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Aduration (A Union or Combination into One)	By : sailormac Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1869 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
(NOTE: This fanfic was written when spoilers for the movie were starting to come out. I have made it AU from the movie out of necessity. In this fic, Roy Mustang is still Ed’s commanding officer).

DISCLAIMER: Fullmetal Alchemist is property of Hiromu Arakawa, Square Enix and Studio BONES. No profit is being made from this fanfic.

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The younger brother pushed open the door of the lab and tiptoed into the semidarkness gingerly.

He didn’t need extra light to find his way around, because he knew this place very well -- he had spent innumerable hours here with his older brother. He navigated around a couple of the plants standing in huge pots on the floor and headed for the counter that was the centerpiece of the room, a couple of beakers and test tubes gleaming faintly in the low light from a single lamp.

Sure enough, his older brother was there, blond head bent over a pile of books, poring over pages he must have read a hundred times before.

Fletcher noted that Russell was still in his street clothes -- the button-down shirt and suspenders he always seemed to wear -- while he, himself was in his pajamas, robe and slippers.

His heart sank. He'd told him to go to bed hours ago, that they could resume their work in the morning, but he was still here.

"Brother," he said, "you don't have to keep doing this. You're going to make yourself sick. Why don't you get some rest, and . . ."

"I can't rest," Russell Tringham said, his indigo eyes not leaving the page. "I'm *this* close to the answer. Every time I try to go to sleep, I keep thinking about it."

"It's not going to do either one of us any good if you get sick," Fletcher said, moving closer to the counter. "I'll help you look for it -- you know I always have. But *in the morning.*"

"Look, I'll just be here a little while longer!" The older brother whirled around in his chair to face his sibling. "Just go to sleep, and I'll be up in a little while, okay?"

The younger boy sighed. Sometimes, there was no reasoning with his brother when he was like that.

"Just . . . don't let yourself get too tired, Brother," he said, before leaving the room.

A couple of hours later, Fletcher went downstairs again, to find Russell sound asleep, slumped over his research. He reached into the closet, got the biggest, warmest coat he could find, and wrapped it around the older boy's shoulders. Russell moved a tiny bit, but didn't awaken, or make a sound.

Fletcher touched his brother's forehead, brushing back one of the locks of hair that was perpetually falling over one eye, giving him something of a shaggy-dog appearance. He looked relaxed -- something that was very, very rare in his everyday life. Too rare for Fletcher's comfort.

"Good night, Brother," he said, softly, before heading back upstairs.

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ADURATION

(A Union or Combination into One)

A Fullmetal Alchemist Fanfiction With Lemon

By Sailor Mac

Part 1: Nigredo (The Base Materials)

Russell Tringham figured he was going to have an exhausting day.

Granted, his days usually started in the early morning, with his predawn chores on the lemon farm. The plant alchemy he had developed to keep the trees producing long after they should have been out of season needed to be carefully maintained -- all it would take was one bug or woodpecker damaging one of the arrays engraved into the bark, and the whole tree could go from thriving to dead in nothing flat.

It was doubly important he keep an eye on things right now. Their landlord and owner of the farm, Belsio, had taken his niece, Elisa, to visit his parents in another town. They'd been gone for a week and weren’t due back for several days more, so the farm was left entirely to himself and Fletcher.

This morning, something had taken an entire *chunk* out of one of the trees. The array had to be redrawn from scratch. He put his hands to it and there was a flash of green as alchemical energy was drawn into the trunk, and then focused his abilities on getting it to move up and down, encouraging it to start circulating, flowing from the roots to the tip, until the drooping fruit and brownish leaves had regained their vigor.

It was how he and his brother earned their room and board. They had definitely done well for their employer -- Belsio had been able to build a substantial addition to his farmhouse a year ago, adding the lab the boys now worked in. And it was certainly more pleasant than when they'd been under the thumb of Mugear. But Russell tried not to think about that time in their lives. It was two years ago, but it seemed like an eternity.

He was already late for breakfast when he walked into the house. Fletcher looked up from the table. "Brother! I just started eating . . ." He pushed a platter of toast toward his elder sibling.

"One of the trees needed fixing," Russell said, sitting down and picking up a slice. "Near the stream. Something got to it . . ."

"I saw," Fletcher said, quietly, picking up a knife and starting to spread butter. "I would have come out to help you, but a lady came to the door with a sick plant. She needed me to heal it."

"Another one?" Russell said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "That's the third one this week."

Fletcher shrugged. "I guess a lot of people have heard about us."

*No, about *you*, Fletcher*, Russell thought. Fletcher was the one with the natural ability as a plant alchemist. Russell himself had never been much of a natural talent -- all his knowledge of alchemy had come from study, research and practical application. When he and Fletcher worked as a team, usually he was the one hitting the books and test tubes, doing the research, while Fletcher performed the alchemy.

He didn't have much time for general alchemy study nowadays. He had to devote himself to his life's work -- his *new* life's work.

"Oh, and Mr. Baddely was by," Fletcher said. "He wants you to come by his shop and fix something that someone knocked off the shelf and broke. I think it’s another dish of some sort, like the one you fixed last week."

Russell snorted. "Someone's *always* breaking something in that shop. Well, he's our best customer now. I'll go there, and then . . ."

Fletcher looked down into his milk. "You're going to bury yourself in the lab for the rest of the day again, aren't you, Brother?"

Russell sighed. Fletcher was worrying about him. Again. He should *know* by now what Russell's life was like, why what he was doing was so important . . .

"Fletcher, I *have* to. You know that." Russell busied himself with buttering another slice of toast, not wanting to see the downcast look on his brother's face. It was too reminiscent of that *other* time, back when they were little more than slaves to a greedy land baron.

"You said we weren't going to do that anymore," Fletcher said, putting his glass down with a loud *thunk*. "You said we were going to live our own lives, you weren't going to try to be a copy of Father . . ."

"I'm *not* trying to be a copy of Father, Fletcher!" Russell sat bolt upright, fixing the younger boy with a firm gaze. "I just need to pick up this one thread of his research, that's all. I'm doing it for *me.*"

"Are you?" Fletcher fixed him with wide eyes, filled with pleading and concern, but also an odd wisdom. There were times when Fletcher seemed to be able to look straight into Russell's soul and make the older boy feel like his younger sibling knew him better than he knew himself.

He broke the gaze, looking back down at his plate and picking up his toast, not so much to eat it as to have somewhere to put his hands and eyes. "You've seen the people in town," he said. "You know how sick they still are. You can't walk down the street without hearing people coughing."

Fletcher left his seat and ran around the table, putting his hand on Russell's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Brother," he said. "It was Mugear, not us. We just did what he wanted."

"And we didn't stop, did we?" Russell said, not taking his eyes off his plate. "We kept going, even though people were getting sick . . ."

"We *did* stop," Fletcher said, wrapping his arms around his brother's neck and hugging him.

Russell put one hand up to grasp the younger boy's arm. *Not of our own accord,* he thought. *If Mugear hadn't gotten killed, if we hadn't met the real Elric brothers, we'd still be there, poisoning everyone.*

And then, there was the thought that a lot of the people they’d poisoned had died already -- but that was one that Russell wanted to dwell on as little as possible.

He wasn't going to say any of that aloud. Not in front of Fletcher.

Instead, he said, quietly, "I can make it up to everyone. If I can find the answer . . . Father had started the research, he just didn't have a chance to complete it. He just didn't have enough of a chance to study the soil."

"Russell, you don't know for sure," Fletcher said. "I don't want to see you throw away years of your life. You're no closer than you were before, and you're so tired . . ."

"I'll be all right," Russell said. "And I *am* closer, Fletcher. A *lot* closer." He squeezed the boy's arm and eased away. "I have to go now before Baddely comes here, looking for me."

"Promise you won't spent *all* day in the lab when you get home?" Fletcher said, easing away from his brother.

Russell nodded. "I promise." (*I'll slip down to the lab when he makes his rounds of the orchard in the afternoon*, he thought. *I'll tell him I was out in town somewhere.*)

He gave Fletcher a hug and headed for the door, not noticing the retreating shadow at their living room window.

* * *

Xenotime always looked exactly like what it was -- a town that had glory in the past, but its glory days were far behind it.

