The first thing Mustang saw upon returning to his office, the search about to start itself anew and with quicker vigor, was a female dark-haired stranger in the chair opposite his desk with a sour look upon her face, Havoc and Breda standing on either side of her, looking equally as displeased (if not more), along with two remarkably familiar automail limbs lying on his desk.

His eyes, already taking in the situation and forming a theory, turned to Havoc for confirmation. His subordinate nodded, teeth tightening around his cigarette.

"She's with 'im, sir. Tried to sneak in and hand over the Boss's automail without us seeing." Then, he scoffed, pride lining his voice as he added, "As you can see, that went well."

The young lady bristled—a woman in her mid-twenties, Mustang wagered—baring her teeth at his second lieutenant. "It's not my fault! You guys aren't supposed to be so…so good! You ruin everything! It's—crap, it's not even worth whatever he was paying us if his information on you all was so faulty!"

Mustang hummed, a swell of pride growing in his belly as he rounded his desk. "So you're his employee."

The woman was silent a moment, her eyes snapping from Havoc back to the Colonel, as if debating what all she should say. Finally, however, she made a decision and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. A gesture demanding respect—respect Roy just simply wouldn't give her, because she didn't deserve it. Not after what she aided in happening. "Yes. And so are several other people that you'll never see."

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. Although her arms were crossed over her chest as well, her left hand twitched the slightest, as if threatening their captive to give her a reason to draw her gun. "But we have your employer. Aren't you obligated to initiate a rescue?"

The dark-haired girl shook her head. "Nope. He even said it himself—if anything happens to him, we're all supposed to just walk away with our money and forget he even existed."

Breda snorted. "That's quite the interesting contract."

"Yeah, well, unlike you guys, we aren't bound by fickle whims of loyalty." She shrugged. "We were just in it for the money. Nothing more, nothing less."

Mustang narrowed his eyes, a sense of anger coming over him that he quickly pushed down. So money was the only reason the boys were buried, suffocating and suffering. "So now that he's out of commission, you all have decided to simply wave the white flag and stop cooperating with him? Hand over the automail, try to form a truce. Just like that?"

The woman grinned—a too-proud, wide smirk that really better on a certain half-metal brat the Colonel knew. "Just like that. So, can I go now?"

This time, Mustang snorted, straightening up. "Sure. You can go. Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

The woman gave the smallest of acknowledgements—the corner of her mouth tipped upward at a tiny degree, a fraction of a smirk—before she walked forward, grabbed the woman's arms and wrestled them behind her, and began to hand-cuff her.

The reaction the woman gave her was priceless, and Mustang reveled in it.

"W-what?" she spluttered, wriggling and trying to scoot away, but the blond-haired woman was faster, stronger, and hardly gave her an inch to move. "Y-you can't do this! I—I gave you the automail! Shouldn't…should that be enough to appease you? Why aren't you letting me go? You have no proof I was an accomplice—!"

"—first off, lady," Havoc interrupted, a frown lining his features and furrowing his eyebrows. "I think you confessed yourself to being in league with our perpetrator. While we are all present, too."

She froze a moment, gaping, before wriggling and trying to speak again—before the Colonel broke in.

"And secondly," he added, leaning forward again and glaring directly into her eyes as he lowered his voice. "You think giving me what's left of my subordinate will be enough to make me forgive the peril you've put him and his brother in?" He grit his teeth—knowing he looked menacing, knowing he looked mean, but not caring at all. "Nothing you can do will make me condone what you've helped happen. I do not stand for that kind of pointless injustice, and will never be appeased by something less than what I want."

Which is those two boys back—safe and sound.

She gaped again—this time, a sense of dread and respect shining behind her eyes—this man really is the real deal; there's a certain type of awe that one can't deny when in the face of that—before she fired back, "They'll come back for me—my coworkers! They'll rescue me; I know it!"

