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Entry tags:
FMA - Crimson
I am so insanely happy with this piece. In my personal opinion, it is the hottest thing I've ever written. WHOO-TAH.
Title: Crimson
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal. Blame goes to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pinstripesuit. ALL. HER. FAULT.
Summary: Arrays and red stone in Ishbal.
Everything in Ishbal was color. The deep burgundies and scattered yellows of robes, the bright reds of fresh blood and flame, the hard garnet of empty eyes. It made Kimbley think of the russet tones of an orchestra swelling through a concert hall until all you could hear was the music. He found himself humming along at inopportune moments; when Colonel Gran passed along orders, when Flame shivered sleepless in the dark, when he stood on the rubble of a house and wondered if it was really stable beneath his feet. The blue uniforms would look at him strangely, familiarly, and Kimbley knew their thoughts and smiled and made sure his pen was secure in his pocket.
They learned to fear that blue pen, innocent object devoid of intent that it was. He learned to draw perfect circles with both hands, overcoming a crippling left-handedness that wobbled the triangles and elongated the spheres. He found the best method to turn his lumpy palm into a precious collection of curves and lines, perfect in every way, and practised until he could calculate thirty-degree angles in his sleep. The heat was his enemy more than any soldier, smearing the lake-colored ink into the creases of his skin, and he soon found that no one dared question when he stripped to the essentials necessary to keep the sand off.
His days revolved around his hands. If he had a moment to breathe, he had a moment to fix the smear that had thrown off the sulfur isolation. If he had enough water to sip, he had enough to wash the faulty smudges from the deep creases speckled with moistened sand. He was never without the pen; its sand-roughened case was under his fingers when he slept, was heavy in his pocket when he ate, was cool in his hand when he threw himself behind a crumbling wall to dodge an onslaught of rifle fire. He went through the things like Flame went through gloves. Kimbley was issued a new pen twice a week, at seven-oh-hundred, and he was never late to pick it up and he never failed to curse them out for the delay because he had only a dribble of ink left.
On his one hundred fifty seventh pen, he was handed a rock set in a thin gold wristband as well as the usual plastic cylinder. He traded it to Crystal for a delicate chain that dripped the stone against his heartbeat. He could feel it resound in his chest, empty and echoing, humming hallelujahs. It sang through his veins and out his fingertips, sparking hot and red and crashing cymbals against the streets.
He spread himself open to it, giggling like a schoolgirl as it made his arteries thrum with deep booming bass. It was one long looping endless transmutation, spreading out from his heels in rippling waves and buckling the world beneath its weight. He blinked and stood on rubble; he grinned and stood on sand; he laughed with the joyful song of the stone and stood on rippled glass. His boots melted, so he kicked them off and walked barefoot, strolling through the garden of his pleasures. The shrieks of shattering windows and shattering lives stroked his ears, the heated air and chill ash caressed his shoulders, the debris of broken lives cracked open and smoothed out beneath his feet and the world died in the dark of night with the noise of a thousand screams.
The sun lifted its shaggy head over the desert, shaking its mane mournfully at the smell of ash and meat, and Kimbley screamed obscenities at its disdain. It could partake of this if only it tried, if only he had left anything standing, if only he hadn’t used the entire stone and was left wanting with nothing left to take. Hands grabbed his shoulder and he ignored them because there couldn’t be anyone there he killed them all they were gone and not coming back for him to kill again.
He woke in five hours, after the sedation wore off, in a quiet cool tent, with Crystal hovering over his feet with poultice in hand. He seemed relieved when Kimbley blinked around with a certain amount of drugged coherency, but he frowned with worry when Kimbley’s eyes latched onto the crimson stain on Crystal’s wrist. All doctor-like, Crystal fussed with his feet and muttered and prodded, then grudgingly held out the hand adorned with the golden band and Kimbley gasped at the feel of that stone god yes the stone pressing power into his heels and he arched beneath it, wanting so much from so little.
Crystal looked away and healed Kimbley’s feet with closed ears and closed eyes. He spoke when he was done, hurriedly and guiltily, telling Kimbley that they were giving him another stone and his feet would be tender but functional and there was nothing to be done about his hands there was only so much stone and… Kimbley stopped listening, tuning him out with the remembered resonance of the night, and held his hands in front of his face. The smell of scorched pork assaulted him and he frowned, seeing nothing wrong, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Burned into his hands. The arrays. Burned in - his power had - how deep did it - burned into his hands. The implications roared through his head - No new pens, he’d never have to be disarmed again, he could wash his hands without fear, he was stuck with that irritating smudge at the corner of the crescent’s south point and he’d never be able to fix it and absorb nitrogen properly-
But he was getting another stone. He grinned and stretched his fingers, humming like a doting mother at the pull of pain in his palms. Another stone, another stone, untouched and virginal in its song, thrumming in him and through him and around him, they’d give him another stone tonight.
