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

- x -

There was a terrifying strong pressure on the back of his neck.

Al remained absolutely still, afraid even to take a deep breath. If any of his vertebrae slipped, a sheared spinal cord was going to be the least of his worries. Without shifting, all he could tell was that his face was turned toward the right, apparently at an angle with the rest of him, and there was a tiny pocket of air in front of his nose.

That was getting more stale by the second.

Something was sitting on his chest, but he wasn't sure if it was his arms, or he was folded in half. Without shifting, without moving, he had no way to determine or measure anything. Either way, restricting his breathing was increasing the amount of time he was going to remain conscious.

There was no light.

There was no other source of air.

He was likely not going to remain conscious much longer.

Al briefly considered panicking. The fact that it crossed his mind as an actual option told him he wasn't as bad off as he seemed. If his subconscious could still be funny, all hope was not yet lost. But there was no doubt, if he remained where he was and did nothing, he was dead.

And if by shifting he trigged more wreckage to settle, he was dead.

Since he was dead either way, moving seemed to be the best option. He'd just need to do it . . . careful-like.

The first thing Al did was take a deep breath. The stone was very close to his nose; the water from his exhales was dripping off the tip of his nose, partially running into his nostrils and partially pooling on what he assumed was a shelf of stone. He filled his chest slowly, allowing it to expand, and there was a sudden and violent impact on the back of his neck.

It didn't hurt, and Al froze again, not exhaling. He simply waited.

He was now either paralyzed from the shoulders down, or he was fine.

Several small pieces of debris came to lie against his right ear, and he waited a moment more before he tried to wiggle a finger.

The finger told him his right hand was . . . somewhere. He couldn't even tell if it was in the vicinity of his chest or his stomach or his side, but at least he could feel his fingertip brushing something.

He released his held breath slowly, and repeated the process.

Then he wiggled all his fingers.

It wasn't until he brought his forearms into play that he began to realize where his arms were in relation to the rest of him. He was also aware that his perception was fuzzy. His body seemed to be tingling, and every one of his motions felt sluggish. So maybe he did have some nerve damage. Just rotating his wrists was exhausting.

Maybe it was oxygen deprivation.

Maybe he better get a move on.

Al dared to twitch his shoulders, and this time, when the wreckage shifted, it hurt. A shooting pain ran down the length of his spine, causing him to spasm reflexively, and that in turn caused more of the rock to settle. His upper jaw was now being pressured to separate from the rest of his skull, and he realized with a start that he was still basically crouched.

His position hadn't really moved after the alchemist brought the place down on top of him.

Of them.

The Tringums should have been protected, though, if they had survived being blended like very large fruit drinks. Their encasement had been quite a bit harder than his, his problem was that the mousy alchemist had just split without completely burying him as well.

It was amazing he hadn't already been crushed. The Tringums lived on the ground floor of a three story structure.

Al tried to pull his elbows back, finding it was impossible to do so, and another frighteningly deep pain shot down his spine, this time ending at the back of his right knee. There was definitely something between his arms, he couldn't seem to get even his forearms into contact, and Al briefly considered attempting to stand, to support all the weight above him, for just a second –

Al took another breath, very loud to his muffled ears, and heard the unsteadiness in it.

Okay, now he was starting to panic.

Bright light flashed directly in front of his eyes, accompanied by a deafening crack he felt in his lungs, and suddenly the pressure was –

Was gone.

Al remained perfectly still, relaxing almost against his will as his body started to slump into a previously unnoticed depression.

Light. No feeling of pressure.

His neck was broken. Or he was dead.

Of course, if he was dead, he should be in front of the Gate –

How did he know he wasn't?

He distantly felt his body slither into the new depression in the debris, made by the last settling, and determined that if he could feel that, obviously he wasn't dead. It didn't necessarily mean his neck wasn't broken, but it probably meant he wasn't quite dead yet.

Another hole meant another air pocket. Meant he might have enough room to transmute.

Al actively tried to control the way his body was sliding, but it was difficult. Things were shifting beneath him, slowly but smoothly. He would have expected pieces of rock and wood to give suddenly, dropping him a few inches at a time, but this was more like a controlled sinking in quicksand.

Maybe someone was already transmuting things for him.

When at last there was enough room above him, he managed to get both his arms in front of him. His neck ached a bit, but seemed intact, and Al concentrated as he brought his hands together.

Then he reached out, trying to determine the configuration of the stone as he sank.

It was hard. It was easily as hard as it had been when he'd tried to pin the old alchemist to his wheelchair. It took so much energy to rearrange the molecules, and he was exhausted. But he didn't stop trying.

And after a few long moments, he saw the pattern of it.

The pattern that was slowly drawing the matter away from an invisible line that followed the path of his spine.

It was sort of like extremely slow transmutation.

