III. Birth
-—Father has never felt so alive.
He never realized just how much he was missing while he was confined to the flask.
This container—this body—it's glorious. He has arms, and legs, and hair, and above all of that he can feel the power of the Philosopher's Stone coursing through him.
(It isn't truly a human body, of course, but it has all of the benefits without any of the things that make them so weak.)
He steps around Van Hohenheim—he will wake in due time; his body is surely adjusting to the incredible power now running through his veins. And King Xerxes—the attendants—he doesn't give their lifeless bodies even a second glance as he makes his way toward the door.
Weak. Useless. Beneath him. Humans' only purpose is to serve his own needs, after all. And now that the million Xerxesians are fuelling this (new, wonderful, perfect) body, he'll have to find another group of humans.
(Bigger. More powerful of a transmutation...but he isn't going to worry about that right now.)
He steps out onto the balcony, his bare feet relishing in the sensation of the warm stone. He knew about such things, intellectually, before...but now, as the wind blows through his hair and his toes curl and he licks his lips, he knows that this is truly the world.
He had held—still holds—a vast knowledge of this planet, the galaxy, the universe...but knowing and knowing are two entirely different things. He wants to experience everything this world has to offer, and then some—these new sensations have decided that for him.
He will stop at nothing to get what he wants, because he is a Homunculus. The millions of humans surely inhabiting the lands past Xerxes are only fuel for the fire; he can use them however he wishes; whatever will help him conquer—and understand—this world will fall to his might.
His eyes take in the vast dunes surrounding this once-proud place; his nose smells the heat and the scent of a bustling city that is no more; his ears hear the silence, blessed silence, that means everything has gone according to plan.
He hears, distantly, Van Hohenheim's screams, can almost taste the terror and despair, and knows he must have woken up.
(The man is nearly—never totally—his equal. They have split the souls of this wretched nation; even now, he can feel them writhing within him, begging and screaming for release.)
But he tunes them out; they are unimportant remnants of mere human beings. They belong to him, now; he can do whatever he pleases with them.
Van Hohenheim stumbles out into the sunlight, seems not to notice the radiant beams bathing his face. His entire body is shaking as he stares around at the corpses lining the street. The pain in his eyes must be a human emotion, for he feels none of it. And if it is human, it does not matter. Only the earth and the universe in which it lies interest him now.
(He doesn't understand the physical distress Van Hohenheim seems to be suffering. Had he, the Homunculus, not made him into a near-perfect being? Had he not given him what no human will ever have again?)
The one human (not quite, of course, not anymore) he could have once considered the closest thing he had to a familiar—he leaves, stumbling to the east in what seems to be a blind daze. He only stares after the man for a moment before dismissing him. Weak. Of course, human emotions will only get in the way of this perfect existence he has so graciously given the man.
He soon writes him off (he won't forget, though—he refuses to forget any scrap of information that could help him understand this vast world), and begins a trek to the west, where Xerxes' scholars had said new civilization was forming.
Civilization is humans is energy is knowledge.
He can't wait.
