There is no greater tyranny than that

which is perpetrated under the shield of

the law and in the name of justice.

– Montesquieu

The Shepherd and the Sheep

Dawn found him awake, bed neatly made, tubes so many vines dangling from unplugged equipment. An armed guard stood outside the door but that didn't bother him, not with centuries of stealth under his belt. After running through a few mental sprints – memory games, mathematical problems, as well as tactical exercises – he focused on his body, examining each part with care. Limited mobility and reaction speed, fifty percent at best, though the situation could be worse.

At least his mind was completely his own again.

Satisfied, Kurama sank into the room's only chair, gaze fixed on the handcuffs atop the pillow. Five days. He'd been in this room for five days and still knew next to nothing of his captors, this government, or the state of the others. Yusuke's aura permeated the facility, energy buoyant and soothing; while he could not sense Kuwabara, he caught the human's scent upon the officer's uniforms, free from blood. Static:

Safe.

The only thing that truly concerned him was Hiei's absence. The aroma of pine and ashes eluded the personnel and, while the fire apparition could suppress his power, Kurama saw no reason for him to do so. There was the possibility of Hiei escaping military custody but he doubted this as well. Such a move would benefit no one, even if the demon entertained the folly that he could find Yukina alone in this strange world.

Besides, the flowers would have told him of any dramatic developments.

Kurama smiled at the blooms in the window sill, golden heads bobbing, leaves pressing either side of the ceramic pot. How thoughtful of the staff to grow these for patients, a welcome breath of spring to combat the mid-winter gloom. They'd become quite good friends over the past few days, he and this plant. Enough for the flowers to chatter about the humans who worked there.

Enough to offer him their most precious gift.

He smiled at the secret nestled in his palm. Three seeds could not make up for his missing stock but it was a start. He made a note to thank the medical staff: if they had not removed the plant latched to his heart, he would have died. A particularly lethal vine, one he'd spent a lifetime developing:

One his increasingly human body could not withstand.

Pressing the hand to his mouth at approaching footfalls, he feigned a yawn, swallowing the seeds. Patience. Patience would ensure they grew into something useful.

Well, that and a bit of his energy.

When the door opened, he was ready. Posture perfect despite pulling stitches, hands clasped upon his lap, the image of warmth and propriety.

"Good morning."

For the briefest moment, the officer froze, unable to process what was before him. The made-up and vacant bed, the discarded monitors, curtains drawn to allow light into the otherwise dim room. He stared at the vacant restraints before glancing at the red head, eyes roving from needle-bruises and bloated veins to the thin gown covering itching stitches.

Kurama bit back a smile – two moves and he'd already scored a point. "Lieutenant Colonel, was it?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat, pushing past shock quicker than expected. "I'm glad to see you up and about, Shuichi. The doctor said you'd be out for at least a week."

So, Hughes chose to ignore his escape – a wise decision. The foreign name flowed off his tongue just as Kurama dictated three days ago, perfectly pronounced and without a hint of uncertainty. He must have practiced saying it many times.

"Amestris's medicines are remarkable." The comment came easily, a small reward for his efforts. "Quite unlike anything available back home."

A half-truth; a baited trap.

To his credit, the officer didn't bite, instead pausing to adjust his glasses, thumb hooked into his belt. "Still, you should be in bed. You're in no condition to–"

"Protocol must be followed, correct?" Was his state so obvious? There were no mirrors in the room, nothing from which to gauge his pallor. Of course, he knew of the leanness, body thinned from a month with little food. "If such is the case, would it not be better if we talk this way, Lieutenant Colonel?"

A decided frown – one he was familiar with – and Hughes ordered another chair. Glancing once more at the cuffs, he bared his throat and mid-section with abandon, a careless act; a clever illusion. Kurama watched the human's display, noting his legs maintained a ready stance, hand never drifting from his hip. A test:

One he passed with flying colors.

The chair came quickly, bearing the scent of cinnamon and lead. So, the woman was here as well. If he pushed himself further, Kurama knew he would see her shadow beneath the door, taste the sweat at her nape, hear the near-silent breaths fueling that warm, pumping heart–

The heart he nearly felt writhe in his hand days before.

