There's nothing so kingly as

kindness, and nothing so

royal as truth.

Alice Cary

Mitissimus

Consciousness came slowly, a cacophony of rumblings and muted voices. The stench of fear and sweat, bitter copper, the purr of an engine:

Moving; he was moving.

"Kurama?"

The smallest of whispers and he groaned, fighting rising bile as the ground hummed beneath one cheek. Leather boots greeted when he opened his eyes, scuffed and hopelessly dirty. Patched trousers, the scent of cinnamon and straw; a bulk he would recognize anywhere. "K-Kuwabara?"

"Yeah." A broken smile, curls spilling around the human's face.

The word cut through the fog but did nothing for the ache pounding his skull, nor the fact that he couldn't move. Humming filled the space again and Kurama realized they were in a canvased truck, he lying on the truck bed, his friend seated before him on a bench. Stale gunpowder and brass stung his nose, identifying the vehicle as military and cementing their defeat.

If they'd lost, why were they still alive?

Brow furrowing, Kurama glanced down to see both wrists pressed to his stomach, bound in wooden stocks. He could see no further restraints though, truthfully, none were needed. Decrepit vines clung to his right arm, alive still but fading, drinking his power, his life:

His blood.

Red stained his sweater at odd intervals, so much so he wondered how all of it could be his yet knew it was – one never forgot the smell of his own blood.

"Don't worry, they're taking us to a hospital." Kuwabara's bass was exceptionally soft. "They think you're hurt inside."

Kurama wanted to reassure his friend – banish the fear in those eyes – only another voice sounded before he could, a harsh voice.

A woman's voice.

He recognized it immediately but though he didn't see the woman from the woods, he could smell her. Kuwabara stiffened at the order and suddenly Kurama realized they were not alone. The toe of a boot in his back, a shaded silhouette at the psychic's left; three, no, four in the truck, possibly more.

Why had he not sensed them before?

Pain laced his gut and Kurama coughed, blood tinging his tongue, flecking the spittle flying from his lips.

"H-hey!" At once Kuwabara was on his knees before him, heedless of the orders sounding once more. "Are you okay?"

The sound of firearms over ragged breathing but when Kuwabara made no further move, she spoke and their adversaries stood down.

Kurama understood the words but they did not matter, not with the sight that greeted him. "Your hand–"

Kuwabara didn't bother glancing at the swollen limb, limp in its prison, offering instead a sheepish smile. "It's not that bad." He smelled the lie, could taste it on the air. "I can take the pain but," The taller man tucked his chin, the words barely audible. "I can't . . . I can't move it!"

Staring at the blackened skin, Kurama bit his inner cheek, thankful for the rough road rattling the truck. At a particularly vicious pot hole, he rammed himself into his friend with what little strength he'd regained, sending the man sprawling atop him. More voices and hands pulled Kuwabara away though they didn't bother sitting him upright, leaving both lying on their sides, faces inches apart.

Apologies spewed in a low mantra but Kurama ignored the fire in his ribs and side, pushing a seed into Kuwabara's good hand. "Eat this but do not let them see you."

"W-where did you get–?" Dark eyes widened at the wet seed, the fresh wound on Kurama's palm before blinking in acknowledgment, fingers closing around the treasure. Soon enough, they passed over another rut and Kuwabara's hands conveniently flew to his face, left fist pressed to his mouth. A working of the larynx and the seed vanished.

Only when he was sure the soldiers were none the wiser did Kuwabara whisper, "Think they can understand us right now?"

"If so, they would have already separated us." Focused breathing and Kurama pushed the hypothesis aside, gathering thoughts which scattered like dry leaves. "What of the others?"

"In the other truck. Urameshi–" Another bump and Kuwabara curled into a loose ball, hair brushing his friend's chest. "Urameshi's out cold," He murmured, face pressed to the truck bed. "The man with the gloves got 'em."

