Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.
Content Warning: Extremely mild tearjerk warning. Really, really mild. More like a cringe warning.
- x -
"My colleague."
It was the first time in Al's recollection that Goodman had spoken at all.
He turned in surprise to the barrel-chested bodyguard, standing just beside the staging room door, and he was greeted with the same slightly unfriendly look he always got. Everyone was a threat. Everyone was suspect.
Brooks, on the other hand, had the same look, but allowed his girlfriend to kiss him in public. He was the one dating one of Patterson's nurses, assuming they still were dating. He was definitely the more mild of the two, in Al's opinion, though the descriptor could hardly be readily applied to either of them.
"Why did he attack him?" Russell didn't sound any more friendly than he had when he'd growled the question at the doctor.
Goodman didn't respond at all until Mustang tilted his chin slightly, granting him permission. "He suspected a gun."
A gun. Well, it was an oddly shaped bag, but no more oddly shaped than he'd been carrying into the Prime Minister's wing for months. Russ didn't miss that detail either.
"Why tonight? Just good luck?"
"He looked nervous," Mustang murmured, letting Goodman off the hook. "Brooks was quite a bit more vigorous than I expected, though that may be due to the fact that so many people have been trying to kill me recently."
Russ seemed no less satisfied than he'd been before, but he let it go, and directed his next to the doctor. "Did he see you staying with him?"
The doctor almost flinched. Almost. "He did," he said solemnly. "I spoke to him until I was cer- . . . as long as he was able to hear me."
He wasn't sure how much comfort the man that had murdered him really would have been for Fletcher. If the first body they'd seen was really Fletch's, his expression indicated that he hadn't been at ease. Then again, death by paralyzed muscles would be short and unpleasant. Severe muscle cramps, nausea, suffocation . . . loss of all bodily control. Al wasn't sure he could think of another way to die, with your body, and feel that helpless.
And obviously if Russ had progressed to contemplating his brother's last moments, this interview needed to be ended before a quick transmutation put Patterson out of his own misery. Regardless of the fact that he'd acted to save hundreds of lives, Russell would probably never forgive him.
There had to have been another way to derail Fletcher. There was nothing he could have found that would have been completely disastrous for Franklin's plan, not if they still weren't sure that Franklin hadn't pulled it off. There had to have been another road for the doc to take.
"Why didn't you ask us for help?" Obviously Russell had the skills to remove the bracelet – for heaven's sake, the Prime Minister of the damn country was a personal friend! Why, once he got to know them, hadn't he trusted them?
Patterson's adam's apple bobbed, but his reply ended there, and finally he dropped his eyes. Russell had lost all patience with him, and turned back to the staging room door in disgust. No matter what the doctor thought of to say, nothing would ever be an acceptable excuse. Patterson had the trust and friendship of the most powerful people in his country, and instead of turning to them, he had let the chance slip through his fingers. He'd even killed the younger brother of the man who ended up saving his town.
Only when they were walking out of the staging room into the main hall did Al realize he'd just asked the same question that Mustang had asked them, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Why didn't you come to me for help.
The Prime Minister was again the first out into the hallway, his shoulders square and tense, and he didn't look back as Goodman took his usual position. No wonder Roy was being so distant. He couldn't afford to feel, couldn't afford to feel anything at all. This situation itself was bad enough, but the country stood on the brink of war. And as important as his State Alchemists were to him, even Fletcher, the country took precedence.
He couldn't spare this any more of his time or attention. Patterson had betrayed his trust as deeply as he'd betrayed Fletcher, in a way.
Al closed his eyes briefly. When Breda learned of all of this . . . maybe Roy would be bright enough not to mention it. Or to deny him visitation, now that he had his confession he could lock Patterson away forever-
High treason. He was being charged with high treason. They didn't lock you away for that. They executed you.
But surely extenuating circumstances . . . ? Patterson should have trusted them not to give the game away to Blane, should have trusted them to handle the situation carefully and seriously. But the fact remained that he was as much a hostage as Jannai was. To refuse outright could have meant many deaths. The courts would have to take that into account, they'd find the true villain was Avram and-
Al turned, just a curious glance to see if he could tell which cell was Blane's, and he discovered two things.
There were several uniforms and one doctor gathered near the far end of the hall.
And Russell Tringum, whom he'd thought was following him, was actually more than halfway to that group of people.
Al turned on his heels, not bothering to do so surreptitiously. Goodman would sense soon enough that they weren't following, and he'd stay where he was to keep Mustang away from the distraught alchemist. But the soldiers in front of Blane's cell – and their guns – were another matter altogether. They were already looking up curiously at his approach, and Russ was walking purposefully, as if he'd been granted permission and belonged there.
