Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

One Week Later

"Your task is simple."

Relatively speaking.

"Before each team is a glass dish containing an unknown compound. You have until the end of the day to determine its composition. You may use any tool or scientific method during your determination except alchemy. The first team to correctly identify the compound's makeup wins."

Not that it was really all that much of a mystery, anymore.

"Each team will be observed by a National Alchemist, to ensure there is no use of alchemy and to document your processes. These notes will later be reviewed in less advanced classes as methods available to alchemists to determine composition through physics and chemistry rather than alchemy. In essence, you gentlemen are writing next semester's class notes for me."

There was some good-natured grumbling.

"You may begin."

Edward Elric abandoned the lectern, heading for the only group of physicists and chemists without a State Alchemist. Al, the Tringums, and a still somewhat less-than-sparkling Alex Armstrong were present and accounted for, all grouped in the center of the room while still observing their assigned tables.

Which meant he was missing Franklin Sorn. The young alchemist had expressed specific interest in the class, and it hadn't really been a surprise –

If he didn't know for certain that the entire amplifier lay in the five glass Petri dishes in the room, he'd suspect Franklin of trying to nick some. That kid was after a Stone, he'd stake his life on it.

Still hadn't figured out why, though.

And for once, it looked like the Mechanical Alchemist had overslept.

It was eight o'clock on a bright and cheerful Friday morning, and the five groups of the Academy's best and brightest non-alchemist students were grouped around five lab benches, each with an equal amount of Bradley's amplifier. The alchemists in the room knew at least three-quarters of the components, now, thanks to both the Tringums' list of what had been in their portion of the amplifier, and, in a very odd turn of events, Aunt Pinako.

Though no small amount of credit was due Winry.

He smiled slightly, easing his right shoulder a little as it grew stiff. The new design had been as quickly made as his original alpha model had, and also in a hospital room. Winry was getting pretty good at whipping up armor on short notice, and for once she'd spared him the lecture about wrecking it.

Possibly because she'd been truly astonished at how well it had served him. Looking at the 'port' from the inside out, it really was amazing he hadn't lost his right arm again.

This new design put a good deal of the stress of the weight on his left shoulder rather than his right, through a complicated mesh of leather straps that crossed his chest and back. They were invisible beneath his loose shirts and vest, so long as he kept his collar buttoned, and it actually cradled his arm itself, supporting not only its total weight but also a good portion of the weight of his arm. Patterson still wasn't happy about it, and would have preferred Ed's arm to remain in a sling, but there was no way to explain why it was taking the famous Winry Rockbell so long to replace the more famous Fullmetal Alchemist's automail arm after his heroic fight against a marauding alchemist.

The memory of the week's worth of newspapers quickly wiped the smile right off his face.

He wandered over to the assembled group of alchemists as his table bent over their dish. The tools they'd given the scientists including a mortal and pestle, all manner of tubes, a gas burner, and a cabinet filled with the basic ingredients of chemistry; acids and bases in high concentrations, several buffers, a centrifuge, and a microscope. The physicists were there more to theorize what the roughened crystal might be, and the chemists to actually perform the experiments to check. Hopefully there'd be sharing of physics and chemistry among the participating students as well as good observations to take back to the alchemists.

"It's a little early into the exercise to look that evil," a quiet voice murmured, and Ed glanced up to see Russ studying him.

"He's thinking about the paper again," Al replied for him, giving his brother a dark look.

"What, the picture?"

Edward glared at Fletcher, who raised a placating hand. "Ed, it was obvious you were sitting down-"

"Or worse-"

He snorted, preferring to watch his table of suddenly busy scientists than listen to more consolation.

The damn picture. It was showing up in every paper, in some form or another. That photographer thought he'd captured such a good moment –

And to his credit, it was an excellent picture of Mustang. He hadn't noticed the flash or the bulb, with all the fires and lights otherwise flickering that night, so he'd been unaware that one of the newspaper reporters had been documenting the entire thing. Probably originally for a story on how the military was squashing their ability to freely print. But as the events that night had progressed, it had morphed into the heartwarming tale of their injured Prime Minister, hours after being poisoned by an assassin, determining a further hostile act against his city and nearly sacrificing himself to save them.

