Ed claps his hands, slaps them against the house's stone foundation and vaults down into the basement. When he hits the floor the walls are glowing bright blue with chemiluminescence -- a party trick, but a damned useful one. "Bar the door!" he yells to Al.
The whine of his brother's work is overwhelmed by the enemy's upscaling moans. They're still pathetically clumsy (Ed wonders if whatever raddled them has a neurodegenerative component) and guileless, launching themselves at him like rag dolls fired from a cannon. Easy pickings.
The noise is unnerving, though. He aims for the larynx when he can.
oOo
When the lights go on Ed is simultaneously blinded, driven to the floor by a lucky blow, and poleaxed imagining Winry's hand on the switch. "Al!" he shouts. His brother leapfrogs him, clearing the way to the stairwell. Ed stays low, kneecapping his opponents, and follows.
At the top of the steps Al sweeps a frozen Winry over the sill. Ed spins, clapping; the treads flip like dominoes when he touches the last riser and their pursuers slide in a ululating heap down the ramp.
Ed turns off the light before he shuts the door, mindful of the electric bill.
oOo
"We told you to stay out of it!" Al scolds Winry.
She brushes him off and grabs Ed's right arm. "Hurry!" she insists. "I need you in the surgery now!"
A rap against the cellar door interrupts them, followed immediately by a heavy thud and a sound like a sack of potatoes tumbling through a chute. The brothers exchange harried looks. "I'll reinforce this," Al says.
"Check the windows, too," Ed cautions. "I'll catch up. -- All right, Winry!" he adds, yielding to her urgent tugging so abruptly that she stumbles. "This better be important."
"It is," she answers. "You'll see."