He dug out his pen, blackened and dry, and made it blossom hot and scarlet in his hand and it wasn’t nearly enough but he would have another stone soon but not soon enough.
***
And this is how the idea came up:
Pinstripe: You were right about that episode, Kimberley was drawing the arrays on in Ishbal.
Me: Booyeah.
Pinstripe: See, he drew them on in blue ink, but then in prison they were tattooed in black. So I think you should write about how he got them tattooed in prison or somethi- Why are you grinning like that?
Me: BURNED INTO HIS HANDS.
Pinstripe: GOD YES!
Me: *scrambles to jot the idea down before the details fade*
On January 13th, 2007 (my 21st birthday!) "Crimson" was named "Best in Contest" in the Dogs of the Military fanfiction contest.
Title: Crimson
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal. Blame goes to
pinstripesuit. ALL. HER. FAULT.Summary: Arrays and red stone in Ishbal.
Everything in Ishbal was color. The deep burgundies and scattered yellows of robes, the bright reds of fresh blood and flame, the hard garnet of empty eyes. It made Kimbley think of the russet tones of an orchestra swelling through a concert hall until all you could hear was the music. He found himself humming along at inopportune moments; when Colonel Gran passed along orders, when Flame shivered sleepless in the dark, when he stood on the rubble of a house and wondered if it was really stable beneath his feet. The blue uniforms would look at him strangely, familiarly, and Kimbley knew their thoughts and smiled and made sure his pen was secure in his pocket.
They learned to fear that blue pen, innocent object devoid of intent that it was. He learned to draw perfect circles with both hands, overcoming a crippling left-handedness that wobbled the triangles and elongated the spheres. He found the best method to turn his lumpy palm into a precious collection of curves and lines, perfect in every way, and practised until he could calculate thirty-degree angles in his sleep. The heat was his enemy more than any soldier, smearing the lake-colored ink into the creases of his skin, and he soon found that no one dared question when he stripped to the essentials necessary to keep the sand off.
His days revolved around his hands. If he had a moment to breathe, he had a moment to fix the smear that had thrown off the sulfur isolation. If he had enough water to sip, he had enough to wash the faulty smudges from the deep creases speckled with moistened sand. He was never without the pen; its sand-roughened case was under his fingers when he slept, was heavy in his pocket when he ate, was cool in his hand when he threw himself behind a crumbling wall to dodge an onslaught of rifle fire. He went through the things like Flame went through gloves. Kimbley was issued a new pen twice a week, at seven-oh-hundred, and he was never late to pick it up and he never failed to curse them out for the delay because he had only a dribble of ink left.
On his one hundred fifty seventh pen, he was handed a rock set in a thin gold wristband as well as the usual plastic cylinder. He traded it to Crystal for a delicate chain that dripped the stone against his heartbeat. He could feel it resound in his chest, empty and echoing, humming hallelujahs. It sang through his veins and out his fingertips, sparking hot and red and crashing cymbals against the streets.
He spread himself open to it, giggling like a schoolgirl as it made his arteries thrum with deep booming bass. It was one long looping endless transmutation, spreading out from his heels in rippling waves and buckling the world beneath its weight. He blinked and stood on rubble; he grinned and stood on sand; he laughed with the joyful song of the stone and stood on rippled glass. His boots melted, so he kicked them off and walked barefoot, strolling through the garden of his pleasures. The shrieks of shattering windows and shattering lives stroked his ears, the heated air and chill ash caressed his shoulders, the debris of broken lives cracked open and smoothed out beneath his feet and the world died in the dark of night with the noise of a thousand screams.
The sun lifted its shaggy head over the desert, shaking its mane mournfully at the smell of ash and meat, and Kimbley screamed obscenities at its disdain. It could partake of this if only it tried, if only he had left anything standing, if only he hadn’t used the entire stone and was left wanting with nothing left to take. Hands grabbed his shoulder and he ignored them because there couldn’t be anyone there he killed them all they were gone and not coming back for him to kill again.
He woke in five hours, after the sedation wore off, in a quiet cool tent, with Crystal hovering over his feet with poultice in hand. He seemed relieved when Kimbley blinked around with a certain amount of drugged coherency, but he frowned with worry when Kimbley’s eyes latched onto the crimson stain on Crystal’s wrist. All doctor-like, Crystal fussed with his feet and muttered and prodded, then grudgingly held out the hand adorned with the golden band and Kimbley gasped at the feel of that stone god yes the stone pressing power into his heels and he arched beneath it, wanting so much from so little.