The picture, the one that was winning all the awards, the one he couldn't stop catching glimpses of, was a profile of Roy Mustang. Or rather it was of the Flame Alchemist, standing at attention, his poised right hand and transmutation circle readily visible. He was in the process of maintaining the fire that had blocked the path of those deadly newspapers, head squared, chin up, and eye intent on his work.

Bastard playboy.

Honestly, it was a good picture. It had certainly rallied the people around him, at any rate. He'd gone from possibly dead to saving the entire city by single-handedly figuring out the nefarious plot and going himself to stop it.

The problem was that he wasn't the only one in the picture.

The reporter had had the sense to stand back far enough that he'd captured the car as well. So he had the Prime Minister from the knees up, and about two feet behind him, the trunk of the car and the wheel well was visible.

And the top half of Edward's head.

Just enough that you could see his eyes. Luckily, it had been taken before he'd started blankly staring, so the eye that was visible appeared to be just as intent on the Prime Minister's work as he was. The problem was that you couldn't tell that his head was turned, or that he'd been kneeling.

He looked like he was about three feet tall.

Like a dwarf.

And Mustang had been the first person to point it out to him.

Things had gone downhill from there. Swiftly.

"Remind me to tell you what one of the students wrote on that photograph and stuffed under the office door-"

Edward pointedly ignored his brother.

An massive hand came to rest upon his right shoulder, and despite himself he glanced up to see the imposing face of Alex Louis Armstrong. Everyone was small compared to him, but having the enormous man standing so close was not making him feel any taller.

"Are you truly feeling well enough to remain here, Edward?"

He just inclined his head. "I'm good." Thanks in no small part to the Strong Arm Alchemist. He'd be dead, or at least without an arm, if not for the other man. He should have been asking that question, rather than being asked; Armstrong had only been released from the hospital yesterday. He remembered seeing the retired General Armstrong and his excessively tall wife in the ward hall. "How's your family taking the news?"

The news, of course, was a rumor that the Strong Arm Alchemist was very shortly going to be promoted from Brigadier General to Major General, for his selfless rescue of two National Alchemists and attempted rescue of the Prime Minister, almost at the cost of his own life. He had been too close to Craege Irving when he'd transmuted the battering rams, and that transmutation had taken advantage of the amplifier. That was how he'd managed such a huge alchemic reaction after getting Edward out of the concrete blender that should have been his coffin.

But the attack had badly overtaxed him. And it had always been thought that he simply wasn't as powerful as the other alchemists in his family had proven to be. That and his sentimentalism had been a large roadblock in his military career, at least until Mustang had gained sufficient rank.

He'd now proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was just as powerful as the previous Armstrongs, and had great courage to boot. And it was obvious that recognition meant a lot to him, because he suddenly burst into frighteningly loud tears, and the hand on Ed's left shoulder began to crush it.

"I have finally made my parents proud!" He kept his voice down to a dull roar, but still attracted the attention of every student in the room. "My dear older sister has even said she would come down from Briggs herself if it was so!"

Given how cute but frightening his younger sister was, Ed imagined his older sister must be a nightmare. "That's great," he managed, trying to ease his shoulder out of mortal peril. "You deserve it."

"Your words mean so much to me!"

Edward patted the vice-grip on his shoulder, noting that the other alchemists in the room, and now half the students, had turned back to their work. Even the non-alchemists in the Academy had grown used to Armstrong.

He'd tried to thank the gigantic man earlier that week, when he'd been released himself, but Armstrong wouldn't hear of it. He called it a duty and obligation, and noted that any of the other subordinates of Mustang's would have done the same. And he was right. Kain and Heymans had proved it.

They had yet to be released, but they were certainly coming around. His hypothesis had thankfully been wrong; while alchemy couldn't do much to stop the feedback from affecting regular people, it could still certainly be used to help heal their bodies. Subsequent visits from varying alchemists had located and stopped the internal bleeding, and both men were expected to make recoveries. Kain was still worse off, probably because he was smaller, and he had looked pale and wan on the bed. Breda, however, was feeling well enough to bitch that Patterson wouldn't let him drink beer, and tried to con every visitor that came through into playing a game of chess with him.

Mustang had spent an unknown amount of time doing just that.

Ed continued patting Armstrong's hand as the giant tried to get ahold of himself. The classroom door quietly closing attracted his attention, and a figure about his height met his eyes with a sheepish look.

