Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.
- x -
When he was finished laughing, the alchemist's apprentice hurled the lance.
Despite the fact that he was obviously green and definitely not a soldier, he had a decent handle on how to toss. He held the shaft as if it was familiar, and he had the right angle and even a little spin. If Edward had been unprepared, with the short distance between them he might have had trouble dodging.
Of course, he had no intention of dodging.
Ed brought his hands together and held his left one out, palm extended towards the approaching blade. As his own spear flew towards him, he almost lazily disintegrated it back into its base ingredients, letting them softly strike his palm as they lost momentum and fell to the earth. It reminded him a little of Scar, and he hoped he looked as impressive.
The first time he'd seen Scar effortlessly decompose something, it had scared the shit out of him.
Then again, that might have had to do with what the man was decomposing, as opposed to the nonchalant way he did it.
"All those years mopping floors teach you that?" Ed taunted, letting his hand drop to his side. His fingers were starting to tremble, ever so slightly, and he shifted his legs to keep his knees from showing the same. His skin was tingling unpleasantly, and Edward began to wonder if the alchemist's apprentice had transmuted something toxic into the debris that was now falling through the air around them.
After all, the other man could just transmute his body whole again if he absorbed any.
The alchemist's apprentice made no effort to hide how angry the comment had made him, snarling even as something darker surfaced in his eyes. "Same as you, huh? Looks like your sensei traded half of you to get his fire alchemy perfected."
So they were right; the old man was trading something to the Gate. Pieces of his apprentices . . .? Was that what had happened to the girl's throat? Had she traded her voice? Could the old man have somehow offered it rather than his own? Edward looked the apprentice over again, but he seemed intact. So had he never seen the Gate?
And Mustang as sensei . . . as if. There was only an eighteen year difference between their ages at most. Roy was barely old enough to be his pop. Then again, sensei had been barely old enough to have had a child of her own; Wrath would have been his age, if he hadn't died . . . But Izumi Curtis would have wiped the floor with Mustang. And she would have died before she'd have let him and Al sacrifice what they'd given to the Gate.
Ed considered his response. Interrupting a battle to talk wasn't his style; he'd never had trouble doing them simultaneously before. But he was feeling weaker by the second, and there was no doubt this guy was playing for keeps. And there was nothing visible on his person to explain why he was handing their asses to them so handily.
At least if this apprentice was angry and talking he wasn't transmuting large portions of the city into rubble. It would give Mustang time to circle around. Remarkably stupid of the alchemist's apprentice to disregard the intact alchemist he'd left behind him. Perhaps he thought Roy had been caught when the columns collapsed?
Had he?
"That one-eyed bastard? My sensei?" He snorted. Loudly. Then he shifted his stance further, just to make sure he was keeping the other man's attention. "Speaking of which, where'd you ditch the old man?"
"Ditch. I like that. That's fitting." The other alchemist tried to look as though he wasn't paying attention to Ed's posturing. "I did ditch him. It floored him, too. He really hit the ceiling." The second laugh was really more of a slightly hysterical giggle.
That was probably not a good sign.
"You remind me of Russell Tringum," he added, as if it was part of the joke. "I hope he wasn't a friend."
A new discomfort blossomed as a tightness in the back of Edward's throat. Russell Tringum . . . if he didn't know who Roy Mustang was, then how the hell would he know about the Tringums –
Nash Tringum. Nash must have been the alchemist the old man had been referring to.
Which meant they'd come to Central to meet with him. And clearly they'd seen Russell.
"Never heard of him." He brought his hands together, preparing a decomposition of concrete again, just in case, and the other alchemist's eyes brightened.
"He transmuted the same way." The other alchemist didn't twitch a finger, but he suddenly looked eager. "Go ahead. Try it."
Oh god.
They'd fought him.
Unsuccessfully, if the apprentice was here.
That was why he hadn't seen the Tringums fighting.
They already had.
And if –
If Al had been with them, as planned –
"Al," he muttered.
