Perfect After All: Price of the Past Chapter 45: Deleted Scenes, a fullmetal alchemist fanfic

DELETED SCENES:

The stump-like woman behind the round Admitting desk gave him an approving sort of look.

"I wondered when we'd see you again."

She might not even know his name; the first and only two times he'd been an official patient in the hospital he'd been admitted while unconscious. And he had no doubt he wasn't the only automail-beaing patient they had. True, he was the only State Alchemist that was also an automail user, but he hadn't had to flash that credential. He'd simply asked to see Dr. Patterson.

That was probably a clue, though. Doc Patterson had been keeping the alchemists under a close eye, and while usually Ed simply bypassed Admitting altogether and went to the doctor's office directly, he knew better than to do so unannounced. It would be rude, and he was here to ask a favor, not to get stuck with another needle full of 'vitamins and something I cooked up in medical school.'

Though that was probably going to be unavoidable. Payment for the favor; the doc was learning all about 'equivalent exchange' and he was starting to apply what he'd learned.

She was looking him up and down, but he knew for a fact the only damage she could see was what appeared to be a slight sunburn on his face. He was wearing gloves, and his slightly shorter hair was still managing to do a decent job of hiding the blisters on his ears. Outside of what appeared to be trimmed eyebrows, he probably looked completely fine.

Of course, he was completely fine. Outside of a little headache and a lot of cussing in the shower, he was relatively unscathed. He'd lived through worse at half this age. At least Ms. Dueys hadn't ladled out the concern in front of that soldier; Hakuro was probably pissed enough that he still hadn't reported to give his account of the event last night.

Hadn't had time. He'd fallen asleep at Franklin's, and had woken with just enough time to hire a cab home, shower, throw on some clothes, and squeak into his nine o'clock class. He doubted the younger alchemist had been home while he'd slept, though; after Al had left he'd set a series of silent little traps throughout the house. An intruder wasn't likely to notice an index card falling to the floor behind them, but Ed would see the evidence. He'd done it as a precautionary measure in case he'd run out of time in the morning, but when he'd woken they'd all still been set.

They'd also let him know if Franklin – or someone else – had made a trip through the house while he was here or taking care of covering their classes.

"I'll need you to sign the following forms." Her voice brought him back from his musings, and a short, round arm offered a clipboard that was trembling under the weight of the solidified wood pulp clamped in its overstuffed metal clip.

Edward just stared at it. "I'm not checking in."

She didn't lower the clipboard, but her expression became slightly less friendly. "This is from the last two visits. Some of the forms are duplicates, in which case we only need one copy-"

The State had paid for his health care both times, and he'd just assumed they'd completed the required forms as well. Apparently not. And that she'd had it all together, waiting for him-

"I'll pick them up on my way out."

She gave him a toady smile. "I'm afraid Dr. Patterson is going to be indisposed until these forms have been signed."

Pushy broad.

He shrugged, hiding the wince that scraping his still-sore skin on the fabric of his shirt caused, and walked past her into the hospital proper. He could hear her picking up the phone, but she didn't follow him.

It wasn't the same building as it had been when he'd been a child. This wasn't necessarily a new building, either; if he had to guess he'd say it had once been administrative offices that had been renovated. The four story structure was quite nice, with wide, airy hallways and windows wherever they could be squeezed in. Medical advances in the last six or so years had certain been a driving factor in the changes. Some of the German hospitals had been much like this one, though it was obvious Europe was still far ahead, as far as the science of health was concerned.

There were more people, after all. And many more legal experiments performed to tell them the limits of the human body and mind-

With a frown he stepped into the elevator, pressing the thick, black button marked '3' in silver lettering. Just the reminder of where he was going shot an ache through his right shoulder, and he shifted it absently within the armor. It would probably hurt him for years to come. The scars on his back now were minimal, a testament to the doctor's skill, but there was nothing more he could do about the bone damage Ed had suffered at the hands of Craege Irving.

There wasn't much Patterson could do about the other, either. Despite the various solutions the doc had injected into him or made him swallow, the tightness he felt while transmuting hadn't changed. Whether it was an inner Gate or not, it seemed to be far out of the reach of Amestrian medicine.

And that was fine.

The doors parted on the third floor and he stepped out. Because Patterson had been only a first year when he'd originally been given the dubious task of assessing the unknown injuries of a highly classified patient, the fact that he'd almost instantly become the Full Metal Alchemist's physician of choice had given the doctor no small amount of fame. That had been compounded when he'd been allowed to treat the Prime Minister, mostly because the two of them had been brought into the clinic at the same time. Now he was officially the Prime Minister's personal physician as well, and as such, times when he could be caught cooling his heels in his office were long past.

Without getting the okay from the lovely woman in Admitting, Ed was risking knocking on the door and interrupting a meeting with who knew who. He doubted the doctor would disapprove of the interruption, but if he was meeting with one of the generals . . .

If they could, actually. Since he wasn't technically ranked anymore, but was still a State Alchemist, he wasn't sure whether he was a civilian or not.

-x-

"You can't use someone else's tax ID number," Sheska reprimanded him, more sharply than before. "You'll be asked for identification before the record will be pulled for you."

5289754 . . . Fletcher tried to hide a grin. Sometimes Sheska forgot they were alchemists. If they couldn't pull and reform the ink on a State ID, what good were they? Though he supposed that was a lot easier for him and Russ than it was for other alchemists, who hadn't studied the exact composition of paper and most other plant substances.

Of course, he was pretty well known here. He'd have to find a reference librarian who didn't know him. Or he'd have to use Al's rank, which the younger Elric had requested he not do unless everything else failed.

"Mr. Tringum." Now it was very firm, and he stopped his forward progress, giving Sheska a pleading look.

"I just need an address-"

"Then tell me the tax ID number."

He stared at her, somewhat surprised. "Uh . . ." Al had said he'd not asked Sheska because she was busy, but if she was offering, would it be okay? "You're really busy, sergeant-"

"You'll just have to help me with the other boxes then."

-x-

It looked like he wouldn't be allowed that luxury, after this. Four uniformed men in his wing . . . the Parliament wasn't going to let him shrug this attempt off. And the Drachman accent-

He could set off an explosion above them, but the hideous and more importantly dense plaster designs decorating the ceiling would be the equivalent of really brittle shrapnel. He didn't want to take down the ambassador with the assassins.

"How dare you impersonate my countrymen!" The voice was fierce, and obviously belonged to Ambassador Agata. "Unhand me at once, scum!"

The gunfire stopped at the same time a scream cut the air. A feminine one.

Damn. The Drachman ambassador. She'd ducked down that hallway-

"Release your hostage and surrender." Armstrong's voice was clear and authoritative. "Otherwise you will die."

"We need one alive!" he bellowed the reminder, reviewing the brief glimpse he'd gotten of their positions mentally before he snapped again. Behind him there was more gunfire, still automatic, and a shout of pain. Chunks of jade rained down onto his shoulderpads, and Mustang swore again, this time peering around the opposite side of the pillar.