He joined in eagerly, concentrating his own efforts towards the same ends. Despite the fact that he was now certain another alchemist was helping, or he was helping them, the going was still slow. Somehow the particles of rock were gummed together, it was effort to disassemble them, effort to move them, effort to reassemble them-

A chamber of nothing finally emerged in the configuration of the concrete beneath him, and very shortly Al felt himself sliding directly into it. He twisted carefully, trying to get his right arm behind him before his left leg was completely released –

Everything was moving slowly enough that he was able to do so, slowing his fall so that it was no worse than rolling out of bed.

It still hurt.

Al lay flat on his back, feeling a rain of tiny pebbles and other small detritus, taking deep, slow breaths of the relatively fresher air. It smelled very much of earth, and slightly of sewage, so he knew they were near if not in the sewer system of the city.

Just as welcome was the sound of another person gasping.

There was still no light, and Al briefly considered consolidating all the phosphorus in the pavement to make a brief light source. Just raising his forearm off the floor was almost too much, and he continued to take deep, slow breaths.

Apparently the air they were breathing now was no better than what he'd been breathing before. He still felt dizzy, still tingled. Everything was still muted.

"Russell?"

Please let it be the Tringums. Please let them be okay.

No one else could have known he was there. No one else could have gotten him out so quickly.

Except the alchemist that had tried to kill them in the first place.

"Looking . . . for a way out." The voice was weak, and the speaker was panting. "We gotta . . . go, Al."

It was Fletcher.

Al took a few more breaths, preparing his body to roll over. Even that rudimentary tightening of his frame was painfully hard, and a brief spike of adrenaline shot through him. If it was just bad air, the longer they laid there, the worse it was going to get, until –

Fletcher was right. They had to move.

Al forced himself to roll to his left, encountering a smooth wall of brick. He used that to half-push himself over, then spent a long moment gathering his knees under him. Everything still worked, but not well.

"Which way?"

Fletcher just kept panting.

How badly injured was he? "Fletcher."

". . . way . . . you're facing."

"Get up."

He crawled on his hands and knees, knowing the ceiling was too low to allow anything more, until he encountered something softer than rock. He nudged it hard, getting a slight grunt – or maybe a laugh? – as a reward for his troubles.

"Gotta . . . go, Fletch."

"Yeah."

He clumsily patted the other man down, checking to ensure he still had four limbs and none of them seemed sticky or pointy. His hands weren't to be trusted, but it seemed that the younger Tringum was generally in one piece. He stirred at the treatment, rolling himself to his right, and Al helped as best he could.

"Bad . . . air?"

Laboriously, they began crawling. Al considered trying to transmute a quick tunnel to the surface, but even thinking about it made him want to just lay down in the tunnel and stop moving. He'd never been this exhausted in his life. Not even when he'd been bleeding to death, drawing a transmutation circle in a broom closet –

Nii-san.

Nii-san would kill him if he died here.

He'd come to the Gate to kill him, if he had to.

Fletcher said something, but it was too weak and jumbled to make out.

"What?"

" . . . –feedback." Fletcher muttered. "Everything."

Fletcher partially collapsed, but now Al was able to make out light. It wasn't alchemic light, like he'd seen when Fletcher had located him and brought him down. It was too yellow, and too faint.

But it was close.

And it was air.

But hadn't Fletcher just said feedback?

Was that what this feeling was? This overwhelmingly heavy sensation that made him need to just stop moving, stop thinking, stop breathing?

Was that what had been making it hard to transmute?

But how on earth could one alchemist cause another alchemist feedback? It wasn't a physical condition that could be inflicted. It came when alchemic energy that had been gathered for a transmutation was not properly channeled, and rather than all going towards the reaction, it splashed out everywhere, including back at and into the alchemist. If what they were feeling was feedback, then they had to be transmuting.

Al concentrated, clapping his hands before laying one on the floor of the tunnel, and trying to do nothing more than flatten out about an inch of it. He felt the energy he'd gathered going into the stone, and he felt it shifting as he took it apart molecule by molecule.

There was no resistance. It happened exactly the way it always happened. It felt the way it always felt.

It was still draining.

"Stuff . . . above," Fletcher corrected, trying to push himself back to his knees by balancing his forehead on the floor. "What . . . he used."

They shuffled forward slowly, and Al eventually realized the round lump of stone sitting in the weak beam of light was actually a form.

Russell.

"Find him?"

Fletcher made a noncommittal noise, and Al realized the 'him' in that statement probably referred to, well, him.

"I'm here."

The figure of Russell didn't move. "Hurry up."

He tried to shove Fletcher forward, but the young man finally collapsed, face down on the masonry floor.

"Get up."

No response.