A spike of concrete appeared from nowhere, exploding out of the street at his feet, and Edward put his hand out reflexively to protect his face, barely managing to transmute it to sand before he was impaled.
"Attack me!" The alchemist took a swift step forward. "Fight me or I'll shred you just like I did to them!"
Them.
So it was more than Russell.
No. That was impossible. If Fletcher and Russell had been there, they'd have at least put up a fight. They hadn't been poisoned, it would have been a fight like this one, and if Al had been there as well, the three of them couldn't have lost.
Couldn't have.
"That where you picked up the amplifier?" he snarled, angry that he was letting this opponent rattle him. Maybe the old man had given them a different kind of drug. Maybe they were sleeping it off. Surely the old man wouldn't murder the sons of the alchemist he claimed was a childhood friend.
Surely he wouldn't have killed Al, either. They all really did look alike. Surely the old man would have assumed Al was a third son.
"It's not just an amplifier." His tone was so excited the words were slightly distorted. "It will never fade. It can't be used up." Another rock spike, this one so close the tip of it managed to scratch the soft indentation beneath Edward's chin before he could stop it.
Again with his left hand. It didn't go unnoticed this time. "How's that arm working out for you?"
Ed bared his teeth at the alchemist, and this time it was no act. "Same as always." He'd said that Mustang had traded half of him for alchemy technique . . . did he not know the automail was fake?
The other alchemist took another step forward, and Edward grudgingly gave ground. Mustang was certainly taking his dear sweet time –
"Hard to believe the same stuff can be such a burden to you and a boon to me," the other man hissed. "Attack me!"
If he'd done anything to Al –
"You don't know who you're talking to," Edward growled. "Hand it over before you get hurt."
He received a wide grin. "Oh, are you going to spear me again?" This time Edward simply guessed that the spike was going to erupt directly under his feet, and he dodged to his right, using the strength in the armored arm to complete a neat flip. His left leg held as he landed it, but just.
There was something very, very wrong. His limbs were beginning to feel like they were falling asleep, and he was so sapped for energy that he almost didn't care.
Maybe stopping to talk was just playing into this guy's hands.
The rock spikes he'd rightly anticipated faded back into the pavement at a commanding glare from the weasel-like man. "Were you not paying attention?" the alchemist snapped. "You already tried."
Edward clapped his hands together, this time preparing the same transmutation he'd use if he meant to reshape Central HQ in its entirety. No matter how resistant to alchemy the ingredients around him were getting, he needed things to respond more quickly. If he could knock this guy out, he couldn't heal himself –
Resistant to alchemy.
Like his armor.
The old man had used this amplifier to transmute his armor? But how had he done that if the younger man all but said he'd gotten the thing he was using at the Tringums'?
"You might wanna tell me your name." Ed let his eyes flash as he prepared to hit the ground. "So we have something to put on your grave besides chickenshit."
"Why bother? You won't be around to remember it."
Ed got the feeling the alchemist's apprentice was enjoying this. Like he'd played out what he would say in this situation a thousand times in his head, as he trailed after the old man like the puppy he was.
"As if I'd lose to a third-rate like you!"
As if Al would have.
Even as he said it he bent to the ground, hand flat to the pavement. He took ownership of the material immediately, wasting some of the energy of the reaction just to ensure a spike couldn't come up under his hand, and he watched with satisfaction as a sharp crack indicated the beginning of the enormous hand he was transmuting, literally at the other man's feet.
The extra energy he'd estimated he'd need seemed to fix the problem of the sticky ingredients, as well. He was begging for a rebound, transmuting like this, but it seemed as though the more the alchemist's apprentice transmuted the same ingredients, the 'stiffer' they became. It was effort to complete all three steps of the transmutation process, which was –
Was wrong. If it took more energy than usual to break the molecules of an object apart, and more still to glue them back together, then physics and chemistry told him that somehow this alchemist – or more likely his amplifier – was affecting the bonds that held the molecules together. Or creating some sort of new bond . . . ?