Crystal looked away and healed Kimbley’s feet with closed ears and closed eyes. He spoke when he was done, hurriedly and guiltily, telling Kimbley that they were giving him another stone and his feet would be tender but functional and there was nothing to be done about his hands there was only so much stone and… Kimbley stopped listening, tuning him out with the remembered resonance of the night, and held his hands in front of his face. The smell of scorched pork assaulted him and he frowned, seeing nothing wrong, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Burned into his hands. The arrays. Burned in - his power had - how deep did it - burned into his hands. The implications roared through his head - No new pens, he’d never have to be disarmed again, he could wash his hands without fear, he was stuck with that irritating smudge at the corner of the crescent’s south point and he’d never be able to fix it and absorb nitrogen properly-
But he was getting another stone. He grinned and stretched his fingers, humming like a doting mother at the pull of pain in his palms. Another stone, another stone, untouched and virginal in its song, thrumming in him and through him and around him, they’d give him another stone tonight.
He dug out his pen, blackened and dry, and made it blossom hot and scarlet in his hand and it wasn’t nearly enough but he would have another stone soon but not soon enough.
***
And this is how the idea came up:
Pinstripe: You were right about that episode, Kimberley was drawing the arrays on in Ishbal.
Me: Booyeah.
Pinstripe: See, he drew them on in blue ink, but then in prison they were tattooed in black. So I think you should write about how he got them tattooed in prison or somethi- Why are you grinning like that?
Me: BURNED INTO HIS HANDS.
Pinstripe: GOD YES!
Me: *scrambles to jot the idea down before the details fade*
On January 13th, 2007 (my 21st birthday!) "Crimson" was named "Best in Contest" in the Dogs of the Military fanfiction contest.
no subject
Lust draws a few arrays. She probably would have tried alchemy before, like Envy, because she knows a lot about it--enough to tutor Lewjon and (I think?) Scar, and be pretty involved in the stone business at the lab.
I vaguely remember something about his mercury poisoning being alchemically related.
Nope, it only said he died of mercury poisoning. No mention of how he came into contact with the mercury. Maybe he just ate too much tuna.
He blew up the church.
XD
Kimbley really does not resemble Hoho.
Eh, he could just tend toward his mother's build. My parents have fairly contrasting builds, and I tend very much toward Dad's, while my next two siblings tend very much toward Mom's. Both Mom and Dad have a strong resemblance to one of their parents (but not the other) for build.
I'm bad at picking out family resemblance in faces if the features aren't really distinctive. Noses are especially hard for me--after I read your comment, I pondered some screencaps, and decided that half the characters have the same nose. . . . I actually think Kimbley's nose looks a lot like Greed's. Which opens up even more cracky possibilities. (Whee!)
I also doubt alchemy is hereditary
The show gives us a couple cases of alchemy in families. There's Hoho and the boys, and Nash Trigham and his sons. I think Armstrong's family has other alchemists, though I don't think it's said explicitly--but he's always going on about shiny techniques handed down through the generations, and a lot of the shiny things he does involve alchemy. Izumi and Moofy are a far-from-perfect example, but I'd say they kind of set a precedent (Moofy's alchemy skills are there before he gets stoned). . . . I have nothing to suggest, however, that these are cases of talent being passed down, rather than kids being interested in their father's work.
although that might be from 400 years of hanging out doing diddly squat
I figure anybody would develop some kind of pathology after a few centuries. I get neurotic (though not as much as Envy--I hope) after being bored only a few days. o_0
(more common in predisposed families than non-predisposed, has to do with lifestyle habits and rearing)
Wait, what's more common in predisposed families? Marrying other predisposed people?
My point being that despite the long lapse of time between their generations, Envy's insanity might still be carried through his genes noticeably strong.
Also, it would just make good poetic sense. ;)
no subject
Yes, Lust would have tried alchemy - I had forgotten about that somehow. Hmm. So it's limited to self-inflicted alchemical reactions. Does it show if the blobby homunculi immediately reform after eating stone, or does it take a while? Because if it takes a while, my theory is that they are truly limited to acting on themselves alchemically; the stones replace the Gate's power, acting from within them but never outside of them - so they would need to be absorbed and circulating for the homunculi to make use of them.
Maybe he just ate too much tuna.
XD But in real alchemy, mercury was one of the most common substances used in the search for the Philosopher's Stone. Poetic justice. (Mmm, but maybe he wouldn't have taken an interest in alchemy - I really see him as having been a spoiled aristocrat's son, very teenager and snotty and presumptuous. He would have spurned Hohenheim even before his death.)