Yusuke's being unconscious wasn't outlandish, either fatigued or beaten senseless during the battle. However– "Hiei lost?"

Kuwabara shook his head as the road leveled once more, a soldier rising behind him. "He gave up."

He was pulled away before Kurama could question further but it was just as well. Both fell into their private thoughts, conscious of the gray-haired man standing over them. Tongue flicking, the fox tasted red, forcing his mind to work. Hiei had not lost – he surrendered. What could move the fire apparition to place himself into enemy hands, knowing what likely awaited them? Flashes of oiled steel, gunshots, pitiless brown eyes–

The answer came easily enough.

"What were you thinking?"

Edward flinched, not daring to look up as the shout bounced down the hall. White walls, harsh light, the inescapable stench of cleaning products:

He'd never been fond of hospitals.

Taking a slow breath, Mustang called back his anger, unwilling to lose control. "I asked you a question, Fullmetal. Did you intentionally disobey orders?"

Still, he refused to raise his gaze from the floor, taking in each grain of wood, wishing to disappear into a particular crack. "It . . . it wasn't like that."

"Oh?" Mustang rose to his full height, brow arched, "Then how would you define insubordination?"

"I said it wasn't like that!" Edward snapped, glaring at his superior officer. He wasn't prepared for the burn holes dotting the uniform, that cold look, the finger-bruises around Mustang's throat. Even though they'd been here for almost an hour, the Colonel refused to be examined:

Not until the suspects were treated and restrained.

"Why didn't you wait for backup?" He pressed, voice rising once more. "Don't you realize what almost happened? If Alphonse hadn't pushed you out of the way, you both would have–"

"Stop it!" Edward's scream earned a few glances but none dared interfere. "Just–stop it, alright?"

He'd found them at the foot of the mountain, Alphonse's body scattered throughout the pass, Edward gathering the pieces. Countless shards, scraps of wilted, twisted metal nestled in the snow:

Mustang hadn't seen the boy cry in quite some time.

The suspects were there as well, one snoring spread-eagle beneath the trees, the other staring dumbfounded at the remnants of Alphonse's helmet and breastplate. Thankfully, whatever impaled the mountain somehow missed the younger Elric's blood seal, though just barely.

If the attack were an inch wider, he would be dead.

Another breath and Mustang relented, willing all feeling from his voice. "Tell me what happened."

A shuddering sigh and Edward obeyed, sinking onto a bench to recount their battle: the odd meeting, how he'd done everything by the book, in spite of Yusuke's insults. The fight, neither side using alchemy at first, his resorting to it only when Alphonse was threatened. Kuwabara stopping a spire with his fist, Yusuke's calm rage, and the light–

The blue light that changed everything.

"Blue light?" Mustang frowned, hands clasped behind his back. "You mean the transmutation's reaction?"

"No, I mean the blue light." Red jacket long since discarded, Edward ran a hand through his bangs, fingers trembling. "There was no reaction, not even a transmutation circle. He just pointed his finger and the light appeared, growing bigger and bigger until . . . he fired."

"You make it sound as though he fired a gun."

"It wasn't a gun, it was his hand! The light hummed and when he fired, it was–" Edward's brow furrowed, searching desperately for the right words. "Like lightning."

"Lightning. You expect me to believe lightning destroyed half a mountain?" Mustang wanted to push further but knew the boy was at his limit; he'd seen that look too many times. "I suppose Alphonse saw the light, too?"

A single nod. Thankfully, enough of the metal remained for Edward to transmute his brother's armor; he'd needed only to use a single handgun to make up the difference, which he promised to repay Havoc for later. Despite Alphonse's protests, Edward came to meet Mustang alone, leaving him to wait in their room at the barracks. Such precautions were necessary:

He didn't want his brother anywhere near those guys.

"I'll question him, later. In the meantime, you are both under house arrest until further notice."

Images of Tucker's library flashed, as well as Nina's smile. "But Colonel–!"