Bingo. He'd made the second explosion smaller, but almost overhead. It had knocked all three of them to the ground, which was regrettable, but it hadn't been strong enough – or hot enough – to do much damage.

What it did give him was an opportunity to get the ambassador away from them.

She was struggling beneath one of the man, who was bleeding heavily from a gash across the top of his head. The plaster, he realized with a start. There were heavy, circular plaster decorations on the ceilings, and sizable chunks

With four, their chances of actually capturing one of these bastards was pretty good. But he couldn't be certain Armstrong would let hers live.

However, she wasn't in a great position to turn to tables, either, so he lit the 'enlisted' man's right ear on fire.

As soon as the man flinched, howling, he returned his attention to his own set of attackers and set off a third explosion, fairly high in the air over their last position. Then he peeked around the opposite side of the pillar.

They were down.

"We won't stop!" He turned to glare at the man shouting, now on his knees and firmly restrained by the colonel. She had been disarmed, and her firearm lay several yards away. She couldn't easily release the man to fetch it, so he raised his glove in warning.

"Move and burn."

"We will keep coming and coming until you're dead!" the man spat, his accent heavily Drachman. "You will beg for mercy as you die!"

Riza shook her head, ever so slightly. She didn't want to release him, even to get her gun. He glanced at the two down the hall; still not moving.

Damn. Had he killed them? He'd set the last explosion high, it should have driven them to the ground but nothing more –

"They're not very durable," Olivier observed, toeing her opponent. His eyes were open but blank, and he wasn't moving. "It appears I overdid it. My apologies, Prime Minister."

Only after she turned in disgust did he see she had her left hand pressed to her side. It was difficult to tell, with her thicker uniform, whether or not she was bleeding.

Riza's man was continuing to spit vitriol so she struck him on the back of the neck, catching him by the hair as his frame suddenly relaxed.

"Minister!"

They all turned at the call, unsurprised to see Goodman and Brooks had managed to get quite near the party without making a good deal of noise. He'd left them in his main offices when he and Olivier had decided to go for a walk, considering Brooks was one of the few staff Hakuro was investigating that had any chance of all at actually being a double agent. He hadn't wanted the man to hear what the Major General had to say.

It looked like he wouldn't be allowed that luxury, after this. Four uniformed men in his wing . . . the Parliament wasn't going to let him shrug this attempt off. And the Drachman accent-

At least they had one alive, at any rate. Riza was juggling her unconscious burden but Goodman was moving to help her, and Roy stepped away from the podium, barely noticing the pieces of jade under his feet as he advanced on the other two.

One was clearly unconscious, and the reason was clear; part of the round plaster design on the ceiling had come off, probably with great speed, and gashed his head pretty deeply. The second man, however, didn't appear badly injured –

"Prime Minister!"

He glanced up to see the same sheer dress he'd gotten a glimpse of before, and found that one of the Drachman ambassadors was clinging to the corner of the hallway she'd turned down only minutes ago, covering her mouth with one hand. Her eyes were on the two men, and he frowned, moving quickly to block her view.

"Please, Ambassador Agata. Are you injured?"

-x-

He tapped his cheekbone again, firmly, but had much the same result as the last time.

It was still numb.

Damn.

Edward Elric slumped back against the bricks, ignoring the curious look he was getting from the MP standing guard. He was tempted to tell the soldier that he was a civilian, and being held under military guard without being placed under arrest was illegal, but the weight on his right thigh was reason enough for the man to be present.

Besides, there was no real reason to protest. He was leaving them alone, at least until one of two things happened. And Edward was reasonably sure the ambulance would be arriving before Hakuro could possibly show.

Or Mustang, come to think of it. He supposed it was possible he'd want to cover this up, considering there was no doubt the trap had been laid by Sorn. He might already be sending Falman or Fuery to pick them up.

Either way, they were making a stop at the hospital first.

A slow grin spread across Ed's lips as he imagined the looks of shock on their faces, their mouths hanging open as he made that announcement. His face twinged slightly, and he brought up his left hand again, tapping experimentally.

Nothing.

He'd really done a number on it this time.

"Stop doing that," a thick voice slurred, from somewhere in the vicinity of his lap. "S'bad for the nerves."

"You're bad for the nerves," he growled in reply, halfheartedly glaring down at his little brother to hide his relief. Alphonse's head was propped up on his leg, elevated to lessen the strain on his injuries, and the extra seven or so inches of height he had looked even longer stretched out on the sun-warmed concrete. "How do you feel?"

His brother's eyes were only half-open, in protest of the sunlight streaming down. "Pretty crappy," he admitted. "Are we still alive?" Then he coughed.

Edward shifted slightly, glaring at the MP until he took the hint and wandered a couple feet away. "Last I checked." He didn't want to even think about the last time he'd checked, crawling on his hands and knees on the shifting ground, trying not to vomit, working his way towards the shadowed, misshapen heap that was his brother's form-

"That's nice," Al murmured, closing his eyes. He deepened his breathing a little, and coughed again. "Ugh. Tastes like dust."

That was no surprise, considering how much they'd both inhaled. The coughs weren't deep, probably nothing to worry about. "Don't move around too much."

"Wasn't planning to." He left his eyes closed, but he was obviously still awake. "S'what happened?"

Edward sighed, his ears perking up as a new siren cut faintly through the ringing sound. "Springs."

Al's eyebrow quirked, though his eyes stayed resolutely shut. "Mm."

"Rows of them. They caught the hallway floor about forty feet down." Just like a giant box-spring, the collection of steel coils had turned a forty foot fall - a potentially fatal one - into one that only injured them. And that array of springs, coupled with the complex mechanism of gears he'd gotten a glimpse of, left no doubt as to who had created it.

"Great." Al took another deep breath, then shifted his back marginally and grimaced. "Ow."

"Should have transmuted your coat, idiot."

"I figured I was only going to fall one story," he retorted, a little grouchily. "My shoulder hurts."

"You dislocated it."

"My ears are ringing, too."

Edward let his head fall back against the brick behind him and listened to the ambulance getting steadily closer. "No they're not."

Al's neck shifted slightly on his leg, and his brother inhaled sharply. "Yes, they are."

Ed picked his head back up to stare at his brother, whose eyes were once again open, a little wider this time. So his neck was bothering him. "That annoying metallic school bell sound?"

"That'd be the one."

He gestured towards the top of the building. "It's actually there. Went off as soon as the floor fell away." Or, at least, as soon as he'd regained consciousness. He'd thought the same thing, that it was from the concussion, until he'd gotten them outside and found it was quite a bit louder.

He'd also found it had attracted the attention of the local business owners and law enforcement. Showing them his watch had then summoned the nearest MP as well as an ambulance.

Edward had relocated Al's shoulder on the spot, but he wasn't sure that was the only thing wrong with him. His unarmored fingers weren't working too well; none of him was, really. He couldn't trust his sense of touch at the moment, which was one of the reasons he kept tapping his face. It felt funny.

He was hoping that was because of nerve shock he received at impact, rather than because his face was that messed up. It could explain all the curious looks he'd gotten . . . but then again, he already knew his face was bleeding. Maybe he'd just broken his nose.

