Truth is confirmed by inspection and

delay; falsehood by haste and uncertainty.

– Tacitus

Uhkaava

"Did we lose 'em?"

Thunderous pants burned the night, clogged their ears, threatening to rupture strained lungs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ran so fast, anxiety twisting his gut, terror and shame warring for his attention. This wasn't right; men shouldn't be afraid, not when their friends' lives were at stake–

Even now, he could still hear Kurama's screams.

"Think so." Kuwabara peeked once more around the corner, alert to the smallest sound, the minutest phenomena tickling his senses. Far away, he heard that harsh language – commands carrying through, despite the foreign tongue – but he could deal with that. Hiding from these guys was no different from ducking out of class in middle school, back when life was simple and his psychic abilities were no more than a 'tingly feeling'. Everything would be fine as long as the man who felt so wrong stayed away.

He and his weird circle.

Shivering, Kuwabara shifted the dead weight in his arms, never loosening his grip. While Hiei passed out after his little stunt, Kurama continued to howl as they retreated, body fluctuating between bearable and impossibly long. The vines turned on him, leaving their host's flesh to tear at his arms and chest. With fire and angry voices at their back and Yusuke in his periphery, the human did the only thing he could think of:

He hit the carotid artery, the sweet spot on the side of the neck leading to unconsciousness.

Glancing up, Kuwabara noted the darkened sky, the thickening air promising rain. Kurama trembled in his arms, lost to sleep; goose flesh puckered his skin. "Come on, let's go."

"Go? Go where?" Yusuke demanded, lifting a boneless Hiei to one shoulder. "We don't even know where we are–"

"We gotta get them somewhere safe, Urameshi!" The red head quaked and he held him close, noting the wracking chill, all the blood staining his pants and shirt. "They could be dying for all we know!"

The shorter man cursed, kicking a can with his bare foot. Peering out, Yusuke looked this way and that before nodding, making a break for it. "This way!"

Kuwabara had little choice but to follow. The former detective led them on a round-about route to a looming building, one with broken windows and a sagging roof. Toes gripping the pavement Yusuke grabbed the iron door with both hands and pulled. Kuwabara could only watch as Hiei's head wagged at his shoulder, blood trickling down to stain the new swim trunks Kieko bought just for today. The beach, Yukina's smile, them arguing over that ridiculous shirt–

It all seemed so long ago.

No, don't think about her; not right now. Plan ahead but stay in the moment. That's what Kurama taught him while training for the Dark Tournament:

He just never thought he'd use it for a situation like this.

A final heave and Yusuke grunted, panting as the door slid open enough for them to squeeze through. Kuwabara ducked in without hesitation while his friend stayed behind, giving the barren yard another cursory sweep before pushing the door shut.

The building – a warehouse, from the looks of it – was cold, dark and dusty with disuse. Wooden crates nearly Kuwabara's height rose in random stacks throughout the space, three, four, sometimes five high. Broken boards, shattered glass and rusted hinges lay scattered about, impending their progress, every other step pierced by a foreign object. Finally, the center of the over-sized room opened to them, nearly bereft of boxes though plenty of debris remained.

"Think they'll come here?"

He didn't mean to ask the question but it slipped out anyway, tiny, timid. One arm secure behind Hiei's knees, Yusuke fished a lighter from his pocket only slightly damp from their trip, thumbing the fork until a miniature flame erupted. Scowling, he shook his head, sweeping the junk away with his foot.

Kuwabara followed suit and they laid them down together, Kurama to the left, Hiei to the right. Clouds covered the moon but even in that darkness, he could see how pale they were, too still in spite of their pain. He watched them even as Yusuke gathered this and that into a pile; their shallow breaths, all that blood – the blue tint of Kurama's lips, the plants still slithering across his skin.

"So?"

Warmth at his back and Kuwabara turned. Yusuke kept his eyes fixed on the infant fire, flames eating purposely placed wood, adding smaller pieces by degrees. He wasn't sure when his friend learned that particular trick but was grateful.

He definitely couldn't do it.

"So what?"

Yusuke looked up then, eyes sparking in the dark. "So, Mr. Pre-med student, are they really dying or what?"

