The Waterstone of the Wise [1]

[scriveyner]

.:Chapter One :.

Connecticut: 1937

The warm spring afternoon drew students out in droves. They chattered amicably, women in their calf-length dresses and men in ties as they strode languidly down the paths that cut through the grass outside the lecture halls. The bright bustle of conversation outside the windows of the Science building was a common occurrence and was simple to ignore, unless one was looking for a distraction.

It was remarkably hard to keep the bright sunlight out of the tiny corner office with the lack of shrubbery blocking the windows like they did further down the way. Even with the shades drawn it was bright in the room, dust motes caught drifting in the dingy light.

The office of the interim Chemistry professor looked like a hurricane had come through and no one had bothered to sweep up after it. The bookshelves were crammed full to bursting with a number of books ranging from recently-printed textbooks to reprints on treatise on the elements, and even books on rocketry and physics. These books spilled off the shelves and to the floor, piled almost knee-high in places. The filing cabinets were spilling papers out the sides to the floor before it, and all over the room on every available surface empty vials, beakers and alembics were balanced. It was chaos personified, confined in a tiny room, almost completely forgotten by the cleaning staff.

Edward Elric sighed deeply, bored. There were several lab reports sitting on his desk waiting for grades, and his next lecture would not write itself. He had lost a good part of the afternoon reading one of Pauling's most recent articles on electronegativity - but it was a simple distraction, nothing more. He had grown restless these past few months, and this restlessness disturbed him. Edward knew exactly what is was he wanted to do.

It was time to move on. He had been stationary for years now, after moving all across Europe in the pursuit of knowledge. This was a thirst that never slackened - he and Alphonse had been dogged in their quest. There was a whole new world of opportunity spread open before them, and they were certainly going to make the most of it. As the years passed, however, their mutual goal slowly disintegrated. While Edward pursued the path of a scientist, funneling his passion for the intricacies of alchemy into the science borne from its ashes; Alphonse chose a different path. He became far more interested in the histories of the lands they traveled, their languages and their roots. He eventually chose a scholarship at Cambridge University, and that was the point that Edward continued on his journey alone.

He could have stayed in Cambridge with Alphonse as he studied. Edward didn't have to keep moving, but travel was all he knew. He had his sights set on studying in Venice for a while, but the Fascists there left a bad taste in his mouth. They had been very careful to keep their tracks covered for years after the debacle involving Dietlinde Eckhart, and they were quite fortunate that the Nazi party thought it in their best interests to sweep the Thule Society under the rug. All the same, Edward was not fond of the political climate in Europe.



Edward sat back in his desk chair and considered for a moment throwing his feet up on his desk to recline. He dismissed the thought just as quickly. The door to his office very seldom locked correctly, and all the students and staff at Marshall College knew of his false leg. He had affected a limp - a war injury, of course - and no one gave him a second thought. His arm would be harder to explain, so Edward kept the automail covered at all times. That required long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat of summer. Gloves were not optional. Fortunately this was written off as an eccentricity, as all the professors in the Science department seemed just the slightest bit odd.

Edward had gotten this job by sheer luck, and had almost turned it down. He and Alphonse had been sitting on the steps of the library at Cambridge, enjoying sandwiches and talking of the future; they had been approached by an almost-nervous, middle-aged man who introduced himself as Marcus Brody. Apparently he had been a correspondent of their father's - Edward had learned very quickly that Hohenheim wasted no time getting his fingers into everything in this new world. They had run across acquaintances of their father in every country that they had been in … which had been quite a bit disconcerting when they had spent three months in Japan several years prior. However at this point Edward had made a bit of a name for himself as well; having published a few random papers and articles over the last few years.

Brody had offered him a job - assistant interim professor at a small-town university in America. The man had connections - he would be able to get Edward into America; after all, Edward did not have any papers and would likely not have made it through immigration any other way. Brody was fascinated by the stories of Hohenheim and in exchange for his pulling of strings all he wanted was some first-hand accounts of the man. Edward had hesitated - he had never taught before, but Alphonse encouraged him to take the job.

That was how Edward found himself employed by Marshall College in Connecticut. And that had been almost five years ago now. This was the longest he had stayed in one place since he lived in Munich. No wonder he was restless.