Hughes settled a respectable distance away, out of easy reach yet close enough to act should his prisoner do anything reckless. Kurama watched the officer silently rationalize their positions, everything he had touched in the room, all decided hours beforehand. The well-lit room, authority spurned in broad daylight; rejection of aid, even the best seat for this conversation. Blue shoulders pressed to the wall, free from the possibility of ambushes and other nasty tricks.

What could he be thinking?

"Please excuse me." Hughes withdrew a pencil and notepad, voice soothing, as though used to dealing with unreasonable people. "I understand using someone's given name in Xing is seen as rude but I can't pronounce your surname yet."

An inching brow. A point given. "There is no need to apologize, Lieutenant Colonel. Shuichi is fine."

"I must admit, I'm impressed." Hughes made a quick note, ankle resting atop his knee. "From the look of things, you could have escaped anytime you wanted – but you didn't."

"Correct."

A forced calm, glasses glinting in the early morning sun. "Why? You could be halfway home by now."

Such a thing was impossible. Then again, a man of this world couldn't understand. "I stayed for one reason."

A pause; an opening. "For your friends, right? You made that pretty clear last–"

"No."

Hughes stopped mid-sentence, pencil stilling in his hand. The red head spread his hands in his lap, palms open heaven-ward, never breaking eye contact. "I am here to prove we are not your enemy."

Brown brows rose though the officer said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"I wish to clear up any misconceptions or fallacies you may hold concerning us," Kurama leaned forward, demeanor unchanged despite the motion pulling at his wounds. "Though such is impossible without your help."

A gamble; a dangerous one. If this man refused to offer information or at the very least cooperate, the game would be over and he would have to initiate Plan B and, quite frankly, he didn't know that he was up for Plan B.

Few rejoiced over suicide missions.

"Horse trading, huh?" Hughes didn't seem opposed to the idea, back settling against the wood, the faintest smirk curling his lip. "Alright, since this was your idea, you can go first. Ask me anything you like. If it's not classified or a threat to my country, I'll tell you."

His gaze narrowed; this was far too easy. "How do I know you will tell me the truth?"

"You won't, though we're both in the same boat. We'll just have to trust each other, won't we?"

His statement couldn't be further from the truth. Everything from the man's voice to his posture was meant to lull, to put at ease, though Kurama would not be caught off-guard.

He hadn't lived this long by playing fair.

Still, he accepted that he was in another predator's domain and such required caution. In truth, that's exactly what they were: predators eager to devour each other, one baring the fangs of justice, the other with hackles raised, ready to defend his kin.

What was a shepherd after all but a wolf hunter?

"How old are you, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Twenty-nine." He pushed the spectacles up his nose and crossed both arms over his stomach but Kurama noted the fingertips tracing his belt, ready for action. "You said that you're seventeen, if I remember correctly."

The red head didn't bother confirming or denying the claim, focused on his face and hands. "Is that how you wish to spend our time together, confirming what you already know?"

"Unfortunately, we know very little about you." A decided frown, finger tapping against sturdy leather. "Your friends have been cooperative but they've failed to tell us what you're doing here and why you attacked our men not once, but twice." Steel settled into his gaze, maws of a ravenous beast. "Maybe you can fill in the gaps for me?"

Kurama didn't miss the nearly imperceptible hitch in the man's breathing, the certainty of a lie though what about, he couldn't tell. Did the military know more about them than Hughes let on, or were the others being obstinate? He expected the latter, though there was only one way to be sure. "I was under the impression that we were brought here by your military."

"To this hospital, yes, but that wasn't what I asked."

"On the contrary, that is exactly what you asked." Kurama bit back a smile, encouraged by the ire gathering behind those spectacles. "As to the latter, it is natural to defend oneself when attacked, especially when a reason for said attack is not given."

A point earned, small yet significant.

"Which leads to my next question." Unwilling to back down, he pressed his chin atop laced fingers, the epitome of calm as he willed the words that had burned in his brain since their arrival. "Why is your military pursuing us? Save the incident in the forest, we have done nothing to you."