Three years ago, he would have bristled at the attitude, the emphasis placed on his major, as if it were an insult. Yet now Kuwabara saw through the irritation, the faux anger and cocky comments. For the first time in his life, he could see Yusuke as he truly was–

Afraid.

Just as afraid as he.

Moving between the two prone demons, Kuwabara set to work on Kurama. Fingers brushing the jugular first, he frowned, ignoring the chill and counting softly to himself. Peeling open what was once a white shirt, he pressed an ear against that scarred chest, ignoring the vines growing from Kurama's wrists. In fact, he avoided the plants completely, firmly prodding his friend's stomach, throat, and other vital areas.

At last, he leaned back. "Kurama's body is fine, aside from these things sprouting everywhere."

Yusuke raised a brow, tossing another board on the blaze. "But. . .?"

"He's having trouble breathing and his pulse is a lot slower than it should be." Kuwabara bit his lip, watching a tendril of soft blue flowers slip up a sleeve. "His spirit energy is all over the place. He doesn't have a fever but," He stopped, glaring down at his vibrant trunks. "It's like he's barely holding on and I don't know why."

For a moment, Yusuke tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, as if all the answers lay there or in the sky above.

Then, with cool confidence, "We'll figure something out." Kuwabara stared as he rose, prying the top from a crate before rummaging inside. "How's Hiei?"

The fire apparition didn't stir when he rolled up a dark sleeve, pressing the tender inner wrist and counting once more. "His pulse is fine; steady." A hand in front of that small face, poised before nose and mouth. "He's breathing okay, too."

Kuwabara reached for Hiei's forehead, fingers flinching from the blood still seeping from the shock of black. Red eyes sprang open the moment he touched his hair and Hiei snarled, grabbing his arm before rolling onto a crouch. The human gasped as fangs grew in that mouth, glare fierce but unseeing, free hand reaching for his sword hilt.

"Whoa!" Yusuke was there, arms slipping beneath Hiei's, fingers binding behind his neck. "Easy man, it's just us!" Still, Hiei fought the hold, jaws snapping, grip tightening on Kuwabara's arm. "Hiei!" A stangled cry as the shorter man kicked Yusuke's shin, heel grinding against his foot, bucking against his friend for all he was worth.

"Hiei!"

The snarls stuttered before stopping completely, wrapping the space in tense silence. Hiei froze, eyes dancing wildly until he saw the man before him, sensed the one at his back. When at last his gaze settled on Kurama, he relaxed, releasing the human to sag against Yusuke. "Let go."

He obeyed by degrees, separating his hands, stepping away only when he was sure the demon could stand on his own. Hiei staggered, ignoring their offered aid, hand cementing to his forehead.

"Hey, where are you going?" Kuwabara reached out as he stumbled to the left, ready to catch him despite the teeth bared his way. "Hold on a minute, you're hurt!" He kept his distance, conscious of the growl, the red spilling through Hiei's fingers. "That guy could come looking for us–"

"If he does, I'll kill him." Hiei propped himself against a tower of crates with one arm, his back to them. Legs trembling, he forced himself to stand straight, shoulders pinching beneath his cloak. "I'm going to kill that bastard."

"The guy with the gloves?" Yusuke bent low, nursing his fast-swelling shin. "Look, he gave me the creeps too, but that doesn't mean he's the one who–"

"Not him, you fool!" The snarl made him pause, reverberated in his bones, raising the hairs at his nape. "The man at the Gate." Hiei turned then, hand falling, pushing back his bangs to reveal a bloody hole. "The one who stole the Jagan from me!"

He glanced up as the office door opened, brow knit. "Have they arrived yet?"

"No sir."

Sighing, he returned the salute, not even bothering to rise. Roy Mustang bit his inner cheek, a habit left over from childhood, though not before raising both hands to hide it. Pale fingers laced, he pressed them to his mouth, pondering. Debating. Countless papers littered his desk: detailed reports, eyewitness accounts, supply needs and lists of the dead and deployed. More than enough paperwork to drown in–

They were the least of his concerns.

