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

- x -

It was getting harder to hide his winces, and he found himself staring out the window, letting his somewhat matted bangs hide his face.

It wasn't the driver's fault, after all. He wasn't hitting bumps on purpose.

Whatever Doc had been giving him, it was wearing off. And he was starting to get the impression leaving without getting topped off with a bit more of it had been a very, very bad idea. His shoulder was jolted by the tiniest vibration, and his back felt as if it was leaning against hot pokers. He was also starting to become nauseous again, and he was pretty sure his shoulder was bleeding into the armor, based on a weird, sticky tickling he felt on his right wrist. So far, it hadn't bled through, but when it did, it was going to be impossible to hide on the white sling.

Why the hell was he wearing it, since it wasn't doing him a damn bit of good?

Edward gritted his teeth as they rattled over a cobblestone crossing, marking the old downtown from the newer portions. Both the driver and front passenger were men he'd never seen before, and outside of curious glances they'd taken his orders without question. They were following a pair of red tail-lights, marking the other vehicle of four other officers, and so far had only been asked to slow through checkpoints. They were making excellent time, so he wasn't about to ask them to slow down because he was getting jostled in the backseat.

There was just enough light by streetlamp that he occasionally could see his own reflection in the glass of the window. He found himself looking at it more often than not, because there really wasn't much else to see. A blue-clad soldier with a standard-issue rifle every hundred yards or so, but of course they were just off HQ grounds and heading down King, which ran parallel with Tracer. He wouldn't expect to see any rioting yet.

Tracer was likely another story altogether.

But he knew they weren't avoiding it because of potential looting. That street was impassible, since it was still destroyed from the day's events. King was just as major an avenue, and as they passed one familiar intersection after another, it struck him as no small irony that his day had pretty much started on King.

He'd followed Mustang down this avenue just this morning. Technically yesterday morning, actually, since it was after midnight. And he found himself hoping it would end on King, since the utility supply station was only about a mile down the street. Hopefully it had been spared the fighting; he didn't think he could take a much bumpier ride than they were already getting and still be able to walk around the supply station.

So he focused on the passing store and homefronts. There weren't many people out on the street outside of the soldiers. The quietness of it all, so close to downtown and the capitol, seemed out of place. If the water was affected eight blocks to the east, it stood to reason it would have been affected on the same black as the station itself. Then again, the stores would have been closed when the fighting started, so they might not have drawn as much water out of the pipes.

With any luck, the west side of the city could be spared altogether.

The idea of saving only a section of the city being lucky was almost as nauseating as the next bump.

"What do you make of that?"

Ed didn't think the lieutenants – Habber and Scholey, he thought – were speaking with him, but he turned away from the window, catching sight of a hollow-eyed, exhausted face framed with drooping blonde hair as he did so.

He looked rough. No wonder the lieutenants had done a double-take.

They were currently slowing as they approached a fairly large congregation of people, some in the middle of the road. Edward sharpened his attention, trying to determine the attitude of the crowd, but they seemed to be willing to part for the first car, which slowed considerably but drove through the group. An entire fleet of large delivery trucks was parked up and down the avenue, lining both sides of the street but allowing more than enough room for the military convoy to pass.

They were halfway through the uniformly light blue-clad crowd before Ed realized who they were.

It was the printing press. The mob was actually a series of workers, loading up the trucks for the early morning delivery of the Saturday Post.

In fact, the very next left was the alley he'd pulled into earlier that day, following Mustang's car.

"Wonder what the headline is."

"When we come back through we can stop and ask. They usually give free copies to the enlisted."

Ed's eyes flicked out the side windows, where a particularly thick circle seemed to be gathered around something. The looks they were getting from the loading workers weren't particularly friendly, which made him doubt the driving lieutenant's words. This group didn't look like it was about to give them anything for free but a knuckle sandwich.

Of course they'd be distrustful of the military right now. Bradley would have squashed the press altogether if he'd been trying to hide rumors of a Philosopher's Stone.

They cruised through the group, and Ed turned his head, shifting in the backseat to coddle his shoulder as he continued to watch the tightest group. This side of them was open, showing that something was lying on the ground in the center of the group –

Someone.

"Stop the car!"

Even if he was just one sickened, obviously the contaminated water had gotten this far. The press would have an excellent communications system, they could probably do as much as the Speaker to get the word to the rest of the city as quickly as possible.

And at least he could warn the others off the water.

Edward was thrown forward as the car slammed to a halt, unthinkingly raising his right elbow to catch himself before he was thrown between the two front seats. Unfortunately, his elbow was attached to a very weak shoulder, which was no match for his momentum. He still caught himself as the upper half of his arm wedged between the seats, and Edward held his breath for several seconds after the car had halted before he trusted himself to move.

"I'm sorry, Major Elric sir!" His flight had not gone unnoticed, nor his having to use his 'busted' automail to catch himself, but they wouldn't really understand the pain. Edward was pretty sure all the blood had drained from his face.

"It's fine. Just wrenched the port a little." His voice sounded very tight, even to his own ears, and he cursed inwardly as he threw open the door and crawled out of the car to stand on the street. The cool evening air – and the now-throbbing pain in his shoulder – did a lot to make him forget about his roiling stomach, and Edward blinked several times, trying to steady his slightly swimming vision.

"They didn't even notice," he heard one of the lieutenants say behind him, but he didn't turn. He wasn't talking about the crowd in front of them; judging by the number of eyes on them, they had very clearly noticed. Then again, the car had stopped with a squeal of tires. Obviously his driver was a very literal sort of officer.

Edward found himself facing a veritable army of suspicious, uniformed men. There were a few white shirts in with the light blue, indicating reports, editors, staff, or other publishing company employees. It was impossible to tell who was in charge, so he just started walking directly for the tight circle of employees.

"You have an injured man?" He figured that was as good a greeting as any to indicate they weren't there to interrupt the paper's delivery, even if the headline was "Prime Minister Assassinated! Drachman Army Already Taken East City!"

A few of the glares lessened, and the nearest employee to him nodded. "Probably just the radiation got to him is all –"

"Can we lend assistance?" It was the press, after all. Mustang would kill him if he mouthed off while in uniform, particularly with reporters around. He glanced behind him to find the two lieutenants flanking him, and the distant red tail-lights of the other car of officers.

They hadn't stopped.

Not that it mattered. He'd told them their mission; secure the utility station. They were just following orders.

They could alert the engineers while they dealt with this.

He continued forward, a little relieved when the crowd parted. Their colleague was a young man, also clad in the publishing company's uniform. He was propped up, someone's jacket folded beneath his head. The press had their own lamps attached to the building to better illuminate their loading and staging area, and even in the yellow light of the gas flames he could see the man was deathly pale. Sweat had collected on his upper lip, and his eyes were closed. A quiet but constant moan was the only indication he was still conscious. His gloved hand was being held by a grizzled man in a short-sleeved shirt, clenching a forgotten toothpick between his teeth.

An uncomfortable knot settled in Ed's gut. Was this what the other man had looked like, and the older woman? Was this what he was going to see when he returned to the hospital?

"What happened?" He knew better than to transmute, but he knelt beside the man, mirroring the position of the older gentleman on the other side. It was too chilly out to be comfortable in a short-sleeved shirt; obviously this man was the owner of the pillowing coat, which probably meant a foreman or manager.

The other man eyed him up and down before meeting his gaze, nodding once to himself in apparent approval. "He's been pale for a bit, but thought he could manage the rest of the shift. Probably just caught whatever's floating around in the air. We're clean, and the street's clean, but another one of my boys had to call it quits earlier."

Edward reached for the man's wrist, slipping his fingers beneath the ink-stained glove to find a fast, weak pulse and clammy skin. Then he shifted, his fingertips brushing the man's face as he went for an eyelid. The sick man twitched, and his eyes flew open -

It was hard to tell in the firelight, but they certainly didn't look clear.

"It's in the water." He gave the sick man the friendliest smile he could manage before turning back to the older one. "You the foreman?"

He heard a scoff behind him, a little angry-sounding. "He's the editor."

Well, that was easy. "Don't let your men drink the water. It's been . . . contaminated with something. It'll make them sick." A sharp murmuring grew at his words, but Ed spoke over it. "We need your help. Can we impose upon you to pass that warning along?" Surely the information network was active day and night -

The editor finally remembered the toothpick, plucking it out from between his lips. "You're a major, eh? Look pretty beaten up, which makes me think you're not pulling my leg. Who's your CO?"

Luckily, the State Alchemists had been even more removed from the military since Mustang had been elected. "The Prime Minister. I'm a National Alchemist."

He got a raised eyebrow. "I'd like to see some proof of that before I start pulling my boys off their delivery routes."

Ed was already reaching for his watch when he realized he didn't have it. It was likely with the rest of his clothes, which had been filthy and torn to pieces. It might have been in the hospital room, but he hadn't even looked for it before he headed out.

Then again, the truth couldn't hurt any more than a lie. "Left it in my hospital room."

The editor gave him another once-over, focusing hard on his arm. "Let me guess. Edward Elric."

Ed tried not to look shocked, and recovered as best he could. "Busted automail give me away?"

"I met Elric once, as a kid. And his brother, too." The editor was giving him a hard look. "I was covering the story when he passed the exam and the practical, about ten years ago. The sling's a nice touch. Let me guess; you ripped the arm off some poor, unsuspecting museum piece and you couldn't get the damn stuff to stay together, right?"

Edward tried not to scowl. It was only natural the editor of the paper would be suspicious of three soldiers with no evidence of who they were. "I don't care if you believe me. Believe this. Your man is sick. And another before him."

Only then did it click.

"The other employee, the one you sent home – how old was he?"

The editor was already leaning back, apparently suspicious of an incoming attack. Around them, Ed began to catch mutters.

"They're here to squash the story-"

"Only three?"

"How'd they know-"

"What if there're more?"

"No business of yours," the editor replied sharply, refocusing Ed's attention. The grizzled man seemed caught between wanting to stand and wanting to protect his sick employee. "You have ten seconds to get your uniform-stealing asses out of here before we deliver you to the nearest security checkpoint."

The circle of men, which had been slowly closing in to hear their conversation, increased their rate of encroachment. Behind him, Edward heard an unmistakable metallic click. The muttering that had been increasing in volume dropped in pitch, to a much deeper, unsettling rumble.

He turned his head sharply, not bothering to hide the wince this time. "Don't!" How stupid could they be, threatening thirty laborers with four pistols between them? He turned back to the editor, finding him half-standing, eyes narrow. "Listen to me –"

"I'm not going to listen to you any more than I would a thug in a wig. The hell you're Edward Elric." He raised his eyes to his men. "Get out of here! Go! Don't stop for nothin'!

He thought they were there to stop the paper delivery.

And they needed to.

If the kid that Mustang and Patterson had been talking about was the same kid the editor had sent home, that meant two employees of the paper had gotten sick. That didn't necessarily mean much, since it was thirsty work loading tons of paper into trucks, but –

But it was paper.

If Johann Irving could put into ink a compound that sickened, he could put one on a newspaper. One that killed.

Edward found himself dodging the swing before his conscious mind had really detected the meaty fist that had been aimed for his jaw. He fell backwards awkwardly, but it didn't matter; the editor had swung wide with no intention of hitting him. He was just trying to get him away from his downed man. A line of employees moved to protect their editor, and it occurred to Edward that the odds were not with them.

A sharp gunshot rang out, almost directly behind him, and the line of men froze in their tracks. There was a pregnant pause, and then Edward felt a hand curl beneath his left arm.

He was firmly pulled to his feet, and he had to catch himself when he realized it was one of the lieutenants – Scholey, he reminded himself. His pistol was pointed at the sky, and his expression was serious.

"Stay back," he ordered the crowd.

Habber had also drawn his weapon, and he was pointing it in the direction of their car. "Any aggression towards Amestrian forces during a Parliament-instated curfew will result in the use of deadly force!"

Edward didn't even wait a breath. Thirty against three, even with the pistols, wasn't in their favor.

There was an easy way to determine whether or not he was right.

Ed turned immediately to the truck nearest them, just behind them. Neat stacks of newspapers, tied with brown packing string, were piled almost to the ceiling. He reached up with his left hand, dragging the nearest group towards him. He was careful only to touch the string; every last employee he could see was wearing gloves.

They had to. The ink from the newspapers would stain their hands black by the end of the night if they didn't.

Which meant they wouldn't get sick. They'd be able to deliver every last paper before going home to read their own fresh copy.

"Major, I think it might be appropriate to summon backup-"

"Drop it already!" The shout was mirrored by others, less articulate. "The military wouldn't send just three soldiers!"

He could hear engines turning over as their drivers obeyed the urgency in the voice of the paper's editor. He fought with the packing string, wishing that he could transmute his armor into a knife and just cut the damn stuff –

Edward grabbed the topknot of the string, hurling the entire bundle onto the pavement. The glint on the ink was unmistakable; it looked wet even though the string hadn't smeared it.

Just like the ink on the letter.

It was on the newspapers. Everyone who was anyone in the city received a Saturday paper. And it would be completely undetected by the staff, since they all wore gloves. Unless they took a break, and like he'd postulated in his lie to Hakuro earlier, they'd touched their gloves when they'd removed them.

But if it was on the paper, how did the old woman doing her laundry –

Who did laundry at midnight? And if she was doing laundry, and was a grandmother, then maybe she had a husband, one who came home at midnight because that was when the presses shut down for the paper delivery.

"It's on the papers!"

Scholey and Habber exchanged a look amid derisive jeers from the crowd around them.

"First the water, now the papers!"

"How stupid can you get?!"

"Where's the damn army when you need them-"

The engines.

Some of the trucks were already driving away. And his other lieutenants had gone on to the utility station.

The three of them couldn't stop all the trucks in time.

Edward cursed, dodging between his truck and the one beside it rather than trying to fight his way through the angry crowd. The space between the trucks was clear, and gave him a path to the street. There were moving trucks going both directions on King, already almost half a block away –

"Start shooting tires!" They could stop the other trucks, if they weren't overwhelmed by the crowds. The gunshot should bring the local soldiers running, and if they had radios, reinforcements, but there were five trucks already out –

Edward dodged out of the way as the vehicle behind him suddenly rumbled to life, nearly mowing him down as it pulled out. He couldn't tell if the driver wanted to hit him or was just trying to get away from the guns. It drew his gaze down the street, where he could see the trucks were gaining momentum, veering both to the right and the left sidewalks -

No. The alleys. The alleys between the buildings had been wider than his car. They were just wide enough to permit a delivery truck.

They were trying to get themselves out of the line of gunfire.

But the trucks were heading to both sides of the street. Tracer was one block east, and it was impassable –

Only parts of it. The drivers had probably already taken that into account when they'd planned their routes. He didn't have to just stop the north and southbound trucks.

He had to stop them in all directions.

Edward whipped around, and found the trucks that had been heading south were also heading towards the alleys, but keeping to the west side of the street.

At least that was one less route for him to worry about.

Edward hurried to the center of the street, searching the crowd in an attempt to locate his lieutenants. Scholey was trying to hold back the men that hadn't jumped for a truck, and Habber was nowhere to be seen.

What he wouldn't give to have Hawkeye there. He could at least count on her to stop a couple of them.

As it was, there was really nothing else for it.

A distant honk drew his attention back to the north end of the street. Oncoming headlights dazzled him, veering wildly from one side of the street to the other. The two delivery trucks fleeing in that direction were slowing, not sure how to get around this new barrier.

Buying him time to stop the south-bound ones.

Without hesitation, Edward brought his left hand in contact with his limp right, and dropped to the pavement, painfully aware of a tearing sensation in his back. A blinding flash of alchemic light shot down the pavement towards the south-bound vehicles. It spread out as it reached the three alleys that led between the buildings on the block, and he concentrated, forcing the same transmutation he'd last performed; he created walls.

Ed could feel the materials and structures plainly, though he couldn't see them clearly, and they were responding as they should. He limited the walls to four feet to conserve energy, and when he was certain all six were appropriately thick, he picked his left hand up off the ground, and took a tentative breath.

For the briefest moment, he thought he was home free. He felt sick and weak, but no worse than he had as a passenger in the car. It was when he was turning in his crouch that it really hit him. A sharp pang crawled through his lungs as if attempting to escape his chest through them. It resonated around his broken rib, winding him as completely as a fall directly onto his back would have done.

So doc was right. Transmuting was a bad idea. And he'd created only half of the walls he'd need to block off the publishing house.

Edward looked up at the sound of tires screeching, too close for comfort, but his vision was blurring, and all he could make out were various points of light, some brighter than others. He focused on the red ones. Red ones were taillights. Red ones were delivery trucks.

There were gunshots, but he ignored them, bringing his hands together again and concentrating only on using the bare minimum energy to complete the transmutation.

The other trucks could be as far as a block out. He wasn't sure he could transmute that far.

He wasn't sure he'd survive it.

Edward ground his teeth, attempting another reaction, this time at a greater distance. He felt the drain instantly; though the ingredients were responding to the reaction, he felt that same, odd pain in his chest that he'd felt fighting the other alchemist. It didn't hurt a terrible amount, but it brought with it an overwhelming prickling sensation, one he couldn't breathe through. Couldn't think through.

It actually felt like the pavement was forcibly draining his energy, instead of his feeding it.

The reaction. He was losing control of the reaction.

And there were too many bystanders for that.

Edward curled his left hand into a fist, twisting it so that his palm was no longer in contact with the pavement. It was hard to stop transmuting; the reaction continued without his concentration, and trying to pull his hand away was unnaturally difficult. He finally yanked his arm up by the shoulder, dropping his crouch to kneel on the pavement.

He couldn't finish it. The trucks were out of his range.

Edward felt himself slip sideways, surprised when he encountered an object while still basically upright. It looked like there was a wall of light where he'd been attempting to transmute, and he blinked several times, trying to get everything in focus.

What in the world . . . ?

Once he stopped transmuting, things started to become a little clearer. He found he was leaning against a tire, which meant the screeching he'd heard had been a delivery truck. He could feel the heat rolling off it in the chill air, which was a little odd, since it should have been on a relatively short time. There were people hurrying around him, but one figure in particular caught his attention. It was a straight-backed, standing several feet in front of him, and it was still.

Edward picked up his head, surprised to find it had been resting on the wheel well, and took another deep breath.

That wall of light in the distance was moving.

And silhouetted against the wall of fire, the uniform in front of him looked black –

Because it was.

And if those trucks had been out of his range, they were probably just on the edge of Mustang's.

Some of the voices started to cut through the haze, but he ignored them. He focused on the distance, then wearily raised his left hand to his bound right, one more time. A wall of flame about eight feet high was one thing. A wall of flame that encompassed not only the wide avenue but also curved around to block the alleys on both sides was another altogether. The fire seemed to be burning on the street edge of the sidewalk, so he was also putting forth effort not only to keep the fire burning, but to keep it from igniting the storefronts. Ed knew Mustang was good, but the amount of atmospheric manipulation needed to continue feeding that fire while still controlling it was going to drain him soon enough.

The hell they were both going to kill themselves.

He put his hand to the pavement, allowing the vehicle beside him – probably a Parliament or military car, since Mustang and his men had to have arrived in something – to support him completely as he transmuted. It was a surface transmutation; he watched the energy crackle out to disappear into the light of the fires. Very shortly, the amount of light they were emitting increased, and the figure in front of him seemed to change shape.

"Edward, stop!"

If they continued to transmute, they were going to kill themselves. He could still see the trucks moving back and forth in front of the fire, so the drivers were still looking for a way out. Therefore they needed to find a way to keep the fire going without having to constantly use alchemy to sustain it, at least until someone could pull the drivers out of their vehicles.

The easiest way to do that was to give the fire something to burn besides oxygen.

He paid close attention to the pain in his chest, allowing it to dictate when he stopped. It was sooner than he would have liked; he couldn't push the reaction out past the first two alleys on both sides, leaving the width of the entire avenue and the two furthest alleys to Mustang.

But he'd cut the required area in half.

Mustang didn't have to babysit those fires anymore. Now they were burning tar. He'd bubbled enough out of the pavement to keep them going for a little while, at least.

Edward took a breath, surprised when he couldn't feel it. He could hear himself, inhaling and exhaling, but there was no associated sensation at all. No cold. No expansion. He couldn't even feel the broken rib.

"How much longer?" It was his voice, but he couldn't feel his lips moving.

"A few minutes."

A few minutes.

Roy was still transmuting.

Could he maintain that fire for a few minutes?

"It's on the papers."

"I know."

Edward watched the lights and the shadows that occasionally crossed in front of his field of vision, afraid that if his eyes closed he wouldn't open them again. Hopefully the alchemy and the appearance of the Prime Minister would be enough to sway the editor, and get him to have his people help stop the other trucks. Considering with the fire burning and the walls he'd transmuted, they'd effectively cut off the military's ability to reinforce them.

That had been bad planning.

Of course, if there wasn't military personnel waiting on the other side of those walls of fire, there would be shortly. Even if the fires died back, it was unlikely the trucks were going to get away.

Edward's eyes shifted up, towards Mustang. He was still standing, straight and sure, his raised right hand a dull white in the reflected light of the distant fires and streetlamps.

Someone had gotten him his ignition gloves, then.

Someone had gotten him his uniform jacket, too.

"Let it go." The trucks would be stopped before they made their deliveries. If Roy was here, it meant he'd also figured out the connection to the publishing house, which probably meant their first assumption about the water was wrong.

So it really was over.

It seemed an eternity before Mustang agreed, and the amount of light on the street decreased sharply as the other man lowered his hand. He staggered back a step, leaning hard against the trunk of the car, and the two of them stared down the street. The tar-burning fires were still going, but they had lowered pretty significantly. It didn't seem like any of the buildings had caught fire.

Ed blinked, genuinely surprised when he opened his eyes again to find himself still on the street, leaning against the car.

"When'd you figure it out?"

Incoming headlights. Lots of them.

The cavalry.

"Right after you left."

Figured.

Ed heard a heavy sound, but he didn't dare change his aimlessly stare again. For a while they remained silent, just watching the activity. Eventually Edward blinked again, sighing at a sudden, strongly bitter taste in the back of his throat.

"You still alive?" Mustang's voice was just as raspy as before, but it sounded a little closer.

Ed might have smiled. He couldn't really tell; he couldn't feel his face. "Maybe."

Some of the previously distant figures were coming closer.

"Good."

- x -

Author's Notes: Yes, I think one more chapter should do it. Our heroes finally worked together! It took them the whole fic, but they finally managed it. No mass poisoning of the city, either, which is always a good thing. Standard typo disclaimer applies. Should be completed by tomorrow! (looks at clock.) Huh. It IS tomorrow. In that case . . .

Happy Easter, all!