"That remains to be seen." Hughes straightened, abandoning the belt in favor of resting both hands on either thigh. "Forgive me but I must answer with another question."

Kurama raised a brow yet held his tongue, wondering at the man breaking the rules so soon.

Hughes dipped his head, taking in his knuckles, the pressed uniform cuffs. Forgetting his opponent – an unnatural response – though the demon didn't know what to make of such a thing.

After all, this man didn't seem prone to folly.

"What can you tell me about the rebellion?"

Kurama froze, brain emptying of schemes, the chess board, all the moves and counter-measures he'd spent days concocting. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't play dumb, Shuichi – it doesn't suit you."

Confusion. A nearly foreign sensation and one he hated above all else.

"How about this, then. Why did you join the rebels? Money? Security?" Hughes shifted, shunning his facade to stare down his opponent. "You boys obviously aren't from here."

The clogs of his mind spun once more, taking in information, weaving it into the planned narrative. What guise could they hide under, migrants? Mercenaries? Yes, the latter worked best for their cause, especially with an ongoing insurgence.

Kurama couldn't have asked for a better slip of the tongue. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Lieutenant Colonel." He settled into a more comfortable position, chest open, inviting, yet Hughes did not drop his guard. "True, we are not from Amestris, though we knew nothing of a rebellion before coming here. As I stated, we are not your enemies."

Hughes set his jaw, making a quick note without breaking eye contact. "You expect me to believe that?" He ground out, voice barely above a whisper. "After what you did to Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye, the Elrics–" A pause, willing the emotion to pass before continuing. "If you're not our enemies, then why attack us?"

He'd struck a nerve; another point. "As I have already stated, your people attacked us. Surely you cannot fault us for defending ourselves?" Flashes of the battle in the forest, the smell of the woman's fear, bones crushing beneath his hands, her blood on his tongue. He'd planned to kill her, then.

He was thankful he didn't. "Now, answer my question. Why have you hunted us? Is it linked to this 'rebellion'?"

Hughes finally realized his mistake, a curse bubbling in his throat as he regrouped. "Yes." He admitted, the word airy, kelp fluttering on the ocean floor. "But let's set that aside for now. You mentioned your name is common in Xing: is that where you're from?"

"Yes." The same calm confidence, as though talking of the weather or another mundane topic. Maintaining eye contact without wavering, maintaining the tone reserved for those in authority – the image of compliance. Unfortunately for Hughes, Kurama had played this game far too many times.

The officer was a thousand years too young to have any hope of besting him. "How long have you served in the military, Lieutenant Colonel?"

He knew better than to ask about Amestris, basic questions that anyone in this world would know. Details about the military were obviously off-limits, as well this newly discovered rebellion. Such would come with time and research and he was nothing if not patient.

One had to be when dealing with a hostage situation.

"Eleven years next March."

The words came as though read from a script, without emphasis or pride.

Kurama raised a brow. "Quite an accomplishment. That would put you enlisting during the Ishvalan War, yes?"

Hughes didn't respond, though he expected as much. One of the books included details of the Ishvalan insurgence, though the account was brief despite the event taking place only ten years before. Also, the entry included photographs, three grisly indicators of all that was not said:

Two of them included children.

"What part of Xing are you from?" Hughes flipped to a fresh page, wetting the pencil tip.

Thus began the origin Kurama built for them in the sewers of East City: a district lost to conflict, a village which no longer existed. A country of Xing's size had several prefectures and, unfortunately, was no stranger to civil unrest.

Shortly after the Ishvalan War, refugees flooded into Xing's western border only to be met with a less than warm welcome. The country wanted nothing to do with Amestris and held no love for the citizens who fled through the desert in search of safety. The Ishvalans strained the already limited food supply of western Xing to the point that the farmers begged aid from the royal family, though the Emperor turned a deaf ear. This fed the rage which had bubbled in the outlying prefectures for decades and, rather than push out the Ishvalans, the Xingese banded with them and declared war against the crown. Such folly was doomed from the start and though the Yao clan prevailed, the war lasted five years with many lives lost.

