MIND BLOWER
Rating: [Teen+ Violence, very violent language, blood, murder, tobacco/alcohol references, & some sexual references
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: MAJOR AU! Action, suspense, mystery(?), romance [EdxWinry
Summary: [Inspired by Queen's Killer Queen
His world: impenetrable glass, but when the omega descends, the underdog must step up to the plate. Too bad the murderer isn't your average alley cat.
Disclaimer: I definitely don't own FMA, and I definitely don't own Queen's Killer Queen (I'm just borrowing a few of their lines for titles and ideas -- ;). Both belong to their respected producers/artists.
Note: VERY AU! I can't say this enough times! This fic is not your average Amestris scenario!
So far a mini-chapter fic. Not sure yet. :/
Chapters: Prologue 1 [Built-in Remedy 2 3 4
Chapter Note: This prologue is really quite cruel and dark, and doesn't seem likely to be put with FMA characters and principals. But you'll just have to trust me: once you get past the prologue, you'll understand. ; D
What would life be like without television? The old man wonders, as though it's only just occurred to him over these fifty years. And he remembers watching the tiny screen since he was born, because, after all, his generation and beyond are the 'technologically effected' – or the ones born around the time the internet was finally invented.
So, of course, he can barely imagine a world like that: where television doesn't even exist, and won't exist. How in the world do those people get by? Well…he reminds himself that before television wasn't even invented, people still survived. Weren't they so bored, though? The concept was frightening. What in the blazes did they do with their free time?
Though he admitted television itself could be extremely annoying at times. And boring, if the right shows weren't on. The commercials and excessive marketing was tiring to the mind, like hell if those ridiculous companies ended up overbearing the actual show.
In fact, right now, he was lazing across the pinstripe, vintage sofa, watching and yet not watching the L'Oreal advertisement in a daze. The both of his eyes were slightly reddened, two balloons half-covered by his heavy eyelids. I really should be sleeping, He thought nonchalantly, sighing against the insufferably boring sting to the air. It wasn't like he was at a loss of anything to do, but it was just he'd rather do absolutely nothing if he could. He was often like that with assignments.
The L'Oreal model quickly became a frozen pizza commercial, and the old man thought, at this point, he'd just rather head to bed. Yes, that would be best. Every part of him was not enjoying this at all.
His loafing figure took a small stretch from its position amongst the cushions, and with one noisy, indescribable sound, he hauled himself up to a stand. Promptly his joints ached on the sudden shift of weight, and much more immensely was he reminded of the beating he received today. Oh, he definitely remembered. While working guard duty at the museum, another one of those pesky kids had run over and simply hit him in the knee with a paddle. Like hell the brat's getting away with it, He told himself at that particular moment, and though he made an attempt at chasing after, the pain failed his cause.
Stupid babbling kids. They were all the same: hellish little demons that liked to play tricks on adults simply for the pure joy of it. How delightful.
The old man had begun his trip to the soft, heavenly comfort of his mattress – despite the groans issuing from his mouth in protest – when the door bell rang. The series of chimes left an after-rang across the house.
Completely thrilled at the idea of answering to someone at this late hour, while just considering bed, the old man hissed and rotated his body around. The white, wood-paneled door stood like a droll task several feet from him, dreadful in its entirety. He'd rather just continue hobbling to his room.
But the door certainly had to be answered, because that was just how things worked.
He was debating this and whether answering would be worth it when the ring resided again. Quiet, patient, and luring.
With a grouchy, indescribable noise, the man lamely gave in and started the trek towards the new destination. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" He growled loudly.
In due time, his turtle pace finally ended as he turned the knob and flung the door open.
"What do you want?" He hotly chided before even taking in his visitor.
"Oh, hello."
The blurriness of his eyes was remarkable. He cautiously blinked, clearing his vision only to observe a young, blonde-haired girl at his step, with extraordinary sapphire irises. She was no doubt twenty-three, twenty-four – much too young of an age – but still quite attractive. He had no problem admitting such, apparently.
For a moment, he had no idea what to say to her. He could only take her in with entirety: humbled, round-faced, dressed in formal attire, though fitting and quite...perfect to her form. Needless to say, she was likely here for advertisement or the spreading of her religion, etcetera. Though at this time of day?
Nonetheless, the man ignored her underlying intentions with a brief shake of his head, clearing the slate of his mind before addressing the girl…properly.
"Ahem, hello," He greeted in return, taking a single step down from the open doorway. "What brings you here, miss? Need something?"
For a moment, the nameless woman's eyes were lit with slight surprise, and then she only smiled humorlessly and responded, "Oh yes! The name's Amelia Dougland, pleasure to meet you, sir." Immediately she shifted the boxes and clipboard in her hands to one side of her, freeing a hand that hurriedly reached out to shake his.
The old man took it with a growing sense of interest in his face. Playing along and grinning a little, he shook Amelia's hand in return and then released, the offer for her to come inside already on the tip of his tongue.