His cheekbones felt like they were in the right spots, after all. He didn't really think he'd damaged his actual skull. But the ache behind his eyes was definitely familiar. He was certain he'd aggravated his already-present concussion, and could look forward to several days of light sensitivity and occasional dizziness.

"An alarm?" Al squinted up again, as if trying to make out the little bell, still steadily ringing away. "Why . .. ?"

"To let someone know the trap had been sprung, I'd guess." That was the only logical conclusion. The 'walls' of the hallway had continued down unbroken those forty feet, so that the hallway floor had fallen as a single slab into what was essentially a deep trench. Even though the springs acted as shock absorbers, the fall had still knocked Al unconscious as well as injured him. A non-alchemist would not have been able to crawl out again. And if Sorn really had split town, setting off an alarm with the trap was the only way to guarantee anyone would think to check the building out before the victims died either of their injuries or starvation.

And that, at least, was a small comfort. It meant Sorn wasn't out to kill anyone. Even if his enemies were.

"You land on your face?"

Ed scowled. Why was Al always tactful with everyone but him? "How bad is it?"

"Not so bad, if you'd actually try to look pleasant."

He simpered, surprised when that made it twinge more strongly, and began gently exploring again.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Al." Unlike his brother, he hadn't free-fallen the entire distance. "I caught up with the ladder on the way down."

"With your face?"

Edward seriously considered hitting him. He'd made a grab for the lip of the ceiling when the floor had given, but his armor wasn't automail; there was room inside the metal for his fingers to slide a little. He hadn't had the strength to cling by his fingertips, and had fallen. It had been a simple transmutation to lengthen the falling ladder and jam it between the walls, and while he hadn't managed to catch himself completely, he'd at least slowed himself down.

"No, my face is thanks to you." Because the hallway floor was on springs, and was also a solid piece of wood, not only did it give, it produced a see-saw effect. Al had impacted first, and Ed had badly misjudged where the floor was, since it was on the bounce back up when he hit it. He'd braced his left leg armor to take the impact, but hit bottom a hell of a lot sooner than he'd expected, and the braced armor had sent his weight forward.

At least, that was what he assumed happened. All he really remembered was complete surprise followed by the realization that it was really dark and his face was numb. By the time he'd located his brother, treated him, and transmuted them out of the building, around thirty minutes had gone by.

"Oh," Al murmured, though his voice was not at all apologetic. "What's the other ringing?"

"Ambulance." It was quite loud now; he expected it around the corner any minute.

His brother squinted up at him, suddenly alert. "Nii-san?"

"It's for you, idiot."

Al's eyes widened a moment before he relaxed again. "Oh," he repeated, and then wiggled his legs. "I don't feel that bad . . ."

"How's your neck?" That was the one thing he was worried about, that Al had reinjured his spine. He'd complained of pain ever since he'd been buried alive, five months ago, during his encounter with Craege Irving. Ed had still gone ahead and propped his brother up against his leg to ease his shoulder as well as keep the neck relatively still, but he was afraid even this position was pulling at it.

"Okay," he replied, turning his head slightly back and forth. "A little stiff, though."

"Well, try not to move around," Ed repeated, watching the large, mostly-white automobile cruising up the alley that ran along the back of the building.

"Nii-san."

He looked back down; Al was using his serious voice.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Edward frowned at him. "I'm sure." Why? Did he really look that bad?

"Then why are you still here?"

Edward stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. Al was right. It was too late to run; Al's head was pinning him, and he'd already been spotted by the EMTs.

Of course Patterson was going to want to admit them both.

Dammit. It hadn't even occurred to him. He'd been so absorbed with getting his brother medical attention -

"Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine today," he growled as the tires rolled to a noisy stop, only a few yards away.

Al grinned up at him. "Sorry." He didn't sound even remotely contrite.

-x-

His armored fingertips slipped off the wooden frame, and it almost made him angry. He'd performed split-second grabs to save himself from unknown falls his entire life, and while this wasn't the first time he hadn't quite made it, it was the first time he could blame the automail.

True automail wouldn't have failed him.

Of course, if he'd been using his bare fingers, he wouldn't have had the strength to even attempt it. It was a moot point; the frame he'd tried to grab was now pulling away with increasing speed, so he turned his attention to where he was heading.

The hallway floor, in its entirety, was falling away below him. His ladder was still mostly upright, just within reach, and he hooked it with his right foot, curling it up so stretching fingertips could catch the wood. It wasn't as wide as the hallway; now that he'd fallen past the 'ground floor' he could see that the walls seemed to continue down into blackness, almost like the space beneath the hallway was a trench.

A trench of unknown depth. Certainly deeper than a single story.

This fall could be a fatal one.

He looped his arm through a rung, bringing his hands together before changing the shape of the wood into a long pole, and he twisted it quickly, jamming it between the two walls. The hall floor was about ten feet below him when it impacted solid ground, and while he hadn't gotten the pole exactly perpendicular with the walls, it was enough to slow him down. He curled his left toes, catching the lever in his armor, and hit bottom a hell of a lot sooner than he'd expected.

Unprepared, his weight was thrown forward by his braced armor, and it took him a while to realize that his face was numb.

Shit.

Edward Elric opened his eyes, not surprised to see that his view of blackness was not greatly changed. His ears were ringing, and he seemed to be lying on his stomach. He tried to take a deep breath, choking on dust, and a familiar pain scrabbled its way from the front of his skull to the rear as he coughed.

Curling onto his right side, he could make out a long rectangle of light above. Squinting at it didn't make it that much clearer, and he gave up trying to estimate the distance.

Al.

He must've fallen, too.

Stifling a groan, he rolled back onto his stomach, bracing his knees against the hall floor. It shifted nauseatingly beneath him, indicating that he wasn't going to be able to walk, so he settled for crawling. Better that way. Less chance of missing Al.

It was a dusty and arduous process. Twice he lost his balance and tipped over onto his left side, until he actually found the left wall and stuck to it. Even leaning against the wall, it felt as though the hall floor was tipping towards it, pushing him against it. He fought back the urge to retch, forcing one hand in front of the other.

Al had been standing in the hall, without a ladder. Without anything close enough to transmute. Without armor to help him catch himself.

He crawled what seemed three times the distance of the hall before he found what he was looking for. He might have missed the heap of Al altogether, except for a repetitive sound he assumed was his brother breathing. His ears were still steadily ringing, an alarm in his brain.

Find him. Assess damages. Treat injuries.

Edward laboriously dragged himself away from the wall, an uphill battle, and tried to balance on his knees. Things were still shifting, and he clamped his jaw closed as a precautionary measure. His armored hand was useless for feeling out his brother's position, but his eyes had grown accustomed enough to the low light that he could make out general features.

Al was almost in a crouch himself, though it was clear he'd fallen that way, rather than shifting after the fact. His legs were folded beneath him, his arms lying almost straight against his sides, and his forehead was balanced against the floor at an angle. There was something quite wrong with the position, somehow, and Ed hesitated before he put his flesh hand against the back of his brother's neck. The spine was still intact, and his pulse was steady. Obviously his neck wasn't broken, but the angle of it to his shoulders was somehow incorrect.