Belonged in front of the cell that housed the man that had masterminded all of this. The one as responsible as Patterson.
The one that said his brother had been transmuted into a homunculus.
It was probably his stricken look, as far from them as Al was, that had gotten their attention, and when Russ was about four yards from his goal the first soldier raised his hand. "Excus-"
Russell brought his hands together quietly and wasted no motion in touching the wall beside him.
Al brought his hands together as well, now knowing what Russ was going to transmute, and he followed suit as alchemic energy raced across the stone. Nothing more alarming than a wall formed, taking rock from elsewhere and moving it to completely encase the soldiers in their own brand new cell. This also moved the door to the staging room of Blane's cell much closer to him, and Russ was almost through before Al's own transmutation caught up.
Russ whirled, at the same time there was a gunshot, and Al registered a bullet whizzing past as he freed the trapped soldiers. Dear god, they were actually going to shoot him, they didn't realize he wasn't there to break Blane out but to kill him-
"Russ, stop-"
With the rush of displaced air, a well-formed and exceedingly hot ball of flames roared into existence practically on top of Russell. He ducked reflexively, bringing his hands together, and Al clapped quickly, intending to encase Russell's hands in the stone. The fire would stay the soldiers for a second, but only a second-
"CONTROL YOURSELF!"
It was possibly the angriest he'd ever heard Roy Mustang, and considering how upset the Flame Alchemist had been when he'd found them after the last human transmutation incident, it was enough to stop Al in his tracks.
Russell, too, seemed deeply surprised, stumbling out of the dodge with his back against the doorframe he'd transmuted. Even with a transmutation prepared, Russ had to know he couldn't get his hands onto anything before Mustang could snap again, and he visibly weighed his chances of ducking into the room to dodge the next attack. Gas was gas and would follow him, but since quite obviously there was someone with a gun already in the staging room, Roy couldn't risk it.
Russ seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he glanced into the staging room, probably to get a bead on whoever took a shot at him. In the next second Al was certain Russell had actually been hit somewhere in the scuffle, because every bit of energy and strength in him seemed to suddenly dissipate. He sagged against the doorframe, oblivious to everything but whatever it was he was seeing, and Al glanced questioningly back at Mustang. He could easily pin the alchemist with stone and end this, but –
Mustang stood there, at nearly the opposite end of the hallway, fingers poised, yet no array in sight. For a brief, ridiculous instant Al wondered when Roy had performed human transmutation before he realized Mustang must have started keeping one hidden on his person to lull his enemies into a false sense of security.
It had certainly worked with Russ, after all.
But despite the fact that Roy could strike, and prevent Russ from going into the cell, he didn't move. His voice had been thunderous, but his expression was one of deep disappointment and . . . resignation. Almost like Patterson's expression had been.
In this brief pause, every soldier in the hallway had pulled a weapon, all of them trained on Russell, but still, he hadn't moved. He remained exactly where he was as if holding up the wall. Something had calmed - or spooked - him enough that Al decided not to further the situation with alchemy, and he approached Tringum, his hands by his sides.
"Russell-"
Deliberate footsteps on the concrete told Al that either Goodman or Mustang was well on his way, and he joined Tringum by his transmuted door, seeing into the staging room. Colonel Hawkeye was there, gun trained on Russell, but thankfully there was no sign of Hakuro. The reaction to wall up the soldiers in the hall had taken more stone than he'd thought, because the inner wall between the staging room and the cell room was gone as well, and the occupant of the cell was quite directly in their line of sight.
He looked as stunned as Al felt, and after a moment, Al put a steadying hand on the other side of the doorframe.
That wasn't Avram Blane.
Almost in a trance, Alphonse stepped into the staging room, paying no attention even when he stepped directly into Hawkeye's line of sight. She hadn't lowered her service pistol but she didn't point it at him, and as there was no more door to guard, he had all the room in the world to move around her.
The tang of antiseptic was strong enough to turn his stomach; it stank like he'd just stuffed his head into a metal tin of treated bandages. Beneath it was the odor of dead tissue, and charring, bringing with it unwanted memories of the war in Europe. The alchemist was still curled over, his eyes wide and frightened, and it wasn't until Al was almost in front of him that he found the source of the stench.
The man's right arm was badly burned from his fingertips to his elbow. Second degree at least, third degree in places. The tissue was already starting to slough off, and despite the dreadful injury, he had been secured in an alchemist's chair, and the leather binding that pinned his left arm to the armrest also secured his right. The only nod Amestris had made to the burn was a clean white cloth between the burn and the armrest.
