Post by Lolua on Mar 26, 2005 5:13:40 GMT -5
Somebody shoot me now.... this is the worst fic idea in history. It was supposed to be a joke, I swear. Apologies, Mlle... I didn't mean to start writing it... it sort of just happened.
Summary: Sometimes the one you're meant to be with is the one you can't get out of your head. Kimblee/OC
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It is a dangerous thing to use one's own body as an alchemical vessel. Each vein and artery, every glob of marrow, from the smallest muscle of the forefinger to the thickest sinew of the neck is a potential weapon to the skilled alchemist. The very lobes and synapses of the brain are explosives just waiting to be detonated.
As Major Z. J. Kimblee, known as the Crimson Alchemist to all who counted, was well aware.
But none of that mattered to the woman who now watched Kimblee from the shadows of an alley between crumbling brick buildings. The physical properties of each inifinitessimally small body part didn't interest her. Kimblee's personal habits, from the thin marker he carried for doodling on his skin to his perpetual need for a haircut, were marginally amusing but only appeared as visible symptoms of what truly interested her -- his mind.
The awkward silence that hung around Kimblee like a miasma shattered when, out of nowhere, he began to laugh, building from a low, secretive giggle to a loud and dangerous cackle. The woman in the shadows smiled.
Determine the makeup. Destroy what exists. Rebuild it as something else.
If she wanted, she could make Kimblee the best-trimmed sheep of the whole bunch. The prospect excited her as nothing had before.
After extracting a pair of sunglasses from her pocket and carefully donning them once again, the woman stepped from the shadows.
Kimblee didn't look up from the circle he was drawing on the palm of his hand, not even when the woman's bouncing stride stopped inches from his toes.
"Hi!" she said brightly. "What'chee doin'?"
His laughter stopped, and Kimblee's voice echoed coldly as he replied, "Plotting death to all Ishballans."
"Neat," she said, and punched him hard on the side of the head. The marker fell from Kimblee's hand as he measured his length in the dust.
"You'll have to tell me about it sometime," the woman said conversationally, then giggled, echoing the sound of the unconscious man's own voice.
For a moment she stood silently, considering her prey and watching for wandering bystanders. Then she picked up the man's legs and began to drag him towards the nearest building. At the entrance she paused, leaning against the doorway to catch her breath. The woman balanced Kimblee's legs between her knees and the doorjamb while she ran her hands through her short, sweaty hair, brushing it away from the vivid red tattoo on her forehead.
She smiled wryly, having reconsidered her last words. "But then, maybe I'll just know."
The woman and her prize disappeared inside.
Summary: Sometimes the one you're meant to be with is the one you can't get out of your head. Kimblee/OC
----------
It is a dangerous thing to use one's own body as an alchemical vessel. Each vein and artery, every glob of marrow, from the smallest muscle of the forefinger to the thickest sinew of the neck is a potential weapon to the skilled alchemist. The very lobes and synapses of the brain are explosives just waiting to be detonated.
As Major Z. J. Kimblee, known as the Crimson Alchemist to all who counted, was well aware.
But none of that mattered to the woman who now watched Kimblee from the shadows of an alley between crumbling brick buildings. The physical properties of each inifinitessimally small body part didn't interest her. Kimblee's personal habits, from the thin marker he carried for doodling on his skin to his perpetual need for a haircut, were marginally amusing but only appeared as visible symptoms of what truly interested her -- his mind.
The awkward silence that hung around Kimblee like a miasma shattered when, out of nowhere, he began to laugh, building from a low, secretive giggle to a loud and dangerous cackle. The woman in the shadows smiled.
Determine the makeup. Destroy what exists. Rebuild it as something else.
If she wanted, she could make Kimblee the best-trimmed sheep of the whole bunch. The prospect excited her as nothing had before.
After extracting a pair of sunglasses from her pocket and carefully donning them once again, the woman stepped from the shadows.
Kimblee didn't look up from the circle he was drawing on the palm of his hand, not even when the woman's bouncing stride stopped inches from his toes.
"Hi!" she said brightly. "What'chee doin'?"
His laughter stopped, and Kimblee's voice echoed coldly as he replied, "Plotting death to all Ishballans."
"Neat," she said, and punched him hard on the side of the head. The marker fell from Kimblee's hand as he measured his length in the dust.
"You'll have to tell me about it sometime," the woman said conversationally, then giggled, echoing the sound of the unconscious man's own voice.
For a moment she stood silently, considering her prey and watching for wandering bystanders. Then she picked up the man's legs and began to drag him towards the nearest building. At the entrance she paused, leaning against the doorway to catch her breath. The woman balanced Kimblee's legs between her knees and the doorjamb while she ran her hands through her short, sweaty hair, brushing it away from the vivid red tattoo on her forehead.
She smiled wryly, having reconsidered her last words. "But then, maybe I'll just know."
The woman and her prize disappeared inside.