"No they won't," and this time, it was Breda who spoke, his voice calm and lazy. "After all, you said it yourself. The lot of you was only in it for the money. So who's going to pay them to come after you? You aren't bound by 'fickle whims of loyalty.' If you thought your coworkers were going to treat you as 'family' and come after you for their own good will—well, hun, sorry to disappoint, but you'll be waiting here a long while. Family isn't defined by dollar bills."

The woman faltered. Her voice was suddenly hoarse. "…then, what is it defined by?"

Mustang shrugged, gesturing for his lieutenant to take her away. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know. Maybe you'll figure it out while in your cell."

He tried to ignore the way his coworkers—his men—and his single woman—looked at his back as he turned around and examined the automail, mind whirring with how to turn these change of events in their favor.

Because—he really didn't know…right…?

3.5 hours left.

"Fullmetal, can you hear me?"

Edward jumped, attention caught and snagged, heart-pounding for a split-second faster than it should have before he could calm it again, reaching for the walkie-talkie and speaking into it, "I'm here, Colonel."

"Good. Now, I know you need to save your breath—" –particularly now; the Colonel wasn't stupid enough to think the boy hadn't figured out how much time he had left by this point— "—but I also need you to speak to me, because I know now how to find you two. So I'm going to need your cooperation, all right?"

…wait.

"What did he just say?!" Alphonse screeched—thrilled—exuberant.

Fullmetal straightened, trying so hard—oh gosh, practically forcing his heart not to beat so hard with anticipation—but that was a difficult feat, considering they had a way out of this. Now, more so than ever before. "You think I'm going to object?" he joked lightly into the device.

He heard Mustang chuckle on the other end of the line, before growing serious. "I don't kid, Fullmetal." Not now, at least. "We have your automail. Mind telling me its chemical composition?"

And all of a sudden, the man's plan snapped into place in Edward's mind. He couldn't help but grin. Genius. Oh-ho, pure genius—and that wasn't a compliment he gave freely to the Colonel, silently or not. "First off, let me ask a question of my own—because what you're asking won't work unless you give it a boundary. Have an estimated radius of our location?"

"Are you really doubting my abilities as a Colonel, Fullmetal? Yes, we do. It was one of the first things we took note of—that, and trying to see if we could trace the signal to your walkie-talkie."

But we both see how that's been working so far.

"Good," Edward supplied. "Then listen carefully, 'cuz I'm only saying this once…"

"But Brother," Alphonse argued, worried, desperate—and oh, goodness, weren't they all? But Alphonse so much more—because this was his brother here, inside him, who he couldn't do anything to save—and if he lost him, well, there wasn't any way of getting him back. Not like Brother did for me. "Your air! If you speak, you'll use up more of it, and our time will be shorter—"

"—your brother is right, Edward." That was Hawkeye's voice on the other end—crap, too late Edward realized he had held down the 'talk' button while Alphonse was speaking, and so everyone else had heard every word.

"In fact, I don't even know why the Colonel is suggesting you use up your air in talking to us." That statement, filled with annoyance and bite, was probably more so aimed at her superior than the boys themselves. "So forget his request. Sit there, hang tight, and we will come to you. Do not forget my earlier instructions, Edward." Now more than ever.

But despite all this, the blonde merely sighed, and responded calmly, "I appreciate your help, Hawkeye—but Mustang's right. The alchemy he's wanting to use is going to lead him right to us. If he knows the materials in my automail, which are identical to my automail ports, he can use them like magnets to one another. We'd be out of here in no-time, then. And besides." Here, Edward paused for a small, calm breath—a slow in, then out—before he resumed speaking. "You guys are forgetting. I'm short two limbs. My heart doesn't need to pump blood to an arm and a leg, so it doesn't need to intake as much oxygen as a normal body. Even if I talk, I figure I'll still be lasting a few more hours." Another advantage—another aid in getting them through this.

Mustang had the walkie-talkie back, apparently, because the next thing he heard was a strange tone in the Colonel's voice when he spoke next. What was that, pride? "All right, then, Fullmetal. Get listing. The quicker we get this done with, the better."