No bandaging. No creams. No IV to get fluids into what had to be a quickly dehydrating body.
The alchemist in question was quite obviously in extreme discomfort, panting, scruffy chin dripping with tears and sweat. His eyes were glazed with fear and pain, and oddly, they flicked to Hawkeye even as he swallowed, as if in preparation to speak.
Al, on the other hand, couldn't seem to find his voice.
The alchemist in the chair was Fletcher Tringum.
Only that was quite impossible, seeing as Patterson, a brilliant doctor, had killed him. And confirmed he was dead. And done it in such a way that resuscitation was impossible. So this wasn't Fletcher Tringum huddling around his arm as best he could, staring past Al with a horrified look on his face. This was a homunculus.
A homunculus with a burn?
Al finally tore his eyes away from the specter of his friend, turning until he could see Hawkeye. She had lowered her pistol, and the reason was standing in the doorway with Russell, speaking in such a low voice that Al couldn't hear it at all. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
"He attacked Patterson?"
Mustang looked up, the resignation heavy now in his tone as well when he spoke. "Yes. Last night."
He didn't need to ask where the burn came from. He was surprised Mustang hadn't torched the thing completely, had only burned the arm - maybe he'd been hoping for a miracle.
And the doc had just shattered that hope.
Russell showed no signs of coming any closer. No wonder Mustang was angry with them. He'd probably never intended for them to know it had been a homunculus, at least not yet. Even Goodman had lied - Goodman! - to hide this. The burn was a test, to see if Fletcher was a homunculus, to see if he would heal. Something so painful that the homunculus would choose to heal, on the off chance that was a conscious and not unconscious choice. Something to make it give itself away.
"Did he transmute?"
Roy seemed to consider his words carefully, but he didn't leave Russell's side. "Patterson can't say for sure. I didn't want to take the chance." After all, Wrath could use alchemy, and even though that was a special circumstance there was nothing saying someone who had known Dante wouldn't have picked up a neat array or two.
But again, if Blane had done it, he would have seen the Gate. He would have been able to transmute without a circle. If he'd made that bracelet, he was quite clever himself, he would have figured it out -
Al turned back to the figure, noting that now he was ducking his head, trying to stifle a whimper. He looked completely terrified, and Al's heart went out to him despite himself. He would have only been a few days old, if he was like Wrath, he probably had no idea what was going on, and only a dim memory of the man who had killed him. He was in the standard prisoner light blue, bare feet curled tightly even in the ankle bindings.
"Where's the ouroboros tattoo?" That was another dead giveaway, after all, one that Mustang would know well.
There was a long pause, punctuated by the pained, quick breaths in the cell. Eventually Al couldn't watch him anymore, and turned back to the people in the room behind him.
Hawkeye was still there, as well as Mustang and Russ. Goodman, however, was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the soldiers that had been ready to kill Russell not two minutes ago. Al was briefly stunned that he'd let Mustang out of his sight with Fletcher in that cell, but then again, he could do little against a homunculus. Mustang was safer with him and Russ than he was with just about anyone else.
"The tattoo," he repeated, in a low voice. It might give them an idea of what he could do, and he knew well that changing or destroying the tattoo would have an effect on the homunculus. If he thought about it hard enough, he could probably remember the array that caused them to reject the Red Stone.
"There isn't one," Mustang replied at last. "Not visible, at any rate. Nor has he healed the burn, even when unconscious."
It was a long time before he figured out some way to continue his train of thought. "Has he said anything?" Anything, a clue on the creator, or where he woke up-
"You may interview him if you like," was Mustang's cryptic reply.
Some life seemed to come back to Russ, but not much. He raised his head, the first stirring of anger in his eyes, but it faded quickly back to a dazed shock as he looked at the thing that looked so much like his little brother.
Fear, Al realized. In a way, Russ was just as terrified of the situation as the homunculus seemed to be. If this was a homunculus-
But what else could it be? No one could bring back the dead. Not without a Philosopher's Stone, at any rate. And even then the window was tiny.
Al turned back to the cell, curling his shaking fingers into a fist. This was going to be hard. Harder with Russell there. "What do you remember?"
The young man looked up, then stole a quick glance behind Al. He apparently got some sort of permission, because he took a slightly deeper breath. "Please get Russ out of here. Please."
It was Fletcher. Down to the blue eyes that were almost grey. The imploring tone of his voice, even the facial scruff was familiar. And how would he remember Russell, when Sloth had barely remembered them . . .?