Gingerly, Edward turned him onto his right shoulder, untangling him as gently as he could. Al's head rolled easily as his body was shifted, and the same, repetitive sound caught his attention again.

It was an exhale, but it sounded-

It sounded pained. Difficult.

"Al?" His voice was quiet to his ears, dull and without inflection. "Al?"

His brother didn't respond.

Once he was a little more stretched out, things were easier. Ed carefully felt his brother's throat, checking for swelling, but found nothing. His chest and ribs seemed intact as well-

The joint of his left arm and its accompanying socket, however, was another story altogether. Edward still felt dizzy, but a little less unbalanced, and his unarmored hand was becoming easier to manipulate. Relocating a shoulder wasn't a particularly risky thing, but it could take a significant amount of strength, and he wasn't sure he had it yet. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his brother's upper arm, carefully rotating it into an open position. It would be easier to-

With an audible pop and almost no effort, the arm slipped smoothly back into place, and Al moaned, moving feebly beneath his hand.

"Alphonse?"

The sound didn't repeat, nor did the movement, but the distressed quality was suddenly gone from his breathing. It seemed to slow slightly, still too steady to indicate anything but unconsciousness.

Patting down the rest of him revealed no other major injuries. No swelling in his abdomen, no broken bones in the legs or ankles. Ed didn't bother with his feet; they didn't seem to be bleeding, so even if he'd fractured something, it wasn't going to kill him. Obviously nothing else was hurting him as badly as the shoulder had been.

Edward leaned back on his haunches, slightly irritated when the floor shifted yet again. The ringing was still there, just as loud and steady as it had been. Just how hard had he hit his damn face, anyway? He could feel his features with his fingertips only, and he found something sticky he was going to assume was blood, but outside of numbness and a contusion of some kind his skull itself was in one piece, so why the hell . . . ?

He let his head fall back, sizing up the rectangle of light again. His eyesight was clearing up, or at least it seemed to be. The lines of the hall above were sharper, at any rate.

It was just a guess, but it looked like a good forty feet.

And that was impossible. At forty feet Alphonse wouldn't have had a dislocated shoulder. He would have had a broken one. Internal injuries. Given his position, at least one of his legs as well. Unless he was unconscious, thus relaxed, by the time he hit the ground . . .?

He rubbed his eyes, squinting again, but his estimate of the distance didn't change. Shit. If he was that far off, transmuting them back to the 'ground floor' was going to be harder than it looked.

Not that Al was awake to see him overshoot something that badly, but still.

"Up we go," he muttered in warning, bringing his hands together. He reached below the wood under his fingers, expecting dirt, but abruptly the transmutation failed.

It didn't rebound, which was a miracle considering the size he'd been attempting. It simply petered out before it ever got started, in a way he hadn't felt since-

Since they were children. Since his first few transmutations.

Understanding. Deconstruction. Reconstruction. He'd failed the first step.

Frowning, he clapped his hands again, this time simply making a hole in the wood by his left side. It was effortless, or as nearly effortless as any alchemy since that night, and he stared at the inky hole he'd transmuted in confusion.

Then, against his better judgment, he stuck his hand in.

He used the armored one, just in case he came into contact with anything dangerous, but all he felt was space. And that was ridiculous, because obviously the wood planks of the hall were sitting on something-

He reached in further, bending his elbow to examine the underside of the hall floor. Was it possible they were suspended by wires, in the corners, as opposed to having landed on something solid . . .? His fingertips encountered something with a metallic twang, and he withdrew his right hand, substituting his left.

Metal coils, completely compressed, considering he was sitting on top of one.

A spring.

He reached around until he found another, this one also completely compressed, and a slow grin spread across his face as he leaned closer to Al. The spring expanded slightly, and the floor shifted.

It was on shock absorbers. Like a giant box spring.

That was why he'd hit the floor sooner than he'd expected. It was on the bounce back up, and since Al had fallen on the opposite side, not only did they have the give, they had a see-saw effect.

That was why Al was still alive, and relatively uninjured.

Whoever had designed this had intended the victims live. Be rendered immobile, and possibly injured, but alive.

He shook his slightly, clapping his hands again, and this time drew on the wood of the walls around him. Better to leave this trap intact, so someone could examine it. Not that there was any doubt who would have designed something like this.

Franklin had left it for someone, that much was certain. The question was who.

-x-

"-ould really only get one of these in any given year. You're quite the overachiever, Alphonse Elric."

Confused, he opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly as the ceiling continued to speak.

"I guess it is mean of me, to pick on you when you can't really defend yourself," the off-white, corrugated tiles decided, in the same friendly voice. "But I have to get my hits in while the getting's good."

Hits . . . ?

"You seem puzzled." The voice was significantly more serious. "Alphonse?"

Ah. It wasn't the ceiling tiles talking. That was good. He wasn't used to waking up in places with ceiling tiles at all, let alone listening to them lecturing him. Al shifted his head, favoring the familiar ache in his neck, and found something in a brighter white, in motion, far too close for comfort. He flinched back before he realized it was a person.

It was Doc Patterson.

The moment the name left his mental tongue, everything clicked into place. Central HQ hospital. He'd stared up at those ceiling tiles more than once, waiting for nii-san to come around.

This time, though, it appeared that Dr. Patterson had been waiting on him.

Patterson followed his backward jerk, fingertips gentle on his face as he tried to hold him still. "Take it easy, Elric. You're in the hospital-"

He nodded before he realized the doc could misinterpret it as an escape attempt. "I got that part." Speaking was easy, and while his throat was dry, it didn't seem to hurt. "What happened?"

The last thing he remembered, he'd ruined nii-san's shower, and then they'd gone to . . . to some place to meet someone –

A bright light that cut straight to the back of his head startled him, and he squinted harder. "Geez, doc-"

"You don't remember?"

Al tried to relax back against the pillow, and the light moved to his other eye. Patterson was keeping it far enough away that it wasn't painful, but he continued to squint. It seemed to help him think.

"I-I don't know," he admitted. "We went . . . somewhere, to meet someone." Typewriters, piled in a mountain of dust. Magical hallways and shrinking walls and falling-

Falling.

Al jerked up again, almost headbutting the doctor, and Patterson put a restraining hand on his chest, rather than his shoulder. The reason for this became immediately apparent when his left shoulder gave a forceful throb. Al grimaced and froze, allowing the doctor to push him gently back against the mattress.

Well, that was no surprise. Or maybe the surprise was the fact that he fell at least three stories and the only thing that seemed hurt was his shoulder-

"Nii-san-"

"He's fine." The voice was soothing, and slightly amused. "I guess you remembered."

Al winced as he was forced to relax again, craning his neck to get a good look at his shoulder. It was bare, and fairly swollen, but not particularly red. Nor were there stitches. Curiously, he used his right arm to throw the sheet up, somewhat startled to see himself as he'd always been. As he'd been when he woke up that morning. Two arms, two legs, no broken bones poking through his flesh, no stitches. No blood, dried or otherwise. No bruises.