He blew up the church.
XD
;_; It was scary. Flowers and suits and KABOOM. I didn't even know it was him as I was walking down the aisle; I got to the end and looked over and he smirked over at me and KABOOM. Did I mention the KABOOM?
half the characters have the same nose
Except for the Romans. XD No, really, Archer and pre-Envy have Roman noses; Kimbley's nose is the kind that has a very slight, delicate concave curve with a little uplift at the end, essentially the exact opposite. (Well, except for the uplift. Roman noses seem to have that uplift; beaks do not.) Or maybe I'm just too obsessed with noses. Gah, I want to draw FMA fanart in a realism style. ;_; I can't draw realism...
these are cases of talent being passed down, rather than kids being interested in their father's work.
That was my thought. I hold forth that the potential for alchemy is always present; the ability to learn/understand it is not. Mostly it has to do with resources. A miner's son is not likely to pick up alchemy books.
I get neurotic after being bored only a few days.
I get bored painfully easily, and I start saying weird things and wanting to gnaw on stuff. Or get petted. A good scritch is one of my weaknesses. XD
Marrying other predisposed people?
Yes. Freud was partially right, as much as it pains me to admit it; we define "parenting" by how we were parented, so someone that grew up in a dysfunctional household often makes a dysfunctional family of their own. Not out of any ill intent; they often hated their childhood. It's just what feels normal, and they don't know any other way to do it. In the same way, a person predisposed for mental illness probably grew up in a house with either a mentally ill parent or the child of a mentally ill person; the behaviors learned from the mentally ill person (whether it be "don't talk to Mummy when she's drinking" or "you really do like musicals, now sit and watch it quietly" or "stealing things is bad, but at least Daddy looks at you and not through you") are passed down, and the children of said person are drawn to similar people with similar backgrounds. (I am massively generalizing, although it is a statistical truth.)
Wow, I can spit off waaaay too much about genetics as related to abnormal psychology.
no subject
It wasn't clear. I got the impression that Sloth took a while, even after she looked human, to really get her bearings and develop her powers. Something like your Greedzilla.
Homunculi's alchemical limitations definitely seem to be a matter of scope. Except for Moofy, but he's just a weird weird weird little child.
But in real alchemy, mercury was one of the most common substances used in the search for the Philosopher's Stone.
Oooh, cool. Poetic justice is always shiny. ^_^ I would have expected Hoho-papa to teach him better than that, though. Of course, Envy might have disobeyed just for spite.
I am in awe of your nose-describing abilities. ::bows:: I like noses--I spend enough time admiring them on actors and crush objects--but I don't really think about them in descriptive terms.
I get bored painfully easily,
I used up the last of my patience when I was seventeen. Before then, I could sit still in boring contexts, read assignments even if I didn't really care about the subject at hand, and so on. Ever since, I've tended to fidget and daydream and get distracted. It can't be an attention problem per se, because if something actually interests me, I can get so absorbed in it that I forget to eat. . . . And that was wayyyy too much information, I'm sure.
(I am massively generalizing, although it is a statistical truth.)
I know, I know. I was questioning the (grammatical) reference. With even more vague grammar. ::needs to be hit over the head with a style manual::
Wow, I can spit off waaaay too much about genetics as related to abnormal psychology.
Hee hee! Are you, by any chance, a psych major?
no subject
*flexposesparkle*
I like noses but I don't really think about them in descriptive terms.
I have a rather odd nose, and it's been passed down through the family, and once I noticed how odd my nose is I started noticing other noses. XD It's very strange, I admit. I could have fixated on lips, but noooo...
I used up the last of my patience when I was seventeen.
I can sometimes sit patiently, but it really does depend on the subject matter. Like, FMA can enthrall me for hours, but writing holds me for two hours tops. Which makes me sad. ;_;
I was questioning the (grammatical) reference.
*cough* Uh, yeah. What I just said about writing? Applies double to essay-stuff. And to when I get carried away and lose track of my sentences. *innocent whistle*
Ahhh, I wish I were a psych major. No, it's just a hobby. I get much more snobbish about it than I have any right to. XD
This comment is far too short. I should toss out a crazy theory about Greed's childhood. ...Okay, just imagining little-kid Greed is enough crack for me tonight. XD
no subject
I don't know about his childhood, but I like to think that pre-Greed was a pirate or a highwayman or something else exotic and outlawish like that. That, or he was a really timid and bookish professor, and never really lived until after he died. Hmmmmm . . .
no subject
He would make the cutest librarian ever. (I don't think he'd be a professor, though. Too easily distracted by shiny, not enough interest in knowledge.)
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