Photographs from the forensics department lay atop the documents, turned this way and that, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A few featured only the circle or, rather, what was left of it. Each focused on a different aspect: the foundation lines in one, the elements in another, while others focused on words written in the old tongue which only experienced alchemists knew. Again, he drank in the empty clothes, the screams filling the night just as his company arrived:

Just as those four appeared.

"Colonel?"

He started at the soft voice, the clattering at his elbow. Riza Hawkeye stood just out of reach, serving tray pressed to her thigh. The Lieutenant was just as tired as he – Mustang could tell by the rigidness of her shoulders, normally tidy hair threatening to spill from the clip any moment, the bags not even the best makeup could hide–

At least, not from him. Not with her.

"Take the day off, Lieutenant." He muttered around clasped hands, turning back to his work. "You're exhausted."

"With all due respect, sir, so are you." Hawkeye laid the tray on the desk's corner, perfectly-pressed jacket the brushing wood. Placing a manila folder next to the cup of steaming tea, she stepped closer, frowning when he refused to look up. "When was the last time you ate, Roy?"

Roy. The name reserved for when they were alone, preferably out of uniform. Another sigh and he pressed his forehead to bared knuckles, thumbs pinching the bridge of his nose. "Riza–"

Her look stopped him, amber flashing dagger-sharp, chin dipping just so.

A moment's hesitation and he yielded, closing his eyes. "When we caught wind of the circles."

Circles.

Five of them, to be exact.

If this caught Hawkeye off-guard, she hid it well. Rather, all emotion fled her face as she tightened already perfect posture, watching him watch his hands. "That was two days ago, sir."

The words came without inflection, no judgment whatsoever. No, she kept such things from him–

Their unspoken agreement when she realized he was incapable of taking care of himself.

After a moment's consideration, the barest of sighs and she nodded, reaching for the tray. "I'll get you something from the cafeteria."

"It can wait." Mustang picked up the requested file, flipping through each page slowly, scowl growing more sour by the second.

Ever since the McDougal incident, the higher-ups felt inclined to send him more and more work, each assignment more displeasing than the last. He hadn't wanted this case – Mustang could name several officers more qualified for the task – yet when the Fuhrer requested his assistance personally, what could he do?

Answers. They wanted answers within forty-eight hours:

And he didn't have a clue what to make of any of this.

The smallest huff and he dropped the papers, allowing them to fall as they willed. "Look at this." She obeyed, peering over his shoulder as he pointed from one image to another. Photographs of other cities, other circles the same rusted red as the one in here with a few minor differences. Though tell-tale spray patterns marked each, the rings completely in-tact, foundation lines undisturbed, symbols untouched. The dead tongue remained too, choice phrases penned from an expert hand–

A mantra chilling him to the core.

"There are no clothes." He pointed from one photo to the next, cheek cushioned against his palm. "The transmutations were successful but there are no clothes."

Hawkeye raised a brow at the repetition, planting her hand on the desk. "What makes you say they were successful? If there is no evidence–"

"There's plenty of evidence." Mustang traced one picture in particular – the one from Central – finger tapping points he deemed important. "For one thing, there are no accounts of an explosion. If any of these reactions failed, the backlash would be horrific – a quarter of the respective cities would be destroyed."

Another circle, back-dropped by the West City bank. His frown deepened as he noted the spray patterns in the central ring, fingertip brushing the still-bright red illuminated by floodlights. "Also, there's fresh blood in some of the circles but not all; certainly not enough for a botched transmutation. No empty clothes, either."

Her cheeks paled though she kept her opinion to herself, mind racing back in time. "Sir, you don't think–?"

"I don't know." He closed his eyes to the picture taken near the northern border, the circle holding more blood than the one in West and East City combined. They'd been lucky: if not for him creating a separate eruption, that strange fire would have devoured his company the night before, possibly leaking to the rest of the city.

If he hadn't been there, Riza would probably be dead.

"Hughes said he'll help in any way he can."

A nod and he exhaled, running a hand through stiff bangs. Perhaps the only perk about leading this investigation was the authority to choose who would work with him. "Anything else?"

"Major Armstrong returned from leave as soon as he got word." The ghost of a smile warmed her eyes, thoughts doubtlessly traveling to the proud, enthusiastic man. "All of his resources are at your disposal."