Al fell himself, just a few feet short of Russell, and rolled onto his right shoulder, studying Fletcher in the little light they had.

"Fletcher."

He shoved at the alchemist's shoulder, and Fletcher shifted slightly. His face had fallen towards Al, and he could see long lashes reflecting the dull light.

His eyes were closed.

But his back was still rising and falling.

Al turned awkwardly to look at Russell.

The older alchemist had been roused from his slumped position, and he fell forward onto his elbows, pulling himself toward them.

"Fletch."

Al laid his head down on his outstretched arm briefly; it was too heavy to hold up. "He's out."

Feedback.

"What happened?"

Russell relaxed, laying on his chest and reaching a hand forward to touch his brother's face. When he'd reassured himself that Fletcher was still breathing, he removed it to his brother's hair. "I dunno. Something . . . about the transmuted . . . it's wrong . . ."

Al took several deep breaths, summoning the energy to prepare to roll onto his back. He made it there, and required another several moments to work up the strength to raise his arm. He almost wasn't able to extend the trembling limb to the low ceiling, but he could just touch it. His arm dropped back to his chest, where it lay for nearly a minute before it occurred to him that he was about to pass out.

Oh, right. Feedback.

Al brought his hands together, really more his fingertips, and pushed for the ceiling, intending the same transmutation he'd done earlier. One touch to the pavement, and it was as though the matter absorbed the energy like a sponge. He wasn't sure he actually moved any of the concrete at all.

So the alchemist had done something to the ingredients themselves?

"Its worse . . the longer we stay." Russell swallowed loudly. "We have to go."

But that was impossible. Matter could neither be created nor destroyed, and energy could neither be created nor destroyed –

But feedback was nothing more than unfocused energy. It wasn't a different type of energy, but it was certainly harmful. Was it possible to manipulate the bonds between molecules to slowly break down, releasing that energy?

Wasn't that what radiation was? The fact that he couldn't remember bothered Al enough to rouse himself, and he realized with a jolt that he'd very briefly fallen asleep.

Russell was right. They had to get out.

"Can you climb?" If they were in a sewer tunnel, they were at least five feet beneath the street. All Russell would have to do is stand, but he could barely speak, let alone contemplate forcing his frame upright.

"No." At least he was still conscious.

Al picked up his head awkwardly, glancing around. Now that he was better-adjusted, he could see that Russell lay not three feet from the hole he'd transmuted to the surface.

"Go back over there."

Russell groaned, which was very unlike him, and did nothing of the sort.

Al tried again. "Go."

With painful slowness, the elder of the Tringums managed to shove himself back a foot.

"More."

"I can't," he breathed. "I can't . .. get up there, Al."

Alphonse Elric slouched on his right shoulder, staring at Fletcher as he heard Russell push himself back another foot. It was enough.

The other alchemist hadn't transmuted the sewer tunnel. Even if he'd somehow altered the materials above them, what was below was truly stone and sand. It was brick, and he could transmute it.

Barely.

Al dropped his left hand onto his right, and from there made certain he had very good contact with the brick. Carefully, he concentrated on forming a cup, slowly raising it with Russell inside. He'd barely made his tunnel wide enough, and Al realized abruptly it would be easier to use the transmuted brick to break it than it would be to transmute it himself.

Carefully cradling the unresisting form in the masonry, he slowly elevated it towards the street. The second his brick came in contact with the material above, he felt the beginnings of that same, queer resistance, and he threw caution to the wind, summoning the remainder of his strength and forcing the brick towards the surface as quickly as he could.

Very distantly, he heard what sounded like voices, but they were too faint. He didn't stop transmuting.

Until he realized that he wasn't, anymore.

The reaction had stopped.

Al remained exactly where he was, idly wondering when he'd passed out. If he'd left Russell trapped half-way up the vent. If he'd cut off their air. It seemed lighter, not darker, but it was a lot of effort to open his eyes, and Al put it off as long as possible.

Fletcher.

That was enough to open them.

He was still facing the young man, exactly as he'd been before. Fletcher still appeared to be sleeping, and after staring at him for a long time, Al could see that he was still breathing.

So their air hadn't gotten cut off.

That was good.

This time the realization that he was drifting off again didn't really worry him, nor did the sudden dark shadow that seemed to fall over them. It was easier to leave his eyes open than shut them, and he watched the amount of light in the tunnel flicker for quite some time. When crumbling sounds reached him, he briefly considered trying to transmute again.

When hands reached him, he decided he was already asleep and dreaming.

- x -

Author's Notes: Again, short chapter, because the next one is rather long and this one would get out of hand if they were combined. Boring, I know. And little development. But necessary to forward the plot. You haven't seen any lately, I know. On the plus side, you're one cliffhanger down! As per my usual, I looked as best I could, and found several nonsensical sentences, which means there are more.