"Thank you," She partially murmured, withdrawing her hands to a fold across the mid of her waist (with her materials balanced with the posture). Not delaying, knowing her place at another's doorstep, she cut to the chase. "Now, as for why I'm here: the ARIC Cinema company would like to hear your opinion on our service. Would you care to fill out a survey?"
"Yes, sure," He answered, glad for the chance to meet this lovely woman, no matter how much of a difference of age there was between them.
"Great!" Was the answer, of course.
"I'll have to come in – do you mind?"
To say the least, this pleased the old man very much. "If you must, certainly."
It was then he stepped aside and held open the door for Amelia to enter. She, politely smiling as thank you in return, sheepishly moved through the door and into his house.
As filthy and bloated as the rooms were – so much like a reeking smell that would hit one's senses – the surveyor was a deftly good actor. Quickly relaxing her crinkled nose and frustrated eyes, the young woman found a relatively cleared kitchen counter. She almost instantly turned toward the man.
"Now."
"Now?" He repeated, his voice dripping with amusement and an attempt at charm.
"Now," She also repeated, turning up the corner of her lips in a humorless gesture.
Her slightly scoop-shaped arms piled the tiny, rectangular boxes and the mess of her clipboard onto the table, like pouring trash into a bin. She noticeably regretting doing such, as one box met a sticky death with a muddle of raspberry jam. Wincing, she forced herself to whisk away the matter, and instead began arranging her papers.
After all, she did have a job to do.
For several seconds Amelia readied what needed to be readied: fixing papers, finding a working pen, etcetera. Then, her head lifted and steadied at the older man's face, a strangely unreadable glint to the brinks of her eyes.
"Ready?" She asked, handling a stack of charts.
The old man had found a seat by now, sitting in one of the bar chairs like a greedy sparrow on the edge of its perch. The sullen of his cheeks rounded as a smirk emerged across his lips.
"Ready."
"Good."
She arched her back slightly forward, the strands of her sun yellow hair sliding along the path of her shoulders. The pen she found was gently rested within her fingers, hovered over an area of the first paper. Every part of her seemed oddly too poised.
Her head turned toward the clipboard, her face now concealed from where the old man was sitting.
"Okay, question one of the survey…" Her pause was almost rhetorical, "…have you seen a movie before at one of our theaters?"
"Yes," The old man immediately said, the word punched with a poorly executed strength. Certainly this exceptionally attractive woman had better to do than going from house to house, asking strangers to fill out a highly uninteresting survey? He hoped not, for his own personal reasons.
He saw no reaction from her, though again, her face was mostly hidden. "Splendid. Question two: do you regularly view movies at our theatres?"
"Yes."
"Excellent," She responded, shifting her elbows a little as the tip of the pen swiveled from behind her arm. She quickly crossed out something. "Question three: do you know how much of a blabbering, dipshit-"
His eyes slowly widened.
"-jackass, royally idiotic-"
He felt his jaw carefully drop.
"-filthy, and ultimately cruel bastard of a human being you are?"
There was only a moment's silence, but he was definitely used to this – just not from the likes of her. "Excuse me?"
And all at once, so out of the blue, the young girl's arm withdrew from her maroon jacket and bolted several degrees around, perpendicular to the man's body. He felt the circular hole against his forehead before he saw the pistol, titled sideways, in the clutches of her hand.
Then, everything was pulsing white, and he could feel the hairs on his skin stand on end, like ice against the air. He dared to find Amelia's eyes, but there was something entirely new within them: menacing, almost like cold disks.
"Wrong answer," She said, and pulled the trigger.
There was that insufferable, tight bang of a gunshot, in which the old man was knocked by the bullet with so much force that he toppled from his chair. Blood spat from the destroyed mangle of his forehead, flowing with such perfect, red quality that it almost reminded her of liquid ruby.
She stared at the gun for a while. She felt its mass and energy and weight within the grasp of her human, pulsing hand, distinctly, consciously recalling all its atoms and chemistry and general make-up. In the end, it was just the same as everything else: just the same as the countertop, as the paper, as the pen.
She stared at the old man for a while. She felt her darkened eyes on him, observing every lifeless portion of him and every drop of crimson that spattered his motionless, stony features. The skin stretched across the bulging bulk of him was heatless, devoid of color after one instant. In the end, he perished just the same as everything else: just the same as the cat, as the neighbor, as the bacteria inching across the surface of her eyelashes.
It was enormously depressing, but all too familiar.
Besides, she had to do this: not for sensitive or moral reasons, but because she was fucking pissed.
His death wasn't the end of things, and nor was it the beginning. She washed the blood off her flesh and gathered her materials, making sure to cover the affected area of her blouse by zipping up the jacket. She quickly left.
Against the strangely bright light emitting from the still functioning television screen, he looked alien from the rest of the world. He got what he deserved.