Kurama shared this information freely, a fabrication rooted in history. Of course, he asked things of Hughes in turn, trivial things most would not think twice of sharing. Where he grew up, his food preferences and hobbies, nothing too personal, silently building a profile of the officer. Even in these, Hughes guarded his tongue, saying only what was necessary and nothing more. Kurama couldn't help but be impressed, given the information he was offering.

"And you're saying you fought in this war, too?"

"Child soldiers are not uncommon, especially among orphans." He folded his arms, as though hiding a soft spot. "Your country is not above using children to meet its needs, correct?"

The pencil stilled and Hughes met his gaze once more. Something in that look hinted at more than a historical fact but neither commented upon it. "How old were you when the war started?"

"Six, though we did not fight until a year later, when our home was lost."

"This doesn't make sense." Hughes took a moment to clean his glasses, breath fogging the lenses before wiping them with a cloth from his breast pocket. "Then again, nothing your friends said made much sense, either."

So they were onto phase 2 of the interview already – damage control. "Oh?"

"Yusuke Urameshi and Kazuma Kuwabara are adamant that the four of you were at the beach during summer break before being brought here a month ago by a red circle. However, we both know that neither Amestris or Xing border the sea and that while we're separated by desert, we share the same seasons." Hughes glanced up, still polishing the glass. "Perhaps you can help me understand what they meant?"

"Certainly." He hadn't expected the two to tell their captors everything but just as well; that Hiei's name hadn't come up once didn't go unnoticed, either. "As I'm sure you're aware, learning a language takes time and effort and, while my companions have made great strides, Amestrian is very different from Xingese. Surely misusing a few words in a second language is not a crime?"

The officer's brow furrowed and he slid his glasses back into place, a frown tugging at his lips. "But mixing up seasons? And what about the beach they mentioned?"

"Not everyone is gifted with languages, Lieutenant Colonel."

Hughes was no longer playing by the rules but Kurama didn't press the matter – everything thus far had led up to this moment. "Then perhaps you could tell me how you came to be in Amestris?"

"Honestly, I am unsure myself. One moment we were at a lake in our homeland and the next, we found ourselves in your country, where your men were kind enough to greet us."

Taking notes, Hughes ignored the thinly-veiled sarcasm, finger tapping the pad. "And you have no clue how you got here?"

"The only thing out of the ordinary I recall is a circle, a blood red circle appearing on the water."

"I see." The words came slowly, a thoughtless response Kurama would not think of coming from the head of the forensics department.

Before he could further gauge the man's state, Hughes recovered, tightening his grip on the pencil. "What about your other friend? Is he from the same village as you three?"

"No, we did not meet Hiei until after our home was destroyed."

A quick note, the glow of knowledge lighting his eyes. "So his name is Hiei." Kurama watched as tested the name on his tongue. "By any chance, is he mute? Apparently he hasn't said a word since he got here."

Kurama resisted the urge to melt into the chair. Hiei had heeded his warning and remained silent – they might make it out of this alive yet. "Hiei is perfectly capable of speaking, though he does not trust the military or any authority figure." He forced himself to relax as the officer raised a brow; the stitches were pulling in earnest now yet refused to allow the pain to surface. "Though that's no surprise, given his upbringing."

He was leading the conversation and he knew it. Hughes recognized this as well but appeared more interested in the information than control, at least for the moment. "Oh?"

"All his life, he has belonged to nothing and no one: a child of mixed blood, hated by both of his people."

Kurama watched as the man connected the dots, something akin to horror dawning. "You mean he's–"

"Half Ishvalan? Yes. His mother came to Xing before Amestris fired upon its own citizens, though both of his parents died shortly after the war began, much like my own." A troubled look, one mustered easily from the countless hell-scapes seen in Demon World. "He has been fighting for as long as he can remember."

Silence, one he expected. Then, "How old is he?"

Feather-words, a question far softer than the officer intended yet made no effort to correct.

Another point, one step closer. "Fourteen, maybe younger."

Hughes mouthed the number, momentarily forgetting his prisoner. He stared at the pad but made no effort to add to his notes, gaze adopting a hue Kurama was all too familiar with: one hinting of screams and bloody earth, hunger, death and sleepless nights.