Al sucked on his bottom lip a moment, then crouched down by the bars, so the pained figure in the chair didn't have to crane his neck quite so far. "What do you remember?" If he had to listen to much more, he was going to believe in his heart that this was Fletcher Tringum, and that would make everything so much harder-
"I'm staying," came a raspy voice from behind him, and then stiff-sounding footsteps. Al watched the Fletcher in the cell's eyes as they followed whoever was approaching, then squeezed shut as he shook his head. Fresh tears tumbled down his cheeks.
"Please go. Please don't look at me."
There was the sound of shifting fabric, and then Russell was crouched beside him. He put his hands around the metal bars but didn't transmute them, and he rested his forehead against the cool metal. He looked ready to cry himself, but he said nothing else, and Al sighed softly.
"Tell me what you remember."
The blonde figure ducked his head, apparently unable to look at Russ another moment, and this close, his trembling was more obvious. After a long time he admitted defeat, and he spoke "God, Al, I don't kn-know . . I m-mean- I don't know what to tell you." He tried to steady his voice, tried to hide the pain in it. "Patterson. I went to the h-hospital after I got . . . that information for you." He swallowed loudly and his face contorted.
Suddenly his own shoulder didn't seem to hurt so terribly. Not in comparison to that burn.
"Sheska had said s-something and it made me think. I . . . I wanted to ask the doc about it, and he gave me a shot. Didn't think anything of it. But-" Then he broke off, and looked up, looked directly at his brother.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . . but I couldn't- . . . I died." He choked on the words. "And . . . I went to the Gate."
Al found himself unable to untangle his fist. "Then what?"
It was a long time before Fletcher seemed able to go on. "Then they – you know, th-the things, the arms - and I heard the doors close, Al. I - . . .they pulled me in."
So much for not entering the Gate. "And then?"
The figure shuddered a little, though from pain or memory it was hard to tell. Maybe both. ". . . I don't remember." He sounded petrified. "I've tried and t-tried, but I don't remember a thing. It was like I blinked and I was on the floor in the hospital again, and -" He stopped, taking a deeper breath. "Franklin Sorn. He was beside me, and I was beside me. I saw my own body."
So Franklin Sorn had performed a successful human transmutation.
Al stood so abruptly that Fletcher flinched, and he took a step back, more to get away from the smell and proximity than to reject the thing in front of him.
No homunculus he'd ever known knew that much about its own creation but Wrath. And there was no telling how much of it Envy or Dante had told Wrath before he'd returned to throw it in sensei's face. Possibly Dante, or even their father, with all their experience, could make such a perfect homunculus without nursing it, but could Sorn? Or perhaps Fletcher's body had been taken by one of the creatures like Ed's had, to be used . . .
"Incomplete stone," Al finally offered. "I wouldn't think it would be sufficient for a successful transmutation, but lack of enough of it could explain why he can't heal. And we know Sorn had some." Then Sorn had told him what to say, given him a past . . . and if he was one of the Gate-beings parading around in Fletch's body, he might know things. Maybe Sorn had given something up with the transmutation, as well. They didn't necessarily know that he was uninjured-
Hawkeye was watching him closely, completely unlike Goodman had been, and suddenly Al was grateful for her presence. Roy was still standing in what had been the staging room, his countenance calm and cool. As if the last five minutes hadn't happened.
"He claims Sorn told him he had no idea why Patterson did what he did. He says he spent the last few days keeping an eye on Patterson, and when he came here, he got suspicious and followed. He was found wearing borrowed clothes and a brown wig."
Al knew he'd been the one to come up with the idea - probably proven correct at this point - that Franklin had been in the hospital that day to find and hide the record of his guardians. And when he'd been in the records room himself, he'd noted that he could hear into the apothecary. If Franklin heard the commotion, then investigated after the doc left -
But the paralytic was still in his system. He wouldn't have been able to make the body work, not without pulling out the drug and he just wasn't skilled enough to do that.
Though- "Patterson said eight minutes on the paralytic, right?"
Roy nodded after a moment. He didn't ask the obvious question, but Al was already thinking it. Ed had been stabbed through the chest by Envy and been dead for at least five or six minutes. His blood had been slowly leaving his body, so his tissues would have been subjected to the same lack of oxygen as Fletcher's-
But again, that had required a Philosopher's Stone. And Sorn didn't have one of those. There was no way he'd mined enough Incomplete Stone to have created one, and even if he had, they'd have heard of a mass disappearance or death -
Al felt his eyes widen, and Mustang responded immediately. "What are you thinking?"