The apprentice went for his bait, forcing the fingers of the concrete hand apart to cup around his feet harmlessly, instead of crushing him like an orange. Edward fought him, trying to retain control of his own reaction, and as before, they slowly strangled the transmutation. The other alchemist didn't appear to either be concerned or conscious of the Edward-shaped mallet being transmuted, directly behind him. One bop on the head should end this –
Quite abruptly, the alchemist's apprentice was engulfed in flames.
He screamed, stumbling forward just as Ed's mallet came down. It missed him by less than an inch. Edward bit back a curse, straightening with difficulty and watching as the young man hit the ground, writhing. Well, he was unlikely to be able to concentrate through that, so being burned alive was probably just as good a solution as being knocked senseless –
The flames abruptly ceased after only a few seconds.
Mustang was going easy on him.
Ed glared to his left, finding Roy was limping towards him from about fifteen yards through a maze of large boulders. The remains of both of the transmuted stone columns. That was what took him so long.
He was also surprised to see that he was getting a glare of his own. It was clear Mustang wasn't pleased.
Ed ignored him for the moment, concentrating on the other alchemist. He was still screaming, curled in a fetal position on the cracked concrete. No signs of another human transmutation, or anything else. The young man was in no condition to continue fighting.
Now would be a good time to get that amplifier off him.
"What took you so long?" Ed half-growled, half-panted towards Mustang as he approached the smoking, whimpering form. He didn't know when he'd gotten short of breath, but every step was getting heavier. Good thing the fight had stopped when it had; that hand and mallet transmutation had taken as much out of him as if he'd actually transmuted an entire building. His chest ached, not only from the cracked rib, but somewhere deeper.
Maybe every alchemist did have their own personal Gate, just like Hohenheim had said.
In which case, he was begging his to feedback on him. Another transmutation like the one he'd just done, and he'd end up with a bum hand just like that circus performer Cornello.
Ed crouched wearily about three feet from the alchemist's apprentice, looking him over. His clothes were mostly charred; he'd been wearing a brown traveling suit, though the vest was now completely gone, and the white shirt beneath it patched in places. His trousers were slightly more intact, but his belt had of course been made with tannin, and thus become brittle when exposed to heat. It had snapped, exposing a strip of completely white flesh on the right side of the young man's abdomen –
Ed almost mistook it for a scar – and thus proof of what must have been traded to the Gate – when he realized it was far too thick to be scar tissue. It had a dull shine to it, and seemed to have several facets . . .
A crystal.
The amplifier.
But it didn't look anything like what Russ and Fletch had been working on. Theirs was a yellow liquid, and couldn't retain its solid shape the moment anyone attempted to channel alchemic energy through it. It would never have been stable enough to have been used in this manner. This opaque white crystal was also fairly large, at least the span of an adult hand. Not as large as the Philosopher's Stone that had formed within Al's armor, but significantly larger than the Red Stone Russell and Fletcher Tringum had manufactured under Mugwar.
The Tringums.
Al.
It might not be a Philosopher's Stone, but if it allowed this alchemist to perform human transmutation –
Edward flinched, withdrawing his outstretched hand as if Mustang had torched it as well.
He had not just seriously entertained that thought.
Five months into this 'normal' life, and he'd forgotten the first twenty-two years?
A harsh crunching sound carried over the pained moans of the figure in front of him, and Edward fought to keep his expression blank. He'd already given Mustang ample evidence that he couldn't be trusted in a fight. And Al and the Tringums weren't the only ones that could have fallen. Kirby lay dead not fifteen feet away. He probably wasn't the only State Alchemist that had given his life.
And not just alchemists. Soldiers. Officers.
Hawkeye.
No one could bring back the dead. Nothing was equivalent to a person's soul. Not even a Philosopher's Stone could resurrect the dead.
Not even a Philosopher's Stone had resurrected Nina.