The self-loathing only war could bring.

Soon enough, the officer shook himself from his stupor, hand mechanically recording information, a valiant effort to regain his composure.

Kurama would have none of it. "How is the woman from the forest – Hawkeye, was it?"

Hughes stiffened at the name. "You have quite the memory, or a knack for names at least."

Empty praise, a ploy for time.

"Naturally." He adopted an uncaring air. "Is information regarding her confidential?"

"No, I'm just surprised – you don't seem the bleeding heart type."

Sarcasm, a language he understood well. Kurama could still sense the woman on the other side of the door, gunpowder and traces of chestnut seeping through the wood. Her breath caught at the mention of her name, as though she could disappear simply by willing it.

As if he were ignorant of her presence. "I am not."

For a moment, he allowed the officer a glimpse of his true nature, a stare which reflected countless lives taken, multitudes of hunts and toying with prey. The incomparable joy of the kill alongside the dullness only death could bring–

Hughes reached for his blade before conscious thought could catch up and Kurama tilted his head, the beast retreating. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Hughes said at length, hand returning to his lap as he cleared his throat, glancing back at the pad. "Lieutenant Hawkeye is fine."

A lie, one he would pretend to believe. "That is good to hear. Thinking back on our fight, I feared the worst."

The officer snorted. "You didn't seem too concerned the other day."

"We were fighting for our lives, Lieutenant Colonel." Kurama propped his chin atop laced fingers, fighting growing nausea. "Surely, you understand that?"

"Colonel Mustang said he had no intention of harming you!"

A measured breath; a knowing look. "You would believe the words of an enemy?"

Hughes hesitated before sighing, rubbing at his eyes before making more notes. He didn't bother with a reply, knowing the answer was obvious. "Let's discuss your encounter with Lieutenant Hawkeye. According to her report, you initiated contact with she and the Colonel

yet almost immediately backed out, turning to violence over negotiating. Care to explain that?"

"At the time, we believed your military brought us here through some means we still do not understand. Though I take it that is not the case?"

"No." Hughes detected no lie from the boy, saw no deceit in those emerald eyes. "The Lieutenant mentioned you using a type of alchemy she'd never seen before, one involving plants. Is that accurate?"

"Yes. Would you care for a demonstration?"

Kurama expected this though Hughes apparently did not. Lips parting, the officer straightened, doubtlessly thinking of the woman outside the room. Thoughts raced behind the slim spectacles, fear, anxiety, a misplaced protectiveness and, above all, curiosity.

The fox loved curiosity. "Sure."

Smiling, Kurama motioned to the plant in the window, movements purposefully slow. "I will need that in order to show you. Would I prefer I get it myself, or . . . ?"

A necessary formality; he wouldn't have all this ruined by a careless mistake.

Hughes shook his head, already rising. "No, I'll get it. You stay put."

Kurama did as he was told, knowing all rode on this moment, knowing the woman was watching. When Hughes returned, he offered a soft thanks, setting the pot on his lap.

Now came the difficult part. Taking a steadying breath, he waited until the Lieutenant Colonel was seated once more, conscious of the hand at the duty belt, crippling pressure tinting the air. Stroking spry leaves, Kurama focused his attention inward. He noted the twin energies, his true nature dwarfing the human soul, an island adrift in a black sea. The demon would laugh if he asked permission so he didn't bother, focusing instead on a crashing wave, a single thread. Such was all he needed–

He didn't dare vie for more. "Pardon me, this takes time."

"No problem," Hughes assured, the image of ease if not for that hand. "Take your time."

So he did. Kurama prodded the thread away an inch at a time, infusing it with his blood, directing the flow down the proper channels until it reached his fingertips. The seeds shuddered inside his body but didn't dare move, not without permission. Slowly, surely, the flowers withdrew their petals, golden tips touching as the blooms crept back in time, shrinking to buds before disappearing altogether.