But . . . that had happened years ago. It couldn't possibly tie to this issue. "I was thinking it couldn't be done without a Philosopher's Stone," he mused aloud, "but then it occurred to me . . ." Was it possible that the Incomplete Stone had nothing to do with this? If Blane was working with Dante, was it possible he had access to the human transmutation circle? But he simply wasn't powerful enough to pull it off without dying, so he'd turned to his apprentice . . .
That would have meant that Franklin transmuted a Philosopher's Stone at the tender age of thirteen.
". . . the Ishbalans," he finished lamely. "There were forty people who disappeared without a trace in Jannai, two years ago. The townsfolk said that rogue Ishbalans had killed them in the woods, a survivor who had had her tongue bitten out had said something that effect . . ." But what if she hadn't really had it bitten out? What if Blane spared just one of them, and told her to lie? Removing her tongue meant she'd never accidentally speak of it, and she'd died not too much later choking on a simple roll . . .
"You think . . ." Russ's voice was extremely quiet, almost broken. "You think they were ingredients?"
The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made sense. Then Franklin wouldn't have been starting from scratch with the Incomplete Stone, but adding to a Stone he already had. A pitiful Stone, forty people would only make one small enough to fit on a ring. Completely useless to Blane, which may have been why he came up with the plan to push the country into war. It might have explained the falling out, too – talking the boy into doing something he hadn't figured out until it was too late -
And while that tiny Stone was worthless to Blane, if he let the kid keep it as a gesture of goodwill or support, and Sorn was growing it, figured out that Incomplete Stone wasn't going to cut it, and determined he needed more humans directly-
And then, being that he set up an entire army, Frank's tiny little Stone wouldn't matter in the great scheme of things. And since Sorn obviously hadn't been fully aware of Blane's duplicity, it would make sense logically to revive Fletch to ask him why Patterson had did what he'd done.
Setting the traps, disappearing – he might have been hiding from more than Amestrian scrutiny. He might have been hiding from Blane, too, having finally figured out that the guy meant to take the Stone himself.
Al turned back to the cell. "Did Sorn ask you why Patterson killed you?"
Fletcher looked loathe to have to speak to all of them again, especially Russ, but eventually he complied. ". . . y-yes. That was why he told me to watch him. I . . . I still don't know why, unless it was because I asked him about Arturu . . . it was what Jannai used to be called."
Al nodded. "I know." Franklin would have overheard the conversation, it didn't prove anything.
"Why didn't you come home?" Russ's voice was shaking, and Fletcher turned away, moaning low in his throat.
"I – I don't know what I am!" he finally cried. "I died, Russ! I died and I woke up and I don't know if the me I saw was a doll or – or I am! God . . . what am I?"
"Did Sorn have any Red Stone?"
Fletcher looked back up at him, another set of tears wetting his eyes. "I – I don't know! I . . . I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. Barely understood what he was saying to me. I was –" He stopped himself. "I was in pain, like there was something wrong with me," he finally choked out. "I don't remember anything clearly until the next day."
Not much to go on their, either. The doll was badly formed or he was in his real body and Franklin did a bad job repairing it. But Russ shifted, pulling his face off the bars.
"Can you transmute?" His voice sounded almost hollow.
Fletcher swallowed, then shook his head. "Didn't try," he whispered. "I w-was . . . afraid."
Afraid that he'd get his answer, and he wouldn't like it.
Al watched his thoughts chase their tails for a while, cradling his arm unconsciously as he considered. No tattoo, no idea if he could transmute, no evidence of healing, but the Philosopher's Stone idea was thin . . . without putting him on a homunculus-binding array . . . but if there hadn't been enough incomplete Stone, there wouldn't be any to puke up, and without a piece of the real Fletcher, they couldn't test with that either.
"Russ, do you have anything of his? A lock of hair?"
Russell looked stricken. "No," he answered, in the same hollow voice. "There might be some hair on his pillow, or in the tub drain, but . . ." He trailed off. "But then again it could be mine."
"I already checked that," Mustang's cool voice interrupted. "Maria is unaware of why the request was made," he added, as Russell's head whipped around. "Either way it had no effect. I have done everything I am aware of to do."
"We can see that." But he was still too stunned to be bitter, and Roy didn't react at all.
What else . . . well, homunculi were soul-less, but unless Ed was around, it was hard to check for one of those. "Where's nii-san?"
The briefest of pauses. "Probably somewhere on the west border. That occurred to me as well," Roy added quietly.
He wasn't really sure how Ed knew how to find souls, though clearly he was the most experienced with it –
A new thought tugged playfully on his brain. No, actually, Edward wasn't the one most experienced with souls. Well, with other people's. One other person's, really.
His. And he was more familiar with it than nii-san was.