But could it have? Was Al right, that it was just a question of resolve? If the Gate really worked like they thought it did, did all souls travel through it? Could a single one be extracted, assuming it hadn't been 'used' by the other side?
Edward tried to get control of his breathing, and he wasn't sure his hand was shaking because of his exhaustion.
No.
There was no need to question his theories on human transmutation.
No one could bring back the dead.
And he wasn't going to write off Al – or the Tringums – until he saw them. They were fine. They'd fought, obviously, and they hadn't won, but it didn't mean they were dead.
Mustang stumbled to a stop about ten feet away. Ed had no doubt the older man was prepared to deal the finishing blow, but he didn't think Mustang was going to do it. Once they took the amplifier away from him, he could be treated just like any other alchemist. More than revenge, they needed answers.
"Take it."
Roy's voice was no better than it had been earlier. There was no sarcasm, no doubt inflected there because he wasn't capable of vocalizing it. Mustang was probably just assuring him that he wasn't going to accidentally roast his hand.
Probably a smart move, considering they'd been working as individuals for most of this fight, rather than together.
Edward reached forward with his left hand, a little reluctant to touch the amplifier with his transmuted armor. There was no telling how the two objects would react to each other. Probably not at all, considering he seemed incapable of penetrating the alloy with alchemic energy now, but if the alternative was blowing his arm off, and he'd just finished denying the thoughts that had so easily crossed his mind –
The second his fingers brushed the crystal, they went numb.
Ed flinched, yanking his hand back and inspecting his uneasily-tingling fingertips. The skin that had touched the surface of the stone was turning a bloodless white, while the flesh surrounding that was already beginning to swell.
A burn.
He waited a beat for the pain to hit. So the stone also absorbed a good deal of the heat the Flame Alchemist had inflicted. Or perhaps the fact that the alchemist had been channeling energy through it had heated it. Again, if it burned the alchemist, he could always heal himself as he'd done before –
Bright light flashed in front of his eyes, and Ed shoved himself back as far as his trembling legs could manage, preparing another massive transmutation. Before his butt hit the ground he twisted, ignoring his cracked rib and brushing the crumpled street with his left fingertips.
They'd waited too long.
The alchemist's apprentice was healing himself.
He wasn't sure if Mustang had had a lit match in his hands. He should have, but if not, he wouldn't be able to torch the alchemist fast enough. And Ed had no doubt retaliation for the burns would be swift. He seemed to be the only one this guy was stopping to talk to, and he was pretty sure he could count on a little more gloating before he was killed.
Mustang, on the other hand . . .
It felt like he was creating a ten story hotel from scratch. But he needed it to be fast, as fast as a blink. And since he couldn't create it all at once, it had to grow out of the ground, he was likely already too late –
Ed landed hard on his back, forcing his head up to see the perfect rectangular wall he'd formed, directly between the alchemist's apprentice and Mustang. It was the very first barrier he'd ever learned to transmute, the one he and Al had tried to use to keep the river back before their sensei had come in the nick of time to stop the flood.
One of only two transmutations he could perform in less time than a bullet could travel from its barrel to him.
And it had been too slow.
Mustang hit the pavement only a scant second after he had, and the mangled finger of the stone hand Ed and the other alchemist had fought over was breaking in half, having been cleaved by the wall as it had sprung out of the ground. It looked like that concrete finger had struck a blow to Roy's left side; his body had rotated so that he landed hard on his left shoulder, and though his position was awkward he made no move to shift.
He was out.
If not worse.
But he'd gotten in a hit of his own.
Despite the second, far more severe burn Mustang had inflicted before he'd been hit, the other alchemist didn't give Ed a chance to get his hands together again. Edward was caught up in the same tornado of stone he'd originally tried to capture the alchemist's apprentice with, only he was stationary, and the stone was twisting around him like soggy cotton. It was incredibly tight; his mistreated rib finally snapped completely, shifting in his chest, and he would have yelled if he'd had the breath for it.
This was it.