Here and there were buildings that had obviously been constructed as flamboyant mansions, with grand columns holding up elaborately tiled roofs and huge picture windows looking out on the world. Except now, the columns were covered with cracked, peeling paint, the tiles were chipped and scuffed and the windows were dingy.

Instead of one family living there in grand style, there were now several families sharing cramped apartments within. Sometimes the residents could be seen outside on the porch, sitting in rockers, gazing out at the world.

And stifling coughs. Everywhere, people in Xenotime were coughing -- not constantly, not like they were in the days when the red stone was being produced up at Mugear's mansion and red water fountains were flowing freely.

But every once in awhile, one would be walking down the street, going about their daily business, and suddenly, the person walking toward them would burst out in a fit of explosive hacking, maybe reaching out to grab a lamppost with one hand, covering their mouth with the other.

Every time Russell saw that, it was like a punch to the gut. He didn't care what Fletcher said, he knew *they* were the ones who did this to these people. No, *he* had. He had made the decision to work on the red stone.

He would make amends to them. He *had* to.

He walked down the street looking straight forward, hands in his pockets. He knew exactly where he was going -- he was here at least once a week.

Repair jobs were a good thing. They funded his research.

A right turn brought him to a gray building, with a big, hand-painted sign over the door saying "BADDELY'S GENERAL STORE." An assortment of bric-a-brac was on display in the windows -- a sewing machine, a child's rocking horse, a set of garden tools.

A chubby man with a fringe of snow-white hair surrounding a bald pate stood in the doorway, anxiously fiddling with the front of the green apron he had tied over his clothes. "Mr. Tringham!" he said. "Come in . . . it's a set of dishes this time . . ."

"What happened?" Russell said, following the man into the store, which seemingly had merchandise crammed into every available space -- a bookcase right next to a stove next to a bin of pickles. *No wonder people keep bumping into things and breaking them here,* the boy thought.

"Back there," the man said, pointing toward a corner of the store. "Some kid knocked into it . . ."

This was easy enough. All of the pieces seemed to be there -- there hadn't been room for them to go very far. The only other customers in the shop -- two women in their mid-40s -- were far enough away so that they wouldn't be able to mess anything up.

The boy began picking up the pieces of shattered crockery, making a neat little pile of them. Absently, he could hear the conversation from across the room -- it was hard not to, the women both spoke in high, shrill voices better suited for trying to talk over the roar of a engine than having a quiet conversation in a store.

"Dogs of the military, I say," one of them said. "Saw 'em snooping around outside. Didn't have the uniforms, but they had those pocket watches -- I saw the chains."

"Well, for heaven's sake, what would they be doing around here?" the other said. "Nothing here the military would want."

*Dog of the military . . .* It was a phrase Russell hadn't heard in awhile, one that had fallen into disuse after the end of the police state in Amestris two years ago. He'd had someone say it to his face once, back when he was posing as someone else . . .

He remembered not being shocked or angered by that. In fact, he’d been proud -- because it had been a sign that his masquerade was working.

He pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and set about drawing an array around the broken pieces -- a very simple one would do.

"Don't trust 'em, I say," one woman was saying. "Never did and never will. Don't care that they're not running the country any more, I still think they're up to no good."

"I think I trusted them more when they *were* running the country," the other one replied, their voices getting fainter as they moved out the door. "Least you knew where you stood with ‘em then."

The store owner watched them go, and snorted. "All I hear about lately. These people are never satisfied."

Russell looked up from his work. "Excuse me?"

"When the military was in power, all people wanted was to get rid of ‘em," the older man said, walking around the circle, examining it. "Now that they're out of power, there's people who want to bring ‘em back. There's groups out there, I tell you -- they want to overthrow the government, and bring back the Fuhrer."

"Nobody knows what happened to the Fuhrer," Russell said, finishing the last few lines of his design.

"These people probably have him hidden away somewhere," Baddely said, reaching up to scratch his bulbous nose. "They're just waiting for the right time."

Russell shrugged. Politics was something he never cared about, despite the fact that he had once carried a State Alchemist's pocket watch -- or, rather, an illegal copy of one.

Leaning over, he touched his hands to the array, activating it. There was a flash of light, a crackle of electricity, and suddenly, the broken pieces were a complete set of dishes once more.

"There you go," he said, standing up.

The storekeeper clapped his hands together once, as if applauding the boy's work. "Marvelous! They're as good as new. Whatever would I do without you?"

*Probably go out of business*, Russell thought. "It's the usual fee."

There were times when he felt a stab of guilt about taking money from the citizens of this town after he’d made them sick. He just kept telling himself, over and over, that the money was going toward undoing his mistakes and making them well again.

"I'll have it for you right away," the man said, rushing off in the direction of his cash register.

Russell wandered over to the window, awaiting his payment. He'd go home now, and check on that soil sample he'd been treating. It had to be developing *something* by now. His father's notes had said that if the soil started changing color about now, then it would yield the properties necessary to alter the molecular structure of stone, turning it into gold.

*I *will* make it work,* he thought. *My father's theories about creating a stone from red water were correct . . . so his theories about the effects of long-term red water exposure on the soil *have* to be correct as well . . .*

His eyes idly scanned the street outside, looking at clumps of passerby here and there, trying not to notice the man who was walking past with a tissue over the lower part of his face as he hacked and wheezed.

And then, he saw something out of the corner of his eye that made him give a start. He whirled around, rushing to the window, pressing his palms against the glass.

*It can't be,* he thought. *That person I just saw . . . it just *can't* be!*

He looked this way and that, seeking the person he'd just seen walk past the window -- someone he thought he'd never see again. But all signs pointed to it being him. The blond hair was in a ponytail now, not a braid, but the red coat with the black symbol on the back was the same, and he was still short . . .

"How can you be here?" he said aloud. "You're dead! You've been dead for two years . . ."

"Excuse me?" the shopkeeper said, approaching him with a slim envelope of cash in his hand. "Did you say something?"

"No, just thinking out loud," Russell said, taking the money quickly -- too quickly. "Thank you very much."

"No, thank *you*," the man said. "I'll be sure to call you next time I need you!"

But before the words were out of his mouth, Russell was out of the store and into the street. He turned his head one way, and then the other . . .

There was no sign of the person he'd seen before.

He headed for home, scanning the street everywhere he went, peeking into storefronts. Nothing. It was as if he'd never been there.

*Was I seeing things?* Russell thought. *But if I was going to see things, why *him*?

When he arrived back at the farm, Fletcher was in the orchard, examining the array his brother had made before. He looked up when he saw Russell approach, a look of concern on his face.

"Brother? What's wrong?"

Russell sat down at the foot of the tree, realizing for the first time how shaken he felt.

"Fletcher . . . I think I just saw Edward Elric."

* * *

The soil sample under the microscope seemed virtually unchanged from the one he had looked at the day before. Still, he continued to scrutinize it, looking for even the tiniest change in pigmentation, the smallest alteration in texture, any sign at all that it was turning into the compound he was seeking.

The bin of soil at his elbow was like the most precious gold to him at the moment. He'd studied it, treated it with alchemy, studied it some more. It was going to be the key to reversing this town's fortunes -- and making him feel absolved for his past.

He lifted his head only long enough to record some notes, then looked back into the lens again, adjusting it this way, then that.

It was all so reminiscent of when he locked himself away for days on end in that *other* lab, the one in Mugear's mansion, back when he was calling himself Edward Elric.

As Russell looked into the lens again, a picture flashed in his mind of the person he'd seen in the street. It looked just like the boy who'd broken into his lab, then demanded that *he* beg forgiveness -- on his knees! -- who'd rescued himself and Fletcher from certain death at Mugear's hands, who he'd seen disappear into the underground city . . .

He remembered watching the boy retreat down a flight of stairs, down into the unknown, while he, himself shouted after him, "Come back alive!"

But he hadn't. He knew all too well that he and Fletcher had been the last people to see Edward Elric alive -- other than whoever he met up with underground. All kinds of wild stories had circulated after then among anyone who had ever heard of the Fullmetal Alchemist -- that he had attempted some kind of mass human transmutation and vanished, that he had died in battle against some sort of monster, that he had been assassinated by another alchemist . . .

Russell didn't know what to believe. All he knew was that after that day, there was never another trace of Edward Elric, anywhere.

When he'd told Fletcher, his brother suggested that Edward probably faked his own death -- he *had* been a wanted man in the end, after all. Russell knew that all too well, he'd almost died in his place.