Franklin Sorn crossed the room to join the group of alchemists, shrugging his light jacket off as he did so. He'd probably been running; sweat was dripping down his jaw, and he was both pale and a little out of breath. He also looked a little green.

Edward suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that the idiot hadn't been oversleeping after all.

"Glad you could make it," he said coolly, as the younger man gave him a careful nod. It occurred to him that was a very Mustang thing to say, which rankled him only a little. While his relationship with the Flame Alchemist was certainly different than it had been when he'd been a kid, and he sometimes wanted to strangle the asshole, Roy had done a few things right.

The way they'd interacted had been one of them.

Not that he'd admit to it if asked.

"I got held up," the Mechanical Alchemist offered, glancing around the room. "When did they start?"

That was probably as close to an apology as he was going to get. "A few minutes ago."

"You look quite pale, young man!" The tears were gone as if they had never been, and Alex thankfully released Edward to facilitate inspecting the much younger alchemist. "Are you too not feeling well?"

He'd be feeling dead, if not for Armstrong, and he seemed to know it. Some of the arrogance he'd seen in the boy when they'd first met had been worn off.

Of course, if Ed's suspicions were right, Franklin had spent the early morning out in the city, transmuting contaminated rubble, instead of sleeping. Anyone would be a little worn after that.

"I'm well. And yourself?"

Edward took advantage of the suddenly distracted Armstrong and moved closer to his brother and the Tringums. Four of the groups had decided to start with fire, to see if their unknown substance would burn.

The answer to that question was no, not really, no matter how hot you made it.

Pinako and Winry Rockbell had proven that already.

"Any word yet?"

Russell turned his head, and his answer was quiet. "They got back in last night. Apparently it was a complete success, but we still had to treat three of them."

They kept the information ambiguous on purpose. This class was not the best place to discuss what had been done with Craege Irving's remains.

"What about the box?"

Russell smiled, ever so slightly. "Commandeered by the Prime Minister."

Dammit.

It was an interesting story, one he was probably going to have to encrypt and keep in his records. Once the paper was successfully stopped, Edward had apparently decided that some sleep was in order. Thirty-eight consecutive hours of it, according to his physician. In that time, Winry had been summoned to Central, and he actually woke to find her trying the newly made armor on him.

She'd been fairly good about it, actually, all things considering. No tears; he'd probably slept through them. No screaming; he'd probably slept through that too. Just talk of business until he'd asked where the old automail had gone.

That hadn't gone over quite so well.

Once he'd assured her he wasn't blaming her product for his injury, she'd calmed down enough to listen. Pinako had actually come to Central as well, fearing the worst when they'd heard what happened to the city. Once he'd shared his theory that something the old man had added had caused the stuff to stop channeling significant amounts of alchemic energy, the two had gone to work.

Work, in their case, meant carefully melting his previous armor down to slag, to figure out what the old man had put into it.

They'd both warned him that the high temperatures could burn whatever it was to ash instantly, and they'd been right. Fortunately, multiple meltings and coolings eventually yielded a large enough amount of that ash to study. It was taken by the most chemistry-proficient physicists teaching at the Academy, and broken down much like the students were breaking down the amplifier now.

While they didn't know everything that had once been in the substance, they eventually decided to see if what they had actually still retained the non-transmutable properties it had started out with. They re-added it back to the metal alloy that had made up his armor, and the Rockbells had formed it into a small safe.

A small safe that was impervious to alchemy.

The first alchemist-proof safe.

And, oddly, a safe that partially absorbed some of the feedback coming from Craege's remains.

That had been the unexpected part. The old alchemist had made a compound with the apparent, sole purpose of resisting alchemic energy. It couldn't be transmuted. They had no idea how he made it, but the military uses were nearly infinite. The energy bonds that bound its molecules were excessively difficult to excite with alchemic energy. Edward suspected that it might actually be something Irving had traded for with the Gate, and then Al had postulated it would be awfully handy for the giant, black stone doors to be made of such a substance, considering the energy the Gate channeled and the beings that lived inside.

Then they'd uneasily agreed never to have a discussion like that directly before bed, ever again.