"When nii-san went through the Gate the first time," he mused aloud. "he was drawn to his other. His double. He could hear that boy's thoughts, almost like he was speaking to him." Until he'd died in a zeppelin crash that Winry was never going to forgive him for. "Which means two souls can inhabit a body for at least a short amount of time without permanently dislodging the other."
"No." It was Mustang, and it was instant. "That is a decision you need to make after you've had some time to consider."
Al shrugged, favoring his left shoulder. "You think my soul would just become trapped in the Incomplete Stone if I tried it, right?" He wasn't even sure he could put his soul into living things, but - "But obviously there isn't any Incomplete Stone here, or the burn would have healed."
Roy's jawline was tight. "You're assuming a homunculus cannot control that ability."
Well, that was true.
"I questioned your judgment before. I'm doing it again. Both of you need some time to consider options-"
"While what?" Finally, life. Anger. "While his arm falls off?"
Russell's point was valid. The injury was severe, and while he was sure at this point Mustang would approve treatment, the longer it was left, the harder it would be to heal. Then again, keeping a homunculus behind bars without an array . . . if this Fletcher was just using them, he already had them eating out of his hand. One slip-up and they could all be dead before they knew what hit them.
"Neither of you has slept in days," Roy countered. "What Alphonse is considering risking is a piece of his soul. Excuse my bluntness, but isn't that why Hohenheim and Dante needed Philosopher's Stones to begin with? A body cannot be sustained by only part of a soul?"
Al cocked his head to the side. That was also a good point. He did fine for a while with his soul in inanimate objects, but if he left them there for too long, would he get sick as their father had done?
"I don't even know that I can put a piece of my soul into a living being," Al murmured, half a retort. "But outside of testing for a soul I don't see how-"
Russell pulled himself to his feet. "Try it on me."
Mustang's lips thinned, but he didn't repeat his protest. Nor did he forbid them. Al carefully didn't look at Hawkeye at all. "Russ-"
"You said yourself, two souls in one body won't kill anyone." He took a step forward. "If you want to know . . . you can test with me."
"Russ . . . " He faltered. "For all I know, it might be human transmutation-"
"Not if you don't dislodge my soul," Russ countered. "That was the reasoning we used when healing you-"
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, and that went well, don't you think?"
"Don't!"
It was the softest voice and it got the most response. They both looked back into the cell. Fletcher was weeping openly, shaking his head pleadingly. "Please, please don't. If anything h-happened to you b-because of me – no. No! I'd rather just die again, really, it's okay. It's okay," he repeated through the tears, in a pathetic attempt to reassure Russell, "I shouldn't be here. I know that. Please don't do this!" He almost choked on his next breath. "You can do anything else, please just don't . . . don't-"
Al faltered again, even as Russ turned away from all of them. God, it sounded exactly like something Fletch would say . . . and so would a homunculus that didn't want to be discovered. If it was Fletch, if they let this chance slip away –
But it wasn't like they couldn't wait for Ed, right? Maybe there was something to be said for the wisdom in thinking things over.
Al studied the cell even as Fletcher continued to beg, curled over himself as he was.
Hadn't he said, if there was the chance to have saved Fletcher, he'd take it? Hadn't Fletcher taken this chance for him, when they could have waited until the thing with Hakuro blew over? He'd been paralyzed but not about to die, eventually Hakuro would have let them see him again, try the infusion. The only risk had been-
Had been that something could change. The general could order this figure executed or destroyed for the safety and security of the country. A walking homunculus, even the rumor –
Or Mustang could make that decision for them. Make it as he might have been intending to make it all along. And what if Ed got caught up with Sorn? How long could they really afford to wait?
Al shook his head. "I don't need time," he said simply. "It doesn't matter if I test this now or later, at least on Russ. But you should probably sit down," he added, as the other alchemist whipped around in surprise. "I have no idea what this could feel like on the receiving end."
He also needed to do the math differently. He wasn't going to take immediate ownership of materials with his soul, that would be far too close to human transmutation, he needed to ease it in . . . Ed had said he'd fallen out of the sky and the force of joining had knocked him and his double out for hours. Russell swallowed and did as he was asked, and Al gave him a confident grin.
"Here goes nothing," he murmured, and then he brought his hands together, and touched Russ's left arm.
The slip of cold shot down his spine and arm, and Russell twitched, almost tearing out of his grasp. For a moment Al wasn't sure it had worked, because Russell continued to shiver, pulling away and grabbing his arm. If he had control, he would have expected his soul to do something to put them at ease, instead of looking so uncomfortable-
"Oh shit, this is weird," Russell finally said, a little shakily. "I am calm," he suddenly muttered in annoyance, then "Shut up," he added, looking up at Al. "I only want to talk to one of you at a time."