"Dismissed."

Edward noted his cold gaze, lips cemented in a scowl, the purple ropes growing around his throat. ". . . Fine."

Mustang watched his retreat, black-clad body weaving through blue until he disappeared. More than a few glances from nurses and patients alike, frowns they did nothing to hide, knowing complaining would prove futile. With four possible terrorists in the building, a strong military presence was to be expected.

A small price to pay for keeping their country safe.

"Sir!"

He turned at the call, the voice prized above all others. Hair fastened once more behind her head, Hawkeye strode down the hall at a brisk pace, barely acknowledging the salutes thrown her way. As she drew closer, Mustang saw her limp, the swelling at her face: cheek blue-black, eye fused shut, bottom lip swollen nearly double–

Thankfully, only yellow marks dotted her neck, molded after so many fingertips.

Returning the salute, Mustang motioned her to follow him, withdrawing to a forgotten corner. "What news?"

"The one called Yusuke is still unconscious; the doctors have no idea when he will wake up."

Both brows rose. "Is he in a coma?"

"No sir, though no attempts to rouse him thus far have worked."

He wanted to press further but decided against it, gaze focused on her face. "And the others?"

"His companion – Kuwabara – is doing better than expected. At first, the staff feared his hand was broken beyond repair, but–"

Mustang rolled his shoulders, coercing tired muscles to attention as a handful of soldiers passed. "But what?"

She pressed her mouth into a thin line, uncaring of the throbbing lip. "None of his bones are broken."

Surprise flashed only to be immediately snuffed out, hands linking behind his back. "That's impossible."

"I thought so too but the X-rays tell a different story." She adjusted her uniform collar, held together by a steel pin. He noticed her shoulder twitch at the motion, the limited mobility of her left arm but said nothing.

If he ordered her injuries treated, she would demand the same from him in return.

"Apparently, the bones in his hand are severely bruised but none are so much as fractured. An odd occurrence, though the doctor assured it is entirely possible."

"After shattering a metal spire?"

Hawkeye fell silent and he sighed, pushing away doubt. The hospital staff couldn't profit from lying. "What about the two?"

"The boy is cooperating though he still has not spoken. He wasn't injured in combat – Major Armstrong is with him now."

"He hasn't tried anything?"

"No sir and I don't foresee him resisting, not while we have his friends."

Mustang allowed himself a moment to ponder that, remembering the boy's speed, strange fire and willingness to kill. "You think he's loyal to them?"

"I see no reason for him not to be, not when he submitted once I threatened his comrade."

"You haven't seen him since?"

She shook her head. "His cooperation is fostered by the belief that his comrade's life is in my hands – any contrary action would be unwise."

"Then all we have to do is keep the three of you apart."

Hawkeye glanced at a passing soldier, acknowledging the salute with a nod. "The one I apprehended just came out of surgery for a pierced lung, though how he obtained the injury is a mystery. Apparently, his health was declining before we found them; his condition is precarious at best. He may not make it through the night." He noted the blood on her jacket, most of which wasn't hers. "The surgeon wishes to speak to you as soon as possible."

Mustang sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Fatigue pulled at his mouth, dulling sound and color but there would be no rest tonight. "Any word from Central?"

"Yes, the Fuhrer sends his thanks and congratulates you on capturing the four." He started back toward the critical care unit, knowing she would follow. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes should arrive in the morning."

A misstep and he paused, turning. "Maes is coming here?"

"Yes, Fuhrer King Bradley asked him to interrogate the suspects personally."

Hughes had been the head of Central's forensic's department for years. For the Fuhrer to ask him to rush to Eastern command, over four unknown men, no less . . . Such almost removed the sting of Bradley's interferance with his investigation. "Things are getting interesting."

"There's one other thing, sir."