Edward nodded. It took a while—perhaps much longer than Alphonse would have liked—but that was mainly due to the fact that every once in a while, they would get distracted with the transmutation circle itself—which was quite difficult, and strange, and unlike other alchemic circles because it technically wasn't destroying and then recreating anything—instead of talking about the chemical properties of Edward's automail.

But finally—things were finally in place. If Alphonse had a heart, he was sure it would be beating a mile-a-minute—how was Brother so calm? How could he be, knowing that in just a few moments, their long suffering would be over?—and he could hear Mustang over the other end, "All right. We're on our way, Fullmetal, Alphonse. Be careful, you two."

Edward snorted, about to respond, before Alphonse intervened, tired of Brother using so much of his limited air, "We'll be okay, Colonel. It's not like we can actually go anywhere, after all."

Mustang snorted on the other end. "Well. We'll be there, soon…and Fullmetal?"

This made Edward stiffen—because that, too, was another tone he wasn't used to hearing in his superior's voice. Regret? Softness? "…yes?"

"…I apologize. For not getting there in a few hou—"

There was a strange click, and then there was silence.

2 hours left.

And all of a sudden, Brother started panicking for a split-second. "Colonel?" he asked, pressing down on the button—over and over and over again, but nothing was coming through. "Colonel, what's going on? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Brother…" Alphonse breathed, scared, but yet still, somehow, the voice of reason. "…Brother, I think its dead."

"What do you mean its dead, Al?"

"Walkie-talkies like that run on batteries—not alchemy, remember? And I think…I think the battery ran out."

We can't talk to the Colonel anymore.

We don't know when they're coming.

If they're coming.

When they'll get here.

We don't know…we don't know…

Edward swore, loud and angry, throwing the walkie-talkie down and to Alphonse's feet—the same place he had thrown the gun when he had first found the awful thing. And then there was silence—silence, apart from the heavy, harsh breathing of the older Elric, who couldn't, not yet, slow down his breathing to conserve air.

But then, there came another curse—this one, soft and heavy—and Alphonse realized with a start that the harsh and shallow breathing wasn't stopping.

"Brother…?" When at first there wasn't a response, Alphonse's voice picked up speed and pitch. "Brother, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

A split-second pause. One where Alphonse was sure—he could feel the change in weight—his brother had been about to nod, so close to giving that automatic reaction of assurance, but instead, much to the armored one's horror, Edward decided to shake his head. To be honest. To finally, this once, tell his little brother, no, it's not okay. I'm not okay.

"I think…" A swallow, and oh, gosh, why wouldn't that small chest just slow down instead of breathing so small and shallowly and quickly, as if everything was ending oh so very soon? "…I think I spoke too much…"

And that was when Alphonse realized that this was it.

This might be the end.

No, not 2 hours left. Maybe 1.

Maybe half.

Right here, in this little box under the ground, inside him, he might lose his last living family member.

He might lose everything, too soon, when they were still just starting to try to make everything right again.

"Brother," Alphonse began, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, because he couldn't let it show—couldn't let his fear show now—because wasn't he supposed to be the strong one here? While Edward was suffering, this was his time to hold them through, to pull them together, keep them together. "I-it'll be okay. They're almost here…" Oh, gosh, how many times had he already said that sickening phrase?

But then Edward tried to speak. "Al—"

And Alphonse decided even if he loved Edward's voice—because that was something he had noticed while being a suit of armor, too; because he could no longer feel his brother, smell his brother, seeing and hearing him had become things he treasured infinitely, deep down in his soul—he loved hearing his brother breathe even more.

"Shut up!" he yelled. "Just shut. Up. Don't talk, don't speak—don't move. Just breathe, Brother. Don't do anything else, okay?"

Edward jumped, startled at the sudden order—the sudden tone his normally-complacent, quite, hospitable brother was using. "But Al—"

"—no!" Alphonse tried not to shake—really, he did, but it was hard, because oh, gosh, he was so afraid—"I don't want to hear it! None of it! Any of it! I just…" And here, the sob broke through. The sob that didn't exist—not really—but still trembled throughout his being, thick and choking. Even if you're silent, I just want you here with me. Don't die just so I can hear you. I can stand the silence. I just need you. "…just don't…die…"

There was a soft pause, so tender, so open, before Edward nodded, still quietly heaving. "Okay, Al," he whispered. "I won't." Alphonse could feel the pressure of his brother's flesh hand on the inside of his back—a comforting presence just below his blood seal. "I won't."

But that was easier said than done.

Neither of them mentioned the gun that was now touching Edward's foot, it's presence a cold and menacing thing that neither wanted to acknowledge.

So they sat.

And they waited.

And time ticked onward, while the air dwindled.

…but it all went to hell the first time Edward choked.

And then choked again.

Is it 1 hour now? Half an hour? Ten minutes? Twenty?

"Here—here! Stop!"

Tire wheels screeched, and even before they were at a complete halt, car doors were being thrown open, black boots hitting the ground and running.

"Sir, we're in the middle of nowhere. How are you sure they're—?"

"—I just know; the alchemy's pulling in this direction. Follow me!"

They obeyed.

How long can a body survive without air, underground?

"Brother!" Alphonse cried. Oh crap oh no this wasn't supposed to be happening not yet the Colonel was supposed to be here how long has it been has it been four hours it feels like it's only been five minutes—"—Brother, hang on! They're almost here! I know it! Please!"

But Edward couldn't hear him—not over the roar in his hears—the loud choking of his own throat as he tried—fought—battled with the lack of air in his surroundings.

Unthinkingly, he flung about his two limbs, flailing, clawing, bucking up his chest because—air air where is it I need it why isn't it here I can't breathe oh gosh I can't breathe—desperate to find something, anything—a hole, a leak, something to get oxygen into his hurting lungs because nothing else was working and oh gosh I'm really going to die down here I can't breathe I can't think ow ow ow.

A high, ringing noise began to permeate Edward's senses, as a large headache assaulted his mind—right from his forehead, too, it felt, banging straight through bone, cartilage, flesh like a hammer.

It hurt, it hurt—oh gosh, he couldn't breathe!

Hazy, broken, falling apart, suffocating, Edward reached for the gun, something, anything to end it on my own terms because the quick bullet would be easier.

"BROTHER!"

But reality snapped back into focus in the form of his little brother's shocked, pained, offended voice—brief, clear, pain-free—but there was still no air.

And yet, in that single darkening second of clarity, Edward turned away from the pistol and instead, shakingly, lifted up his hand—no air, no air, why is my head so heavy why can't I think—and began to draw letters on the inside of his brother's chest-plate, scraggly and small, because it was all he could manage.

Like we used to do on each other's backs when we were kids and whole and happy and carefree and didn't have to worry yet about coffins and alchemy and breathing.

And Alphonse could feel the trembling pressure—not the softness, not the texture, but he could always feel when someone was pressing on his armor—and the small letters, and knew what his brother was saying before Edward even finished.

I-M-S-O-R-

But that was as far as he got.

With a final choke—a horrible, dry gurgle, disgusting, shouldn't have happened, he shouldn't be hearing this, this shattering glass, everything breaking to ruins around them, slivers and fragments of what-could-have-been's—that hand fell back—

—and Edward lay still.

And Alphonse began to scream.

Now it's 3 minutes.

Because anything longer, and the damage would be irreparable.

(But not that there hasn't been irreparable damage already.)

Crystal's Notes: Oooooo...this was a toughy. 8D I must say. There are few times, and I remember each one, in which I've actually had to stand up while writing a story and take a quite break walking around my room as I brainstormed and re-collected my thoughts before plunging in again...and now, this story has officially become one of them! 8D Woo!

Erm, please forgive me for the mean cliffhanger. I mean, I hadn't intended to end it there, but that last line came to me, and I knew in my heart it was where I should end the chapter because it just made everything I wanted to include in this installment feel so snug and complete (even as things are reaching their breaking point). One of those odd, self-assuring moments; I mean, surely, you guys, as my peers and fellow-authors, understand, right?

...right?