Al scratched his chin, bemused, as he watched Russell slowly climb to his feet. His eyes were narrowed and there was a pucker of skin between them, as if he was thinking very hard about something. "Okay, that's enough," he muttered. "I thought you were bad about the ribs from out there."
Al brought his hands back together and touched Russell's outstretched hand. Then he grabbed the man's wrist to support him as a glob of ice shot back up his arm. With it came the impression of incredible ache in his chest, and Al winced in spite of himself.
"Damn, Russ-"
"They're fine." He sounded more than a little cross. "You sound like a broken record, Elric."
Now he remembered the conversation from both ends, and he was startled to find that his soul had had the exact same thoughts he'd had. It hadn't felt any more or less draining than animating a suit of armor, so conceivably –
Conceivably he could determine if Fletch had a soul or not.
Al turned to Mustang. He looked –
Curious. Almost hopeful. But then he realized he'd been caught, and it faded instantly. "So your test was successful."
Al inclined his head. "It was." Then he looked back at the cell, where Fletcher was staring at them with wide eyes. He still looked terrified, but also relieved, and Russ shook himself slightly, and then realized he was being watched.
" . . . ribs?" It was incredibly timid, and Russ gaped at him.
"Not you too," he growled, trying to make it a joke, but Al could tell he was also hurt.
If this turned out not to be Fletcher –
And he couldn't make either of them wait until Ed got back. Not now.
"I want to." He turned back to Roy. "It's worth the risk."
Mustang tucked his hands into his pockets. "You'll do as you please regardless of what I suggest," he finally said. It wasn't approval, and it wasn't permission, but it was as close to either as Roy could possibly give him.
He wanted it to work as much as they did.
Al turned back to the cell immediately, noting the problem of the door. He could just transmute it, but a homunculus could be waiting for that, the key would be better. It also meant facing Hawkeye. Which he did, reluctantly, already dreading her expression. Even if Roy understood the principles, and also had been there, in the hospital, had seen what the Tringums had done for him, Hawkeye would never approve of something so risky.
And she didn't. But her eyes were soft, and her gun was holstered. She didn't say anything, staring at him for several seconds before she offered him the key, and he took it and gave her a brief smile in return.
She was used to the alchemists in her life doing stupid things.
Al approached the cell again, this time with key in hand, and Fletcher leaned up slightly, clearly panicked. "No. Oh, no, no Al, don't-"
"Wouldn't you rather know?" He said it as gently as he could.
Fletcher shook his head. "Not at this cost, Al, it's not worth it, please don't-"
"Don't you ever," he snapped suddenly, "tell me you are not worth the same risk you took for me. Fletcher wouldn't believe that."
Oddly, he met a pair of suddenly obstinate eyes. "Of course I would!" he objected. "I-" But then he stopped, horrified, and looked at his brother.
Al swung the door open, closing it behind him. "On the off chance something goes wrong," he murmured. Like his entire soul getting sucked into an Incomplete Stone, for example. He tossed the key back through the bars and Russ caught it gracelessly.
Fletcher was still shaking his head, trying to back through the chair, his bare feet scrabbling for purchase. "Please, Al, don't-"
But Alphonse ignored him, thought the math through, brought his hands together, and laid one on Fletcher's restrained left hand. Being trapped in an Incomplete Stone couldn't be worse than armor, right? Except, of course, the getting used part . . .
He felt the same glob of ice, and nothing more. No sensation that anything else was being drawn. It felt exactly the same as it had with Russ. Fletcher, on the other hand, jerked as if he'd been electrocuted, and then screamed.
Alphonse flinched back before he realized what had caused the reaction, and he hissed in sympathy, putting his good hand on Fletcher's left shoulder. He'd jerked back, jerked the burn in the leather cuff- "Breathe, Fletch," he soothed. "Breathe. I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
The yell tapered off into a bitten shout, and he whimpered with every breath. "Get it out, get it out, please get it out getitoutGETOUT!"
Al waited only as long as he could bear to watch Fletcher screaming, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He called for the piece of his soul, as he always did, and with the same fluid feeling, it returned. It brought with it an agonizing echo of pain that made him stumble, and Al suddenly wondered if Fletcher – and Russ – had felt the same echo of his shoulder.
He also felt panic.
He felt incredibly small, standing in the back of a darkened theater that had two eye-shaped screens instead of one rectangle. They flickered and moved in a nauseating way, and he saw his own curious face just seconds before a wave of agony raced up his arm. It was unbearable, it got worse by the second and the leather bit into it with red-hot needles, stripping the skin right off his bone.