No clothes, either, but that was a moot point. So he'd been unconscious when they'd brought him in-

"What? How?"

Patterson sank onto the side of the bed, removing his hand when he saw his patient wasn't about to do anything more strenuous than pull the sheet back up. "Your brother, I think. He conked out in the ambulance and hasn't regained consciousness yet. He's just sleeping," the doctor added soothingly, and Al realized his face had given him away.

He was sleeping.

He was fine.

"As for you, I'd say you've already run through a year's worth of luck." Patterson picked up the forgotten chart, flipping back to the front page. "You came in with significant swelling of the ligaments and capsule of your left shoulder, which would indicate it was dislocated in recent history." He paused there, as if waiting for an affirmation. When none was forthcoming, the skin between his eyebrows bunched. "You also collected a concussion," the doctor added in a droll tone, "and a bruised elbow, leading me to believe your injuries were related to a fall."

Al nodded. "I remember that." It felt like he'd fallen forever, and he recalled hearing the hall floor strike something solid –

And all he had to show for it was a concussion and a dislocated shoulder?

"Nothing after?"

He shook his head, tilting it in an effort to see how reduced his range of motion had become. He also wondered if it was worth telling Patterson he'd dislocated it once before, a couple years ago.

"Outside of those two issues, the damage is fairly light. You somehow avoided aggravating your neck, which is a miracle unto itself. You were pretty deeply unconscious when they brought you in, though, so we're not going to take any chances."

Al followed the doctor's glance, eying dull-colored drugs in IV bags beside him, and refocused on Patterson as he reached into a coat pocket for a pen. "Chances?" If he'd been drugged this heavily, and nii-san had been on that ladder, fallen from an even greater height-

How the hell could he be okay? The 'automail,' maybe? "How injured is my brother?"

Patterson started scribbling. "He's in much the same condition you are," he murmured distractedly. "Though I'd guess he landed on his left leg, not his shoulder. I'm going to keep both of you overnight for observation."

That was unlikely to go over well. Alphonse idly glanced to his left, finding the room he was in was the usual double occupancy, but there was no one in the bed beside him. Patterson followed his gaze.

"For once, the hospital is empty enough that we could give you each private rooms." Then he sighed. "Well, that, and I was afraid you two would plot if I put you in the same room."

That sounded more like it. "Do you know what time it is, doctor?"

He got a raised eyebrow. "A little after eleven o'clock. Do you have somewhere to be?"

Al grimaced. "Yes, actually." He'd only cancelled the eight o'clock classes, though he was sure Dueys would have continued noting their absence. She'd probably expect them back after lunch, though, so he'd need to call in and cancel their afternoon classes as well. He didn't want her to worry too much; she might resort to guns. "You said Ed passed out in the ambulance – did he say anything?"

Like how the two of them had survived?

Patterson capped his pen, standing and putting the chart into the metal bin at the foot of his bed. "He did, but nothing that made a lot of sense. He mentioned two other people, though no one else was found at the scene, and that his ears were ringing." The doctor frowned. "I don't think he realized the alarms he was hearing were actually there."

Al blinked. "Alarms?"

"Your brother didn't call the ambulance," the doctor answered. "Neighboring businesses said an alarm started a little after eight o'clock that morning, and the police arrived to find you and your brother near the back entrance of a derelict mortgage lending building. He apparently had the presence of mind to show them his watch, so the military was called, but he fell unconscious soon after."

So Ed had gotten them out . . . "What were the names of the people he mentioned? Do you know?"

Patterson picked up the chart again, flipping to the back page. "Hmm. The MPs made a note, I'm sure . . . do you know anyone named Dwight, or a Missy? Is that a nickname?"

Dwight and Missy . . . ?

The children in Sorn's mystery novel. The ones that fell through the floor to the basement. The ones that were trapped while a thunderstorm was rolling in.

Damn. He should have figured that out himself, with the sound of the mechanism severing the floor struts on top of the things they'd seen in the rooms, the dust on the hall floor-

So it had been Sorn.

-x-

The scene that greeted him was pretty much what he'd pictured. Alphonse was the only one actually obeying the doctor, and was lying in the bed closest to the door, still in his hospital gown. Edward was sitting the second patient bed with his legs folded, having changed back into his street clothes, picking at the hem of the sheet he wasn't under. In the far corner, Russell Tringum sat in a chair, his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen. The Elrics looked up as they walked in; Tringum didn't move a muscle.

He ignored them for a moment, taking in the MPs by the door and listening with only half an ear as Hawkeye dismissed them. He strode purposefully across the room, directly to Russell, and faced the window, placing his hand gently on the man's right shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss." He said it softly, for Russ alone. The shoulder beneath his hand shuddered slightly, but there was no other reaction, and he left it where it was, content to stare at the late afternoon sun dappling through slightly swaying leaves.

"Tell me what happened, Major."

The man's frame shook again, but he knew Russ had heard him. Almost thirty seconds came and went before he raised his head woodenly and spoke.

"Fletcher worked the early shift on grid thirty-two. I relieved him. He looked tired, I offered to take him to the library before I started work. He declined. He was supposed to go to the academy afterwards." The man's voice was eerily calm. "Instead, he came here, and asked for Patterson. A nurse pointed him towards the apothecary. That's the last time anyone saw h-him alive."

Outside of one little stumble, it was delivered completely deadpan, and Mustang squeezed his shoulder. "Did you see him this morning, doctor?"

Patterson made a slightly surprised noise, as if startled to have been brought into the conversation. "I'm afraid not. I was in the apothecary this morning, but I left to care for Chamber Speaker Durnd a little after eight am. The nurses were in the middle of a shift meeting, which means it's likely they never noticed me leave. They did send him on to the place they thought I'd be."

He'd already said that the nurses hadn't noticed that Fletcher had been unduly distressed, and Mustang was sure the Investigations department had already gone over the story with them. In fact, Russ might have been able to deliver that monologue so well because he'd already done it.

"Had he been behaving differently in the past week?"

Russell eventually decided the question had been directed at him, because he shook his head. "No. He seemed fine. Just tired." Another shiver. "I wouldn't have let him go if I'd thought-"

"I know." Mustang glanced back towards the door; the MPs were gone. "Dr. Patterson, please discharge Fullmetal. Edward, escort Russell home."

There was something about Russell's carriage that worried him. Patterson had already briefed him on Tringum's injuries, at the hand of Fullmetal no less, but he wasn't curled over on himself because of the broken rib and the gash. Roy would eat his gloves if Russ had even noticed the physical pain at all yet. Or had acknowledged the emotional pain. He wasn't mourning, his voice was steady. He was either still in denial, or he had already moved on to bargaining. And there was no doubt Maria Ross was not qualified to deal with stopping an alchemist in the midst of a human transmutation.

He could trust Edward to prevent Russ from killing himself. Since quite obviously he'd already attempted to do so once today. After he'd spoken with Al Elric alone, he'd have them swap out.