Maybe when the semester was over he would visit his brother. Alphonse had moved on from Cambridge to London itself - he had not found work but he had found love. He had gotten married not two years after Edward had left for America, to a woman also in the history program. Edward had met her only once, at the wedding; and Alphonse had to take him aside and make him promise to be on his best behavior. The warning was necessary because Sofia was a dead ringer for their childhood friend, Winry Rockbell.

It was a phenomenon that both of the Elric brothers had observed since they had first set foot in this strange parallel Earth. There seemed to be alternate versions of their friends and family here - although fortunately they did not seem to run across them nearly as often as Edward feared. Sofia might look like their childhood friend but she was not the same person; she was very quiet and viewed Edward with a veiled distrust. When she spoke, he could detect the traces of a French accent in her tone.

That was really the only thing that kept Edward from visiting his brother. It was not that he disliked his brother's wife … her presence just made him deeply uncomfortable. It brought back memories he would rather stay buried. They had been firm in their decision to make this world their new home, and protect it as they would the land of their birth. Still, Edward could not help but feel homesick for the country he nearly gave his life to defend.

There was no point in looking back, he told himself firmly. Only forward. He could not change the past, and even if he could he would not want to. He had a good life here, even if it was a bit lonely without Alphonse. Brody checked in on him occasionally - but the rest of the teaching staff were either idiots or incompetent. The students showed more promise than most of the teaching staff, and despite several accidents in the lab Edward was far more comfortable about them than any of the stodgy older professors.

Even with the thought in mind that he was going to go visit his brother, and the fact he needed to plan that little excursion, Edward was restless now. He shoved back from his desk, determined that he was going to go for a walk to clear his head.

The afternoon air would do him some good - he hoped.

~ * ~

A late faculty meeting meant that Edward was going to be eating bar food again for dinner. He despised faculty meetings with every fiber of his being; the Sciences department was not exempt from the time-consuming glare of budget meetings. Edward had sat in the back and contributed the least - he could not get away with feigning issues at understanding any longer; he used to get a pass from these long, dry meetings by layering on a thicker German accent than he actually had.

So Edward sat in the back and doodled mindlessly on the sheaf of notes he was supposed to be taking - suggestions on ways to cut corners with the budget, on how to conserve the supplies each science lab was allowed and things of that nature. The first thing Edward had done was scribble out the spelling of his name on the list of professors in attendance. Despite his constant corrections, not a single secretary in the establishment seemed to grasp the concept that there was not an "h" on the end of his surname.

When they dismissed, finally, the sun was low in the sky. Most of the teaching staff were older than he was - happily married, home to their wives and a hot prepared meal and maybe a drink later. Edward, on the other hand, was off to the local drinking establishment.

The air in the bar was warm and heavy and stale, thick with cigarette smoke. It was a comforting atmosphere to him, he frequented this little hole-in-the-wall bar on the far side of town specifically because the students did not. He didn't mind his students and would even drink with them occasionally, but most of the time he preferred to drink alone.

Tonight though, he was staring at his mug of beer as if he were expecting it to do a trick. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice the people coming and going around him.

Edward had stopped by the house on his way to the bar, to drop his class notes off and to sort through his mail. There had been a few scientific journals that came this week that he wanted to flip through first; and he had devoured the information within them greedily. This did not abate his restlessness and instead made it significantly worse, and for the first time in several years he pulled out some chalk.

The transmutation circle came back to him with little difficulty, and he spent a few minutes sketching a difficult transmutation circle on the wall. It was meant to transmute water, to change its properties and funnel it - but once Edward had finished he had scowled at it and swiped it through with his false hand. The single smear through the center of the transmutation circle did not hide what he had tried again to do.



This world was simply not set up to accommodate alchemy in the manner that he was used to. Matter transmutation just did not exist here.

Of course that had not stopped him from trying, most notably when drunk. Alphonse had discouraged that practice very quickly, but now that Edward was alone again he could moon quietly over that which was lost and never could be regained.

So Edward nursed his beer, ignored the other patrons of the bar, and brooded silently.

