such a scent. It was strong, but not overwhelming.

It was not a good sign. As far as they knew, oxygen was what was causing the unstable solid to return to its liquid form, but being exposed to higher concentrations than were in air could result in an explosion. Which could potentially take out the entire building, depending on how much of the yellow liquid was being exposed to it.

It usually took ozone a little while to react with carbon to create carbon dioxide and free-floating oxygen, but he would expect the concentration of oxygen was already increasing, if whatever they'd added to it had released that much ozone.

It suddenly occurred to Al that he was thinking of alchemy in physical terms, rather than alchemic.

"That amplifier is unstable," he called. Perhaps a warning was actually a good idea. "I would submerge it in mineral oil at this point, if I were you." Then he started pushing harder against the wood.

"Bradley . . . you . . . -madman." It didn't seem to be in response to Al's words, but rather an observation. It was quiet soft, definitely a mutter to himself, and it was followed, almost immediately, by an odd scrabbling sound.

The three of them locked gazes as the scrabbling sounds increased in frequency. A wheezed gasp began accompanying the sound; it was very clearly the old man, and he was quite obviously in distress. Russ and Al exchanged a look – should they call out?

Before either of them could open their mouths, they heard the sound of fabric rolling to the ground, as if tumbling off a bed. A heavy thud followed.

It was almost instantly followed by several more, growing wetter with every repetition.

Al knew that sound.

He'd heard men being beaten before.

The thuds continued, increasing in speed before suddenly ceasing. For a long moment, nothing else happened.

Silently, the empty wheelchair crossed the threshold of the doorway. The transmutations in the hall had made the floor extremely uneven, and the wheelchair gained speed as it rattled and bumped across the hall, crashing lightly into the bathroom door as it was brought to a stop.

There was nothing on it. No cloak. No old man.

Al stared at the doorway until a shadow crossed it. As silently as the empty chair, the servant stepped into view. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his light brown tunic was spotted with something dark. He was still not meeting their gazes, staring instead at his hands.

Within them was an opaque white crystal, roughly the size of a small vase.

Al remained silent, his mind spinning. Had the servant just killed his master? And where the heck had that crystal come from? Had the old alchemist somehow manufactured it using the amplifier?

The amplifier and what else?

Had he brought something of his own? Was that why they'd heard the rustle of paper?

The man's breathing was getting quicker, and he finally glanced up. He was staring at Russell, the one that was trapped directly in front of him, and despite getting a hard look in return, he managed to keep eye contact.

His tongue darted over his lips, like they were dry, and he spoke. It was hurried, but much louder.

". . . I can do this." Like he had to reassure himself.

That he could kill someone else?

Al strained against the wood as hard as he could, not caring when it cut into his skin, not caring that it made breathing difficult. God only knew what the man was holding, but it was clear what was on his mind –

Russell's choked shout was barely audible around the cracking of stone, and Al brought up his eyes, watching in horror as the rock that was pining the alchemist began to swirl around him, almost like a slow-motion tornado of mud. The thinnest strips of it peeled off the top, curling over Russell's head, and quite suddenly he was no longer in view.

But they could still hear his voice, getting more muffled by the second.

"STOP IT!" Fletcher shouted, struggling for all he was worth –

This time, it was much faster. Even thinner sheets of the stone, moving so quickly that they sheared a lock of Fletcher's hair from his head as they covered him. Both of the rocks were still swirling, a bit faster, and Al suddenly found himself staring at darting, dark eyes.

The young man began to laugh. At first it was hesitant. Then it was jubilant.

"I CAN DO IT!"

If might have been pathetic, if 'it' hadn't been murdering two alchemists.

The floor suddenly buckled beneath the young man, and Al felt the tremor run through not only the wood, but also the rock that was holding him. The stone around his arms actually cracked, and he redoubled his efforts, struggling for all he was worth –

The alchemist wasn't paying attention to what he was doing.

He was losing control of the reaction.

A deep fissure opened in the wall beside him, and pieces of plaster rained down on his head, trickling down the back of his shirt. Al ignored them, shoving with all his might; another few inches and he'd be free –

There was a thunderous crack, as if the apartment building itself had been broken into pieces, and Al's ears popped as the air pressure in the room increased sharply.

- x -

Author's Notes: Look! Plot! Okay, not much plot. Some betrayal, and some screwing of our alchemists, but on the plus side, now we know what Bradley was trying to get the two alchemists to make. OR DO WE? :laughs maniacally: Okay, that sounded better in my head. I didn't find many typos, which means there are a ton. I'm sorry; if you find any, let me know so I can remove them from the finished product!

More Notes: I got killed by work. Really. I died. They had to bring me back with the zappers and everything. The rest of this will be posted as I alter the plot and revise, but expect more soon! I don't suck this much on purpose . . . I don't know when life suddenly got so crazy busy!