A cursory sweep of the hall and Hawkeye stepped closer, as close as propriety would allow. Before he could question her, she spoke, words fast and low. She shared details of the fight in the forest, things he hardly dared believe: plants growing from the man's arm and hair, his inhuman grace; the hint of claws, fangs growing in that mouth just when he believed his prey caught–

Mustang couldn't wrap his mind around it. "You're certain?"

She touched her lapel, the fractured breastbone hidden there. "Of the first two, yes. I've never met a man who could dodge shots fired at close range, yet he did so multiple times. Also, you saw the vines yourself, sir."

"It could be a form of bio-alchemy." He brought a hand to his mouth, nearly brushing her arm in the process. "Did you see a transmutation circle?"

"No; no alchemic reaction, either."

He hummed acquiescence, fist pressing harder against his lips. "And the other?"

Hawkeye hesitated, brow pinching. "I'm not sure, honestly. I was at first but . . . for a man to have such features one moment and appear perfectly human the next–" She shifted, careful to hide the pain the motion caused. "Perhaps I imagined it."

"There's the slim possibility he's not human, perhaps an advanced chimera of some sort." A final sigh, fatigue weighing his shoulders. "I really don't want to bring Tucker into this."

"Maybe you won't have to." He opened one eye, willing himself to look at her. "Why not wait until the Lieutenant Colonel speaks to him? Surely Hughes will be able to tell whether he's human or not."

Mustang pondered that, hand falling away as he adopted the path toward critical care once more. "You may be right."

Consciousness came slowly, pulling him from inky darkness. Pain returned first, a welcoming friend, a trusted ally. Pain meant he was alive, even when such seemed impossible. Copper bit his tongue, the sobering taste of blood grounding, soothing.

By all accounts, he should be dead.

Sound came next, a sickening ensemble of inhuman hums and hushed steps. Voices were there though he didn't recognize them – they did not matter. Blessed cool seeped into his veins, nourishing as water to tired flowers. Fresh linens tucked at the waist, a poorly padded mattress, air bathing his itching chest. A steady dripping; the stench of too-close bodies, disinfectant, disease and, worse, the tinge of death:

A hospital?

"Good, you're awake."

Kurama stiffened, berating himself for not sensing the voice's nearness, the subtle scent of cologne. Cracking both lids, he noted the off-white of the room, the clean sheets and medical equipment. He saw the various tubes latched to his arms and chest, pumping medication and fluids, monitoring vital signs. Angry stitches glared from his abdomen, more than should be necessary for any procedure. Tight bandages on one arm, the one the woman shot; a compress at his ribs–

Handcuffs anchoring his wrist to the bed rail.

"Look, I don't like it any more than you do but we have to take precautions. Apparently you gave the doctors a hard time last night."

The man was several years older than he, body language betraying hours sitting beside sick beds. Brown hair slick with oil, only narrow frames and a five o'clock shadow saved him from being labeled a shady businessman, that and the now-familiar blue uniform. He possessed more medals than the woman from earlier, painted prisms glinting. Grizzled chin propped atop his hands, Kurama could see kindness lingering in those eyes along with pity, both undermining his frown:

Emotions he nearly succeeded at hiding.

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes – I'm here as a representative of the Amestrian State Military."

A lurching in his gut and the room spun, vision blurring as machines chirped. Hughes was still there when the world came back into focus but a nurse was at his side, fluid tube in-hand as she readied a syringe.

Kurama grabbed her arm without thinking, uncaring of the pain splintering his chest and her wide-eyed stare.

"Easy," Hughes had risen the moment he moved, calm despite the nurse's predicament, hand at the back of his belt. "She's just trying to help you."

Green eyes darted between the officer and his captive, brain struggling to function as it normally would. A gun? A knife? Probably the latter; most would refrain from firing so near an innocent.

"What is it?" Kurama hated the hoarseness of his own voice, aged bile and blood heavy on his tongue. Ice needled his chest and ribs, movements slowed by already meted medication though despite this, he could still break her arm with ease.