When the man in the long-brimmed fedora came in, Edward didn't give him more than a cursory glance before turning his attention back to his drink. He ignored the man as he seated himself two seats down from Edward at the bar, and did not pay any actual attention while the man ordered and joked with the bartender.

It was not long after the man in the hat came in that four men followed. Edward glanced up at the strange silence the fell over the rabble as the door swung loudly shut behind the men, and he looked over his shoulder.

They did not look like government agents, or policemen. Three of the men were wearing three-piece suits but they obviously felt uncomfortable in the dress judging by their posture. They all wore hats, pulled down tightly to shadow their eyes. Edward assessed them through his buzz - this was not a good sign. They stood in a three-point formation, blocking his view of the fourth man.

These men were trouble, and the entire bar knew it.

The establishment seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to decide on what to do. The men in the three-point formation spread out slightly, giving dark looks at the drinkers around the door. The other patrons of the bar took the hint and began to clear out, wanting desperately to be out of the line of fire. The handful of people who did not move were clearly too far gone to care about what was happening anyway.

The fourth man looked directly at Edward, and Edward's bad feeling only intensified. The man was Oriental and was dressed like he had walked straight out of Chinatown, in a changshan and trousers. It was a distinctly unusual sight in small-town Connecticut; Edward had only seen changshan when they passed through Shanghai years ago. He turned completely around as the man stepped delicately into the bar, looking with disinterest at the handful of patrons who had not bothered to shift themselves.



"Good evening, professor," he said, his English accented but very good. "I trust that you are well."

Edward was not going to beat around the bush, he was tired and getting on towards drunk. "Do I know you?"

"I don't believe so." The man folded his hands before him and bowed. "I am called Ling Yao. May I join you?"

Edward glanced around the now mostly-empty bar, the three men - bodyguards, he now realized, although their ethnicity was difficult to determine due to their mode of dress and the hats that stayed firmly in place upon their heads - working on removing the rest of the patrons from the establishment. He turned his eyes back to the man who had introduced himself as Ling Yao. "I don't suppose I have much of a choice."

"You are quite wise." Edward watched, his drink forgotten, as the Chinaman slid onto the stool beside him. "I have traveled a very long distance to find you, Professor Elric," he murmured. "Your presence is requested by my employer."

Edward turned his beer so the handle of the stein was no longer facing his left hand but his right. "That's interesting. I'm not looking for a new job, so why don't you tell me what you want so I can go back to my beer?"

"The Philosopher's Stone."

It was a knee-jerk reaction. Edward stiffened, his hand gripping the handle of the beer stein as he stared down into its depths. The Philosopher' Stone. Of course there were legends on it here, Edward had read tirelessly about it over the years. The alchemists of the era searched relentlessly for the secret to immortality. Flamel, Paracelsus, Dee, Kelly, Bacon - the list went on and on, and yet no success to be had.

And yet.

The Stone was not a stone at all, no rock nor powder but a concept, an energy that could be imbued in any object at hand. It was never what the holder thought it would be. It brought pain and misery to all around it, and misfortune to those unlucky enough to unlock its secrets. Edward somehow kept his voice level and didn't raise his eyes to the stranger. "There's no such thing."

"Ah," Ling said, and the lightness of his tone made Edward raise his eyes. "But there is. My employer has obtained one of the sacred stones and requires someone far more … qualified … to help harness its power."

"Bullshit," Edward said firmly. "I don't know how you heard about me, but I can't help you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to be getting home. I have papers to grade."

A heavy hand fell on Edward's left shoulder, forcing him back down onto the bar stool and gripping him tightly. Edward twisted under the hand instinctively, but he glared at Ling instead. He was running his finger along the top of the bar thoughtfully, and then rubbed his fingers together. "Unfortunately, I must insist," he said, not even looking at Edward. "My employer had very specific instructions."



Edward did not like where this was leading. He braced both of his feet against the solid bar in front of him and shoved his entire body backward. The man behind him let out a grunt of surprise as Edward's entire body weight hit him and they both went over backwards. As he landed, elbows dug deep in the man's solar plexus, Edward could see that the other two goons were hassling the guy who had sat down at the other end of the bar. The clatter of Edward going over backwards drew their attention, and they both pulled revolvers from the interior of their jackets.