The officer watched in mute fascination as Kurama reversed the process, buds peering from the stalk before blooming into the flowers from before, only he did not stop there. The plant continued to grow, leaves brushing his palm, new stems weaving through his fingers to give birth to flowers of their own. The plant grew four inches before he finally stopped, petals kissing his skin.

Hughes blinked, hesitating to speak even after the show ended. "Is that . . . some type of alkahestry?"

"Yes." An inward sigh of relief, conscious of the perspiration beading his forehead. "While Xing is famous for the healing practices of alkahestry, the art can be used to master many things. Such as exerting authority over flora."

"And the ability to wield fire?"

He caught on quickly. "Yes, though using the elements themselves is ill-advised. How alkahestry is used varies from clan to clan."

Kurama didn't bother asking a question; they were far beyond that now. Everything rode upon Hughes believing him, believing what was right before his eyes.

"But even alkahestry uses transmutation circles and the Lieutenant's report says neither of you used one."

"Such a thing seems impossible, correct?" He could not muster the energy to smile, drained from the simple ordeal. "Circles are nothing more than conduits, a channel for alchemic reactions, but what would happen if one's body acted as the medium instead?"

A moment to consider and Hughes's eyes widened, staring at the stitches hidden under the gown. "The vine–"

"My art comes with a high price, one which requires plants to live inside my body. If your doctors had not removed that vine, I would be dead." Kurama bowed his head, taking his eyes off of his opponent. "Thank you very much for that."

"N-no problem." Sympathy. Pure, unadulterated sympathy.

He couldn't ask for anything more.

"Does that mean your friend Hiei's power comes from inside him, too?"

"I cannot say." Kurama righted himself with some difficulty, not bothering to control his breathing. "Only he can answer that."

Hughes nodded, finishing off his notes before standing. "Well Shuichi, one more thing and we'll be done."

Lead grew in his stomach, weighed against his limbs, his lids. He hadn't planned for more than this. "What is it? I've told you all I know."

"Someone wants to talk to you."

Only then did Kurama catch the new scent, ink and musk and flint mingling into a toxic tonic. The man with the gloves – no, Colonel Mustang – came through the door, Hawkeye close behind. He took the vacant seat after returning Hughes's salute, glare smoldering, hands resting on his thighs. Kurama noted the holes burned into his jacket, skin at the throat burned and bruised after a familiar hand. More than those, he saw the spotless gloves and their blood-red markings, the curious hexagram–

The gloves that could make fire.

Mustang spoke, both of their names filling his mouth along with several words he didn't know. Even though he was unfamiliar with the dialect, Kurama recognized the cadence and inflections, deducing the origin of this language, dipping his head respectfully and responding:

"Nĭ hăo. Nĭ hăo mă?"

One week.

Seven days spent in the same room, a room without windows and only one door. Walls and floor formed from the same dull stone, roughly hewn, clammy, cold – fire's natural enemy. The cell was old, leftover from the old Eastern Command, from the age before electricity and machines. A single light bulb shone above, recently installed and impossibly bright. If not for the watch in his pocket, the Major would have lost his grip time though such was inconsequential.

Armstrong would stay until his orders were carried out.

The boy occupied the opposite corner of the room, back against the wall, knee pulled to his chest. Filthy flesh and other smells assaulted Armstrong's nose though nothing seemed to move his charge: not the officer's presence, his nearly-naked state, not even his growling belly. Most of the boy's clothes had been lost in the battle against Colonel Mustang, trousers scraps hanging from his belts and boot-tops, torso completely exposed to the elements. Armstrong could see his rib cage clearly, stacks of bone interrupted only by ropes of muscle stretched across both chest and abdomen. Muscle and bone, that's all that held the boy together:

That and his hellish eyes.

Those eyes remained fixed on Armstrong, furious, unrelenting. He felt the boy's ire during their times alone, when he took his meals. The glare invaded his dreams when he finally allowed himself rest, napping in his seat while another soldier kept watch. Nightmares of gunfire and stained sand, women screaming and the cries of children. And eyes, crimson eyes accusing, weeping, fogging over in death:

He would never forget those eyes.