Another flash permeated the sudden haze, and Ed clearly made out the charred left arm of the alchemist's apprentice as it was repaired. Maybe it wasn't really human transmutation; none of the attacks had killed him. It was probably just healing alchemy, but it was still far more complex than the most advanced healing techniques –
How could he concentrate through the pain?
A strong wave of exhaustion washed over Edward as the other alchemist approached him, like heat off a distant desert ridge. He swallowed back a sudden resurgence of his nausea, trying to keep his attention focused on the man in front of him. Off of Mustang.
He was down for the fight, anyway. So long as he stayed down, he was probably safe.
It didn't look like killing them was the point.
It looked like fighting them was.
This alchemist just wasn't pulling his punches.
The alchemist's apprentice was smiling, staring at his repaired arm with a look of wonder. When he brought up his gaze to regard the alchemist he had trapped in the rock, however, it shifted almost immediately to the previous anger.
"You've seen the Gate," he hissed, as if it was an accusation. "Tell me you've seen it!"
Edward tried to take a better breath, wincing at a sharp pain in the left side of his chest. Apparently that was shifting the rib. It was hard enough to breathe with as tightly as he was bound, and the very air seemed to be sapping his strength.
It was in the ingredients. Whatever it was, feedback or some kind of alchemic energy, it was in the rock he was surrounded with.
He wondered how much of this feedback an alchemist could absorb before it permanently damaged them.
"Is that – what this is about?" Was that why this guy was so fixated with him? "The old man . . . wouldn't take you with him?"
Didn't he realize how lucky that was?
The other alchemist's eyes narrowed, and he wiped the sweat off his right temple. "You don't think I'm good enough either, do you. You don't think I could have handled it." The rocks tightened in response to the alchemist's anger, and Ed almost blacked out.
"He even took her." The voice seemed distant. "And I could transmute circles around Cassie. She was supposed to stop you from leaving." The last seemed added as an afterthought.
Cassie. The girl without a voice. That was her name. "I – killed her." They didn't sound as if they'd been close, but maybe either angering this alchemist further, or shocking him, might give him another opening –
He heard a laugh. "I'm not surprised. She was worthless." Oddly, the concrete seemed to relax around him, and Edward managed to open his eyes.
The alchemist was staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching them with a look of confusion. There was another flash of light, this time to his hands, and then he nodded to himself, dropping them. The second he did it, the exposed skin of Edward's face tingled unpleasantly, and his head increased in weight by twenty pounds.
It was getting worse, every time the alchemist healed himself.
Ed blinked, fighting to hold onto that train of thought. The amplifier was altering the bonds of the molecules it forced into different configurations. In essence, it was making things more resistant to alchemy.
And he was using it to transmute his body.
"Stop." The word choked him, and Ed swallowed with difficulty. "You're –killing yourself."
He was making his own body resistant to alchemy. He was also making it cause him feedback. Ed was fairly sure distance played a part in this feedback, but you couldn't escape your own flesh and blood. It would probably eventually diminish on its own, if it was some kind of energy bond breaking down, but the question was how much damage it would do before then. And the more he did it, the worse it was going to get.
The alchemist's eyes sharpened, but he sneered the comment away. "You still think you can fight? Or are you referring to your sensei?" The man glanced behind him.
"Not my sensei -" He couldn't get much volume behind it, but he ground it out as quickly as he could. Mustang hadn't so much as twitched, but it didn't mean the other man wouldn't finish him off.
"I don't believe you," the other alchemist taunted, turning back and wiping at his right eye again. "He was more worried about his puking apprentice than he was his own hide." A calculating look. "And you're just the same."
"Why . . ." He couldn't find the energy to complete the question, but it didn't matter. The other man would know what he was asking. If he kept him talking, he was probably going to succumb to his own symptoms. The man seemed to be sweating more profusely now, though it was hard to tell if he was any more pale.
"Why what?" The other alchemist shoved his face into his. "Why am I doing this? Because I can. Because I am on par with State Alchemists!"
