Aztec Goddess: Kimblee is so freakin' adorable! I can't believe there are people in this world who hate him! That's so mean!

Anew

My house was colder than usual. Perhaps it was because all the fans were on full blast and no lights were on. The place seemed abandoned, silent. I liked it that way. On any other day, I would immediately go up to my room, locking myself away from the already somber world. But I had big plans this day.

My mom was in the kitchen, exactly where she was before I left to meet and kill Aduya. She stood idly at the counter, butcher knife in hand, as if she has yet to decide whether to start chopping those vegetables in front of her or not. Since I had skipped lunch, I thought it would be alright to wait for her to finish. I sat myself at the kitchen table and stared lazily at her; her long black hair nearly touched the floor.

"You're early . . ." she said, almost too tired to move her lips. She started to chop the carrots, carefully, precisely. "You're always changing things . . ."

"You need to sleep," I replied, ignoring her remarks. That was how things worked at my house. My mom always had to be in her make-believe world, so whenever my dad left, she would have to keep herself awake so it would be like no days have passed for her. That was a feat easily accomplished with the help of my non-drowsy medications. I had no use for them anyway.

She slowly shook her head then went on to the celery. "Hurry up. You want your only son to starve to death?" I asked, indifferently.

She shook her head again. "No, you can't be my Zolfy, you're too old. Zolfy was cute and very young."

"People tend to age."

"They shouldn't. No one should change." Her hand slipped – accidentally or purposely – that is all up to opinion. Soon the celery was painted with small red streaks originating from her index finger. She then discarded the food and focused her attention on her hand. As precise as usual, she made more cuts around her hand wherever she wished, without a single flinch. "Change hurts . . ."

Blood is so irritating; it stains, it leaves a mess. My mom continued to make more cuts, not seeming like she would ever stop. "Quit it, it's annoying," I told her. Amazingly, she actually listened.

"I know it's wrong . . ." she started, searching for the right words as she wiped her hand on the counter. "But I don't want to be your mom anymore. You're too much trouble. You do things that make people angry . . . and they always blame me or your father."

Yeah, I felt so loved. My mom completely abandoned the food and searched though the medicine cabined. "Your father should be home soon . . ." she mused as she searched through one empty bottle after another. I looked at the clock. 6:00 PM; she was right on cue. I wondered whether she remembered the last several times she said that without him actually coming yet.

"Could you at least finish something?" I said, mainly food in mind.

She looked disappointedly at the last empty bottle. Then she turned to me and smiled, "Be a good boy Zolfy, and ask Doctor Todome for a refill."

I almost laughed. Her odd ways always entertained me, even though I knew she was the one that needed medical attention. But the older I got, the more I realized how bothersome she was. No wonder he was always leaving.

"Mom," I started as I walked up to her and placed my hands on her shoulders. "Before I kill you, I would like to know what you think my problem is. After all, you can't really call yourself normal, no?"

She stared off into space. "I won't be blamed for this, right?" The answer was a bit obvious. She continued, ". . . See? You've changed too much. But no, you wouldn't remember . . . You shouldn't." I figured that was all I would ever get out of her, so I quickened the transmutation. She was not at the least surprised or perhaps even aware of what was happening. But in an instance – boom – she was gone.

That was when I laughed. Why? There was just something funny about the entire situation. Or maybe it was due to lack of nutrition. I scanned the inside of the fridge and actually found a sandwich not stained with blood. That was when I was certain that day was going to be a very good day.

Chairs, tables; I amused myself with destroying the contents of my house, piece by piece. Lamps, doors; I had to do something until he came home. One two, the clock was ticking faster than usual. Was I even hearing the clock ticking? One two one two. Something was rhythmic and coming closer. Steps. Yes, it was him.

My dad walked through the front door in a manner that implied he always did. "Where's your mother?" he asked me, paying no attention to what I was doing. He walked towards his room only to realize half of it was missing. He sighed. "Zolf, this isn't funny."

"Really? Well, I think so," I replied. "But too bad for you – you won't live to see my finished work." I advanced towards him, but he surprisingly put up a fight . . . kind of. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. I smiled and said, "You wouldn't."

"Don't be so sure of yourself, you mental patient."

Comments like that piss me off. Seeing that not even he knew that after eighteen years was obviously worse. I stepped closer and said, "If you really hate me that much, you would have killed me a long time ago." He said nothing. Slowly, he let his hand fall back to his side. I laughed at his cowardice. "Good! Now stand still like a good firework."

"To do this to your own parents – that takes a lot of –"

"Skills," I finished for him, though I would never know nor care less about what he was really going to say. I killed him off quickly to make sure there would be time for another significant event. There was a very important occupation I had my eyes on.