Armstrong couldn't fault the boy's anger yet found no pity for him; he was a suspected terrorist after all, the same as the alchemist killer Scar. The thought occurred that they may be working together but the boy did not react to Ishvalan's name, nor Fuhrer Bradley's or any Amestrian in power.

Interrogating the boy proved tricky because he never spoke, no matter the tactic employed. Food and shelter, warm clothing, the promise of freedom and a full pardon – these meant nothing. When Armstrong threatened him with harm, the boy smirked, a cruel twist of lips that immediately brought to mind Colonel Mustang's injuries. He didn't want to resort to violence until all other options were exhausted.

After all, what methods remained after torture?

Whenever Armstrong mentioned any of his three companions – oddly enough, he didn't respond to the name 'Shuichi' but recognized 'Kurama' – a noticeable change overtook the boy. Shoulders set, a tensed jaw; darkness coiling tighter and tighter in his eyes, promising murder. Threatening loved ones; an age-old tactic:

One the Major was not afraid to use.

He didn't barter for information; they were long past that. Armstrong's main concern was getting him to eat. The child was starving and seemed content with wasting away. Armstrong noted the dulling of his gaze, his refusal to move, conserving energy. He slept little, snatches of slumber when he thought the Major wasn't paying attention: chin dipping, lids drooping until only slits of red remained; watching.

Always watching.

Armstrong convinced the boy to drink on the third day, the smallest of victories and one he took no pride in. A threat – a promise: drink water or he would order his men to break Kuwabara's hand, the hand that shattered Edward's transmutation. News of the injury caught the boy off-guard, notable by parting lips and a sharpened glare. Armstrong offered him only a moment to choose, already starting for the door when he reached for the water.

Cup raised, the boy swirled the liquid under a critical eye, nose wrinkling as he gave a tentative sniff. A smart lad, searching for any hint of poison. Armstrong watched on, gauging his loyalty toward his comrade. If this worked, further action may not be necessary, though the Major knew his own patience wore thin. However, if the boy insisted upon resistance, he would give the order.

Too many lives had been lost to this rebellion.

A tiny sip, half of it spilling from his lips to gather at the hollow of his throat. The boy braced himself for pain that never came, nausea elusive, gaze fixed on his captor. Armstrong returned to his seat, accepting the scowl, the hatred boiling in those eyes. Given the chance, the child would kill him without a second thought:

He never intended to offer his charge the opportunity.

The next day, it occurred to him that the boy may not speak Amestrian. Until that point, Armstrong had assumed he was just being contrary: if the other three spoke the language well enough, why wouldn't he? Yet understanding didn't always equate adequacy. The Major immediately called for adept translators, one specializing in Ishvalan, the other in Xingese. Both soldiers spent several hours alone with them, translating everything Armstrong said in the two tongues. The boy showed little interest in Ishvalan and even less upon hearing Xingese, going so far as to doze off at one point.

Reports came steadily from the front lines, read while he ate dinner in the cell. Casualties, countless injuries and ground lost to the south and west. Countrymen killing one another without guilt or shame, rumors of financial backing from Aerugo and now, Creta. The fighting was moving closer, innocents dying with their farms even as the rebels overtook tourist centers. Rapid growth, a festering wound, a plague.

They could not afford to waste resources.

"Eat."

The boy didn't move when he saw the plate of food, as much a part of the cell as the stone walls. Armstrong forced himself to look beyond those eyes to the dark circles beneath them, the hollow cheeks, blue veins ready to burst from his skin any moment. He'd drank a bit of water every day since the initial threat but it wasn't enough: if the boy didn't eat soon, Armstrong's fears would be fulfilled. The child was killing himself slowly, a pitiful death he possibly deserved but wouldn't come to fruition:

Major Alex Louis Armstrong had never lost a charge.

"So far you have dwelt in the harbor of my patience but I will not stand for this!" His booming voice filled the space, though the boy had heard him shout before, calling him every name under the sun. "Do you have any idea how much we have wasted on you four? How many good men and women have died while you sit here, doing nothing?"

A rhetorical question, one he didn't expect answered. Still, the boy glared when he drew closer, still bearing the remnants of his own meal. "You seem to forget we only need one of you alive – one to glean information from and stop this ridiculous rebellion! We do not even need that one to be whole, only to possess a sound mind and tongue."