He rolled off of the drooling goon and staggered to his feet as one of the other two rushed him. He had not expected that fall to hurt quite so much; he had tried to keep himself in shape but it was clear he had gone a bit soft. Edward loosened his shoulders, widened his stance and as the man with the revolver got within striking distance he threw all his weight on his back leg and kicked up.

Even without stretching out first he still had his martial artist's flexibility. The revolver was knocked out of the goon's hand, but he was smarter than Edward anticipated and he wrapped one meaty hook around Edward's leg and yanked him off his feet. The next thing Edward knew, he was having an unpleasant face-to-face meeting with several tables as he crashed through them.

Edward blinked the stars away in time to see the man in the hat give the third goon a spectacular right cross. It did not take the other thug down but it did make him stagger back and the man in the hat lunged for the gun in his hand. Edward did not see what happened next because the goon grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet.

Ling had not even gotten up from his bar stool, Edward saw over the goon's shoulder. He was watching the brouhaha with an eyebrow cocked, as if he had expected this and was waiting for Edward to expend all of his energy so he could have the outcome he desired.

Forget everything about that.

There was a huge crash as the man in the hat broke a bar stool over the other goon. That got the attention of the man who held Edward, and Edward seized the distraction. He grabbed the outside of the man's arms, surged up as high as he could and head-butted the man so hard he saw stars himself. Surprised by this action the man dropped him and Edward staggered backward, feeling a twinge of pain shoot through his good leg. He took another step backward, in preparation to give the man a full-on right hook that he would never forget when the first goon lunged up behind him and wrapped both of his arms around Edward from behind.

Edward kicked hard but the man yanked him off his feet backward and gave him absolutely no leverage to work with. He was dragging Edward back, toward the door and he realized that they were not going to give him any option, it was a come-with-them-or-die choice. Edward tried to get his elbows in to jam them back toward the man's solar plexus when the revolver went off and Edward could feel the man hit. He jerked backwards and then went slack, his arms dropping to his sides. The man in front of him started moving toward Edward and this time Edward was prepared, hand curled into a fist he struck the man full in the face with his automail.

Suddenly Ling was between him and the man, catching the follow-up left fist in his hand and twisting Edward's arm violently. Edward yelped in surprise as Ling dropped him to the ground. "You are really quite the handful," Ling said. "I oughtn't be surprised by this."

"I think you need to back up now," a new voice said. Edward looked up to see the man in the hat with the goon's revolver in his hand and trained directly on Ling.

Ling did not look up, instead increasing the pressure on Edward's left arm in a way that made it clear he could snap his arm if he so desired. "Why Doctor Jones, this really isn't any of your business."

"Do I know you?" The man in the hat said, the distrust evident in his voice. Edward turned his face back down to the floor and gritted his teeth, trying to get his automail hand under him. With his left arm twisted so painfully and Ling crouched above him, he could barely move.

"No, but I know of you," Ling said smoothly. "I will give you the benefit of this temporary indiscretion if you would be so kind as to leave."

"Sorry, but I can't do that," Jones said. Edward grunted in pain as Ling twisted his arm harder.

"Your friend here is going to be down one arm very fast if you don't comply."

"I am going to feed you your own asshole if you don't let me go," Edward snarled, his face still pushed into the ground. For his effort Ling ground his face into the floor again.

The next sequence of events happened so quickly that Edward barely had time to react. The man in the hat - Jones - shot Ling. Or rather, he had shot at where Ling was, because as the gun retort reached Edward's ears the pressure was gone from his arm. Edward rolled instinctively, his automail arm out in front of him to protect, but Ling had flipped onto the surface of the bar itself. Jones didn't give him any time to hesitate, he fired shot after shot at Ling. "Wait!" Edward shouted, just as the revolver clicked empty. "Who has the Stone?"

It was too late. Ling was gone.

~ * ~

Edward gritted his teeth in pain as he sat on the dilapidated sofa that was in the sitting room of his small apartment. The seam of metal and skin where his automail ports were located throbbed, seemingly in time with the beating of the headache he had acquired as he limped his way home. He had seen fit to vacate the bar as quickly as possible, to avoid any unpleasantness with the local constabulary.

His automail ached frequently these days. It was something he had grown used to over time, but the intensity of the pain had slowly been increasing, as his ability to use the limb slowly diminished. Edward did not have quite the same range of motion he had once had with the automail and Alphonse had postulated many theories on his gradual loss of mobility. The one that seemed to make the most sense was the one Edward liked the least - that the technology that maintained the automail was in part dependent on a subconscious connection with alchemy itself. Now he was living in a place where the energy no longer permeated the world around him, and that seemed to have a negative effect on the biometrics of the automail.

If Alphonse's theory was correct, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but suffer the pain until his right arm and his left leg became as useless as blocks of wood. Edward really did not have any idea what he would do at that point in time, but it did not bear thinking on now.

Not now, when he had bigger things to think on.

Ling and his goons had already been by Edward's apartment. The study had been ransacked, books pulled down from shelves and scattered all across the floor. Papers were pulled out of his locked desk drawers and strewn on top of everything, even the cushions of his favorite overstuffed easy chair had been slit open. They had been searching for something, and Edward had a pretty good idea what they were looking for.

Their quest was in vain, Edward's personal alchemy notes were not hidden in the flat he had lived in for five years. He once kept them on him at all times; useless here but a keepsake of a world he had left behind. Months ago he had gotten the strangest notion in his head and he had posted the notes to Alphonse in London to keep safe.

Edward had thrown his overcoat on the first piece of furniture he had come across once he had staggered into the flat, and he stared at it in the darkness, replaying the conversation in the bar with Ling over and over in his head. Someone had the Philosopher's Stone. That was madness, but why claim to have it?

The man Jones had shot had a letter on him. It had been in Italian, but it was Edward's only lead. Italian was one of those languages he kept meaning to learn but never got around to, so skimming the letter proved to be nothing but frustrating. Jones did not seem to be able to understand it either, so Edward had folded the letter up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. There was an official-looking seal on the paper, maybe that would provide some kind of lead.

There was no way that this mysterious employer of an assassin - for that was what this Ling fellow had to be, he had seen the type - was up to any sort of good. And if they were after Edward in relation to the Stone, then that meant that they knew. They knew of his heritage and they knew of Alphonse and everything the two of them had fought for was hanging in the balance. He had to track this person, this entity down and convince them that this plot of theirs was not in their best interests.

He had a responsibility to this world now, and to his own. So long as he was alive and kicking the path that bridged the two worlds would never be opened again.

~ * ~

"What do you know of the League of Shadows?"

Marcus Brody had asked the question casually, but Indiana Jones had heard that tone of voice come from his old friend before. He thought about his answer for a moment, staring down into the coffee that sat on the table before him.

"Not much," Indy said truthfully. "Their name gets bandied about frequently but there's been little to substantiate their existence. Some say that they are assassins, others a cult of thieves. Most say they don't exist at all." He sat back in his chair and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. It was still sore. Why would Brody bring up a band of cutthroats and thieves unless for good reason?

Indy knew that most archaeologists would quite happily lump him in with similar bands of malcontents and tomb raiders; say what they would about his methods but he got the job done, bringing home more priceless artifacts than most of those by-the-book archaeologists would ever see in a museum. There were occasionally those treasures that got away - stolen out from under him by rivals, greedy merchants and looters whose first and only interest was the amount of profit they could turn. It was a frustrating business, to be sure - if he had the resources Indy would chase those profiteers to the ends of the earth to recover those stolen valuables.

But that was Brody's business. He was the director of special acquisitions for the American Museum of Natural History in New York; and it was he who very quietly funded the numerous expeditions that Indy undertook. Usually said expeditions were started at a word from Brody - a rare manuscript gone missing; an ancient lost city uncovered the jungles of South America or even when one of those artifacts that "got away" turned up in a foreign black market - that was all the impetuous it took to get Indy on the road again.

"So what does the League of Shadows - which may or may not even exist in the first place - have to do with me?" Indy asked curiously.