But then there was the question of why he'd come back from the "dead," and what he was doing in Xenotime . . . was he the "dog of the military" the women in the store were talking about? No, they'd said "dogs" -- who was the other person, then? His brother?

He emphatically slammed his notebook shut. He didn't have time for this. He had a mission . . .

The door to the lab opened, and Fletcher peeked in. "Brother? There's a call for you."

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Baddely. Somebody broke something *else* in his store. I can go down there and take care of it if you're busy," the younger boy said, eyes sweeping around the lab.

"No, I'll do it," Russell said, putting the microscope back on the shelf. He need the break anyway, he'd be able to focus his thoughts better once he was out of the lab for awhile.

Fletcher stepped further into the room. "Brother, if you see Edward again -- let me know. Especially if he has Alphonse with him."

He couldn't miss the note of hope in the younger boy's voice. He knew that Fletcher and Al had gotten along very well -- Fletcher had even invited the Elrics to come stay with them because he had wanted to get to know Al better.

But Alphonse Elric had supposedly vanished into thin air along with his brother.

"Fletcher, I can't guarantee that it's him, you know."

"I know. Just . . . just in case, okay? If it *is* them . . . I want to see them again."

Russell put a hand on his shoulder. "They might not want to see us," he said, as gently as possible. "Or be able to."

Fletcher looked down. "Just mention me if you talk to them, okay?"

Russell sighed. His brother had so few friends, despite being a happy and outgoing boy. People in town were always slightly in awe of them -- they *were* the only alchemists around, and Russell sometimes got the impression that people thought of them as almighty miracle workers, not as *people.*

"All right," he said. "I will."

"Thank you, Brother." Fletcher gave him a small hug and rushed off.

He sighed as he started for the door. Fletcher wanted to see Alphonse and Edward, badly. If, indeed, that *was* Edward . . .

He shook his head as he left the house. He had other things to think about -- like his current job.

Twice in one day -- even for Baddely, that was a record.

* * *

He didn't think anything was unusual when he saw a small cluster of men -- one gruff-looking and middle-aged, one young and sharp-featured, one in his early 30s with a bristly red beard that matched his hair -- waiting at the front door of Baddely's store as he left. For all he knew, the shopkeeper had sold them broken merchandise, and he'd have *another* job today.

He *did* think it unusual when their eyes followed him as he started to walk out to the street. And then, Red Beard called out to him, "You that alchemist?"

Russell stopped and turned around, eyes narrowing. He knew enough than to trust people on first sight, especially ones who were looking for his services. "It depends," he said, coolly. "Why are you looking for one?"

Red Beard folded his arms across his chest. "Seems we have a proposition for you," he said. "A use for your talents."

"We know what you're capable of, boy," the older man said in a gravely voice. "We think you might be of help to . . . a worthy cause."

Russell frowned. These people sounded like they were looking for someone to get involved in a shady deal . . . probably wanted him to transmute counterfeit money for them or some such thing. "Sorry, I have to get back home to my brother," he said, starting to walk away.

Red Beard called after him, "I knew Nash Tringham. He was a brilliant man. Didn't deserve what life dealt him."

Now Russell stopped dead in his tracks, whirling around. "What do you know about my father?" He had no doubt that Mugear might have some minions still wandering around town, looking for some way to get him and his brother back under their thumbs. Well, he wasn't going to let that happen again.

"Only that he could have accomplished a lot if it weren't for Mugear holding him back. And I've no doubt his son is every bit as brilliant."

Russell looked from one man to the other. Red Beard was fixing him with a gaze that seemed designed to bore right through his body. The younger one was rocking back and forth on his feet, as if he could barely contain his excitement at something. The older one just stood stock still, an unreadable expression on his face.

There was no way to tell what it was they wanted from him. He decided he should play it as safely as possible.

"Tell me what it is you want from me," he said.

Red Beard jerked his thumb in the direction of a nearby tavern. "Why don't we sit down over there?"

The boy looked in the direction he was pointing -- it was definitely not a sleazy-looking place. It was well-kept, and the people going in and out seemed well-dressed, respectable.

"All right," he said. "I'll hear you out. But just for a few minutes. I wasn't lying about having to get back to my brother."

"I'd be surprised if you *didn't* have your father's strong sense of family," Red Beard said, leading the group across the street.

Russell frowned. He wondered how well this man *did* know his father -- if at all. If he was a genuine associate of Nash Tringham -- well, he almost *had* to hear him out. But if it were some kind of ruse . . .

They entered the building, and Red Beard led them to a table in the corner. Russell noticed that Red Beard seated himself with the grand gestures of one who considers himself a king in his own domain and demands respect at all times.

"Now, first things first," the boy said. "Would you mind telling me who you are?"

"Names Harold Sloane," Red Beard said. "I was a State Alchemist for awhile around the time your father was trying to get funding for his work. These are my associates, Max Hagen" -- he gestured to the older man -- "and Roderick Braun."

"My father never mentioned any of you," Russell said, his voice cool.

"He knew us only briefly," Hagen said as Braun got up to go get the group drinks. "But we saw enough of him to know we liked what we saw."

"It was the rebel elements in the old government that kept him from achieving the glory he deserved," Sloane said, leaning over toward the boy. "The ones who brought the old government down."

"Rebel elements?" Russell said. "I thought the government collapsed when the Fuhrer disappeared."

"And *why* do you think he disappeared?" Sloane said. "He was murdered! They covered it up! There were always people trying to topple him, and they're running the show now!"

Braun returned to the table, bearing three steins of beer and one of a brown, bubbling soft drink. He distributed the latter to Russell, the former to the other men. "Life was a hell of a lot better in Amestris before the current situation," he said as he plopped back down at the table.

"A lot more stable," Hagen rasped, pulling his own stein toward him. "Under the Fuhrer, we knew what our economy was going to be like from day to day."

"And we always knew what our government was going to be like," Sloane said. "Nowadays, there's so many factions jockeying for power, you don't know who's going to be running this place from one day to the next."

Russell stared down into the glass he'd been given. He knew better than to drink from it -- these people could have slipped anything in. Especially since he was beginning to suspect they were political extremists. He remembered what Baddely had been saying.

"What we want you to do, Mr. Tringham," Sloane said, "is a sort of continuation of your father's work."

Russell glared at him. "And what would *that* entail?"

"We have a project we're working on," Sloane replied, raising his glass, then taking a gulp that drained nearly half of it. With foam clinging to his mustache, he continued, "We want to help restore this country to what it once was, but we need a little help to do it. Alchemical help, shall we say."

The boy got to his feet. "In other words, you want me to build weapons for you. No thanks."

"We didn't say anything about weapons," Hagen said.

"Then what do you mean by *alchemical help*? You say you think I'm just like my father -- well, if there was anything my father hated, it was violence. He refused to become a State Alchemist because he didn't want to have to kill. And I am *definitely* not going to do anything he wouldn't do. Goodbye."

He turned and stormed out of the tavern, almost slamming the door behind him, and stalked into the street, nearly blinded with rage. How dare those people think that he would help them out in a *project* that probably involved a violent attempt to overthrow the government . . .

He didn't even see the other person until he had crashed into him, and the impact sent the other sprawling to the ground. Russell stumbled and regained his footing, then looked down to see a figure in red on his hands and knees. "I'm sorry," he said. "Are you . . ."

A golden head snapped up, gold eyes blazing, and the other youth said, "Why don't you look where you're going? You plowed into me like a --" The eyes widened. "Oh, it's *you*!" He scrambled to his feet, revealing that he wasn't much taller than the last time Russell had seen him.

*It's really him,* he thought. *It wasn't a mirage, or a figment of my imagination . . . he's really back . . .*

But instead of reacting with wonderment, or asking all the million questions that were in his mind -- where did he go, when did he get back, *why* did he come back, what the *heck* was he doing in Xenotime . . . Russell found himself reacting the way he always had to Edward Elric.

"Hello, Edward," he said, a smirk crossing his face. "Still short-tempered as always, I see. Not to mention just plain *short.*"

“I *have* grown since the last time you saw me,” the other boy snapped.

"Well, I thought you'd have grown *more*," Russell said, shoving his hands in his pockets and regarding the State Alchemist with a bemused gaze. "It *has* been two years, you know."