Armstrong barely managed to keep his rage in check, stopping inches from the boy's face. "I have no qualms with ordering your comrades executed one by one – I could even arrange for you to witness it, to have their deaths forever ingrained upon your mind." He raised the plate, noting the malice and some foreign emotion welling in those eyes. "So, I'll say this once more: eat."

He had no way of predicting what happened next. The words had scarcely left his mouth before the boy moved, knocking the plate away and lunging forward, speed aligning perfectly with the Hawkeye's report. Thin fingers reached for Armstrong's eye, brushing both eyelids before he parried the blow. The boy was ready, gathering a fistful of blue cloth while his mouth found his opponent's neck, teeth breaking skin and burrowing instantly to muscle.

Armstrong reacted without thinking, grabbing the boy's hair and ripping him away. Blood arced from the wound as the child flew across the room, not stopping until his body buried itself into the wall. Pink spittle bubbled across those tainted lips yet he didn't move, gaze unfocused, chest shuddering.

No one rushed in to check on either of them – the Major had ordered no interruptions. Assured no major arteries were breached, Armstrong allowed the wound to bleed and approached the boy. For a moment, he feared the tiny back broken before banishing the thought; such was a small price to pay for cooperation. A familiar groaning – stone giving way – and he closed the distance in a single stride, grabbing the boy's face and holding him upright. His feet couldn't touch the ground yet he didn't struggle, a single crimson eye watching between meaty fingers.

"You'll pay for that in blood but not before seeing your comrades suffer." Hands clawed his wrist, nails carving red lines into his skin, over thick knuckles, struggling against his hold. Armstrong commended the boy's strength for it was nearly enough to loosen his grip.

Close but not close enough.

"Normally, I would allow you to choose who dies first but you have forfeited that right. A pity, seeing as how each of them has cooperated thus far. Now, who should it be: Yusuke, who destroyed half a mountain? Or perhaps Kuwabara?" The boy continued to fight, heat spilling from those hands, pupil constricting as white overtook red. "Kurama has used more resources than you three combined and is still in critical condition. He would be easiest choice."

Black flames sprouted only to be doused by Armstrong's strength, the boy's skull creaking beneath his fingers.

The yellow mustache moved, a tightening of lips. "I believe we have our answer."

"Major Armstrong!"

The door flew open yet he didn't dare lower his guard, gaze fixed on that eye. For his part, the boy didn't move, made no effort to escape despite the unguarded exit. He was smart.

Too smart for his own good. "You had better have a good reason for this, Lieutenant Havoc. My orders were clear – no interruptions!"

"Sorry sir but these orders take precedence over yours." The Major glanced at the blonde officer with a cigarette tucked behind one ear, never loosening his grip on the boy's head. "Colonel Mustang asks that everyone involved with this investigation report to his office immediately. He's also ordered ample security for all four suspects – they're waiting outside."

A moment of consideration and Armstrong released him, stepping away with a rumbling sigh. The boy just managed to catch himself before hitting the floor face-first, grasping at his face, chest smearing in the muck of wasted food. He glared at the Major, hating him and his blood-soaked collar.

Hating the missed opportunity.

"We will finish this later." Armstrong turned his back, almost expecting the boy to attack once more. He did not. "Remember what I told you: oath-keeping has been handed down through the Armstrong family for generations. Trifle with these men and you will see how well I can keep my word."

A/N: Hello and welcome back! Thank you all so much for your readership and patience. Life is difficult for everyone right now, and I hope Divergence has helped lighten that load in some way. That being said, this was a heavy chapter! I've never written Armstrong before this story, much less a no-nonsense, full-business mode Armstrong. What did you guys think of him here?

Special thanks to everyone who helped with this chapter. You know who you are and I appreciate you so much!

So, here we saw mastery of two different crafts – lying and keeping promises. Will Kurama's story-telling be good enough or will the boys have to fight their way to freedom? What will the Amestrian military decide to do their suspects? Read on to find out! Please leave your thoughts in a review.