"Oh, the League exists," Brody said without a flicker of doubt. "Several of my contacts in Europe are quite aware of their numbers and facilities. In fact, one of the acting figureheads was spotted at a less-than-reputable auction in Marrakesh a few weeks ago." There was a sparkle of excitement hiding in Brody's eyes that got Indy's attention. Whatever was going on in that auction in Marrakesh was apparently very important! "One lot in particular was quite interesting," Brody said, his voice not giving away any of his excitement. "It had quite a few odds and ends to it - old manuscripts on hermetic alchemy, skulls from an excavation in Africa, some knick knacks from a long-dead Pharaoh's tomb and - a Spanish gold cross."

Indy's head shot up and he looked directly at Brody, who could not contain his grin any longer. "Do you think-?"

"Unfortunately my contact was unable to describe the cross, he didn't get to see it first hand, but there's a strong chance that it is indeed the Cross of Coronado, my friend."

Indy exhaled and ran his hand down his face. The Cross of Coronado was his white whale, his life-long pursuit. He had been running after that artifact for half of his life, and the fact that it might have been sighted - at auction, nonetheless! - sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system. "Do you think it's still in Marrakesh?"

"Doubtful," Brody admitted, and Indy hissed a breath of disappointment through his teeth. "However, the man who purchased the lot had it sent to Florence; and where it would go after that is anyone's guess." Brody's eyes were serious. "I know what the Cross means to you, Indy. However the League of Shadows isn't to be trifled with - if they have their sights set on it…."

"Florence, huh," Indy repeated slowly. Italy seemed to be cropping up frequently these days, he would have to brush up on his Italian. The thought crossed his mind - the letter that the blond-haired man had pulled from the body of the man Indy had shot had been in Italian. Curious. The Chinaman had called him "professor" as well - if he had not have said that, Indy would have thought the man to be a student himself.

Brody had his contacts within the college, and not just within the History department. He really was an invaluable resource. "What do you know about the Philosopher's Stone, Marcus?"

The abrupt shift in topics seemed to surprise his old friend. "I wouldn't imagine something like that to catch your attention, Indy," Marcus said. "It's a fairy tale - a legend of a rock with the ability to give its holder eternal life. Oh, and there's that whole lead-into-gold business that alchemists were after as well." He raised his eyebrow. "I thought you were a scientist, my friend."

Indy snorted. "I know that there's no such thing," he said darkly. "There was a bit of a scuffle in town last night; it involved a professor, a German with a ponytail."

Brody straightened up. "Professor Elric was involved?"

"You know him, then?"

"I should say so, I got him his job at the college." Brody frowned. "His father was a brilliant man - I met him in Europe only once, and he did me a favor, so in return I was able to get his son a job teaching here."

"Well, he's a hell of a scrapper," Indy said. "Some goons approached him about the Philosopher's Stone, I think - but he fought them off pretty well. One of them was carrying a letter in Italian, but I barely got to glance at it. Didn't recognize the seal or the letterhead, though." He paused. "It was a strange symbol, almost a bastardized Jerusalem Cross, now that I think about it."

Indy put his finger in his coffee and sketched the design on the tablecloth for Brody. "A circle divided into four quadrants, but not by straight lines - very Oriental, and then the four triangles made up the cross."

Brody nodded. "There are also four smaller crosses; one each at the north-west, north-east, south-west and south-east points."

He looked up at Brody. "You've seen this before?"

"Yes, I have," Brody said, and now instead of excited, he sounded tired. "It's the symbol of the League of Shadows."

~ * ~

Edward was buttoning his long-sleeved collared shirt when the insistent knock came at the door. He hesitated a moment, adrenaline already going. However, no one came through the door - although the knocking continued. Edward buttoned his shirt the rest of the way and grabbed his gloves that were sitting atop his suitcase, pulling them on as he moved toward the door.

"Edward?" a familiar voice called through the door. "Edward, are you there?"

He opened the door a crack, just to be certain; but it was in fact Marcus Brody on his doorstep. Marcus Brody, and the man in the hat from the bar the previous evening. Edward gave the man in the hat - Jones, he recalled - a dark look before focusing on Brody. "What the hell are you doing in Connecticut?" Edward asked sharply. "I thought you worked in New York."

"Can we come in?" Jones asked.

Edward looked between the two men for a moment, taking stock of the situation, before inclining his head and opening the door further. He turned around and walked back toward the bedroom, skirting the mess in the den as he went. "I don't know what you want," Edward called over his shoulder sharply, "but I'm busy."