Gnawing pain cinched his stomach and Mustang straightened, blinking at the fog threatening his vision. "Good. That only leaves–"

"What's the big idea, Mustang?"

A slam preceded the voice, a growl from a too-young throat. Edward Elric stormed into the office despite protests at his back, face marred by a fierce scowl. The Colonel's brow crept up at the wrinkled shirt and pants, iconic crimson overcoat . Wilted golden eyes glared as the teen stifled a yawn, gloved fingers rubbing away sleep, knotted hair fastened into a forgotten. In any other situation, Mustang would be amused at the brazen tongue, uncaring of rank or social niceties.

Not now, though.

Not with red marring every page.

"Ed!" A hollow voice, gentle yet firm. Alphonse entered with surprisingly light steps, glancing at his brother before offering the two officers a short bow. "Sorry about that, Colonel, Lieutenant. You see, we just got back and–"

"Do you have any idea what time we got in last night?" Edward rubbed at his eyes, as if that alone could erase the dark circles beneath them. "Look, I told you I'd give a full report before lunch–"

"This can't wait." He folded his hands once more, this time to withhold the yawn bubbling up.

"I tried to tell him, Colonel." Havoc closed the door to unwanted ears, sighing around the unlit cigarette between his lips. No one envied the task of waking the Fullmetal Alchemist but Havoc finally volunteered after Breda suggested drawing straws, a measure Falman didn't find amusing. Truth be told, the 2nd Lieutenant didn't mind fetching the boys, even if Edward had thrown both boots in an effort to deter him–

He just hoped his commanding officer's fears would be put to rest.

"What can't? The report?" An exasperated sigh and the kid rolled his head atop his shoulders, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. "Look, Cornello was a hack and the stone was fake; that's it. Now, can we please–"

"We believe someone performed human transmutation last night."

He froze and Alphonse gasped, each growing inhumanly still. When Edward finally looked up, his eyes were misted over, pupils shrunken to pinpricks. "What did you say?"

"As you know, our country is facing a rebellion, one I've been tasked to quell." Mustang's brow furrowed ever so slightly, choosing each word with care. "We heard the rebels have been recruiting alchemists but only discovered why yesterday – using alchemy to 'conjure heroes', in their own words."

Edward closed his mouth, throat working until finally he was able to swallow. "But that's impossible! Human transmutation is–!"

"I saw it myself, as did Lieutenant Hawkeye." He paused before breathing a silent sigh, laying both hands atop the photographs. "At least, I think that's what we saw. Only you can determine it."

"What do you mean, 'think' you saw?" Edward demanded, both hands balling into fists. "Colonel, you were there that day. You saw–" He grit his teeth, baring them to the world before glaring at his superiors. "It either is or it isn't, there is no in-between."

"They were alive, Fullmetal; four men appeared in the circle." Edward's face blanched as Mustang pushed the pictures across the desk, in full view of the Elrics. "I'm sorry to ask this of you but you're the only ones who would know. You're right: there is no middle ground but we need to be sure. If this is human transmutation, it's the first success ever recorded. If not–" Here he paused, forcing himself not to look at a stray strip of flesh flapping against his thumb. "We need to look into other options."

For a moment, he thought the kid would refuse. Nightmares flashed across those wide eyes, grogginess giving way to something else entirely. Logic and horror walked side-by-side; truth and despair held hands. Lips pressed tight, Edward reached for the photographs with a trembling hand, cheeks darkening to sickly green as Alphonse moved closer, daring to touch his shoulder.

Mustang watched as the brothers poured over the evidence, body adopting a stillness which came only from years of training. His subordinates adopted similar stances, each eyeing the boys, hoping against hope for answers, for their worst fears to be abated.

Neither made a sound though Edward's gaze raked over the pictures again and again, drinking in every detail, scowl fading with each pass. Alphonse looked on as well though it was impossible to tell what the younger Elric thought, steel body unmoving in the early morning light.

Finally, Edward closed his eyes to the rusted circles, allowing a slow exhale before forfeiting the photos. "It's not human transmutation."

"What makes you so sure?" Mustang was tempted to breathe a sigh of relief but withheld it, leaning forward over his desk. "How can you tell?"