But it explained why the amplifier itself couldn't be used up by alchemy. The amplifier, split into five pieces in the very room they were standing in, could not be destroyed with alchemy because it couldn't itself be transmuted. No matter how much alchemists used it, it wouldn't ever be used itself as an ingredient in the transmutation.

So they had to break it down some other way.

Craege Irvings' remains had a similar problem; no alchemist could get near enough to them to break them down. Burying them was asking for them to contaminate the groundwater at some point, with the possible side effect of sickening anyone downstream for decades. They'd eventually decided to bury the box and the remains in the Great Desert, on the east side of Ishbal, in the hopes it would never be found.

That also seemed like a bad idea, but it was the best the military could come up with. So Ed had taken it upon himself to ask the faculty if they had any better ideas.

The teachers had leapt at the chance to do something alchemists couldn't; break down the remains into base elements, thus breaking the bonds causing the feedback. It was still dangerous work, even for them, but if Russell called it a success, it meant they had actually succeeded in breaking it down completely, instead of simply burying it.

And it made perfect sense that Mustang couldn't wait to get his hands on a safe that couldn't be transmuted open.

It had been made by the Rockbells, ever gear-heads, which probably meant it was relatively safe from mechanical engineers as well. Winry was probably not going to be happy that Mustang had ended up with it.

He wondered idly if they'd actually spent any time talking to each other while he'd slept. Obviously Mustang's extremely public demonstration that night had done more good than a hoarse radio address ever could have, and he'd managed it before the Speaker had even gotten a chance to address the country. The water panic was cancelled before anyone knew it had been a possibility, so after that Mustang's responsibilities had ended. Apparently at that point Patterson had finally gotten him knocked out, and as far as he knew, Roy had slept nearly as long as he had.

And since half the city didn't die, he'd been given a private room pretty quickly thereafter. So the probability Winry and Mustang had encountered each other was pretty low.

"How are those three?" He said he had to treat three of them, which meant they could have gotten as sick as Breda and Fuery had –

"They're fine." Russell raised his eyebrow at a sudden, brilliant green flash of light at his table, and scribbled something on a small pad he was holding. "A little sunburned." They'd done the work in the Great Desert, just in case they'd failed. That they'd made the journey so quickly told a good deal about how much time it had actually taken them to accomplish their task. Three days at most, giving a day's travel time there and back. "I think the total death toll from two days ago still stands."

Fifty-three. Fifty-three people had died from the fighting, the radiation and the poison Irving had planted. Five of those from the poison; the young man the editor of the paper had been holding had not been treated fast enough, and at the time they hadn't know how to treat him. Two more men died cleaning out the inkwells and printing machines. Eighteen died from radiation-related illnesses similar to what Breda and Kain went through. That left thirty citizens, soldiers, and alchemists killed by the fights with Craege Irving, counting Johann and his apprentice Cassie.

Fifty-three lives lost, thanks to Pride's plot to kill Dante.

Instead of fifty-three thousand.

It would never be acceptable, but it could have been much, much worse.

Edward stuffed his hands into his pockets, letting Franklin take over watching his table. His color had already improved, so he didn't have to worry about the younger man collapsing. Just getting some time and distance from the feedback seemed to be enough; there had been few long-term effects on the alchemists that had been exposed.

He wasn't sure if he was suffering from any of them. He hadn't attempted transmutation since that night.

Of course, he didn't need to. Not now, at any rate. He'd given it a little thought, two nights ago, but just the idea of gathering the energy together made his chest twinge warningly. Obviously he was going to have to try it at some point, but he was okay with waiting until next week. It didn't matter during the rest of the semester, obviously. He might consider revising next semester's classes to include a single demonstration per class, but that was about as far as he was willing to concede. While perhaps demonstrative transmutation wasn't unnecessary, he still didn't feel the students required bells and whistles to keep them interested.

Again, the classroom door rattled closed, and this time Ed looked up to see the familiar, stern face of one Colonel Riza Hawkeye. She'd been back in service before he'd even woken, and was still the Prime Minister's Chief of Security. Behind her was a very familiar shape; the shorter of the two bodyguards that had been watching Roy's back when he'd returned.

Looked like he'd stolen them from the Speaker, then.

He didn't know how Riza had taken the news of what had happened during her sickness, but she looked as bright-eyed and serious as usual. She hadn't failed Mustang, but again, in her shoes, he would have felt as if he had.

