Alchemist had been one of the luckiest involved in the battle of the lawn. Physically, he had escaped any real damage, and be it through luck, distance, some innate defense, or just plain apathy on the part of their opponent, he had been spared all but a blinding headache as a result of that last psychic blow.
He'd spent the next hours helping the wounded, getting them to the infirmary. Never one for hospitals, he'd left as soon as that much was all settled. He was not idle of course, instead setting about repairing some of the 'other' mental damage of the attack.
The cosmetic damages to the building and the lawn were indeed easily repaired, his body on autopilot. He stood almost perfectly still as sidewalks knitted themselves back together, walls rebuilt, a picture in one hand guiding his reconstruction efforts.
The grass was another matter, the scorched bits disintigrated instead, made into little artistic patterns of raised or colored earth.
The danger room too recieved such treatment. While of course it was impossible for him to repair without knowledge of its mechanics, the cosmetic damages, bent and burned metal, shattered glass and the like, were easily repaired. Indeed, by the time temperance and Eric were waking, the physical signs of the attack were almost non-existant. While life was far from usual, at least they could pretend.
Still, through it all, Alchemist was quiet, more reserved and thoughtful than he'd ever been during his years at the school. He, like Miranda attributed much of this to his own concieved failure. Priding himself for years on his mutant power, on the strength of it, his inability to defeat that boy, indeed that fact that a full on strike had barely inconvenienced him, left Alchemist shaken and for the first time, uncertain.
Putting the finishing touches on the little 'false' danger room, He settled back against one of the walls, crafting himself an uncomfortable little seat. Uncomfortable or not, he was asleep in moments.