The streets grew dark in a hurry. But a certain building was still clear in sight and it was not Central's Medical Arts Building. It was a building much larger and much more majestic than that. Central's Military Headquarters. I barged right through the front door, choosing to ignore the militants on guard around the building. They were not so happy about that.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" one of them yelled as they chased after me.

"I think I'm going to be your superior soon," I replied. A man in uniform deserves an honest answer. Then again, since when am I not honest?

"You've got a lot of guts coming here just to say that," another militant said. Everyone else present looked just as apprehensive as him. I saw a secretary make a call – hopefully to someone of importance.

"No, I plan to stay and fulfill my promise." Just to see how they would react, I grabbed one of their rifles and blew it up. The man screamed in bewilderment then perhaps in pain since his hand was bleeding. Some people gasped in an annoyingly dramatic manner. "That's disappointing," I pointed out. "Aren't you people supposed to be prepared for anything?"

The other guard pointed his rifle at me. Twice in one day – I felt so special. "State your business here," he demanded, which was rather redundant since I already did. Before I gathered the patience to repeat myself, a door on the far end of the room opened.

As if programmed to be perfectly synchronized, the others present stood themselves straight up and saluted. I had to force myself from laughing at how silly they looked. I wanted to leave a decent first impression on the new arrival – it turned out to be the Fuhrer. And all this time I thought he never left his palace or summer house or whatever. Who would have thought he actually worked?

"I heard there's a problem here . . ." the Fuhrer started.

The man holding the rifle stumbled, "Sir – Fuhrer sir, I mean. This intruder, he –"

"Intruder?" I asked. Then I corrected him: "I'm here to become a State Alchemist under you, the great Fuhrer King Bradley."

"That bastard blew up my weapon!" the other guard whined. How rude.

King Bradley considered the situation for a moment then told the guard, "Go wash yourself off Private, you're an embarrassment." The guard left the room with his head hung low. What a loser. Then the Fuhrer turned to me and asked, "A State Alchemist, you say? What's your name?"

"Zolf J. Kimblee, eighteen, single, started alchemy at eight, no prior occupation, currently homeless, parentless, and I love to blow things up. Anything else you need to know?"

The Fuhrer looked amused. "No, I suppose that's good enough for now. Feel free to spend the night here – choose any vacant room on the next floor. We'll settle all the technicalities tomorrow if you don't mind."

"Not at all," I answered as if it really was my choice. But things were going great; I had no need to contradict the Fuhrer. Plus, the dumbstruck looks on everyone else's faces were priceless. It was like they thought I would not be accepted so easily . . . by the freakin' Fuhrer!

To be certified as a State Alchemist requires a written exam, several physicals, and a demonstration of skill. All the above are jokes, mockeries of one's intelligence, but they were easy so I have no real problem with them. First off, instead of an essay, I felt it more suitable for me to list all the things I have ever detonated. It took about twenty pages since I wanted to add some details. They accepted it.

They somehow already had my file from the Medical Arts Building, so they decided to skip the physicals, possibly fearing I would kill them if they touched me. Indeed, I would. So I went straight to the demonstration of skill. Only one word can describe that: fun.

To say it in the most articulate way, everyone else sucked. They all still made transmutation circles manually, so I beat them with flying colors, debris, and what-not. All of their work that took at least ten seconds to create was destroyed by me in half that time. I had to restrain myself from blowing up a human though – King Bradley warned me that I would get disqualified that way.

"Then what's the bright side of being part of the military?" I asked him. The main reason I wanted to join was because I knew when I detonated people, they would make it look nice and legal.

"The money, special privileges, and of course, anything goes at a time of war," he replied. He emphasized the last part. Then I remembered the tension building up in Ishbal. No wonder he was being so lenient towards me. They need State Alchemists to solve such disputes – the more the merrier.

I was presented with a fancy little pocket watch when I was certified. I clearly remember my first thought: What the hell? After they explained its importance, significance, whatever, I was still not impressed. But apparently carrying it around made them happy and it would be so tragic if I depressed them by not accepting the trinket, so I inevitably did.

But the uniform, I easily accepted that even though the back looks a little like a dress. This is just nitpicking, though. Either way, I look good in it. I also look good with long hair, so I shall forever defy the "hair mustn't touch the collar" rule. No one pointed that out to me anyway, possibly fearing I would kill them. Indeed, I would.

There were many other positive parts about being a State Alchemist the Fuhrer forgot to mention, like my new room. It could kick my old room's ass anytime, especially now that it is dilapidated and all. My new room is like a house in itself, with everything I need in a convenient place. Edible food was where it belonged, clothes were where they belonged, and even mattresses were in their proper place. What a revolution. Seriously. And so I laid on my new comfy bed, feeling rather proud of all I accomplished in two days.

Aztec Goddess: Wow, this feels weird since I'm used to updating more than once a week. (sighs) Oh, well. Blame school – but it's good for you! (shifty eyes)