Hopefully Ed and Russ wouldn't kill each other before then.

"Minister-"

"He looks well." Mustang turned, then, patting Russ's shoulder once before facing the room again. Edward was giving him a strange look, but didn't seem particularly resistant to the idea.

"Yes, he has a habit of doing that," Patterson muttered. "He has a concussion, and I had meant to keep him for observation-"

"Is it absolutely necessary?" He didn't want to endanger Fullmetal, but Elric was obviously thinking on his feet, and not hiding under any available pillow from the sunlight.

"It's fine," Fullmetal said tonelessly. "It would be my honor."

They were both older brothers, and Fullmetal had lost Alphonse once before, even if only briefly. He would probably actually be a better influence on Russell than Alphonse.

Assuming Russ ever forgave him.

Patterson eventually relented, as Mustang knew he would. "Very well. May I send staff to the residence to check up on them?"

"Of course." Another reason to get someone in there, to force Russell to keep functioning, to be aware that the world hadn't stopped. "If you're ready, Edward, Russell?"

Fullmetal gave him another long look, then unfolded his legs and got to his feet. He did so steadily, with no trace of dizziness, and the two Elrics gave each other an unreadable look before Edward turned back to him.

"The MPs said you had an interesting time last night."

He raised an eyebrow. Ed was referring to the assassination attempt, obviously. "You hadn't heard?"

Edward shook his head. "No. I was holed up in Sorn's library. Funny Hakuro didn't mention it to me, though, when he dropped by."

Yes, he had known Hakuro had left the investigations pretty early in, and he had known the man went straight to Sorn's. Nor was it surprising that Hakuro would have withheld the information, in his attempt to get Ed to spill what he'd found. It was too early to tell at this point if Alphonse had disobeyed him and let his brother in on his assignment, but he'd find out soon enough.

Either way, it was not a discussion he wanted to have in front of Tringum. Certainly not now. Russ had enough to worry about without knowing he was under the military's eye for unexplained income.

"That shouldn't be surprising at all, Fullmetal," he drawled. "I'm certain you were as forthcoming with him."

Ed's eyes narrowed slightly as he caught on, but strangely, it was Russell who spoke next.

"What is it you all want to discuss so badly?"

Roy glanced back over at the Winding Tree Alchemist, surprised to see that he'd uncurled himself, and was even getting to his feet.

"If it has to do with the investigations, I get it." His voice was still steady, still emotionless. "Just tell me one thing. Tell me why you called my brother yesterday, Al. Tell me Fletcher wasn't involved."

Alphonse, who had been staring at his feet, blinked in surprise. "Ah, I was out of town, and I needed some info from an old State Alchemist's record. Ed was tied up, so I rang your place. I . . . was supposed to take a couple hours' worth of his cleanup in exchange for his legwork."

Mustang kept his face impassive. It sounded quite innocent, and it might actually be true, but if it wasn't, he had indeed peripherally involved Fletcher in the search for Franklin Sorn. And if it wasn't, he'd also seriously underestimated Alphonse Elric's ability to fib.

"Speaking of which," Patterson cut in politely, "I don't want any of you performing alchemy until further notice. No cleanup shifts, no demonstrations in class. No private research, either," he added, trying to catch Russell's eyes. "I know you'll want to get your mind off things, but until I know what happened to your brother, it's too risky."

Russell's expression didn't change. He stood there a moment, staring first at the doctor, then at Mustang. Roy expected a protest, but Russ chose not to say anything, he simply started walking. Edward gave Roy another hard look, which he returned blandly, and then Fullmetal followed Tringum to the door.

"The same goes for you, Minister," the doctor added, watching the two pass by Goodman. Ed gave his brother one last glance, and Alphonse nodded to him.

"How are you feeling, Alphonse?" Patterson had surely noticed that he hadn't made any promises, but Roy knew the doctor wouldn't insist. After all, if he was using alchemy, it was going to be to save his own life or the life of someone else, and if he risked heart failure every time he did it, that was acceptable. He was aware it could be a problem, and he would act accordingly.

Al sat up a little straighter. "My shoulder hurts like hell. Other than that I'm okay."

"Do you feel well enough to relieve your brother at some point this evening?"

"Now, really, Minister-"

Alphonse ignored Patterson, and nodded.

Beside him, the doctor crossed his arms. "Okay, I give up. What aren't you telling me."

There was no real benefit to pulling Patterson into the loop, other than silencing his protests. And he really wasn't that hard to steamroll. "You were the one that requested supervision for Russell," he pointed out mildly.

"Yes, but I'm certain you have other alchemists wh-"

"None who specialize in human transmutation, and none who have experience destroying homunculi."

Patterson stared at him in complete shock for a moment, then closed his mouth. "Oh," he finally said. "I see."

"You said something about sending some staff to check on them."

The doctor blinked again, then reached absently into his coat for a pen. "That's correct. I'll take care of that now." He turned to the door a bit dazedly, and Mustang waited until it had firmly shut behind the doctor before he spoke again.

"I'll take that report now, Lieutenant Colonel."

-x-

The door was pulled open, and Mustang swept through without hesitation, scanning the orderly, shining tables until he located the one that was occupied. There was only one pair of boots marching behind him; it would be too disrespectful to bring his entourage through here. Even still, it sounded to him like the two of them were stomping their way across the clean tiles, the shining metal cabinets amplifying even the slightest sound. Dr. Patterson had his back to them, bent over the mostly covered body, and he didn't look up until they were almost on top of him.

"Prime Minister, Colonel," he greeted them, setting down a chart. His voice and manner were apologetic but not hushed. A reminder there was no real need to worry about noise. No need to worry about waking anyone. "I'm sorry to bring you here under such circumstances."

'Here' was the morgue of the Central HQ hospital, a place all peace-time soldiers spent some amount of their time dead before they were transferred to the funeral homes for visitation and final interment. 'Here' was a place Mustang had spent too much time already. If he'd still had the remnants of his damaged eye, he was certain he would see Maes on the table just at the end of the row.

Mustang inclined his head, moving to stand at the foot of the occupied autopsy table. It was clear Patterson hadn't started yet; Fletcher Tringum's exposed chest was intact, and sightless, white-glazed eyes reflected the overhead lights dully. Mustang studied the ghost of his expression for a long time.

"What have you found?" It was remarkably easy to speak. As if he wasn't really standing there, staring down so detachedly at a dead friend. While he and Fletcher Tringum had never been as close as he was to his unit or subordinates, the young man was a brilliant alchemist with a large heart. He had been pivotal in stopping Dante and the homunculi, in tandem with his brother Russell, and nearly a year ago he'd risked his life to save the life of Alphonse Elric. Five months later he'd repeated the act.

In fact, Roy was wondering why he hadn't been called from Parliament by news of the death of a civilian alchemist, and the disappearance of three of his own.

Who was he kidding. He counted Fletcher Tringum among his own, State certification or no.

Patterson didn't beat around the bush. "My findings are still preliminary, of course." He gestured at the body. "Cause of death was likely heart failure. Note the discoloration of his lips and mucous membranes. Probably very quick, onset would have been sudden and consciousness thereafter only a minute at most. He might not have even known what hit him."