Edward looked away from him. "I was . . . away," he said, in a tone of voice that strongly implied that he was not open to discussing the matter.

"And what are you doing here now?"

"Nothing I can talk about, okay?" The shorter boy kicked absently at a leaf on the ground.

"Are you here for the military?" Russell said, looking at the front of Edward’s outfit -- yes, the telltale gleam of a silver pocket watch chain was still there.

"I *said* I couldn't talk about it," Ed said, turning around and starting to leave, his red coat bannering out around him like the cape of a king.

"Wait, Edward!" Russell started to run after him. "What happened that last day I saw you, when you were in the underground city . . ."

But the boy just continued to walk away from him. Russell saw someone else come out of one of the stores -- another blond boy, with an outfit identical to Ed's except his coat was blue instead of red.

*Who's that?* he thought. *Another State Alchemist?*

The two consulted briefly -- they turned and looked in Russell's direction -- and then they disappeared, around a corner.

Russell just stood, rooted to the spot. He couldn't believe it. He and Edward had never managed to become *friends* during the brief time they'd known each other two years ago -- he didn't expect Edward to exactly feel *warm* toward him after stealing and using his name -- but the tone of the whole encounter was strange.

*We always teased each other,* he thought, *but this seemed just .. . *hostile.*

He began to wonder who the other person was . . . what they were doing in Xenotime . . .

And then he remembered the political extremists. One had been a State Alchemist. They were looking to overthrow the government . . .

*Could it be,* he thought, *that Edward is involved with them?

* * *

He was surprised to see Fletcher sitting on the edge of the fountain in the center of town. He was more surprised to see the boy looking rather downcast, staring into the water and poking it with a stick.

His protective instinct kicked in. Something had happened while he was gone, something he hadn't been there to help Fletcher with. He knew he shouldn't get like this -- it was absurd to think he could protect the boy all the time -- but he couldn't help it.

He was, after all, the closest thing to a parent that Fletcher had.

Sitting next to his younger brother, he put a hand on his shoulder. "Fletcher? What happened?" *If anyone hurt him,* he thought, *I'll show no mercy.* He thought back to the men who were in the tavern . . .

Fletcher looked up. "Brother, you remember how you said you saw Edward Elric in town?"

Russell nodded, slowly. He didn't like where this was going already.

"Well, I came out here -- I wanted to look for him myself. I really wanted to see Ed and Al again . . . and then I saw him. He was coming down the street with another boy."

Russell remembered the boy he'd seen walking away with Ed. "Did he have the same outfit, except a different jacket?"

Fletcher nodded in the affirmative, poking at the water again. "I didn't know who it was at first, and then, when I heard him speak . . . it was Al. I recognized the voice, except it wasn't, you know . . . echoey. Like when he was wearing the armor."

Russell remembered the armor all too well -- it was one of the most baffling things about the Elric brothers. If Edward was the State Alchemist, the one supposedly in the line of danger, why was Alphonse the one who was never seen without a full suit of armor? And why no armor now?

"What were they doing?" he asked the younger boy, not taking his hand off his shoulder.

"Asking people questions, it looked like. Something about someone named Sloane."

Russell's blood turned to ice. His suspicions about the Elric brothers being in cahoots with the political extremists had just intensified. "Go on."

"Well, once I realized it was Al . . . I was so happy, I thought I'd never see him again. And I ran over to him and said hello, and . . ." The younger boy looked away. "He just looked right through me. He didn't recognize me at all. He just stood there blinking, and I asked him if he knew who I was, and he just said no . . ."

Now Russell felt a deep anger welling up inside him. Not only did it look like the Elrics might be involved in shady dealings, but Alphonse had hurt his brother with his little playing-dumb act. "What happened after that?"

"Ed turned around and saw him, and he just said, ‘Al, let's go' in a very sharp tone of voice, and they left." He looked up at Russell. "Why doesn't he remember me, Brother? I thought he liked us -- he said he was coming to visit us someday when he left here."

Russell looked away. He had no idea how he was going to break this to his younger brother. He didn't want to upset him too badly, but at the same time, he wanted him to be aware that something not exactly savory might be going on here.

"Fletcher, I want you to stay away from the Elrics if you see them again," he said.

"But, Brother . . ."

"We have no idea what they're doing in town, or even why they disappeared for so long," Russell said, a note of harshness creeping into his voice -- which he quickly caught. "Look, Fletcher, I just don't think it's a good idea right now. I'm going to do some asking around town, see what I can find out -- then, if I think it's safe, I'll let you know."

"All right." The younger boy got to his feet. "Brother, do you think it's really *them*? I mean, it might be someone pretending to be them . . ."

The irony of that almost made Russell laugh out loud. How long had *they* impersonated the Elrics, thinking they were trading on someone else's name and reputation for a chance at fulfilling their father's dream, when in reality, they were being used by a man who knew who they really were all along?

"It's them," he said. "I ran into Edward on the street. Literally." He paused. "He still blows his top if you call him short."

Fletcher sighed. "Brother, you didn't . . ."

"I couldn't help myself. With him, it's automatic."

As they headed back home, he decided that he'd make good on what he told Fletcher -- he'd ask around about the Elrics. He told himself it was because he wanted to set his brother's mind at ease.

But in reality, there was a part of him that wanted to believe, very badly, that he was wrong about what they were involved in.

* * *

When he opened the door of his lab, the first thing he noticed was things seemed out of place.

Nothing was ransacked, nothing moved around in a serious way -- it was just that a stack of books that he *knew* had been on the right counter had been moved to the left, and a clipboard of notes that had been next to his microscope was now on top of the stack of books, and a beaker of fluid that had been near the window had been shifted to the opposite end of the table.

He frowned. He knew he wasn't seeing things. And it had all been done so precisely, as if to deliberately not *muss* anything -- it's just that the perpetrator seemed to forget where everything had been . . .

Russell walked out into the kitchen, where Fletcher was putting a pot of water on as part of preparations for dinner. "Fletcher, were you in the lab at all?"

"No, Brother -- I haven't been there all day," he said, opening a cabinet and pulling out a can.

"What about any of the farmhands? Do you think they might have been in here?"

Fletcher shook his head as he reached in the drawer for a can opener. "They never come in the house unless they ask someone first."

"Someone got into there," Russell said. "Everything was moved around . . ."

"Are you sure?" Fletcher replied, turning the stove on.

"I know where I had everything," the older boy said, running a hand through the blond bangs that perpetually hung over one eye.

He turned and went back to the lab. There was no doubt about it. The differences were so subtle that someone who wasn't in this lab a lot wouldn't notice them.

Russell Tringham, however, just about lived in his lab.

Again, he thought about the men he'd seen in town. They'd wanted him to continue his father's work . . . when they failed to get it from him, had they come here looking for it?

He went to the shelves where he'd stored all the records of his father's research in carefully numbered and dated binders. One after the other, he glanced through them.

Everything seemed to be in place. Nothing had been stolen -- but then again, there was no saying that someone didn't copy from one of the books, either.

Had it been Sloane and his gang, or . . .

"No, they didn't do it," he said out loud. "Fletcher saw them in town, and so did I. They weren't here."

But there was still a nagging sense of doubt . . . they could have come here before, when he was at the store the second time and Fletcher was in the fields . . .

He knew he was going to have to talk to his brother about the extremists during the meal -- without mentioning the Elrics, of course -- just so he could be on his guard .

He picked up the piles of books and started to put them where they were before, as if to find something to occupy himself with. He didn't want to deal with the possibility that Edward and Alphonse might be guilty -- and the question of why it was so important to him that they were innocent.

* * *

For once, the person who had come to the door looking for him hadn't been Baddely.

Russell had been at the breakfast table along with Fletcher when the knock came. It was an older lady, Mrs. Fobit, who had a pottery shop. "Some kids raced through my store yesterday and broke two pots -- if you'd fix them, I'd be eternally grateful . . ."

So he was once again making his way home after performing another simple transmutation and collecting yet another small fee. Mrs. Fobit was just another one of their regulars -- the mechanic who wanted him to fix broken tools, the schoolteacher who wanted him to patch up problems with the building rather than go to the town for money for repairs, the candy shop owner who needed the jars that kids kept smashing put back together again . . .

None of them were as consistent as Baddely, though. As much as he welcomed the money, he thought he’d go nuts if *all* of them were on his doorstep every other day.

He was more anxious to get back to the lab than usual after the previous day's incident.

But something he heard from a passing pair of women made him stop in his tracks.

"Dogs of the military," one said. "I thought we were done with the military running the country and poking their nose into everyone's business!"

*Just like the ladies in the store yesterday,* Russell thought.

"Where did you see them?" the second woman asked.

"Coming down the street leading out of town -- looks like they were headed for that lemon farm."

Now Russell's heart seemed to seize in his chest. Lemon farm . . .

His worst suspicions were confirmed. He rushed home as fast as his feet could take him.

* * *

When he pushed open the door of the lab, the first thing he caught sight of was that blond ponytail.

They were sitting side-by-side at *his* counter -- where *he* worked -- with what had to be one of his father's notebooks open in front of them. They were studying it pretty intently, too, heads close together, seemingly oblivious to anything around them.

For some reason, that just made Russell all the angrier, but he forced himself to keep his cool. After all, he didn't *know* they were with the extremists yet . . .

"Do you have a *habit* of breaking into my labs?" he said, one hand gripping the doorway tightly.

Ed spun around on his stool, gold eyes flashing fire. "Well, you weren't exactly going to *invite* us in here, were you?"

"Put that down and get out of here," Russell said. "Now."

"Oh? What'll you do?" Ed hopped off the stool, drawing himself up to his full height -- such as it was. "Can't do much without that cheap piece of costume jewelry you were using, can you?"

Beside him, Al started to look decidedly nervous, eyes flicking from Russell to Ed and back again. "Brother . . ."

Russell was baffled. Edward hadn't been that hostile to him since they first met. Well, if he was going to be like *that* . . .

"Costume jewelry? Are you saying I'm not capable as an alchemist without a red stone?" He reached into his pocket for the chalk that was always there -- oh, yes, he was going to show him . . . There was a large potted plant on the shelf behind him, one with nice, long leaves that would do nicely . . . Reaching behind himself, he began to draw the array without turning around, without looking -- he'd mastered this through long hours of practice.

"Didn't get anybody to pay attention to you until you pretended to be *me*, did you?" The older boy folded his arms and screwed up his face in an expression that looked like he was going to break out into violence at any second.

"I don't need your name *or* a red stone anymore!" The last line of the array was in place, and Russell reached back, touching it. There was a flash of white light on the pot, and one of the plant leaves sprang forward, stretching, growing, turning into a whip which then streaked at the Elric brothers at frightening speed . . .

"Brother! Look out!" Al tackled Ed and sent them both sprawling to the floor just in time for the whip to pass right over them, missing them by centimeters.

Ed looked up. "HA! Is that all you've got?" He clapped his gloved hands together and grasped the leg of the stool he'd been sitting on. Purple lightning crackled, and it transmuted into a long, long spear, which he grabbed and shoved toward Russell, pointing it at his throat.

Fortunately, Russell's hand hadn't moved from the plant, and he was able to transmute another leaf whip. A streak of green knocked the weapon away.

"You have to aim a little higher next time," Russell said. "Of course, that might be hard for *you* . . ."

"WHO'S SO SMALL HE COULD BE TRAMPLED BY A MICROBE?" Ed leapt to his feet again, his face nearly as red as his coat. Russell had seen this before -- he knew the next thing Ed was probably going to do was transmute his automail into a sword. He didn't have time to transmute a weapon of his own, so he was going to have to go on the defensive . . .

There was a flash of white light from the plant just as Ed was clapping his hands together. Green leaves flew toward the smaller boy, wrapped around his legs and pulled. Ed fell, grabbing blindly for anything that would stop his fall . . .

His hand gripped the edge of the soil sample bin, and it clattered to the floor along with him.

Russell watched the whole thing happen as if in slow motion -- the container turning over, some of its contents spilling out on the floor as it landed next to Ed . . . and then Ed clapping his hands, touching the edge of the container and transmuting the whole thing into a stone fist that literally punched Russell in the gut.

He fell to the floor beside Ed, clutching his stomach, coughing. The physical pain didn't hurt as much as the knowledge that his research was ruined.

And then, he heard Fletcher's voice in the doorway, saying, "Brother . . . Brother! What happened?"

Russell couldn't even answer. He somehow managed to unfold himself and crawl over to the stone fist that had once been six months of research. He put a hand on it, examining it . . .

There was no use in trying to transmute it back. Its molecular structure had been altered enough so that it would never have *exactly* the same properties it had before.

He rested his arm on it and his forehead on his arm. Somewhere, a million miles away, he could hear the Elrics talking quietly to each other, he could feel Fletcher put a hand on his shoulder.

None of it mattered. Nothing mattered but the wreck in front of him.

"Six months," he said, quietly. "Six months of research . . ."

"Brother . . ." Fletcher said. "Isn't there *any* of it left?"

"None." Russell raised his head. "I was so close. . . I thought I'd be able to transmute gold in a month . . ."

He saw the Elrics exchange puzzled looks, and exchange them again when Fletcher said, "Brother, I told you that you don't have to worry about making it up to everyone! Nobody blames *you* for people being sick!"

Al put a hand on Ed's shoulder and said, softly, "I think we were wrong, Brother."

"They could still be covering up," Ed grumbled.

"This isn't a coverup," Al said. "Look at Russell. This experiment meant a lot to him. I don't think he'd be *sad* like this if it was an experiment for the rebels."

The words fell on Russell's head like another series of stone fists. The Elrics had thought that *he* was in bed with *Sloane* and his gang? "You . . . thought I was . . ." He pointed at the sculpture in front of him. "But that's still no excuse for *this*!"

"Hey, it's not like you had a *label* on it," Ed said.

"That's because I didn't expect anyone to burst into my lab like that!" Russell smacked the thing with the palm of his hand, as if the motion would get it to fall apart and take its original form. It didn't.

"Well, when you hang out with extremists . . ."

Russell sprang to his feet. "Hey, I thought *you* people were with them!"

"Us?" Ed laughed, a loud, almost barking sound.

"We got sent out here to check up on them," Al said. For the first time, Russell noticed that the younger boy had the silver chain of a State Alchemist's pocket watch on his pants, just like his brother. "We heard they were looking for something in the soil here, and when we got here . . . a couple of people said *you* had been experimenting with soil."

"Me? Who could have told you . . ."

And then, he remembered once telling Baddely about what he was doing when the man tried to call him out for a job just when Russell was in a delicate phase of the experiment. It would be *just* like him to blab.

"So if you're not with those people, what were you doing in a tavern with them?" Ed picked up the one non-transmuted stool and set it back on its legs.

"They tried to *force* him to join them!" said Fletcher, getting up to his own feet and picking up the spear, placing it on the counter.

"They were looking for my services," Russell said, sinking to the floor next to the stone fist again, touching it gingerly. "I turned them down."

"They didn't ask you about your experiments at all?" Ed wrapped his arms around the stone fist and started to lift it, as if to remove the reminder of his mistake from Russell's sight.

With a reluctant sigh, Russell got up and helped him. "No," he said. "I don't think they even knew."

Ed picked up the spear and set it on the floor. "They have to be after you for *something*. Obviously, they think it's in your father's notebooks." He clapped and there was a flash of purple lighting. The spear became a stool again.

"Where’s the container for that?" he said, pointing to the stone fist.

Russell shook his head. "I don't know if you'll be able to transmute it back to what it was."

Al put a hand on Ed's shoulder, narrowed his eyes and said, in a tone that carried a heavy weight, "Brother . . . I think you and I have to talk after we leave here."

Ed looked from Russell back to Al. "Al, I know what you're going to say . . . but we're up against time."

Russell sighed. Of course, their mission was going to have to come first before Edward would do anything to help him get back what he lost. Briefly, he wondered what Ed would be like if he *wasn't* a dog of the military.

"I know, Brother, but . . ." Al looked at the Tringhams. "We have to go follow another lead. We'll be back to talk to you again." He half-pulled Ed toward the door.

"Goodbye," Fletcher said, following them to the door, his eyes filled with a curious mixture of hope and sadness as he looked at Al.

Russell just stood, rooted to the spot, as he reached out and gingerly touched the stone fist.

*I should want to kill him right now*, he thought. *I should have punched his lights out on the spot. But . . . why didn't I?*

* * *

It was a bleary-eyed Russell who pushed open the door of the house the next day, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand as he headed out to the lemon groves.

No sleep would do that to a person.

He'd tossed and turned all night, seeing the image of Edward Elric transmuting his precious bin of soil samples over and over again in his mind, like a movie stuck in an endless loop.

As he walked into the kitchen, Fletcher was pouring out coffee for him. "Are you all right, Brother?" he said. "After yesterday . . ."

"I don't want to talk about yesterday," Russell said, sitting down hard on his chair and burying his face in his crossed arms.

"He didn't *know* what it was, Brother," the younger boy said, putting a hand on Russell's shoulder. "If he had, he wouldn't have touched it."

"He thought we were working for Sloane!" Russell said, sitting back up.

"You thought *he* was, too," Fletcher reminded him, gently.

"I don't understand," Russell said, burying his head in his hands. "He disappeared . . . just vanished into thin air . . . for two years. And then, suddenly, he pops out of nowhere, starts thinking I'm a political extremist and wrecks six months of my research. It's like, every time he and I meet, something bad happens . . ."

"Maybe if you'd *talk* to him, you'd find out what happened," Fletcher said. "I want to find out what happened, too . . . especially to Al."

"I doubt he'd talk to me," Russell said, picking up his coffee cup.

"What makes you say that?" Fletcher said.

Russell just shook his head. It was just a feeling he had, an impression from Edward Elric's whole demeanor . . . the boy had lots of secrets, and they were buried deep. And he wasn't about to share them with just anyone.

A knock came on the door. He knew that knock all too well. It was like someone pounding on the door with a sledgehammer.

The last thing in the world he needed today was Baddely. He doubted at this point things could get worse.

* * *

The red-coated figure was waiting for him outside. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, just fixing Russell with a steady gaze which the boy couldn't quite read.

*Why is he here?* Russell thought. "Did you come to say you're sorry?" he said, nonchalantly.

Edward's gaze was unwavering. "I came to talk."

"Fine, talk." Russell said, starting to walk away from the building, Ed keeping up with him. There was a long, uncomfortable pause, during which Russell didn't look at the other boy.

Finally, Ed said, "Al and I spoke about what happened when we got back to the hotel."

"You mean, he gave you a talking-to?" Russell said, turning a rather bemused gaze on the shorter boy.

"That's not what I said!" Ed snapped, spinning around to face Russell.

"No, but that's what happened," Russell said. He knew this all too well, because the same thing happened frequently with Fletcher and himself.

"What makes you think you know everything about me, anyway?" Ed said, looking away.

*I wish I did,* Russell thought. *I know nothing. And that's the problem.*

The two had come upon the fountain where Russell had talked with Fletcher the day before. He sat down on the edge. "I don't know why you disappeared for two years," he said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"That wasn't what we were talking about." Ed plunked down next to him. "We were talking about what *Al* said."

Russell considered pushing the issue, but figured that would be like trying to move a stone wall -- without alchemy. "All right. What did he say?"

"That I should help you get back whatever it was I transmuted last night. I told him again that we don't have time."

*Of course, Al would think of that,* Russell thought. *And I'm sure his brother put up a fight about it.*

"It was six months of research," he said. "I don't think it could be gotten back so easily, especially if you're on limited time."

"How do you know?" Ed said. "I might be able to see something you didn't."

"As I recall, you're more someone who jumps in with both feet and sees what happens than a careful researcher," Russell said.

"You think I have no *research* skills?" Ed said, leaping to his feet. "You sure thought enough of my abilities when you were *stealing my name* so people would take you seriously!"

"You have *no idea* why I did that!" Russell said, leaping to his feet as well. "I wasn't going to do it unless I was desperate!"

"Well, that says a lot about *your* skills, doesn't it, that you couldn't get anyone to take you seriously just being yourself?" Ed snapped. A couple of people passing on the street turned and looked at the two boys, whispering to themselves -- in a town as sleepy as Xenotime was most of the time, some good old-fashioned conflict in the streets was fodder for a hungry gossip mill.

"You saw firsthand what my skills were like back then!" Russell's hands balled into fists, as his muscles automatically tensed, prepared to fight physically at any moment.

"You relied completely on that stone!" Ed said, visibly tensing himself. Russell braced himself -- he knew that the last thing in the world he wanted was to get hit with that automail arm.

"I made that stone *myself*!" Russell said. "You have no idea what I went through when we were at Mugear's . . ."

"And you don't know what it's like to *really* sacrifice!" Ed shouted.

Russell froze. There was a strange, haunted look on Edward’s face.

*What is he referring to?* he thought. *Whatever made him get the automail arm? His disappearance? Both?*

He suddenly relaxed, and said, softly, "Edward . . . what happened? After you went down to that underground city . . ."

There was a long pause, during which they just looked into each other's eyes. Russell could see some kind of conflict going on there . . . he wondered if Edward was considering opening up to him, clearing up the mystery at long last . . .

But instead, the other boy turned and walked away, saying, "I don't have time now."

Russell just stood, blinking. He was confused. Then, angry. How dare Ed just stalk away from him like that . . .

He turned and rushed back toward the farm, wondering why the hell he'd expect *Edward Elric* to open up to him, anyway. It wasn't as if they were close. Hell, they'd only met up twice.

Of course, there *was* the small matter of him having impersonated the boy for a good year. In a way, that was a binding tie between them.

He shook his head. This wasn't worth worrying about. His first priority had to be restoring his research.

He went straight to the lab when he entered the house. Maybe if he worked hard enough on the damn stone fist, he'd get at least *some* of its original properties back . . .

When he opened the door, he froze in place. The room had been ransacked. Beakers were overturned, stools were lying on their sides, notebooks were open and scattered everywhere . . .

And he knew for sure Edward Elric wasn't responsible, since he'd been with the boy.

His first thought was for Fletcher's safety. He rushed out of the room, searching the house -- the living room, the bedrooms, the kitchen . . .

To his relief, he found a note on the table in Fletcher's handwriting saying the boy had gone grocery shopping and would be back around 1 p.m. It was now 12:30. That meant he wasn't here when this happened.

Slowly walking back to the lab, he dropped to his knees and picked up one of the notebooks. It didn't look like any pages had been torn out. The same was true of the one next to it, and the one beside that.

Methodically, he went about the task of picking them up, one by one, checking through them and then placing them on a growing stack on the counter.

*It had to be Sloane and his gang,* he thought. *They couldn't get what they wanted from me voluntarily, so they decided to take it.*

Except nothing was *taken*. Every one of his notebooks were there, and intact.

He heard a noise behind him in the doorway as he was picking up the stool. "Fletcher, we've had a problem here," he said.

"I see there's a problem," said an all-too-familiar voice. "But I'm not Fletcher."

He whirled around. "You! Who the hell said you could come in my house?"

"You didn't answer my knock, but I heard you moving around in here," Ed said, walking over and picking up one of the other stools. "We didn't finish our conversation."

"You were the one who walked away!" Russell said, picking up some of the upended containers and putting them back where they belonged.

"You changed the subject," Ed said, picking up another container.

"Changed the subject?" Russell banged a beaker into the rack a bit harder than he had to. "As I recall, we were *arguing.*" He sighed. "And we're about to do it again, aren't we?"

"You started it," Ed said, picking up another beaker and placing it beside Russell's.

"I didn't!" Russell banged another beaker into place. "Look I just came back here, found someone had torn my lab to shreds . . ."

"Did they take anything?"

Russell shook his head. "I just found the notebooks thrown all over the place."

"Can I take a look at them?" Ed pushed a chair back upright.

Russell whirled around and fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Why do *you* want to see them?"

"Well, maybe *I* can figure out why they did this. Oh, wait, you don't want my help. Never mind that I've been investigating this gang and I know things about them nobody else does . . ."

Russell gritted his teeth. Ed had a point, as much as he hated to admit it.

"They're on the counter," Russell said -- but he couldn't resist adding, "If you can reach it, that is."

Ed slammed the chair to the floor. "I *can* reach it, thank you,” he nearly snarled.

Russell chuckled to himself -- he couldn't understand why he always found Ed getting upset over short jokes so amusing. "Just look at them."

Edward grabbed one book and started flipping through it, his eyes scanning the pages rapidly, one hand pressing against his mouth thoughtfully from time to time. Russell went back to his cleanup work, occasionally glancing over at the other boy.

There was something rather striking about the way he looked, standing there in deep concentration, brow furrowed, body still except for the hand that flipped the pages. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Russell looked away, quickly. If he was going to stare at anyone, it was *not* going to be *this* person. He went back to straightening a stack of papers.

Edward looked up from the book. "Is *all* this work about the effects of red water on the soil around here?"

"All the notebooks I have in here right now, yes," Russell said. "That's what I was researching."

"They were copying this stuff," Ed said. "There's smudges on some of the pages, fingerprints . . ."

"So why not just *take* the notebooks?" Russell said, putting the stack of papers back on the shelf.

"Probably wanted to put it into their own code," Ed said, putting down the notebook he was holding and picking up another. "These notebooks pretty much spell everything out in a way anyone could read. They're afraid of getting caught with the goods -- they know the military's after them." He put the book down. "Which means we have even less time than I originally thought."

Russell whirled around to face him. "What do you mean, *we*?"

"I mean, you're going to have to work with me on this," Edward said, "since *you* are so familiar with this soil, and *I* am familiar with this gang."

"Work with you on *what*?" Russell said, stalking over to him.

"Well, it seems that Sloane and his friends have found out the soil around here has special properties, too," Ed said. "They want to turn it into a bomb capable of destroying an entire town. They call it a megaweapon."

"So why do I have to help you?" Russell said.

"We're going to make the megaweapon before they do," Ed said, giving Russell a lopsided, sly grin that, under the current circumstances, just looked irritating.

"What?" Russell said, grabbing the back of a stool as if to keep himself from falling over. "That's insane!"

"Hey, if we make the megaweapon first, and put it in the military's hands, it'll keep the extremists from using it -- because why launch a strike against someone who can launch a megaweapon against you?"

Russell sank into the stool. "And if the military doesn't get the megaweapon first . . ."

"Then nothing's going to stop these people."

Russell just sat there, thinking. After a moment, he said, “So how come nobody’s tried making this megaweapon before?”

“They have tried,” Ed replied. “There just hasn’t been a suitable base material for it before. Not until the soil around here was discovered.”

Russell winced. As if having the red water sickness hanging around his neck wasn’t bad enough . . . now there was the possibility of his family’s experiments ultimately resulting in a weapon that could change the course of modern warfare, bring civilizations to their knees.

*Enough people were hurt when my father and I were looking for the Philosopher's Stone*, he thought. *I don't want a single person to be hurt by his work ever again.*

And there was also the possibility that he might discover the gold formula in the course of the explosives research.

He looked at Ed, took a deep breath, and said, "Fine, I'll do it."

Ed gave him that grin again, and said, "Just don't try to take *all* the credit for the results."

"Hey! Do you think I'd do that?"

"You'd use my name, wouldn't you?" Ed put the notebook down. "I'm going to find Al and tell him, then I'll be back."

Russell just watched the red coat retreat, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He was still just sitting there when Fletcher came in.

"Brother," he said, "was that . . ."

Russell took a deep breath. "It seems that Edward and I are now . . . research partners."

* * *

Fletcher finished putting the last few pieces that had been scattered by the invaders in place. "I'm really glad you're going to work together, Brother," he said.

Russell looked up from the notebook he was studying. Was it a good thing? Both of them had flashpoint tempers, could be very stubborn about their work . . . it was either a formula for success or a recipe for disaster. "Why is that?"

"I think you'll get a lot done very fast," his younger brother said, hopping up next to him. "You can do things he can't, and vice versa."

"*If* he doesn't go into smug, stuck-up know-it-all mode," Russell said, putting the book down.

"Brother . . ." Fletcher pulled one of the small plants growing down the counter close to him, and started to examine it. "You have your moments too, you know." He turned a leaf over and scrutinized a series of tiny spots there. "You really shouldn't make fun of his height."

"I can't help it," Russell replied, watching with interest as his younger brother took out a piece of chalk and started drawing an array on the plant's pot. Just with one small glance, he could tell what was wrong with it, what needed to be done . . .

Only the sheer depth of his love for his brother kept him from being madly jealous of his natural talent.

"Why not?" Fletcher tipped the plant over, concentrating and closing his eyes. He touched the array, and it flashed white, shooting energy up through the stalk and leaves.

"He's just *asking* for it sometimes," Russell said, peeking under to see the leaf Fletcher had just been examining -- sure enough, it was free of spots now. "With that kind of attitude . . ."

"Asking for *what*?" said a voice at the door. Russell didn't even have to look to know who it was.

He whirled around and said, "Haven't you ever heard of *knocking*?"

"What good does that do when nobody answers?" Edward walked into the room, Alphonse following.

"We saw the light on in the lab, so we figured you probably wouldn't hear us," Al said. Fletcher looked at him hopefully, as if he expected to see a glimmer of recognition in the other boy's eyes -- then seemed crestfallen when none came.

Russell felt a bit of relief at the younger Elric's presence -- he figured he'd have a calming effect on Ed, and be a detriment to any conflicts. Unfortunately, his hopes were dashed when Al added, "I'm going back into town, Brother. I'll be back in a couple of hours." To Russell, he said, "We got a tip on another possible member of the gang."

Ed frowned. "Al, it's dangerous for you to be doing that by yourself."

"I can handle it, Brother. Besides . . . we *don't have time* when it comes to the megaweapon." He narrowed his eyes. "And you *do* owe Russell some help . . ."

Ed leaned over toward his brother. "Hey, that was an *accident*! If I was going to do something to him, it would be something more *interesting* than messing with his daddy's experiments!"

"That was no *experiment*!" Russell said, stalking over toward Ed. "You have no idea what that was!"

"Hey, I *said* I was sorry!" Ed said, fixing Russell with an icy gaze.

"I seem to recall *you* telling me the proper way to apologize was *on my knees,*" Russell said, returning the gaze with one twice as glacial.

"I am NOT getting on my knees for YOU!" Ed snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, Russell could see Al and Fletcher both had decidedly worried expressions on their faces.

"Brother," Al said, steadily, "you two can fight all you want *after* you find the formula for the megaweapon."

Fletcher glanced over at Russell, nervously. "Should I help out, Brother?"

Russell considered taking him up on his offer. But he knew that there were chores to be done on the farm yet -- the last thing in the world they wanted was for Belsio to come home and find things neglected, after everything he'd done for them.

"You need to take care of the groves, Fletcher," he said.

The younger boy nodded and got off his stool. "You can come get me if you need me." He headed for the door, looked at Al for a moment as if he was considering what to say, then just left.

"I'm going too, Brother," Al said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Ed walked him to the door. "Al . . . be careful. Please."

"You know I will," he said. There was a pause when the two brothers' eyes locked, and it was the oddest thing Russell had ever seen. This was *not* the way siblings were supposed to look at each other. It was as if they were communicating volumes in a single glance, conveying years upon years of shared experience . . .

It was incredibly *intimate*, and he felt a bit embarrassed to be witnessing it.

Finally, Al turned and headed out the door. Ed stretched out, walking back toward the table. "All right. What do you know about the soil so far?"

"Well, I'd show you a sample" -- Russell pointed to the stone fist that was still on the table -- "but *somebody* seems to have turned it into a weapon that was used against me."

"Look, didn't you take any *notes* while you were doing your research?" Ed hopped up on one of the stools.

Russell reached up on one of the shelves, pulled down a leather-covered notebook and handed it to Ed. The smaller boy opened it up and began flipping through. "You put *footnotes* in here?"

"I cross-check everything against books," Russell said, sitting on the other stool. "And some of them are references back to my father's work."

Edward pulled out a notebook of his own, flipped a few pages, checked something there, and looked back at Russell's notebook again. "This matches up with what we found in *their* notebooks, all right . . ."

"Their notebooks?"

"Sloane left something behind in that tavern he took you to," Ed said. "We found it under the table. There was only a page filled out in the notebook, but it looks like they'd started research similar to yours."

Russell pointed to an equation at the bottom of the page. "*That* is different."

Ed shook his head. "Probably a whim one of them had. Doesn't look like it would get them anywhere to me."

"I think it looks like it would work out very well," Russell said. "Maybe we should try it."

Ed looked up. "Are you nuts? This would set the entire process *back*!"

"Or speed it up." Russell grabbed a bin of fresh, untouched soil he had collected earlier. "We're going to try it."

