for seatbeltdrivein, via fmagiftexchange
There were, undoubtedly, people hiding in those buildings. Some of them were civilians. Others were soldiers. They had been seen retreating into this block by some of Mitsch's own men. Major Mitsch was nearby and could've struck at the building with her ability to separate things into their component parts, but Kimblee was itching to go and Bruna was curious to see him at work.
The force of his explosion ripped through the ground, striking open the wall like the shattered shell of a smashed walnut. He paused momentarily to appraise his handiwork, then followed up the initial blast of energy with another. The frightened figures who had scurried away at the first blast were scattered, regardless of their own will, by the second.
"Not bad," Bruna remarked, waving her men in to follow up the attack. "...What do you think?"
So that was how it felt. As simple as that. Kimblee looked at his hands. Was this sensation satisfaction or, already, an urge to do it again?
"...Kimblee?" This one was like McDougal, Bruna supposed. One of the weirder ones.
"Oh." He looked at her and smiled. "If you really liked that, keep an eye on me, Mitsch. I think I can do a lot better than that."
The first time he had killed (willfully, purposely) had been by stepping on ants. So that was that. They were dead. There wasn't anything particularly interesting about it. Maybe that was all you could expect from ants.
The first time he had killed with alchemy? It had been some kind of beetle that had flown in through an open window. It was a test of his finesse. It had made him wonder, watching the shiny black insect walk around in aimless rings, whether there was some way of making one, or something like it, into a walking time bomb. What a weapon that would be... Convenient for maneuvering in small spaces too.
There was a heavy military presence in South City due to the proximity to the border with Aerugo. He watched the soldiers go about their duties. He fantasized a bit, he'd admit, about wearing that uniform, of the power it would give him to sate his curiosity: what would it be like to kill another person?
His father had killed people, hadn't he? Not with his own two hands and probably not through any malicious intent, but Solf had grown up around that factory. He might have been bored by the lectures on bale dying and piece dying, but he had observed what went on there. What made a factory owner, an industrialist, so different from any other kind of killer?
Some nights in the city, in their third floor apartment, Solf would get up and watch his brother sleeping. Would Lon be any harder to kill than any other person?
He would not do that. Not now. This was ihis/ibrother, to defend or destroy. Of course, that was the reason he wondered.
"Hey, pretty boy, hand over your wallet and no one gets hurt." Solf frowned, turning slowly to face his would-be assailant. Make that assailants. There were three of them, but only one- the leader- had a weapon drawn. If there had been a gun between them, they'd have shown it. Solf was sure he could beat a switchblade. What he didn't like was being caught like this while in his brother's company. It would have been so much easier to dispose of these thugs alone. Oh well. He supposed this was the price of living in a rough part of town.
Lon looked flighty, but Solf knew he could be counted upon to follow his lead. ...Up until the first blood flew, that was.
"You too, kid," the largest man advanced toward Lon.
Solf glanced at his palms. Hopefully the henna hadn't worn off too much. He put them together- just a clap- and grabbed the arm of the lead would-be mugger, blowing it clear off below the elbow.
It wasn't easy to get Lon moving again after that. He recoiled from Solf's grasp- the blood on his hands, the flecks of flesh on his suit, the use of his pet transmutation project for something deadlier than mere demolition.
The next morning, with Solf gone, Lon could try and learn what his older brother would not. Solf simply didn't care. Could the newspaper tell him or could someone at the hospital? Could the South City Police Department? Had a red-haired man, about six feet tall, encountered in the industrial district lived or died?
A coroner, Sam Waits, suspiciously answered his query. "...Can you give me your number so the police can contact you? If you were a witness, we need your testimony... Wait. Are you Lon, the brother of Solf Kimblee? Haven't we met before?"
Lon answered quietly, subdued by what he'd learned. Two men had described his brother. The third robber had died.
If he was going to kill, it was more exciting to do it at close quarters and suffer the damages in blood and dirt and shrapnel. #29 reflected on this from time to time in his dingy cell on Central Prison's death row. He had nearly infinite time there for thinking and remembering. The stone was good company for such reminiscing. It shared his long memory.
He played little mind games to pass the time. "If I could kill just one prison employee, who would it be? Easy, the warden. If I killed just one fellow prisoner, who would it be? That jackass who tries to pick fights with the guards and gets them in a bad mood so often."
The memories were more involving. The Ishvalans had learned to fear his hands from a distance before any of them got the chance to fear them up close. Solf smiled as he thought about the look in that woman's eyes when he reached toward her, palms sparking with seismic energy. She had bloomed beautifully, bursting forth from her black robes and sienna as a ripe red flower. What a lovely woman. What a lovely lotus could rise out of such muck. The mud of the creek running through Fernburg or the dust rising off the sand of Ishval. It was all the same as far as his art was concerned. Beauty would always rise above its circumstances.
It was good to recall those ruby red eyes. She had known for that split second what would happen to her. Had that been enough time to follow Ishvalan tradition and pray to god? Of course, maybe she had been too scared.
Having watched the entire process put things in a different light. It was not the kind of thing he would care to admit, but Solf knew that on some level he had hesitated. He supposed that was the only explanation for it. It hadn't done his victim any favors. If one was going to have to die, wouldn't it be better to go out in a single blaze of glory, seared definitively onto the memory of those present? Wasn't it a shame to survive an embarrassingly glancing blow and linger?
Solf wondered about the ability of alchemy to remove stains. It would make the dry cleaner uncomfortable to see this. It was more than blood spatter. He had been drenched. If he couldn't salvage this vest and shirt on his own, that would be it for them. They could be replaced. With a uniform, he hoped. He was confidence in his ability to step into the role he desired.
Lon, for now, was still breathing.
The blood he had given could hardly be sufficient to replace the blood that had been lost. It was a token gesture, engaged in for the sake of appearances. He would have to carefully consider his story as well. There were no other witnesses.
Solf pulled out his handkerchief. Throughout all that had happened, it had remained clean. He off wiped his dirty face, streaked with blood and soot, and did the only thing he needed to do at this point. He kept watching.
How was he feeling? Hmm. His eyes could no longer catch the soft rise and fall of Lon's chest. Was that all? He felt thoughtful. So, that was it. An entire life that he had observed for so long. One brilliant flash and a fade into obscurity.
Solf reached out to touch's Lon's cheek and then his own. Funny, he didn't feel like crying.