". . . not."
"You don't think so?" He straightened suddenly. "We're the same age, and you're a State Alchemist, right? You've seen the Gate. You transmute without a circle. And I STILL BEAT YOU!"
"Think . . . so?" He fought for a deep enough breath to talk. "You're already dead, idiot."
The other alchemist wiped his face again, the gesture swift and angry. "So are you," he snapped.
Then things started happening very quickly.
A ribbon of the stone, as thin as a sheet of paper and an inch wide, rose from the mound surrounding him. It swiftly coiled around until it was facing him, sharpening itself into a point.
Right around the same time, two bulletholes exploded out of the alchemist's chest.
Ed stared at the other alchemist in shock before the report of the gun registered, and then yanked his head as far to the left as his concrete prison would let him. He'd been right to dodge; the other alchemist had decided to finish him off this time before he healed himself, and he felt the slightest catch of something on his right cheekbone.
Given how razor-thin that strip of concrete was, he'd probably just been cut to the bone.
The afternoon light disappeared altogether as countless ribbons of stone rose above his head, all curling down like streamers to fall around him. He felt several impacts, but surprisingly little pain, and his stomach lurched at a sudden falling sensation.
It hurt a lot less than the last time he'd died.
Light returned, on the other side of his closed eyelids, and there seemed to be an indistinct roaring. It drowned even itself out, and Ed relaxed, waiting patiently for something more interesting to happen. He didn't really want to open his eyes. Every time the Gate struck, it always waited until you realized it was there and had just enough time to conclude that you were screwed. He wasn't sure what would happen if he just refused to acknowledge it at all.
But what if Al was there . . .?
He felt something touching him, and pain returned as he was ungently yanked to the side. His eyes flew open as his rib shifted again, and he found himself watching rubble whizzing past.
And a leg. A blue one.
A military uniform.
He was being carried.
He was being carried rather unceremoniously, actually, over someone's shoulder, and at a respectable pace.
Another alchemist, then? Someone had gotten him out of the concrete? It wasn't Mustang, obviously, and Al never wore his uniform –
His right eye began to burn, and he squeezed them both shut, lest more blood get into them.
" - get Mustang." It was hard to get enough volume, between the shoulder digging into his stomach and his jostled ribcage, but he did the best he could. Even if it wasn't an alchemist carrying him, at least one more had joined the fight. Whoever it was might provide enough cover to let this soldier get back in there.
Abruptly they halted, and he was eased down the man's shoulder. It was massive; he felt like he was sliding off a ventilation shaft. He cracked his eyes open again when he assumed he was upright, though his right refused to do more than squint.
"Edward Elric!" Even if he couldn't see the bald head and the blonde curl, the voice gave him away.
Of course.
He'd taken Franklin somewhere safe, and then come back for them.
"Mustang," he repeated. He shouldn't have had to; Alex Armstrong had seen Mustang fighting. He should have known the Prime Minister was still out there.
The Strong Arm Alchemist just nodded, lowering Ed fully to the ground. Ed found the rubble to be very comfortable, and let his head loll to the left as Armstrong took off again, in the direction of the battle. There was the familiar flash of bright yellow light, and he could make out the other alchemist, arms wrapped around his chest. Almost immediately there was another flash of light, again starting at his feet and working its way up, and when the light faded, the alchemist hadn't changed positions.
Armstrong took advantage, stopping his sprint to slam his fists into the ground, and various battering rams bearing the Armstrong family bust erupted from the ground at all sides of the other alchemist, meeting in the center. Almost before they struck Ed saw another attempt at healing transmutation begin, and he watched almost impassively as Armstrong picked himself up off the ground, his back heaving.
The effort it must have taken to accomplish that attack was staggering.
Probably as much as it had taken to get him out of that concrete coffin so quickly.
He was still glancing over the battlefield, obviously searching for Mustang, and a strangled cry cut through the odd roar in Ed's ears. The alchemist had survived Armstrong's attack, but he'd fallen to one knee, his arms still wrapped around him. His head was bowed, but he was clearly the source of the sound, and he shuddered twice in rapid succession.