"Don't-" He cried out himself in sympathy, the screens now black. "Relax, Fletcher, relax, don't pull on it-"
"No!" It was also an echo, and it came on top of the scream, in the same voice. Now on the screens, he saw the arms, wrapped all around what he assumed was the body beneath him. As if he was a tiny passenger standing in someone's skull. He felt the echo of those arms on his own body, warm and flat and oddly careful, even as they swept both of them off their feet and into the Gate.
He could see what Fletcher was thinking. What he was remembering.
He was remembering being taken in by the Gate.
The creatures that lived there were giggling as if greeting a long-lost friend, even as the doors closed with a reverberation he felt from head to toe They were talking to him, whispering, though he couldn't make out what they were saying. Just voices, detached but each unique-
"It's just a memory, Fletcher-"
"Shut up!" The voice was terrified, even as its double broke off in a cry. "Get away! Get away from me!" A static wave of panic rolled over him, reminding him of being slowly crushed in stone.
Fletcher was reminded of the Gatebeings because they talked to him the same way. Also reminiscent of Al's own sudden dislike of quickly descending elevators.
"Calm down! It's me! It's me, just breathe-"
And then the other voice. "Get it out, get it out, please get it out getitoutGETOUT!"
Al opened his eyes sharply, staring at the man in front of him for only a scant second before bringing his hands together. The leather cuffs were with withdrawn into the chair even as someone outside the cell was speaking, and he grabbed the younger man's good shoulder, trying to decide if he wanted to pick him up and hug him or carry him to a clinic bed.
Probably better to get him some pain meds first.
"You scared the hell out of me," he growled, settling for snagging Fletcher's head in a tight hug. "Don't you ever do that again."
The other man was sobbing into his chest, and Al hung on to him tightly for a moment before he heard the cell door crashing open, and he released him with another squeeze, making way for Russell. Russ, too, didn't seem to know what to do, eventually collapsing in front of the chair and grabbing his little brother around the middle. It might have shifted his arm, but it didn't look like Fletch really cared, and Al backed up until he encountered bars, scrubbing his face quickly.
Then he turned back to Mustang and Hawkeye. "It's him," he said, before he registered that there was only one person looking back.
Hawkeye inclined her head, her expression carefully schooled. "I guessed," she told him with trembling lips before, stunningly, closing her eyes and visibly composing herself.
"Mustang assumed you'd want to start on his arm right away," she said briskly, as though her lapse of control hadn't happened. Of course not. She was still on duty. "There are ingredients in the storage closet at the end of the hall."
Al nodded, turning back to see the two Tringums clinging to each other, and then, quite impulsively, he pulled the colonel into a hug.
"Thank you," he breathed, and she squeezed him back hard enough to hurt his shoulder. "Keep on eye on him, okay?"
She would know he wasn't talking about Fletcher, or Russell. He was talking about the other alchemist, the one walking indifferently down the hallway to go deal with his war.
She nodded sharply into his good shoulder and he let her go, heading immediately out into the hallway, in the other direction, to get those ingredients. Healing alchemy wasn't his thing, but he wasn't feeling the least bit tired, and there was no time to learn like the present.
- x -
Author's Notes: So Fletch seems to have lucked out, huh? And Sorn transmuted a Philosopher's Stone at a younger age than the Elrics! And this does rather explain why he can transmute without an array. :ruffles Franklin's hair fondly: I really meant to include two more scenes in this chapter, but well, Al does like to ramble on and on, doesn't he? Ganimyde, sorry, but you don't get your reaction until next chapter. ; )
Moar notes: I had a really hard time with this chapter, for some reason. It seems to flow exceptionally poorly, like I crammed too much history into the action and should have had it progress and then have Al thinking things through . . . but I liked it even worse that way. I'm not even sure this chapter is even clear, though of course more explanation will follow.
But if you happen to recognize how I managed to mangle this, in technical terms, can you point to things? As I said, I'm having a hard time figuring out why I hate it so much, but I really, really hate this chapter. I've rewritten it four times now. (For me, that's huge. If I include the cut section at the end of this fic as I did with PAA, you'll see, and you'll agree. The other ways were worse.)
Edit: On JChrys' suggestion, this chapter had been edited. It's still crappy, but at least it's a little easier to read. Italics are a wonderful thing. Thanks, hon, for helping me out! I just don't know what happened here. Once I figure it out, though, you can all expect a repost of this chapter. Sorry for the disappointment, guys!