No. Given what was left of his final expression, he knew damn well what had hit him.

"Staff he was in contact with prior to his death reported him as looking a bit tired, but otherwise healthy. As to what caused the heart failure . . . I'll know more after the autopsy is completed."

"Do you have any theories?"

Mustang turned to the doctor in time to receive a grim look. "This is the second previously healthy alchemist I've been presented with these symptoms. The first was Bren Durrell."

The Flint Alchemist. The man that had attempted to decompose Johann Irving's amplifier through alchemy.

Which meant Patterson thought it was related directly to the feedback. To the fact that Fletcher Tringum had been exposed to the same amplifier.

"Was there evidence he was transmuting just before he died?

The doctor shook his head. "No. I've been through the apothecary with a fine-tooth comb, but everything's in place. However, I do know he was scheduled for and worked a cleanup shift this morning."

The implication being that now they had to worry not only about over-exerting the alchemists exposed to Johann Irving's amplifier on the spot, but that accrued exertion could also kill them over a longer period of time. Or perhaps everyone who had used the amplifier was slated to die this way, regardless, and it was only a matter of time for all of them. "When do you think you'll complete the autopsy?"

Pattterson uncharacteristically sighed. "I'm a bit more worried about my living patients," he admitted outright. "But I'll remain here this evening until it's finished."

Mustang nodded, giving Fletcher Tringum a last, long look before turning on his heels. "And how are your more fortunate patients?"

The doctor, too, lingered near the body for a moment before respectfully pulling up the blue sheet, covering Fletcher's chest and face. "All of them will recover. How much do you know?"

Mustang glanced to his left, where Colonel Hawkeye stood at parade rest, her eyes somber. As one, the three began walking towards the door.

"Almost nothing. The Elrics were involved in some sort of incident involving the local police." The Elrics had gone to investigate Franklin Sorn.

"Then you know as much as I do. There was a . . . trap, Edward said, set up by an alchemist."

Mustang kept his face impassive. It would have been nice to have known that a few hours ago, though truthfully he wasn't really sure Alphonse could have successfully contacted either him or Hawkeye before now anyway.

"A serious fall was involved, though Alphonse came out of it worse than Edward," Patterson continued. "They both have concussions, and Alphonse's left shoulder was dislocated. That injury was exacerbated in the struggle, and he ripped the IV line out of his right while he was at it."

Mustang glanced at the doctor. "Struggle?" If an IV had been involved, it meant the struggle had been at the hospital -

So at least one of them had attempted it. Or threatened to.

Damn them. Would those brothers ever learn?

The doctor grimaced. "Yes, about that. I'd like to ask a favor on the subject."

It was hard to keep his voice neutral when he answered. "Name it."

"I came upon . . . a situation I might have misconstrued. Edward Elric had restrained Russell Tringum from approaching the body, but released him moments after I entered the room. He performed . . . alchemy of some kind. Obviously not human transmutation," he added hurriedly, as Mustang raised an eyebrow. "But given all three of their histories regarding the subject, as well as actions they took last year, I don't believe it would be wise to discharge Russell Tringum without supervision. At least for a few days."

Performed alchemy on the body . . . ? But if not an attempted resurrection, what on earth would Russell have been doing? Trying to determine the cause of death himself?

"Of course. Colonel, please see to it." Russell was familiar enough with his unit that a soldier stationed just outside wouldn't be too much of an intrusion. Then again, he supposed if Russell had all the ingredients necessary to construct an adult human body in his home, he might not actually need Fletcher's physical remains to attempt a resurrection. He wouldn't have to set foot outside, and any sentries posted would have no idea. Either way he'd end up with a homunculus, but Roy was honestly not certain which process was more likely to be survivable.

"If I might suggest First Lieutenant Ross," he added. She wasn't having any luck with the Drachman diplomats anyway. No one was. They were still spitting mad that they were being essentially held against their will in the Amestrian capitol, and Parliament was still debating what to do with them. He could probably leave them unsupervised for hours and they'd still be deliberating when he returned. Not that he had any intention of doing so. He'd left Breda to babysit, knowing Hakuro wouldn't hesitate to make a move, thinking the major was still, at least temporarily, in his pocket.

"Yessir," Hawkeye answered, in a slightly approving sort of tone. It was her call, since it was her subordinate, but it was nice to know she agreed. If he recalled correctly, Maria had been one of the officers that had freed the Tringums during their incarceration and ordered execution by Pride. Perhaps that would give her an in with Russell she wasn't finding with the Drachmans.

Once they left the morgue, it was a short trip back to the elevator, which Goodman had secured. Brooks was nowhere to be seen; he suspected Hawkeye had left him back in the Prime Minister's wing simply to avoid any conflict that could arise with all of them in such close quarters, dealing with such a sensitive matter.

It didn't matter. He'd seen the body, but it would be days before the loss of Fletcher Tringum really hit him. It was taking longer for him to accept such things, after Maes. Perhaps he truly was becoming more cold-hearted.

But then there were always the exceptions. Like Edward Elric.

The elevator ride to the second floor was uneventful, and they stepped out into a very sober hallway. There were two nurses at the station, both downcast despite a visit from their Prime Minister, and he murmured words of comfort he had forgotten by the time he was halfway to the Elrics' room. He heard Patterson offer to show him the room where Fletcher's body was found, but he was certain Investigations had cleaned everything up neatly.

It wasn't as if there was any blood. Nothing to see but a chalk outline. There could be clues, but they would be invisible to his seeing eye, he didn't even know what to look for.

After all, if Patterson was right, Fletcher's murderers were lying in pure elemental form along a stretch of desert, in the dust of the long-restored Fuehrer's estate, and in a small grave in an unassuming cemetery just outside Central.

And if there had been any foul play, Patterson would find it during the autopsy. He had no doubt the good doctor's skills were as sharp with his deceased patients as they were with the breathing ones. Particularly one he'd seen so much of, even called upon for his talents in healing alchemy.

"I put all three of them in Alphonse's room," Patterson was saying, in a quieter voice. "They're being supervised by several MPs."

"They won't be necessary." Unfortunate, that Alphonse was in the room as well. He'd have to separate them.

Patterson paused, hand on the doorknob. "Please treat them gently, Minister." It was absolutely a request; the man's eyes were begging him. "They've all had a bad day."

Mustang gave the doctor a curt nod, and he pushed open the door.

-x-

The MP outside the room was her first indication that she'd found the right place.

Though honestly, the fact that he didn't have the door open was rather stupid. If she recalled correctly from the last time Edward was in this particular ward, there was a very large maple tree outside the windows on that side of the building, and as he'd demonstrated even as a boy, wood and plaster could be transmuted into just about anything.

Surely Patterson had already thought of that? It really wasn't like the doctor to use soldiers to keep his patients in line, and Ed was bound to react poorly to it.

Which meant-

Which meant the lead-headed lout had gotten himself into trouble with the military.

Again.