Motion caught Ed's attention, and he lowered his chin slightly, watching three uniformed soldiers approaching, all with weapons drawn. They seemed vaguely familiar-shaped, but before he could pin them down another flash of light brought his attention back to the alchemist's apprentice.
And another.
And another.
Didn't he realize what he was doing?
Edward closed his eyes as the repetition of the flashes increased in frequency. It was probably too late the first time he'd done it, actually. The fact that he'd been forced to heal himself so many times thereafter had just sealed his fate.
It wouldn't matter if he had access to that amplifier. It obviously couldn't be used to perform successful human transmutation.
A particularly strong light flared up, and Ed opened his eyes in time to see it fade to nothing.
Literally, nothing.
There was no alchemist, crouched on the ground anymore.
Instead, he saw a few dark lumps on the ground, and only a few inches from them, an opaque white crystal, about eight inches long.
He felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling again, and Edward turned his face away. He was right; it was directional. He could feel it on the left side of his face like sunlight.
And he was at least twenty yards away.
Was the feedback effect cumulative? Did it increase the more the amplifier was used to transmute the same ingredients? Did it make the bonds the amplifier created more powerful? Was that why the ingredients that had been transmuted twice were even harder to manipulate than before?
In that case, the remains of the alchemist were going to be by far the worst, considering how many times they'd been transmuted.
If he could feel the effects so instantly, from here –
Armstrong needed to get out of there.
Everyone did.
He watched Alex stumble, and the blue uniforms hurried to him. The short, stocky one was undoubtedly Breda, but he didn't recognize the other two. He thought about opening his mouth, to warn them away, but it was a lot of effort and they wouldn't hear him anyway. The tingling was making his skin numb, and it was getting hard to remember to breathe.
Mustang. Had they seen Mustang yet?
The two uniforms suddenly left Armstrong, heading in the right direction with a shout. They ran without stumbling, their voices were energetic and filled with urgency.
Couldn't they feel it?
"Edward!"
Small rocks scattered as someone approached him, from behind, but he couldn't be bothered to turn his head. He just watched in confusion as Breda started trying to help Armstrong to his feet. Alex was barely able to lend assistance at this point; he was more than half-carried by the bury soldier, but Breda didn't collapse beneath the weight of the Strong Arm Alchemist and his proximity to the remains.
He shouldn't have been able to walk, let alone carry the massive weight of the Brigadier General.
Why wasn't he affected?
"Oh my god –"
Someone very rudely took hold of his face, tiling it towards the sky, and Ed didn't even have the energy to frown as Kain Fuery swam into view.
"Edward! Ed, can you hear me!?"
Of course he could. He was awake, wasn't he?
Sluggishly he realized he probably didn't look it. He probably looked like he was staring off into space, and he was pretty sure half his face was covered in blood. He tried to opened his mouth to reassure the other officer, but found that was too difficult to do, so he gave up. Fuery would eventually find a pulse.
No. Mustang. He had to tell them to get Mustang.
"Hang on, Edward. Help's on the way!"
It wasn't like he was dying –
Ed tried to turn his head, to make sure the other officers had found Mustang, but he found he couldn't fight Fuery's rock-solid hold on him.
This was ridiculous.
His anger at himself finally gave him enough strength to speak. "Roy-"
Kain looked like he was about to start crying with relief. "They've got him. Don't try to talk. You're going to be fine."
He was babbling, as energetic as usual, and Edward stared at him. He didn't seem to be feeling the effects, either.
What the hell was going on?
- x -
Author's Notes: Well, gee, if I didn't end up with more questions than answers. At least the Reign Of OCs™ has been ended. I looked through, but I've re-written this chapter countless times, so I probably can't see anything at this point. Which means there are typos everywhere. Many apologies to Silverfox for the lateness, but hopefully the length makes up for it . . .?