"L-laudanum." She reigned in her fear, forcing a smile. "It will help with the pain."

Opiates. That would explain the sluggishness, his inability to think. "No, thank you."

Taken aback, she glanced once more at the machines blaring his vitals. "But sir–"

"I said 'no thank you'." He glanced at Hughes, the beginnings of anger rising. "Or am I not permitted to refuse?"

Hughes hesitated, hand still hidden behind his back. "You won't be forced to take anything you don't want to, that's not how I do things." He nodded to the nurse, her shaking hand still holding the syringe. "Now let her go."

But Kurama didn't move, attention focused on Hughes. The nurse wouldn't try to fight him, not if their reputation in this world was close to what Hiei heard the other night. No, what concerned him was the officer's sincerity, the intentions hidden behind an authoritarian mask. His stance spoke of experience, countless lives taken; a soldier skilled at his job. However, other scents seeped past the cologne, betraying him: baked meat and warm bread, the press of worn pages and lavender sprigs. The smell of another, ripe and youthful – a woman. Yet another scent, soft and flowering, much like the first blooms of spring:

A child; a girl.

He just managed to check his smile.

"Well? What's it going to be?"

Another moment pretending to consider and Kurama released her, fingers uncurling slowly. She darted behind Hughes, disposing of the offending object before clutching her forearm. Only when she was safe did the officer straighten, though his hand remained perched on his hip. An intentionally lowered guard; a gesture of trust.

Kurama purposely ignored these, lifting his shackled wrist. "Do you treat all patients this way?"

"No but you're a special case." Hughes nodded toward the raised arm, the bandages there. "Somehow your plants came out for one last hurrah during surgery, nearly gave the surgeon a heart attack! I've heard of transmutations with long reaction times but that's ridiculous."

The red head ignored his comment, noting the only word that mattered. "Surgery?"

"An emergency procedure to patch a pierced lung. Without it, you'd be dead right now."

Arguing against such was pointless. He'd never expected to awaken from the forest, nor the truck which spirited them away. Images flashed of Kuwabara's blackened hand, his concern and tender smile:

His friend's scent was nowhere to be found, not even in his hair or skin. "Where is he?"

Hughes' brow furrowed, curiosity hidden behind metal frames. "Who?"

He fought the urge to bare his teeth, grasping at fleeting thoughts. How much laudanum had they given him before now? "The man, the one in the truck."

To his credit, the officer caught on quickly, needing only a moment to consider. "Oh, you mean the big guy! Yeah, I heard he was quite a handful when they separated you two: he had to be sedated and–"

"Where is he?"

All emotion fell from Hughes' face at his hiss. The bite of steel and Kurama realized he'd sat up, stitches on his chest screaming. His ribs ached – were they wrapped when he awoke? Breathing hurt but he clung to the pain, allowing it to ground him. He refused to give ground to this man.

Not with Kuwabara's life at stake.

"He's being treated in another part of the hospital. Thankfully, unlike yours, his injuries weren't life-threatening."

Relief threatened to sweep him away but Kurama fought its flow, along with growing fatigue. "And . . . the boy?"

He didn't dare call Hiei anything else, especially if he'd kept their agreement on silence.

"Your friends are fine." Hughes said, reclaiming his chair as the nurse left. A half-truth though the fox couldn't complain – his captor had been forthcoming up until now. "But let's talk about you. Why don't we start with your name?"

Kurama eased back, the mattress welcoming tired muscles. "Shuichi. Shuichi Minamino."

Hughes repeated the unfamiliar syllables as he retrieved a pad and pen, spelling it as best he could. "That's quite a name."

He shrugged, adopting an unaffected air. "It is common enough in Xing."

A gamble, given he'd only discovered the place days ago through books. Still, he prayed this officer, this Hughes, believed him:

Their only hope lay in fooling the military.