"Oh my," he heard Brody say as they entered the den. "Edward, what happened?"

"What does it look like?" Edward muttered, more to himself than to the others. He closed his suitcase and latched it, before taking one last look around his room. The bedroom was mostly empty - just a bed and a closet. He did not own much, mostly books and knick knacks that Alphonse had mailed him over the years. It would be no great regret if he never set foot in this house again.

When he turned around, Jones was leaning in the doorway. "The men who attacked you," he said. "They were League of Shadows."

"Never heard of them," Edward said. It was only half a lie; he had heard the name before when he was traveling with Alphonse, but he had never had any outright dealings with them.

"Well they clearly have heard of you," Brody said from behind Jones.

"I know," Edward said. "And I plan to take care of it."

"By yourself?"

Edward gave Jones a solid look, and then over his shoulder at Brody. "If you'll excuse me." Jones turned aside to let Edward pass, carrying his suitcase into the den. Both men followed him.

"You're heading, where, to Italy? Chasing after the rumor of someone with the Philosopher's Stone. That's, you're chasing a damned fairy tale. There has got to be a reason."

Edward dropped his suitcase on the couch and turned, glaring at both of the men. "I don't see how my business is really any of yours," he snapped.

"I'm looking for the League of Shadows," Jones said. "And I think you're my ticket in."

"I thought I just told you I don't know a thing about them."

"Indy," Brody said, trying to placate them both. "Edward, please. I think I might be able to be of assistance to you."

Edward turned his glare from Jones to Brody, and then sighed. "What do you mean, Marcus?"

He had barely seen the older man in years; Edward knew he was supposed to be grateful to Marcus Brody for all the help he had received over the years, but right now he just wanted to get on his way. He had not been able to get a hold of Alphonse - the phone just rang and rang and rang, and he wanted to get to London to check on him and he wanted to get to Italy and track down this mysterious "employer" of that Chinese bastard's and find out what in the hell is going on. Edward was already wearing thin on his last nerve.

"Indy here," Brody clapped the arm of the slightly taller Jones, "is headed out on an archaeological expedition on the museum's dime."

"It's more of a recovery mission," Jones amended, shooting Brody a look.

"Yes, recovery, my dear lad. He seems to be headed the same direction as you, Italy. Since you both seem to have similar goals, and a similar destination I thought perhaps I could convince the trustees that he has you on as a-"

"No." Edward cut Brody off brusquely. "Thanks for the thought, Marcus, but this is something I'm not dragging anyone else into. Besides," he gave Jones a suspicious look. "I don't work well with others."

"Hm," Brody said, a little disappointed. "But the university would be able to fund your tickets to Florence."

Edward hesitated. That had been his one hiccup in the planning stage - how he would actually get across the Atlantic. When he had first come to America years ago it had been by steamer - while he did not mind aeroplanes there was no way he was going to willingly board a zeppelin. It would take him, at worst, five days to get across the Atlantic and really, he did not have that sort of time.

He looked from Brody to Jones. "I wouldn't have to actually do any of that archeology crap, right?"

"You don't have to do anything at all," Jones said, spreading his hands. "All I want is a nice long chat on what you do know about the League of Shadows and why they're after you. Just a talk, in exchange for tickets. Fair trade, if you ask me."

He could not help the chuckle that escaped at that. Edward looked away, at the mess of books upset from the shelves, the paper he had kicked across the floor as he paced throughout the night, trying to decide his best course of action. "Yeah," Edward said, raising his head. "That sounds pretty equivalent to me."

"Good, good," Brody said, obviously sounded relieved. "I shall get those tickets straightaway - Florence then, Indy?"

"Please, Marcus." Jones responded. He looked back at Edward and extended his hand. "I don't think we were ever formally introduced. Indiana Jones."

"I've heard of you," Edward said, looking at Jones' extended hand and considering, before gingerly offering his right one as well. "Edward Elric."

"Can't say I’ve heard of you," Jones responding, taking his hand. As his eyes widened in surprise at the metal disguised only by a thin layer of gloves, Edward grinned sharply.

"Just the way I like it."