"The arrays are different." He pointed to the first photo, brushing the braid over one shoulder. "You can barely see it but here's the one for current, making sure the transmutation only flows one way. There are also ingredient nodes all over." He tapped the points one by one, each containing barren clothes in the picture from East City. "There's the basic array for separation, which would act as a conduit for the others."

Mustang nodded; of course he'd noticed these things. "But what makes you so sure this isn't human transmutation, Fullmetal? All the elements are–"

"Creation isn't there; it's not in any of them." He murmured, tracing the lines, debating. "Without that array, even attempting to bring someone back to life couldn't work. Nothing would happen." Brow furrowing, Edward leaned closer. "That's not the only problem, either."

They waited for him to gather his thoughts, watching the gears turn as he studied the other sections of the circles. "The elements are different. Even if Creation was present, this wouldn't work."

Mustang's gaze narrowed and he forfeited paper and pen to that beckoning hand, glancing at the papers. "Why?"

"The numbers don't add up." Jaw set, Edward etched the alchemic symbols for summer, hour, day, week, month and year. "Colonel, what would happen if an amateur attempted flame alchemy? If they calculated the atmospheric elements wrong, even a little?"

"There would be an explosion, likely taking a limb if not their life." Mustang replied readily, mind traveling to his student days. "Flame alchemy leaves no room for error."

"Human transmutation is more unforgiving than that." He smirked, a wry twisting of lips as he scrawled some numbers beneath each symbol. "You're supposed to calibrate someone's lifespan at the time of death, the time lost and how long they would live naturally before you can even try – down to the last second." Nose wrinkling, he tapped the pen beside the respective digits. "You said there were four of them, right?"

"Yes." Hawkeye spoke, then, garnering their attention. "We scouted the area, just to be sure. There were only four men."

"That proves it, then. This can't be human transmutation." Before Mustang could question him, he plowed on, pen checking off each number. "Hour – 4, day – 24, week – 3, month – 7, year – 1996. According to this, your four guys have jointly lived one thousand nine hundred ninety-six years, seven months, one week, twenty-four days and three hours. There's no way."

Havoc blinked at the number but Edward wasn't done, right hand sliding into his pocket. "Something else about his bugs me."

The Colonel raised a brow, waiting for him to continue. When he finally did, it was with a hushed tone, lost in thought. "The season marker is supposed to help direct the reaction, pull it into reality." Edward frowned, circling the last remaining element, the bold X with a hook through its center. "It's December. Why is the symbol for summer here?"

Unfortunately, no one knew the answer. Glancing once more at the photographs, Mustang sighed before gathering them up, slipping each into the slender folder. "Regardless, it's not human transmutation. We've avoided a worst-case scenario."

"Maybe." Alphonse took up the element key, taking in the information once more before passing it to his brother. "But we still don't know what's going on."

"We'll just have to find out, then!" Stuffing the sheet in his pocket, Edward grinned, alchemy puzzle chasing away any thoughts of sleep. "C'mon Al, we're going to the library!"

"Hold on!" Mustang rose a little too quickly, room spinning at the action. If he wasn't already gripping the desk, he and the floor would have become well acquainted. "I didn't order you to–"

"Relax, Colonel, it's just a bit of research. Besides," The blonde boy turned, waving over his shoulder. "You look ready to keel over – don't want to witness the death of my superior."

Mustang ground his jaw, fingers flexing against the wood. "Fullmetal–!"

"Please excuse us." Alphonse nodded to the officers even as his brother left the room, never looking back once. "And please take care of yourself, Colonel!"

And they were gone, footsteps quickly fading to silence.

A/N: Hello again and welcome! Thank you to all who followed and reviewed chapter 1 – Divergence is my first crossover attempt and I hope you are enjoying it as much as I am. Also, thank you everyone in the writer's group for your love, encouragement, and support in this endeavor. You know who you are and I love you guys so much.

So, the boys find shelter, the Jagan is gone, and none of the Armestris officials know what to make of their appearance. How long can Yusuke and the others avoid Mustang, and what will the Elrics uncover about their appearance? Much more to come next chapter, hope to see you there!