"And waste a whole hour? No thanks, I have better things to do with my time." Ed went back to the notebook.

"What if it *works*?" Russell scooped out some of the dirt and put it in a beaker. "I wouldn't call that wasted."

"What if it *doesn't*? And I think it *won't*?" Ed glanced up.

"How are we going to know that unless we try it?" Russell was already beginning to sketch a possible transmutation circle out on a nearby pad of paper.

"Look, I can tell just by looking at the formula! It's uneven! It *won't work!" Ed slammed the notebook down to the table for emphasis.

"And just how must *agricultural* alchemy have you done that *you're* the expert?" Russell sketched faster, pressing hard on the pencil.

"This isn't agricultural alchemy, it's *mineral* alchemy.”

“Minerals are the very foundation of agricultural alchemy,” Russell said. “We have to be *very* familiar with the interaction of soil and plants.”

“Well, how much *non-agricultural* mineral alchemy have *you* done? Besides, you have no *idea* about . . ." Ed suddenly stopped. "We're wasting time now, aren't we?"

Russell put his pencil down. "Edward . . . maybe this is a bad idea, you and I working together."

"Look, we have no choice. Nobody else knows enough to be able to do this before these people do." Ed picked up the notebook again.

"But if we can't agree on what to do . . ."

Ed studied the equation in the notebook again. "Fine. We'll try it your way first. But if it doesn't work . . . I take over from here."

Russell was going to protest that, but he knew he'd scored one major victory -- Ed had agreed to do *his* equation first.

*And we're not even going to have to worry about doing yours, Edward,* he thought. *Because *mine* is going to be *right.*

* * *

An hour and a half and several equations later, they had gotten nowhere.

Russell had his heard buried in one of his father's notebooks, combing and re-combing familiar formulas and diagrams. Edward was looking back and forth between an alchemy text and Russell's own notebook.

"Your notes are confusing in a couple of places," Ed said. "I can't quite figure out what you mean."

"*I* know what it means," Russell said, simply.

"Well, would you mind explaining *this*?" Ed help up the book and pointed to the scribbled lines beneath a diagram.

Russell looked at it. He couldn't believe Ed couldn't read *that*. It was as plain as the nose on his face.

"It's a listing of mineral abbreviations." He shrugged. "Common ones."

"I've never seen *those* before. No wonder we're not getting anywhere -- are *all* your notes in code?"

Russell put down the book he had been studying. "That is *not* a code! And the reason we're not getting anywhere is because of *your* insistence that *this*" -- he pointed to the formula they had disagreed on before -- "was unworkable!"

"And we haven't been able to do anything with it yet, have we?" Ed said, pointing to the notes he himself had been making.

"If you just give me a bit more *time*. . ." Russell picked up the book again.

"We don't *have* time!" Ed jumped up and started to pace. "That's the problem! If you weren't so damn stubborn, you'd realize how *important* this is!"

"It was *always* important," Russell said, quietly.

Ed stopped in his tracks, blinking -- in surprise that Russell hadn't responded with a cutting remark of his own, he guessed. "What do you mean?"

"This research . . ." Russell pointed at the notebook Ed had been reading. "It was the most important thing to me in the world."

Ed sat back down, giving him a sardonic grin. "More of *Daddy's* projects?"

"That is *not* the reason I'm doing it!" Russell slammed his notebook to the counter with a *bang*. "It's based on my father's research, but I'm doing this for *me* this time. It's for . . ." He looked down. "It's to put something right."

That haunted look crossed Edward's face again. Russell wondered if he'd inadvertently hit a nerve of some sort. He just said, quietly, "The effects of the red water?"

"You *saw* it," Russell said, raking a hand through the fall of hair that perpetually covered one eye. "The sickness. It never went away. We've had people die from illnesses . . . the doctors keep saying it's not related to red water exposure, but . . . I don't believe them. Nobody does." He looked down at his notebook. "I have to live with the knowledge that my father and I did this to these people. I want to give something back . . ."

"Equivalent exchange," Edward said, looking thoughtful -- and still a bit haunted.

"Exactly," Russell said. "Fletcher keeps telling me we're not to blame, but . . . I know better." *And why am I opening up to *him*, after he refused to tell anything to me?* he thought. *I've never discussed this with anyone but Fletcher . . . * "I can't leave this town until I've restored the balance."

"And clearing your father's name doesn't hurt, either." Ed sat back down, picking up the notebook again.

"Wouldn't you do the same thing, if it were *your* father?" As soon as the words were out of Russell's mouth, he regretted them. It was a well-known fact that the Elrics had been abandoned by their father as children.

"*My* father?" Ed's eyes hardened. "I don't know if I'll ever understand him, or what he did. When I left him behind. . ." He broke off abruptly. "Forget it. We're wasting time." He picked up the notebook again, beginning to copy out the mineral list into his own notebook.

Russell frowned. This sounded strange -- there were as many rumors about Hoenheim Elric as there were about his son, and most of them were that he had just *vanished*, into thin air.

*Just like his son did,* Russell thought. *And Ed said *he* left his *father* behind, not the other way around . . .*

He knew he wasn't going to get any answers about that, or about what happened to Ed in the last two years -- the abrupt way he'd broken off the conversation was proof of that.

He busied himself with the notebooks again, trying to lose himself in numbers and figures, knowing that he *had* to apply himself to the task at hand -- after all, in helping Ed fulfill *his* mission, he could find the solution he was seeking to his own.

And it would keep questions that had nothing to do with what they were doing at bay, as well.

Another hour of work later, Russell felt they'd made minimal progress. They couldn't say they were completely stalled anymore -- but they were nowhere near a solution, either.

Ed put down his notebook, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Al should be here any minute," he said, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

"If he's not . . . do you want me to help you look for him?" Russell said, putting his own notebook down.

"He'll be here," Ed said, getting to his feet and stretching, his voice conveying that he wasn't even going to consider the possibility of Al not coming back.

Russell watched the boy raise his flesh-and-blood arm over his head, folding the one he knew was metal behind it. He knew all too well what that arm was capable of, he'd had it pointed at him in the form of a lethal blade.

And before he knew it, he was blurting out, "The automail arm . . . why do you have it?"

Ed frowned a little, then said, "A mistake. And like you said, things balance out."

*Just like him,* Russell thought as he watched the boy sit back down and glance nervously at the clock again. *He's telling me absolutely nothing again. And after I told him about what *I* was doing . . .*

The door to the lab burst open just then, and Alphonse Elric rushed in. "Sorry, Brother -- I was talking to Fletcher outside . . ."

"Al!" Ed leapt off his stool. "Did you find anything out?"

"A couple of leads, but not what I'd hoped." The younger boy smiled at Russell. "Hello, Russell -- did you get anything accomplished?"

"Same as you," Russell said.

Al looked back at Ed. “I *did* find something out about . . . what we talked about last night. And it seems . . . you may be right.”

They exchanged another of those long, peculiar glances in which they seemed to be looking straight into each other’s souls.

Then, Ed closed his notebook and said, "We'll talk back at the inn, Al.”

"Wait a minute!" Russell said. "You're leaving? You were the one who said we had no *time*!"

"We have something else we need to look into," Ed said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

When they were gone, Russell banged the notebook to the counter in frustration. What was going *on* with them, with this case, with everything about them? The brothers obviously knew something about this case that they weren't willing to share with him, and that annoyed him a bit -- wasn't *he* part of their mission now, too?

He went back to the soil sample and reopened the book. It would be *very* satisfying to him if he could find the solution to the megaweapon before Edward Elric did.

But the cryptic words Ed had said before kept rolling around his head -- that his arm was a mistake, and it was the result of things balancing out . . .

The notebook hit the counter with a thud as the full realization hit him.

Losing body parts as a result of a mistake . . .

"Human transmutation," he said, aloud. "They must have attempted human transmutation!"

No wonder, he thought, they were so reluctant to share any information about their lives . .. .

He wondered if that were the reason Al had always been seen wearing armor when they first met . . . maybe he'd lost body parts as well, and was embarrassed to have people see it . . .

*But why does he seem intact now?* he thought. *And why the lost memories?*

He picked up the book, trying to force himself to work again, although it wasn't easy.

The brothers Elric were more mysterious than any alchemical formula or cryptic diagram.
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Aduration (A Union or Combination into One)