"I'll take your word for it, never been there myself." A moment of relief he dared not show, watching the man make a few more notes. "While you were out, your buddy called you 'Kurama', not 'Shuichi'."

"A nickname." Kurama supplied easily, pushing through cotton clouds billowing in his brain. "One only few have earned the privilege of using."

Hughes didn't acknowledge the threat, shoulders still soft, abdomen unprotected save for his notepad. The officer glanced at the machines before settling back on the red head, glasses refracting the light overhead. "All right, Shuichi, how old are you?"

The clouds thickened and Kurama found himself back home, in the throes of one of the birthday parties mother insisted on hosting for him. Paper streamers, laughing children, smoking candles atop the homemade cake. The press of presents, her most beautiful smile; how old are you now? "Seventeen."

A brief pause before Hughes jotted down his answer. Suddenly Kurama found meaning in his nakedness: such could only mean the military had his clothes and all that was in them; the possessions the others teased him for bringing to the beach – his wallet and identification card. Could they read it? No, the only language remotely related to their own in this world was Xingese; Mandarin's close cousin, from what he could decipher. These people could not read or understand Japanese:

Why else would Hughes ask these things?

Pain drew his attention once more to his abdomen, the stitches dotting his chest and pectorals. "Lieutenant Colonel, was it?"

Hughes glanced up, noting his pale cheeks, the paper-thin words. "That's right."

Fatigue and lingering medication pulled at his tongue, slowed his thoughts – a catalyst for mistakes. "What is this?"

Kurama gestured at the equipment and patchwork though his strength failed halfway through, arm flopping across his ribs. His attempt to hide the pain mostly succeeded yet he couldn't stop the coughing fit which pulled at the stitches, the pitiful noises spewing from his lips.

Rather than gloat or watch impassively, true pity flickered in the soldier's eyes, enough so that he put the pad away and stood. Before Kurama could grasp what was happening Hughes had helped him sit up, supporting him until the spell passed, leaving himself completely vulnerable. For a brief moment, Kurama considered killing him, this man whose only crime against him was kindness.

If he knew he could do so without endangering the others, he would.

"That stuff's helping the doctors treat you. Apparently, you were in bad shape yesterday when–"

"Yesterday?" He'd been out that long?

"Yeah, you're not out of the woods yet but they think you'll make a full recovery." Hughes eased him back down, careful not to tangle the tubes. "You just need some rest."

Words fled but Kurama clung to the train of thought, the reason he'd spoken. "Why are there . . . so many stitches?"

A shadow passed over Hughes' face, one he wasn't sure he understood. "The surgeon found something inside you that interfered with the operation, something that had to be removed." For a moment, Kurama believed he would say more but the officer shook his head, eased professionalism overriding everything. "We can talk about that during our next visit."

"Next visit?" Another medicated wave and he felt himself teetering over the brink, almost missing the officer stepping away. Most in this man's position would take advantage of his compromised state, ordering drugs administered and interrogating to his heart's content.

As if he could read his mind, Hughes glanced back, smiling for the first time. "Like I said, that's not how I do things." Falling; he was falling and they both knew it. "Get some rest, you can tell me all about it next time."

But the words fell on deaf ears; Kurama was already asleep.

A/N: Hello and welcome back! Thank you for reading Divergence and for all who have followed, favorited and reviewed. I appreciate your readership and feedback!

This fic has challenged me in so many ways, one of which is writing many characters for the first time. Hughes is one such character. Despite his iconic silliness, Hughes has a serious side viewers rarely see and I wanted to bring that out in this chapter. While the YYH boys are considered possible terrorists, they look like children (teenagers) to the untrained eye, and I couldn't see Hughes being overly hard on a child in Kurama's state.

So the boys are in military custody and the Elrics are in the doghouse. What will happen when Hughes interrogates the four? What exactly was 'taken out' of Kurama, and does the military know anything about Yukina? Read on to find out, please leave a review!