Wirny Rockbell swallowed back her sigh, instead arranging a somewhat vapid smile on her face and approaching the unamused-looking soldier. "Excuse me, sir, but is this Edward Elric's room?"

Only his eyes moved; they took her in from head to toe, and while he never made an inappropriate comment or expression, she still had the urge to clobber him. "I'm afraid this room is off-limits to visitors."

Oh, it brought back such memories . . . "I'm not a visitor," she declared airily. "Please step aside."

Unlike the young doctor, this MP was completely unfazed. "Are you a military officer?"

Oh yes. Definitely trouble with the military. "I'm the Full Metal Alchemist's mechanic. I understand he was in a bit of a –"

The enlisted didn't even wait for her to finish. He smartly stepped aside.

Slightly surprised, Winry let her words trail off. She was dying to know what changed his mind, but she knew damn well asking would be pushing her luck, so she just gave him a little nod, which even more weirdly, he returned, and opened the door slightly.

The first thing she could see through the crack in the door was a blonde man, bare from the waist up, using his slinged-up left arm to toy idly with heavy bandaging on his right. There was far too much facial hair for it to be Edward.

Both of them? Both of them were in the hospital?

Winry gave a gentle knock, pushing further into the room. On the far bed was the silhouette she was looking for – her armor looked more or less intact. The leg was folded with his real one, and his 'automail' arm was resting on his knee while his uncovered hand was picking at the hem of the sheet. He too was wearing a hospital gown, and the look on his face when he glanced up-

Confused, she turned back to Al. Sling, check. Bandaging, check. Bruises, check. He'd obviously gotten roughed up, but he certainly wasn't at death's door, so why-

"Come in," a female voice called from somewhere behind the door, and Winry glanced into the back corner of the room, previously hidden.

There was a third blonde in the room, also bare from the waist up, getting the finishing touches on bandages of his own by a dark-haired nurse. She looked very kind, and smiled sadly, and Winry gave her an uncertain smile in return before turning back to Edward.

The previous expression on his face was gone, replaced now by open concern. "Winry?"

"I heard you were here, Ed, but I didn't think you'd dragged Al and Russ down with you," she tried, a little lamely. Al's current body language, even as an adult human, suddenly reminded her so strongly of the armor it almost hurt. He looked exactly like he had when he'd been left out on the roof of the hospital, thinking that Ed didn't love him, or that he wasn't a real human.

He looked sad. Unfixably, unbearably sad.

Russell Tringum, sitting on a stool in the corner, wasn't even looking up enough for her to see his face at all. Just his bangs. He hadn't moved a muscle, not even as the gauze was wound around what was apparently a broken rib or two.

The door clicked shut behind her, but further inspection of the room revealed there was no fourth blonde.

"Winry, what are you doing here?"

She turned back to Ed, trying for a grin. She wasn't sure how well she pulled it off. What could have gotten the military so angry with them that an MP was stationed outside the room? Had there been an accident? Had they witnessed something . . .?

The radios had said there was an assassination attempt, but they said it wasn't successful. Was this why . . . ?

"I didn't think it was possible to find someone more caustic than you, Edward, but you certainly pulled it off. Dr. Ackernath confirmed my diagnosis, and managed to talk Granny into coming here." She suddenly had the urge to keep her voice down. "How did you ever find someone so charming?"

"One of Patterson's old professors," he said quickly. "So, she really broke her hip . . . ?"

Winry kept the grin with effort. "Fractured pelvis, actually." The boys were alchemists, and they'd attempted to reconstruct their mother's body from dust and water. She didn't need to spell that diagnosis out for them. But they already looked so defeated - "Ackernath thinks she's got a better chance than most," she added quickly. "Good bone density."

Al was staring at her, stricken. "Winry-"

"It could have been worse," she continued, in her best attempt at brightly. Truth be known, she wouldn't mind a twenty-minute hug from each of them, but clearly they were having problems of their own. "It's not broken. Oddly enough, the treatment involves titanium screws that aren't too different from the ones we use in automail-"

She trailed off when she realized Edward wasn't even listening anymore. He was staring off to the side, the way he used to do-

Used to do when he was a child. When he was feeling guilty. Or hurt.

She very nearly asked it before she thought better of it. If someone had actually died-

"What happened?" She hated the smallness of her voice.

Al looked back up at her, then glanced toward the corner of the room. Toward Russell Tringum. The nurse was just gathering her things, but he still hadn't responded. He remained where he was, hunched over himself on the backless stool, staring at his hands.

Had he done something . . .? Or had-

Alphonse looked back at her hesitantly. "Winry . . ."

"Fletcher's dead." There was almost no emotion in Ed's voice, and the figure on the stool remained absolutely still.

In fact, Roy was wondering why he hadn't been called from Parliament by news of the death of a civilian alchemist, and the disappearance of three of his own.

Who was he kidding. He counted Fletcher Tringum among his own, State certification or no.

Patterson didn't beat around the bush. "My findings are still preliminary, of course." He gestured at the body. "Cause of death was likely heart failure. Note the discoloration of his lips and mucous membranes. It was very quick, onset would have been sudden and consciousness thereafter only a minute at most. He might not have even known what hit him."

No. Given what was left of his final expression, he knew damn well what had hit him.

"Staff he was in contact with prior to his death reported him as looking a bit tired, but otherwise healthy. As to what caused the heart failure . . . I'll know more after the autopsy is completed."

"Do you have any theories?"

Mustang turned to the doctor in time to receive a grim look. "This is the second previously healthy alchemist I've been presented with these symptoms. The first was Bren Durrell."

The Flint Alchemist. The man that had attempted to decompose Johann Irving's amplifier through alchemy.

Which meant Patterson thought it was related directly to the feedback. To the fact that Fletcher Tringum had been exposed to the same amplifier.

"Was there evidence he was transmuting just before he died?

The doctor shook his head. "No. I've been through the apothecary with a fine-tooth comb, but everything's in place. However, I do know he was scheduled for and worked a cleanup shift this morning."

Pattterson uncharacteristically sighed. "I'm a bit more worried about my living patients," he admitted outright. "But I'll remain here this evening until it's finished."

Mustang nodded, giving Fletcher Tringum a last, long look before turning on his heels. "And how are your more fortunate patients?"

The doctor, too, lingered near the body for a moment before respectfully pulling up the blue sheet, covering Fletcher's chest and face. "All of them will recover. How much do you know?"

Mustang glanced to his left, where Colonel Hawkeye stood at parade rest, her eyes somber. As one, the three began walking towards the door.

"Almost nothing. The Elrics were involved in some sort of incident involving the local police." The Elrics had gone to investigate a lead on Franklin Sorn.

"Then you know as much as I do. There was a . . . trap, Edward said, set up by an alchemist."

"A serious fall was involved, in any case. Edward came out of it in better condition, thanks to the armor," Patterson continued. "They both have concussions, and Alphonse's left shoulder was dislocated. That injury was then exacerbated in the struggle. And he ripped out his IV," Patterson said as an afterthought. "But none are permanent injuries. He looks worse than he really is."