He did, actually, even standing in his own shoes.

She gave him a subtle smile as she crossed the room, handing him a large portfolio. "This arrived at HQ in a collection of documents. I thought you would want the originals and copies."

He raised an eyebrow, accepting the manila folder and opening it. There was a letter, with the familiar emblem of the Post in the top right-hand corner. He scanned it; a standard apology, signed by none other than Edgar Massus, editor-in-chief.

So apparently he felt bad for not believing him.

Behind it were three large photographs.

The first was of him, in the act of tossing a bundle of newspapers onto the ground. It was hard to tell who he was; it was black and white and he was turned towards the truck, so it could have been any Amestrian soldier in a sling, sloppily unloading a delivery truck. In the background was Lieutenant Scholey, gun visible, and several of the paper employees, caught in the midst of angry shouts.

That would have been a hell of a picture to put on the front page.

The second wasn't nearly was well-taken; it was blurred, and hard to make out. It appeared to be a picture of one of the trucks driving down the street, and there was a uniform dodging out of the way. It was possibly him, but far too smeared to tell for certain.

The third and final picture, however, left no doubt as to the subject. It was in profile, like Mustang's had been, taken from his left side. He was crouched low on the street, hand pressed to the concrete, head up, apparently watching his transmutation. Probably when he'd been trying to stop the south-bound trucks, because he looked as if he was about to spring up at any moment and chase them down if he had to.

Edward stared at it a long time. That was what he looked like when he was transmuting?

It was . . . funny. His expression reminded him a good deal of Al's, when he watched his brother fight.

Embarrassed to be caught staring at a picture of himself, he immediately closed the folder, giving Hawkeye a curious look. "Why did you think I would want these?"

Her subtle smile was still present. "It's the only evidence in existence of you wearing a uniform."

He narrowed his eyes exaggeratedly, not sure if she was playing or seriously thought he was going to burn them. "Gee, thanks."

She inclined her head gracefully, then hesitated. "It was a good look for you."

. . . she was teasing him.

Wasn't she?

A little unsure of how to respond, he settled for clearing his throat. "Can you pass a message onto the Prime Minister for me, colonel?"

"That will depend on how many times it includes the word 'bastard'."

Yes. Definitely playing.

Edward grinned despite himself. "Take Sorn off cleanup detail. He's getting a little worn out."

The colonel glanced around the room, eventually finding the young man in conversation with Fletcher Tringum. Both were standing near one of the tables, observing one of the physicists adding a small amount of the ground crystal to distilled water.

"He isn't on detail, Edward. He was injured in the fighting, the same as you were."

Edward followed her gaze, watching the young man. He didn't seem to sense their gazes, intent on something Fletcher was saying, and he looked . . . fine. He looked completely recovered.

Clearly he'd been near the feedback, then. The idiot was probably trying to make up for the fact that he'd gotten taken out so quickly.

"Nevermind. I'll take care of it."

Hawkeye just inclined her head. "Parliament wants to speak with you regarding your statement." Her tone was very conversation.

Giving him a head's up that he was about to have an unpleasant conversation with someone waiting for the class to end, obviously.

"Thanks." He nodded, and she gave him a rare approving look before turning on her heels. He watched her cross the room, turning back towards his table in time to see a very vigorous reaction with the powdered crystal and a clear liquid he was willing to bet wasn't water.

Edward suddenly found himself hoping the next twenty-four hours weren't about to get as interesting as the last Friday's.

- x -

Author's Notes: Holy cow! Look! It's finished! Completed! Pay no attention to that slightly suspicious OC talking to Fletcher! That is not the sequel opening you're looking for! :eyes Silverfox to see if she's buying that.: I checked for typos, heaven knows there are still more. Once all are found, I will edit the chapters, and this present shall be done!

Thank you, Silverfox, for all of your kind words! I hope you liked it. And don't forget, Inkydoo is mostly responsible for the plot. Help me nag her into writing HER FMA epic. ; )

To everyone else, I hope you enjoyed, and Happy Easter!

If you enjoyed this fic and this universe, be sure to catch the prequel, Perfect After All, and the sequel Perfect After All: Price of the Past. There is also a collection of short prequel drabbles, fitting neatly into the established FMA anime universe, found under Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends.